A Death in the Dales

by Frances Brody

  ‘I fell and hurt my knee and leg.’ He looked at Martin. ‘My farm lad wanted to go off to the May Day celebration in Langcliffe and when I told him he was needed on the farm, he ran off. I slipped in trying to call him back.’

  ‘When was this?’

  ‘On Saturday.’

  ‘But on Sunday you were able to get about sufficiently to make a sandwich and pour drinks.’

  ‘Aye, sir. I have to fettle when there’s no one to fettle for me.’

  ‘Quite. And how did Mr Murgatroyd seem to you?’

  ‘He was cheerful enough, but would be sorry to see me leave the farm after so long. He said the only fly in the ointment was that his wife had a fancy to be a townswoman and live in Settle. We laughed about it.’

  Mrs Murgatroyd leaped to her feet. ‘Liar! He would not have laughed with you about me, never!’

  There was a collective gasp in the room and a crescendo of whispers.

  ‘Shhh, mother.’ On either side of Mrs Murgatroyd, her daughter and her cousin restrained her, and she sat down.

  The coroner spoke sharply, silencing the murmur of voices.

  ‘Mrs Murgatroyd, I will overlook your disrespect to me and the court this time, but you must remain silent.’

  Gouthwaite’s demeanour was now of the deepest concern and sympathy. ‘I am so sorry to have hurt your feelings, Mrs Murgatroyd.’

  In a cold voice edged with impatience, the coroner reminded Gouthwaite that this was not a public meeting and that he must speak only when asked. ‘So you parted on good terms?’

  ‘We did, sir.’

  There were no more questions. Why not, I wanted to ask.

  The coroner adjourned the hearing, saying that the inquest would recommence at two o’clock.

  We filed out.

  People stepped aside to let Mrs Murgatroyd and her cousin pass.

  ‘Am I done with?’ Martin whispered.

  His face lit with relief when I said yes.

  He stuck limpet-like to Lucian who steered him towards the door.

  Mr Trevelyan came to speak to us. ‘Sad business. Sad business all round.’ He caught up with Lucian and Martin. ‘You’ll be glad to hear, young Martin, that you are very much wanted back in Pendleton. The blacksmith has a place for you.’

  ‘Thank you, sir.’ He looked pleased enough to dance a jig.

  There was now no sign of Mrs Murgatroyd, but I spotted Jennifer Murgatroyd, crying and trying not to as she disappeared into the ladies’ lavatory. I excused myself and hurried after her. Mr Wigglesworth stayed close behind me. As I was about to go into the ladies’ room, he whispered, ‘Wait for you outside.’

  Jennifer was at the wash basin, splashing her face, and sobbing quite loudly.

  ‘Jennifer, you poor girl.’ I gave her my handkerchief. ‘Your mother was very brave.’

  ‘Oh it’s you. Yes she was brave and they all think she killed Dad.’

  ‘No, no they don’t.’

  ‘Derek does, the Pickersgills do, that’s why they’re not here.’

  For a moment I could not remember who Derek and the Pickersgills were, and then I did remember. Derek was the fiancé and the Pickersgills his parents.

  ‘Surely not.’

  ‘He’s broken off our engagement. It’s a scandal, you see. Oh they were all over us when Dad’s death was natural causes but now….’ Her sobs grew deeper. ‘He says I can be the one to break the engagement, to say I can’t go through with it. He says that is the gentlemanly way to do it. How can I? How can I say anything?’

  I put my arm around her. ‘Then he’s a cad and you’re better off knowing what he’s like before you marry him than after.’

  This brought on a fresh bout of tears. ‘But I’m not going to marry him, am I? And she has my dress, and my cake, and she says she will keep the cake for Christmas because she supposes we won’t need it and there’ll be no need to charge my mother for the ingredients.’

  I put my arm around her. ‘Then the woman’s a monster. The family will breed monsters. You are well out of this engagement. You deserve much better.’

  ‘But my dad, I want my dad.’

  ‘Splash your face again. Dry your eyes. Your mother needs you to be strong.’

  ‘Just because she knows about medicines… People think she poisoned Dad, so she could leave the farm and come and live in Settle.’

  ‘Anyone who thinks that is stupid.’

  ‘But what can we do?’

  ‘Trust.’

  ‘Trust what, trust who?’

  ‘Just trust.’

  I have never revealed this before, but I travel with a small bottle of smelling salts given to me by my aunt. I took it from my satchel and waved the bottle under Jennifer’s red nose until her eyes watered with a different kind of tear.

  ‘Come on now. Put on your brave face, Jenny. Think of Jenny Wren.’

  ‘The bird?’

  ‘Yes, and a character in Dickens who rises above.’

  ‘Above what?’

  I am not very good at cheering words.

  ‘Come on,’ I whispered as someone else came to avail herself of the facilities. ‘Let’s find your mother. Chin up.’

  Outside, Mr Wigglesworth was waiting for me.

  I left Jenny with her mother and the mother’s cousin.

  Mr Wigglesworth took my arm. ‘Lucian said to tell you that he’ll take Martin back to Langcliffe, and then needs to go to Embsay. He sends his apologies but I said I would give you lunch, if that is agreeable.’

  ‘Most agreeable, thank you, Mr Wigglesworth, and I’m very glad because I need your help.’

  Twenty-Seven

  The clapper sounded as Mr Wigglesworth’s assistant left the shop. He had sent her home for dinner and now turned the sign on the shop door to ‘Closed’.

  He led us into the room at the back which served as store and kitchen. ‘Come through. We can talk while I make us a bite to eat.’ He glanced at the counter by the wall and stroked a brown teapot. ‘My assistant has left some tea in the pot. First things first, eh?’ He poured deeply stewed tea into white mugs.

  ‘Now how can I help?’ He began to open a tin of baked beans.

  ‘Mr Wigglesworth, you listened to Mrs Murgatroyd being questioned by the coroner this morning. She is suspected because she dosed her husband on Saturday night.’

  ‘Yes, with morphia and laudanum. She is known for her knowledge of herbs and remedies.’

  ‘And is suspected because of that.’

  ‘That’s ridiculous! The woman comes in here. She is a healer, not a poisoner.’ He tipped the beans into a pan on the gas ring.

  ‘That is not how it looks to people who don’t know her. She wanted to leave the farm and move into Settle. Her husband would never have agreed. In some eyes, that is a motive for murder.’

  He looked surprised. ‘Really? You think that was how things were going in the courtroom? I did not see that at all. I agree that she gave a poor account of herself but that was because she was upset, naturally. Surely no one could think…’

  ‘Yes they could. Her daughter’s fiancé has broken off their engagement.’

  He snorted. ‘The Pickersgills. Legal men are forever cautious.’

  ‘They fear a scandal. Mrs Murgatroyd is at risk of being accused of murder.’

  He reached for two packets of potato crisps from the cupboard. ‘It’s true that a coroner’s jury, if they return a verdict of murder, will always hope to back it up with a culprit. Will you…?’ Handing me two plates, he stirred the beans. I took the plates to the table.

  He was looking thoughtful, and troubled. ‘How can I help, other than to give a character witness for Mrs Murgatroyd?’

  ‘You could alert the coroner to cross-question Abner Gouthwaite about what he put in the sandwich.’

  ‘I don’t see how that will do any good.’

  ‘There is a history of heart disease in the Gouthwaite family. They will know all about digoxin.’

  He brought the pan
to the table, spooned the beans onto our plates and provided forks. ‘What makes you think there is a history of heart disease in the Gouthwaites? I’ve never heard that said.’

  I took Abner and Sarah’s marriage certificate from my satchel and laid it on the table. He peered at it. I added Sarah’s death certificate.

  ‘Yes, I see. She died of heart failure. You think he kept his first wife’s old medicines?

  ‘They could have brought some of Sarah Gouthwaite’s medication with them. Would it still be effective after several years?’

  ‘Possibly yes, possibly no. It’s difficult to say. By my reckoning they arrived in the area about eleven years ago.’ He placed a packet of crisps by each of our plates. ‘So Gouthwaite was a widower.’

  ‘Not was a widower, he still is. The woman who passes as his wife is his daughter.’ I set Selina Gouthwaite’s birth certificate on the table. ‘She may have inherited her mother’s heart condition.’

  ‘Shocking, shocking. Poor girl, his own daughter.’ He gulped. ‘Goodness, what a murky matter.’

  ‘After his wife died, Abner Gouthwaite came from Eggleswick to Langcliffe with Selina. They do live as man and wife?’

  ‘Oh yes.’ He hesitated. ‘I’m breaking a confidence but perhaps you should know. The poor woman was pregnant some years ago and lost the baby. I know the midwife who went to attend to her. From Eggleswick you say?’

  ‘And if Selina has inherited her mother’s heart condition…?’

  ‘Then I don’t know about it, and I would if Dr McKinley had prescribed for her. Of course if she does have a weak heart, she may have enough knowledge to make her own concoctions. Many people do. That’s how digoxin came to be known as a regulator for the heart, when it was identified as an ingredient in a folk remedy.’

  He forked his beans and stared at the plate, as if it might offer a suggestion. After one more forkful of beans, he stood.

  ‘This is sufficiently serious for me to speak to Sergeant Dobson, and to the coroner if necessary. He and I have known each other a long time, respect for each other, you know, it matters.’

  He went to the sink and washed his hands. When he returned to the table, he picked up the certificates. ‘May I? I won’t produce them unless entirely necessary, but I believe that Abner and Selina Gouthwaite have questions to answer. I hate the thought of a shadow of suspicion falling on Mrs Murgatroyd.’

  ‘Yes, take them.’

  ‘I will speak to Sergeant Dobson straight away. I won’t mention the incest unless it is absolutely necessary but I can assure him there is a history of heart disease in the Gouthwaite family and at the very least that will give cause for suspicion as to possible possession of digoxin.’ He slid the documents into an inside pocket. ‘If my assistant is not back by the time you leave, drop the latch. I will see you at the inquest at two o’clock.’

  He ran his tongue around his teeth and smoothed his hair with his hands. ‘You may finish my potato crisps, Mrs Shackleton.’ At the door to the shop, he turned. ‘You are like Freda in that you have sound instincts as to whom you trust.’ He straightened his tie. ‘I will not fail you.’

  Twenty-Eight

  The notice outside the courthouse caused something of a stir among those returning for the resumed inquest. It read:

  INQUEST INTO THE DEATH OF WILLIAM

  MURGATROYD

  ADJOURNED UNTIL 2 pm WEDNESDAY 12 MAY

  ‘Why?’ someone asked. ‘Why adjourn for a week?’

  ‘New information?’ said another.

  ‘They like to drag things on and double their pay.’

  Gouthwaite leaned against the wall, using one crutch to support himself. He threw away the cigarette he had been smoking, spat on the pavement and then began to hobble away.

  The small crowd had become attentive. I looked to see what drew their interest. It was Sergeant Dobson, striding from the police station. He went up to Gouthwaite and put a hand on his shoulder.

  They walked together back towards the police station.

  Mr Wiggles worth strolled nonchalantly towards me, exchanging a greeting here and there as the crowd slowly dispersed. ‘I have no idea,’ he said to a woman who asked him if he knew why the inquest had been adjourned. He touched his hat to me. ‘Mrs Shackleton?’

  We walked back towards the main street. ‘The deed is done. I have a very strong feeling that we have taken the right course of action.’ Mr Wigglesworth cleared his throat. He looked about for eavesdroppers and saw none. ‘It can be useful reaching the age where memory is not as powerful as it once was. The coroner’s officer, Sergeant Dobson, you know he’s a much younger chap than I and not surprised that I could not recall where I heard about the propensity towards heart disease in the Gouthwaite family. He will be questioning Abner Gouthwaite now. An inspector and constable are on their way from Skipton to interview Selina Gouthwaite and conduct a search.’

  What would they find, I wondered, and why had they not searched Raistrick Farm before? There was plenty of time for Abner Gouthwaite to have destroyed any evidence there may have been. But say they had digoxin in the house and it was essential for Selina, how long might she live without it if Abner used it to poison Bill Murgatroyd? There was no point in speculating. I must wait helplessly on events, the hardest thing in the world.

  We had walked a few yards in silence and then turned onto the main street — in the wrong direction for my walk back to Langcliffe.

  ‘Do you have plans for this afternoon, Mrs Shackleton? Might you spare half an hour?’

  ‘Other than walking back to Lilac Cottage, I have no plans so I’ll be glad to. My housekeeper is with Harriet and I daresay they’ll take care of Martin.’

  A shopkeeper spotted Mr Wigglesworth and stepped out of his shop to ask about the inquest. This happened several times as he was a popular figure, drawing greetings as we walked towards the Market Place.

  ‘Bear with me, Mrs Shackleton, there is something I feel you ought to know. Perhaps we might sit ourselves down on the bench in the square and watch the world for a short while.’

  ‘Very well.’

  ‘Also, I am curious as to how you came by the Gouthwaite marriage, birth and death certificates. Are you able to tell me?’

  ‘It’s a good question, but if I answered truthfully, I would betray a confidence, that’s why I’m glad the constable took your word about the heart disease in the Gouthwaite family.’

  We stood aside while two elderly women with shopping baskets bustled by.

  ‘Then may I know if there is some connection between that information and your interest in Rufus Holroyd’s murder?’ He gave me a quick glance. ‘I know you are interested. Your eyes you know, they give you away sometimes.’

  ‘There may be. I did find out something, although it’s too early to make inferences.’

  Suddenly, he bristled with alertness. ‘Yes, yes. What did you find out?’

  ‘The knife that killed Rufus Holroyd was lost by, or stolen from, an itinerant slaughterman, who regularly came this way for work.’

  ‘It was a distinctive knife, I remember thinking that at the time, during the trial.’

  ‘This man reported the knives missing to the constable in Langcliffe but shortly afterwards Langcliffe was without a constable for some time. No one made the connection. I know the police had other priorities during wartime.’

  ‘They were overstretched, and spent a great deal of time, more than they cared to admit, rounding up reluctant soldiers on leave, before they could be officially branded as deserters.’

  ‘The fact that the man’s knives — and there were several on a belt — were reported missing casts doubt on the conviction of Joseph Flaherty.’

  ‘If only that had been picked up at the time. Did the man who lost them have any idea where?’

  ‘His last port of call was Raistrick Farm.’

  We came to a standstill. Mr Wigglesworth let out a deep noisy breath. ‘Why didn’t we know that? Why didn’t I enquire myself?’
>
  ‘You weren’t to know, and I’m not sure it would have helped. The prosecutor was clever and determined. He could have made a case for Flaherty having found or stolen a knife, or bought it in a pub.’

  ‘How did you discover all this?’

  ‘With the help of my assistant, Mr Sykes.’

  ‘I am much obliged to you.’

  ‘We’re at a dead end just now, but won’t give up yet.’

  As we reached the Market Place and made our way through the busy stalls, Mr Wigglesworth gave a satisfied smile. ‘Good, the bench is free, especially for us. We can speak here, my words will float away, and if you wish you can forget I ever said them.’

  A pigeon patrolled in front of the bench and stared up at us as we made our claim to the seat.

  Mr Wigglesworth became suddenly silent, as if mesmerised by the scene before us, the woman and boy selling pots and pans; the man juggling plates to attract customers while his assistant did the wrapping and took payment; a vegetable seller calling out his bargains.

  We sat in silence, watching the shoppers and the stall holders, the very ordinariness of it all, as if there was an invisible wall between here and the world where a man had been poisoned.

  I waited, sensing Mr Wigglesworth’s reluctance to speak.

  And then it was too late. An elderly shopper came smiling towards us, clutching her basket. I budged up and she sat down, telling us she needed to take the weight off her feet and there weren’t enough benches for a place the size of this and something ought to be done.

  We agreed with her, always the best policy in such a situation.

  Mr Wigglesworth rose, saying to the woman, ‘Well we were just off. The bench is yours, madam.’

  He took my arm. ‘Would you like to see the photographic exhibition? You were kind enough to compliment me on my smoke and steam. There are better photographers than I whose work is on display.’ There it was again, his nervous laugh. ‘I’d like you to see Lucian’s work.’

  Viewing photographs was the last thing on my mind, but he seemed anxious that I go with him.

  In the Town Hall, the entranceway was deserted, the photographic exhibition not attracting as many people as had the inquest. He opened the door of the exhibition room. ‘Come, Mrs Shackleton.’