A Death in the Dales

by Frances Brody

  Sykes tried to reduce the tension around the table. ‘It happens. It happens more than you might imagine.’

  ‘That’s no excuse.’ Mrs Sugden frowned. ‘Incest. It’s punishable by death.’

  Sykes took a drink of cocoa. ‘During the commonwealth it was a capital offence. Before that it was punishable by penance or excommunication.’

  I did not speak, thinking of Selina, her greasy grey hair, her misery.

  ‘Don’t tell me, Mr Sykes, that an abomination in the eyes of God and man isn’t against the law.’

  ‘It is,’ Sykes said wearily. ‘It’s a criminal offence under the Punishment of Incest Act 1908.’ He looked at the dates. ‘Selina was twenty-four when her mam died. Who knows how long it was going on before that? And the mother had a weak ticker.’

  ‘That’s no excuse.’ Mrs Sugden could barely keep the outrage from her voice.

  ‘Of course it’s not,’ Sykes said, ‘but it doesn’t take a lot of imagination to see how events moved on, and they had to leave Eggleswick.’

  I made a great effort to banish the Gouthwaites from my mind’s eye, Abner with his bandaged leg; Selina with her tears. I made myself focus on how this might change the case against Joseph James Flaherty. ‘Mrs Sugden, when did you say that Mr Holroyd came to Langcliffe?’

  ‘Sometime in 1915. He was invalided out of the army after losing an eye.’

  ‘So he will have known the truth about Abner and Selina Gouthwaite.’

  ‘That he will. It would have been one of the things he knew that he wouldn’t confide to his wife, or anyone, being a reticent man who listened to everyone’s secrets and kept them.’

  ‘And theirs was the farm that Mr Young visited last, the place where he thought he left, or lost, his knives.’

  ‘Or had them stolen,’ Sykes added. ‘That was the impression I got from my brief look of the entry where he reported them missing.’

  ‘Gouthwaite found or stole the knives and chose one particular knife to silence Mr Holroyd. Aunt Freda saw the murder from her window, a big man, she said. He must have been waiting around the corner. I wonder how many Friday and Saturday nights Gouthwaite waited, waited for his chance to kill and run away.’

  We sat quietly. Sykes stirred what was left of his cocoa. ‘We’d never prove it. And it’s too late.’

  ‘But Aunt Freda was right. Joseph Flaherty was wrongly convicted and lost his life so that Abner and Selina’s secret would be kept.’

  Mrs Sugden patted my arm. ‘Drink your cocoa before it goes cold.’

  Sykes stood and stretched. ‘I better get myself back to the Craven Heifer. The landlord gave me a key but he’s bound to have an ear cocked for my coming back. They always do.’

  Mrs Sugden picked up the tin and put the certificates back. ‘I’ll tuck these well away, until you know what you might do.’

  I walked Sykes to the gate. ‘We’ll be able to think more clearly tomorrow.’

  ‘Yes.’ He wheeled out the bicycle and paused before mounting. ‘You know, given that Dr Simonson doesn’t like you investigating…’

  ‘He has no objection whatsoever. He just wants me and Harriet to enjoy our holiday.’

  ‘Then why did he tell you about this business? Did he have his own suspicions?’

  ‘It was Mr Wigglesworth, Freda’s friend, who told me.’

  ‘But Dr Simonson did talk to you about it.’

  ‘He told me how much the whole business upset his aunt.’

  ‘Why didn’t he bring you to meet her while she was still alive?’

  ‘I don’t know. I wish he had.’

  ‘Goodnight then.’

  ‘Goodnight.’ I watched Sykes wobble off across the cobbles, gain his balance and make a beeline for the road.

  Twenty-Six

  In the early hours of the morning, I finally snuggled into bed. Mrs Sugden had declared the alcove bed in the kitchen to be very comfortable. We were a full house, with Martin in the loft and Harriet fast asleep in the bedroom she had taken a great fancy to. In spite of our unexpected activities, the holiday appeared to be doing her some good. She had eaten well, made friends, taken walks.

  I had successfully put a stop to the window rattling but wind blew down the chimney once more. Through the open curtains I could watch the dark sky where a few bright stars multiplied as my eyes grew accustomed to the darkness.

  In a few more hours the coroner would hold his enquiry into the death of William Murgatroyd. I would be called to give my statement, a simple enough matter on the face of it: I called at Catrigg Farm and went with Mrs Murgatroyd into the bedroom she shared with her husband. I saw that Mr Murgatroyd was dead.

  That Bill Murgatroyd had drunk with Abner Gouthwaite hours before his death would soon be common knowledge. Gouthwaite had motives for wanting Murgatroyd out of the way — to prevent him from taking over Raistrick Farm, or simple vengeance, or jealousy.

  Did Gouthwaite also have the means in the form of digoxin tablets? His late wife, Sarah, Selina’s mother, died from her heart condition. There was a possibility that the Gouthwaites had kept digoxin tablets prescribed to Sarah to regulate her heart. Selina may have inherited that condition and have pills of her own, or a home-made remedy that contained digitalis. Unless the police had undertaken a search of the property — or even if they had — that information would not emerge at the inquest unless I revealed it.

  There was something a touch mad about possessing such knowledge. ‘How do you know this, Mrs Shackleton?’ ‘At darkest night, I was digging at a spot marked X, sir. There I discovered a biscuit tin containing evidence of incest. That is how I know about the real Mrs Gouthwaite’s fatal heart condition.’

  If tales of my exploits at Bolton Abbey had arrived in Langcliffe before me, what hope would there be for me, and for Lucian, if this came out? Sykes’s and my exploits would rank only a little lower than grave robbing. I would be shrouded in notoriety, my personal morning mist never clearing except in far flung places where no one knew of Kate Shackleton and her itch for unravelling mysteries.

  I closed my eyes, still seeing the night sky and stars that now unexpectedly took the shape of a dagger.

  The coroner’s jury had the power to return a verdict of murder, manslaughter, death by misadventure, or suicide. If they returned a verdict of murder or manslaughter, they had the duty of pointing a finger at the guilty party, if evidence led them in that direction.

  I knew nothing about the police investigations, and therefore it was pointless to lose even more sleep by speculating, although that did not stop me.

  When it was almost time to stir myself for the day that stretched ahead like a well-designed obstacle course, I fell asleep.

  Harriet woke me with a cup of tea and the reminder that I had to be at the inquest. Quickly I washed and dressed. Glad that Mrs Sugden was there to take care of Harriet, I set off with my fellow witness, Martin Young, to walk to Settle.

  Martin, his hair plastered into something like submission, stared at his boots. He wore three pairs of socks since the boots, which had once belonged to Lucian, were a size too big. He was nervous.

  The day was fine and sunny, with the lightest of breezes. Under other circumstances this walk along the narrow track from Langcliffe to Settle would be a pleasurable experience. We passed trees in blossom. The hawthorn bloomed.

  ‘What will they ask me?’

  ‘You remember what you said when Lucian took you into the police station in Settle?’

  ‘Yes, that I watched Mr Murgatroyd go into the farmhouse and then come out again, a bit tipsy.’

  ‘That’s what you will be asked to say.’

  ‘But they know what I said. Why do I have to say it again?’

  ‘Everything has to be confirmed officially, in public, and a conclusion reached as to the identity of the person and how he died.’

  To our right, the copper dome of Giggleswick School dominated the skyline, shining in the sunlight. I pointed it out to Martin, trying to take his
mind off what was to come. He was not to be diverted.

  ‘Will old man Gouthwaite be there?’

  ‘Probably, but you will sit between me and Dr Simonson and there will be nothing to worry about. All you have to do is stand up and tell the truth. You’ll be under oath. Do you know what that means?’

  ‘Yes. It means I swear to tell the truth.’

  I managed to turn his thoughts elsewhere as we continued our walk. He told me about his home and the farm they once kept. He took two small carvings from his pockets. The goodbye presents he had whittled for Harriet and Susannah, a tortoise and a hare.

  We were early but as we entered the town others were already making their way towards the court. Martin became silent. From the end of the street, I saw that Lucian was waiting for us at the entrance to the courtroom. A flight of steps led from the street to a heavy door.

  A constable asked our names and let us through, directing where we should sit.

  A long table drew the eye. It was covered with a white cloth giving it the appearance of an altar. To the left of the table was a row of chairs for the jury. To the right of the table a lectern, complete with Bible.

  Because we were to give evidence, we had been told to sit on one of two benches near the front.

  I went in first, followed by Martin and then Lucian. Mr Wigglesworth was already seated on the same bench and moved along to be beside me, bestowing his small, friendly smile.

  ‘Are you giving evidence?’ I whispered.

  ‘No, but the ushers are used to me. I’m a regular you might say.’

  I had the odd sensation of imagining him sitting beside Freda Simonson during the inquest into the death of Rufus Holroyd.

  On the row in front of us were Mrs Murgatroyd and Jennifer. Next to Mrs Murgatroyd was a stout man with sparse grey hair and a florid complexion. I guessed this might be the seed merchant cousin who had offered Bill Murgatroyd a partnership but failed to tempt him away from the land.

  Martin gave a small gasp. He was watching as people filed into the courtroom. When he heard the tap of a crutch he had turned to look and saw Abner Gouthwaite, dressed in a brown overcoat, carrying a battered trilby.

  On the opposite side of the chamber were two pressmen with their notebooks. Alongside and behind them were members of the public, most prominently Mr and Mrs Trevelyan. More people trooped in. They squeezed into every available inch of bench space and then stood at the back quietly as ushers cleared the gangways.

  The coroner’s officer, Police Sergeant Dobson, directed the jurors to their place. It was an all-male jury, comprising a clergyman, a man with high stiff collar and the confidence of a bank manager, and a nervous young fellow who sucked in his cheeks. ‘Retired headmaster,’ Lucian whispered of the fourth. Two, in their best tweeds, might have been farmers. The last was exceptionally tall and wore a navy striped suit and the preoccupied air of a professor.

  The coroner, a small, barrel-chested man, wore gold-rimmed spectacles, a little far down on his nose. In a sonorous voice, he opened the proceedings, by instructing his officer to swear in the jury.

  Each of the jurors in turn repeated the oath. As they did so, a deeper hush descended so that I had the sensation of the very room being lowered several feet to somewhere quiet and deeply solemn.

  The coroner glanced down at his papers and then into the room. ‘We are here today to establish the cause of death of William Murgatroyd of Catrigg Farm whose identity is not in question, being confirmed by Sergeant Dobson and by Mr Brocksup, seed merchant of Settle and a relative by marriage. The pathologist is not able to be present, but I have his report. In summary, we know that Mr Murgatroyd died of poisoning with indications that the substance was digoxin.’

  A startled murmur rumbled through the room. Mrs Murgatroyd bowed her head. She must already have been told about the cause of death.

  Dr Lucian Simonson was called first and gave an account of his visit to the farm on Sunday. He had asked Mrs Murgatroyd questions and he reported what she said, including the last meal eaten by the deceased, a Sunday roast of mutton, potatoes and swede. No one else in the house had experienced nausea or discomfort.

  The coroner looked at the papers in front of him. ‘I have here a note of stomach contents including a corned beef sandwich, mustard and alcohol.’

  On the bench in front of me, Mrs Murgatroyd and Jennifer leaned forward. Jennifer gave the slightest movement, like a cringe. Mrs Murgatroyd’s, ‘No!’ was audible.

  Lucian stood down, and Mrs Murgatroyd was called.

  She was taken through the statement that was familiar to me: that she had thought her husband was sleeping, that perhaps it began to dawn on her that he was too still, but she did not want to think beyond that, and then a person came to the door.

  She looked at me.

  The coroner spoke in a kindly everyday sort of voice, as if discussing what he might like for supper. He asked her if she could say precisely when she realised her husband was dead. Was that before the arrival of the person who knocked on the door? She could not answer clearly. Her voice shook. She fought back tears, brought out her handkerchief and wiped her nose. She was offered and accepted a glass of water.

  The coroner’s voice was gentle when he asked, ‘How long have you lived on a farm, Mrs Murgatroyd?’

  ‘Since my marriage, thirty years ago.’

  ‘You must have seen death a good many times during those years, of animals, and perhaps older members of your family.’

  ‘Oh yes, many times.’

  ‘Yet you did not know that your husband had died, until someone else told you.’

  ‘I think I knew. I’m not sure what I thought.’

  With the utmost delicacy, the coroner led her to describe what treatment she had given her husband the night before when he came home feeling so ill. Had she suspected that he might have had too much to drink?

  ‘He does not drink.’

  ‘And you did not smell drink on him?’

  ‘No and he did not eat a corned beef sandwich. There must be a mistake. He had eaten nothing since dinnertime, when we all ate together. I don’t have corned beef in the house.’

  ‘You did not ask, Have you been drinking?’

  ‘No, I thought only of getting him to bed and keeping him warm. His breath was, well I did notice something strange.’

  ‘Did he say where he had been?’

  ‘He said he had been in the far field checking the livestock. They had not long been out, you see.’

  ‘Out to graze you mean?’

  ‘Yes.’

  He took her back to the question of what remedies she had given to her husband and asked about her knowledge of herbal cures and useful plants.

  She told him about the mustard plaster, morphia and laudanum.

  Mrs Murgatroyd returned to her seat with the mist of puzzlement on her face. Something was wrong, she knew. As a widow she came across as correctly distressed, upset, and rocked by grief. As a witness she was unconvincing and had somehow managed to draw suspicion upon herself.

  It was my turn.

  The coroner took me through the statement that I had made at Settle police station. When asked about my impression of Mrs Murgatroyd, I said I thought she was in a state of shock and although she must have been aware that her husband was dead she had not been able to take it in and that her mind seemed to have become frozen by grief.

  I do not know what Lucian whispered to Martin when he was called to the stand but he stood tall and very still. He gave his name, and age and said he was staying at Lilac Cottage since he had left Raistrick Farm where he had worked for Mr Gouthwaite.

  If anyone on the jury, or the coroner himself, wondered why an underage boy had been employed on a farm, they gave no sign. The coroner spoke with courtesy as to an equal and asked Martin to tell what he had seen concerning Mr Murgatroyd on Saturday night. Martin obliged. He paused only briefly when the coroner asked him why he was watching the house from a distance.

  ‘B
ecause I was running away and wanted to be sure Farmer Gouthwaite had not killed himself when he chased me and fell.’

  There was a swivel of eyes and a turning of heads as everyone in the courtroom looked at Abner Gouthwaite.

  ‘Very well, Martin, you may stand down now.’

  Sergeant Dobson gave Martin a prod and he made his way back to the bench and the safety of his place between Lucian and me.

  I whispered, ‘You did well, Martin.’

  From the bench opposite, Mr Trevelyan caught my eye and gave an approving nod.

  The coroner called Abner Gouthwaite. Gouthwaite, with the aid of his tap-tapping crutches, made his way to the stand. Martin tensed as the man walked by us, but Gouthwaite did not glance at him.

  Sergeant Dobson held the crutch as Gouthwaite stepped up, holding the lectern for support. He had left off his topcoat and wore a brown suit jacket of indeterminate age and a pair of dark twill trousers.

  He took the oath. Gouthwaite’s contribution was one part of the proceedings I could not anticipate. His manner was of the gallant loser mourning the good neighbour who had been set to take over his farm.

  ‘Bill Murgatroyd and me had us ups and downs but there was no malice between us. I welcomed him when he called on Saturday. We had a drink together to show no hard feelings.’

  ‘Did Mr Murgatroyd eat anything while he was with you?’ the coroner asked.

  Gouthwaite did not hesitate. The man did have sense, or cunning. ‘He did. He was hungry, not having had anything since dinnertime. I made him a corned beef sandwich.’

  A murmur rose in the room like a gentle hum. The coroner called for silence.

  ‘You made this sandwich yourself, Mr Gouthwaite?’

  ‘I did, Mrs Gouthwaite being out of the house attending to a lamb.’

  ‘Did Mr Murgatroyd take anything else that you made for him?’

  ‘He put his own dab of mustard on the corned beef.’

  That was a clever stroke. Mustard would have disguised the taste of whatever may have been added. By claiming that Murgatroyd added the mustard, Gouthwaite tried to clear himself of blame.

  ‘I see that you are using crutches. What happened to you?’