A Death in the Dales

by Frances Brody

  ‘Is that true?’

  ‘Yes. You deserve it. Then you can go back to Eggleswick in style.’ I held out my hand.

  She gave me the knife.

  It was about six inches long, with Mr Young’s distinctive squiggle on the handle.

  ‘Come to the bank.’

  ‘I like this place. It’s like the River Jordan. I sing about the River Jordan.’

  ‘I’d like to hear you sing, but come with me now.’

  ‘I baptise myself. It’s not just for sheep, this place.’

  ‘This way then.’

  Slowly we walked up across the big flat stones and away from the sound of the water.

  We were both soaked to the skin. She was shivering. I pushed the knife under the car seat, and took out my bag. I passed her the smelling salts. ‘You can have these smelling salts if you like them.’

  She took the bottle like a child takes a sweet, saying thank you, unscrewing the top, putting the bottle to her nose, taking a deep whiff.

  ‘Come on then, it’s time to go.’

  She shook her head.

  ‘Go on and I’ll put this blanket round your shoulders.’

  She climbed in the car.

  I got in and started the engine, hoping the petrol would take us as far as Settle.

  The journey was a blank. As we reached Settle, I had no memory of the trip we had just made. Selina said nothing.

  Thankfully, we reached Duke Street without mishap.

  Dr McKinley’s housekeeper showed only momentary dismay when she opened the door and looked at me, dripping onto the step.

  ‘Mrs Shackleton, whatever is the matter?’

  ‘I have a patient for Dr McKinley. Her name is Selina Gouthwaite and she is deeply distressed.’

  ‘Let me ask him…’

  ‘Please, help me fetch her in. I don’t know where else to take her.’

  Thirty

  When I arrived back at Lilac Cottage, Mrs Sugden took one look at me and ran the bath that I had boasted about to Selina Gouthwaite. I hoped by now Selina would have been given a sedative and be safe with Dr McKinley and Mrs Pontefract.

  By the time Sykes returned from his fishing expedition, I was sitting by the parlour fire with a warm drink.

  ‘What happened?’ Sykes asked. ‘You look like death.’

  He sat quietly while I told him the story.

  ‘How is Wigglesworth?’

  ‘I hope he’s arrived back at the pharmacy, but it would be good if you would go see.’

  ‘Yes, I will. And you say she admitted to poisoning Mr Murgatroyd?’

  I nodded.

  ‘That could throw a spanner in the works.’

  ‘How?’

  ‘I’ve just spoken to my chum, the Langcliffe constable.’

  ‘I’m glad you’re on good terms with him.’

  ‘It helps. Abner Gouthwaite has confessed to poisoning William Murgatroyd. I wonder if they were in it together, or if she acted alone and then he realised what she had done.’

  ‘It was her.’

  ‘How can you be so sure?’

  ‘She told me she does everything and I believe her. He’s one of those men who won’t stir his own tea. He wouldn’t make a corned beef sandwich with mustard and digoxin.’

  ‘And the murder of Rufus Holroyd?’

  ‘I’m guessing she did it that too, fearing the shame of being found out. She’s tall enough to match the figure that Freda described.’

  ‘We should tell the police.’

  ‘And let her take the blame, and Gouthwaite go scot free?’

  ‘They would both be charged.’

  ‘She’s not in her right mind.’

  ‘It seems to me she’s entirely in her right mind when it comes to her own interests.’

  ‘Mr Sykes, just now I haven’t the energy to argue with you. Go see Bradley Wigglesworth. I hope he had the sense to leave the knives where they were hanging. Let him report to the police. He attended Joseph Flaherty’s trial and will know what to say to Sergeant Dobson. Tell Mr Wigglesworth that Selina is with Dr McKinley, and ask him to have pity on her.’

  We talked just a little longer. I told him that I wished I had been able to photograph the knives on the hook in the barn, for the purpose of evidence.

  Sykes offered me a cigarette and though I rarely smoke, I took it.

  He lit the cigarette. ‘The police won’t want photographic evidence about a case that’s long closed.’

  ‘You’re probably right.’

  ‘If the powers that be admit they were wrong about Flaherty, I’ll be very surprised. But I’ll tell my constable chum and let him know what you’ve found out, if that’s agreeable.’

  ‘Don’t say Selina confessed. She really isn’t in her right mind.’

  ‘If you say so.’

  ‘Just one other thing, Mr Sykes.’

  ‘I thought there might be.’

  ‘Give your friend the constable the titbits of information, about the missing knives and the links to Eggleswick. You’ll know how to do it. See if he has the wit to work things out for himself. Then if Mr Wigglesworth is ignored when he reports to Sergeant Dobson, the truth might just leak out slowly into the village, in the way the fountain splashes onto the ground when it rains. I’ll ask Mrs Sugden to drop a hint to the postmistress, the butcher and the baker. I’d like to leave here having set the seeds of doubt in the minds of the villagers, if only so they remember Freda Simonson as the woman who was right, rather than as the foolish creature taken in by shadows.’

  ‘And then I suppose I’m done here, unless you have anything else for me?’

  ‘I hope not. I think we’ve done enough.’

  He nodded. ‘Are you sure you’ll be all right, Mrs Shackleton?’

  ‘Yes. You go back to Leeds.’

  ‘How much longer will you stay here?’

  ‘We came for a fortnight, but I’ll see. I want to do whatever is best for Harriet, so we’ll most likely stay the course.’

  ‘I’ll say goodbye to Mrs Sugden. I’m glad she’ll be here with you.’

  ‘Oh by the way, did you catch any fish?’

  ‘Not a bite, but you can’t have everything.’

  In the churchyard that evening I placed flowers in the vase on Freda Simonson’s grave, lilac, apple blossom and carnations. She had wanted to live long enough to hear the carol singers, so although it was May, I considered singing my favourite childhood carol to her, ‘Good King Wenceslas’. But there were passersby and someone had just come out of the church, so I kept quiet to avoid being carted off to Dr McKinley’s and given a sedative.

  But then I did whisper to Freda. ‘You were right. You did see someone that night, a figure in a big black coat. It was Abner Gouthwaite or his poor mad daughter, Selina. On balance, I would say she was the one, caring more about the shame of being found out if Rufus Holroyd had said that he had known the two of them in Eggleswick. Also, he was lazy and she has a restlessness that would not let her be.’

  Freda made no answer, but there was a sigh on the wind that blew down from the tops.

  ‘What are you doing here?’ The voice startled me. I turned to see Lucian.

  ‘I brought your aunt some flowers.’

  ‘I thought I heard you speaking.’

  ‘You may have done. I was telling Freda she was right. Joseph Flaherty didn’t kill Rufus Holroyd. It was most likely Selina Gouthwaite, afraid that she and Abner would be talked about. She’s his daughter, you see.’

  ‘How do you know that?’

  ‘I found out, let’s just say that.’

  He frowned. ‘Kate, are you all right? I heard you brought Selina Gouthwaite to Dr McKinley. It’s a good thing you did. We didn’t know about her heart condition because she goes to Skipton for her medication. God knows how long she’s been without it.’

  ‘Perhaps not long enough, for her sake.’

  ‘You’re being mysterious. I expect you heard that Gouthwaite has admitted to poisoning William Mu
rgatroyd?’

  ‘Yes, and I thought he might. I suppose it’s the least he could do, in the circumstances.’

  ‘Is it over now? Have you finished your investigations?’

  ‘Yes, it’s all over.’

  ‘You’ve changed. You weren’t like this before, suspicious all the time, asking questions.’

  ‘I was.’ I turned to face him. ‘Only not with you, that was the difference.’

  ‘And now?’

  I looked at the headstone that gave the dates of Freda’s birth and death. ‘Did she ask you to do it?’

  ‘To do what?’

  ‘She was your world, from when you were a frightened little boy of six years old. The thought of her suffering was more than you could bear. I’m right aren’t I?’

  He looked at the flowers. ‘I love the scent of lilac.’

  ‘So do I.’

  ‘I saw such suffering in the war, Kate. You of all people know that.’

  ‘Sometimes you would have been asked by a badly wounded man, Put an end to it for me, doctor.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘She didn’t ask though, did she, Freda? She wanted to live a little longer.’

  He did not answer for the longest time. ‘That disease, it’s so cruel, I have seen it many times, a ravaging torment.’

  ‘Answer me. Did she ask you?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘I thought not.’

  ‘Don’t hold it against me. I did what I thought was right. We sat and talked that afternoon. She was cheerful. I’d brought her chrysanthemums. She had a glass of sherry and a slice of lemon cake. I thought… I thought it was for the best. She died full of hope. Wasn’t that better than waiting until what we all know is inevitable? I couldn’t bear it.’ He looked away. ‘You’re judging me, aren’t you?’

  ‘She should have made the choice.’

  ‘I knew her, you didn’t. She would never have given in and would have died in pain and despair.’

  We walked back to Lilac Cottage in silence. It was late when Lucian left. We parted in sadness. I was not the woman for him and I could not have settled with him, there in that village, playing the part of the good doctor’s wife, knowing what I knew.

  He made one last attempt to expiate himself, saying about the war and the suffering and how he could see she would suffer.

  ‘We’re not at war any more, Lucian. It’s over.’

  But of course, it would never be over.

  It had been a pipe dream, this idyllic village, the country doctor, his wife investigating the occasional theft from the railway.

  ‘Stay on,’ he said as he was leaving. ‘I won’t trouble you, but I would like you and Harriet and Mrs Sugden to stay for the rest of your holiday. Please.’

  ‘Thank you. I’ll stay for Harriet’s sake.’

  I walked him to the gate, and we said goodbye.

  That night, Mrs Sugden and I swapped beds. I slept snugly in the kitchen alcove at Lilac Cottage, my first good night’s sleep since arriving.

  Epilogue

  The invitation came from Mrs Murgatroyd, who had my address from Bradley Wigglesworth.

  Jennifer was to marry Simon, second son of Ralph and Brenda Goodman of Hope Hill Farm. Simon was the boy who had sat behind Jennifer in school. They had walked out together before Derek Pickersgill turned her head.

  On the same day, Gabriel Cherry and Winifred, widowed barmaid from the Craven Heifer, would make their vows in the same church. The couples would share a joint wedding spread in Langcliffe Village Institute.

  How could I possibly refuse an invitation to a double wedding? Well easily, if Lucian was to be there. Victoria Trevelyan had thoughtfully written to tell me that he was away on a visit.

  This time, I did not drive but took the train to Settle. The Trevelyans sent a car to meet me.

  The church was full, the altar overflowing with flowers.

  Mrs Murgatroyd had discarded her black for purple, ‘For this one day,’ she told me with a smile. ‘Life must go on. We can’t let wickedness stop the clocks. William wanted the match between Jennifer and Simon.’

  Mr Wigglesworth, whom I now call Wiggy, sat beside me. ‘That’s the groom,’ he said, which I might have guessed as a good-looking young man took his place in front of the altar alongside his best man.

  Behind me, the familiar voice of Mrs Holroyd took advantage of the moment to give her lodgers advice. ‘Marry someone you know to the bones. They’re the only ones you can trust.’

  Heads turned as Jennifer walked down the aisle on Mr Trevelyan’s arm. He looked as proud as if she was his own daughter. She wore a white muslin dress and a garland of flowers above her veil.

  Mr Trevelyan then took his place beside Victoria and Susannah.

  Once again, Mrs Holroyd whispered a life lesson to her charges. ‘She’s lucky having Mr Trevelyan walk her down the aisle. They’ll get a finer gift from him than from her brothers or that tight seed merchant she calls uncle.’

  I felt so happy for Jennifer and her handsome young farmer that I foolishly and predictably began to cry.

  Unusually, the married couple stayed in church, sitting on the front pew.

  No one gave away Gabriel Cherry’s intended, Winifred. She and Gabriel walked to the altar side by side. Gabriel looked a bobby dazzler in a decent dark suit, white shirt and red tie. Winifred smiling and dressed in the colours of butter and bluebells made me want to cheer. There was some whispered remark from Mrs Holroyd that I did not catch.

  Where Jennifer and Simon’s vows had been little above a whisper, Gabriel and Winifred’s responses reached the rafters.

  The couples left the church together, Jennifer and Simon followed by Winifred and Gabriel. Confetti and petals rained on them.

  Wiggy took out his camera. There was much posing and clicking before the brides threw their bouquets. Beth Young let out a yelp of delight as she caught Jennifer’s flowers.

  There was power in Winifred’s arm as she aimed her bouquet. Susannah caught it and laughed with pleasure. Gabriel gave Susannah a brilliant smile and she smiled back. She might not know that he was her father but she knew something. At the very least, she knew he was the man who brought the books.

  We all set off for the Village Institute where the wedding feast was laid out. Victoria Trevelyan, a little subdued, put on a brave face. ‘There are two wedding cakes,’ she told me. ‘I retrieved Jennifer’s original cake from that miserly Mrs Pickersgill, for the price of ingredients and something for her trouble.’

  ‘For Jennifer?’

  ‘Goodness no. She has her own cake. I wanted to give them something, Gabriel and his cheerful, chubby barmaid. I hope she’ll make him happy, but did you see how he glanced at me, that smile of his?’

  I have now become Wiggy’s regular correspondent. We sometimes meet and have occasionally visited Selina Gouthwaite in the asylum. She no longer remembers Abner, so there has been no need to tell her that he was convicted of William Murgatroyd’s murder and paid the ultimate price.

  Wiggy has not given up in his attempt to clear Joseph Flaherty’s name, having sought an interview with his member of parliament. The letters he wrote to the Prime Minister and to the King he delivered in person, having travelled by train to London in order to call at 10 Downing Street and Buckingham Palace. He left his dossier to be presented to each personage, along with a complimentary bottle of his special tonic. He received a royal letter regarding the special tonic and the bottles displayed in his window now bear the inscription, ‘By Appointment to His Majesty King George V’.

  Mrs Trevelyan and I exchange occasional letters. She is a woman with time on her hands. Although she does not take a great deal of interest in their tenants’ affairs, she told me that Jennifer and Simon Goodman have brought new life to the land since taking over Catrigg Farm. Mrs Murgatroyd moved to Settle where she efficiently manages the office work for her seed merchant cousin.

  On a glorious Sunday morning at the crack of dawn, Mr Sykes acted as chauf
feur, driving me and Mrs Sugden in the Rolls-Royce that was given to me at Bolton Abbey by a grateful Indian princess. In Langcliffe we collected Susannah, Beth and Beth’s friend Madge and made the trip to Pendleton, astonishing the local population and delighting Martin and his new family, the blacksmith and his wife.

  They treat him like a son. He is more interested in bicycles, cars and motorcycles than in horses, but I expect that will stand him in good stead.

  On the way back from Pendleton, Beth told me that Mrs Holroyd has softened in her attitude towards Freda Simonson, so perhaps the hints that were spread so broadly have done their work.

  No one told me of the engagement between Dr Lucian Simonson and Miss Mabel Nettleton but I saw the announcement in The Times, which I expect she insisted on.

  Harriet and I are invited to join the Trevelyans when they visit their estate in Scotland this August. Harriet is very keen, I less so. I am not sure that holidays are a very good idea, for me at any rate.

  Acknowledgements

  Thanks to Sylvia Gill for our walks and talks in the Yorkshire Dales; author friend and Langcliffe resident Leah Fleming and the villagers who marked the millennium by producing Glimpses of a Dales Village; Phil and Rita Hudson of North Craven Historical Research Group; staff at Craven Museum; North Yorkshire Libraries in Skipton and Settle, and Settle Tourist Information Centre. You are the ones most likely to spot the liberties I have taken, so please keep schtum.

  My sister Pat shared distant memories of being a patient at Killingbeck Hospital when she was ill with diphtheria. Expert witnesses are Charlie Holmes, who knows farming and the land; retired North Yorkshire police officer Ralph Lindley and pharmaceutical whiz Barry Strickland-Hodge. I’m grateful for their help. Any mistakes are mine.

  If Gabriel Cherry’s experience as a stretcher bearer interests you, do read Emily Mayhew’s Wounded.

  Special thanks to the team at Piatkus. Dominic Wakeford’s insights and spot-on editing made finalising the book a pleasure. Thanks to Robin Seavill, valued copy editor on all the Kate Shackleton books.

  Thanks also to Thomas Dunne Books Editor-in-Chief Pete Wolverton and the team at Minotaur Books who deftly oversee Kate’s safe passage across the Atlantic. She and I are grateful.