The Cuckoo's Child

by Marjorie Eccles

  ‘To go back to the morning Mr Beaumont died,’ Womersley began. ‘I believe you went across to the bank.’

  ‘Yes, I walked over to pay in some cheques. Why do you ask?’

  ‘How long were you absent from the office?’

  ‘Nearly three quarters of an hour. Longer than I should have been, but they happened to be very busy.’

  ‘Did you come home via the park?’

  ‘The park? Melsom Park? Of course I didn’t. It’s at the other end of the town.’

  ‘We’ve been told that you were seen there – with Mr Beaumont.’

  Hirst had not allowed himself to be idle while they were talking, counting more money from the blue paper money bags into neat piles, his long fingers stacking them. Now he put down a five shilling stack and stared. ‘Who said that?’

  ‘Never mind.’

  ‘No need,’ he replied after a moment. ‘I know who this came from. It was Porteous, wasn’t it?’ Womersley said nothing. ‘Well, of course it’s a lie.’

  ‘What has he got to gain by lying about a thing like that?’

  ‘Purely to create aggravation for me.’ He finally put aside the money. ‘A year or two back, Edwin Porteous was suspected of dipping his fingers in the till – not a large sum, just some petty cash that was kept in the front office. Nothing could be proved, but there happened to be an office lad who’d left a bit sudden just about the same time, so Ainsley gave Porteous the benefit of the doubt and let him stay on, which I wouldn’t have done, and I said as much. Before that, he’d always gone to the bank with me for the wages – as a safety measure, in case anybody got ideas about helping theirselves to the money on the way back, you understand, but after that one of the woolsorters was assigned to go with me, and still does. Now I put the wages up myself, without assistance from Porteous. He’s never forgiven me.’

  Womersley had no doubt all this was true enough, and suspected this latest wasn’t the only aggravation Hirst received from the clerk. He was prepared to believe Porteous – as far as it went. Maybe he had spotted Ainsley in the park with someone. And although he couldn’t seriously have expected that pointing the finger at Whiteley Hirst would be believed, he might have hoped it would give him some uncomfortable moments. There was evidently no love lost between them, though he was surprised Porteous hadn’t given more thought to the stupidity of upsetting Hirst, who had no reason to see he was kept on now that Ainsley Beaumont had gone. That there were people like that, prepared to tell outrageous lies simply to create mischief, Womersley didn’t doubt. It wasn’t the first time he’d come across this sort of thing: someone with a grudge, not really expecting their accusations to be taken seriously; it was simply done out of spite, to cause an annoyance or embarrassment – or to cast aspersions in a ‘no smoke without fire’ sort of way, which could be damaging enough in itself. Everyone would remember that Whiteley Hirst and Ainsley Beaumont had been forever at it, sniping at each other, arguing. The fact that they always made it up without evident resentment didn’t alter that. This time it might have gone too far.

  Baseless as they may turn out to be, these were points that, as police, they couldn’t disregard. Checks had already been made – at the bank and with the time office, which Hirst had to pass on his way back to Cross Ings. The times he had given tallied with what he’d said, but it still left some leeway. How long would it take to creep up behind a deaf man and kill him, then double back?

  ‘Mr Beaumont has left you a substantial amount of money in his will, I understand,’ Womersley said suddenly.

  Hirst reddened. ‘Aye, well, that’s no surprise. He told me he’d see me right, after he’d gone. We go back a long way. I’ve been here, man and boy, for near as long as he had, after all, and I’d like to think he appreciated what I’d done.’

  Rawlinson, perched on the edge of what had been Ainsley Beaumont’s desk, had his fountain pen out and his notebook open, but he was fidgeting about in his restless way with the inkwell, the pen tray and the paperweight. Womersley frowned.

  ‘Have you any idea why Mr Beaumont should have been in the park that morning, Mr Hirst?’

  ‘If he was.’ He almost laughed, as if the idea was totally bizarre.

  Rawlinson made a sudden exclamation of annoyance and the others looked at him. ‘Sorry, don’t mind me. I made a blot – rotten fountain pen.’

  Hirst impatiently indicated the blotting paper on the desk and said to Womersley, ‘I thought you said Ainsley was killed about breakfast time?’

  ‘Given what we had to go on then, yes, I did. We might have to readjust that.’

  ‘What would you say if I told you Porteous used to be an amateur boxer?’ Hirst asked deliberately, not above using a hint of malice himself.

  ‘Was he, by Jove? Hard to imagine him that fit, now.’

  ‘Fit enough to hit a man over the head with a stone – and to tip him over the wall into the dam.’

  But Porteous had no reason to be anything but grateful to his employer, if what Hirst had just said was true. Any problems the clerk had were with Whiteley Hirst, hence the rather pointless attempts to pay him back with petty annoyances.

  Hirst was beginning to look restless, evidently keen to get back to his money-counting, and for the moment, Womersley had nothing more to ask. He stood up, ending the interview. ‘Thank you for your time, Mr Hirst. We’ll be in touch.’

  Outside, he said severely, ‘And what was all that about your pen, Sergeant, when you were supposed to be taking notes? It’s beginning to get on my nerves, all that twizzling about. Or was there something in there you weren’t saying?’

  Rawlinson looked crestfallen. ‘I didn’t think it was so obvious.’ Then he grinned and dived into his pocket, bringing out the pink blotting paper he’d used and neglected to return to the desk top. A six inch square piece which had been folded over once, and while one side had been well used, the other had only two or three words blotted on to it. ‘Lead me to a mirror. Might be nothing, but Beaumont was working late the night before he died, wasn’t he? And nobody’s thrown away the blotting paper on his desk.’

  ‘Sometimes I wonder about you, lad,’ Womersley said, shaking his head. ‘This isn’t one of your Sherlock Holmes tales, you know.’

  Rawlinson looked stubborn. ‘We’ll see.’

  And back at the police station, with the aid of a mirror Mrs Binns in the adjoining police house produced, they did. Just a name, looking as if it might have been the superscription on an envelope. A name Sergeant Binns immediately recognized.

  Nineteen

  It was Tom who offered the facility of his new car to those who were attending the suffrage meeting in Halifax. Second-hand though it might be, he was able to claim with justification that it was more reliable than Gideon’s, and even Gideon couldn’t argue with that. Though Emmie Broomhead had been his only reason for offering to act as driver in the first place, Gideon decided he would go with them anyway, declaring the women would need protection, should any of the violence occur which only too often broke out at such meetings – and besides, he added with a grin, Tom might need a mechanic.

  Jessie Thwaite had been persuaded to go along, taking Emmie’s place in the rear seat with the other two girls, though it would be a squash, all wrapped around in heavy coats as they needed to be. Jessie was hesitant about leaving her father alone, but he insisted.

  ‘Get off with you, and don’t bother about me. I’ll enjoy a quiet evening on my own.’

  He came out with her, muffled in a scarf and overcoat, to have a look at the car.

  Tom told him it would go at thirty miles an hour, if pushed. ‘Well, I don’t know, Tom Illingworth,’ he said, looking bemused. ‘This is a sight different from flying down Syke Beck Lane on that bicycle of yours like you did when you were a lad. We’d have been born with wings if we’d been meant to go that fast!’

  Tom laughed as he reached a hand outside to release the brake. ‘Safe as houses. Don’t worry about Jessie, Mr Thwaite.

&nbs
p; He stood at the door to see them off, a frail figure dwarfed by his big overcoat. Jessie scolded him and told him to go indoors, but he stayed where he was, smiling and waving them off until they turned the corner.

  The prospect of jaunting over the moors at speed, however serious the end purpose, lifted their spirits. They became rather jolly, Gideon urging Tom to pass the trams lurching up and down the steep gradients, never mind the twenty mile speed limit. Daft, that was. Motorists should be allowed to drive at a speed they considered safe.

  The girls huddled together for warmth, laughing and holding on to their hats. Laura was glad they were a crowd. She had been in a curious state between agitation and elation ever since her last meeting with Tom, and had only managed to deal with her emotions so far by not thinking about them.

  The dingy room in a church hall near the Cloth Hall in Halifax was already packed when they arrived. It probably would have been anyway, said Una, but one of Mrs Pankhurst’s daughters, Sylvia, was to be present and any of the women of that now-famous family was a big draw. The stage was backed with banners, worked in the WSPU colours of purple, green and white, and the platform was crowded with women in their best hats, as if to give the lie to the notion that the only women to be interested in women’s rights were those who cared not a button for their appearance. A buzz of energy pervaded the hall, so that the cold, and the draughts, and the hard seats, were somehow not so noticeable. They began by singing Jerusalem, two hundred Yorkshire voices, mostly women’s, raising the rafters.

  Not all of them were women, though. It was encouraging to see a fair sprinkling of males – unless, as Una remarked in an acid aside, these should turn out to be hecklers, throwers of bags of flour, or planted policemen. It was good to see some working men. On the whole they were not the most ardent supporters of the Cause. George Quarmby, the Union man from Cross Ings, along with his wife, a small, stringy woman as dour-looking as he was, had nodded to Gideon as they claimed seats further along the same row; there were a few other men, better dressed, who looked more like teachers and professional men, and a couple with pencils and notebooks at the ready who could only be journalists.

  The meeting began with some tedious business about the proposed Women’s Exhibition to be held in Knightsbridge in May, a big occasion which would hopefully raise both awareness and funds for the WSPU. Miss Pankhurst – who was, their vivacious chairwoman reminded them, with a bow and a smile directed at the daughter of their eminent leader, a trained artist – had graciously designed banners for the occasion. Much applause. Volunteers and supplies were now urgently required, she went on, to man – or should she say woman? – the various stalls intended to sell regional produce. Several women at once volunteered their services. To fill the West Riding representatives’ stall, Yorkshire parkin and curd tarts were immediately suggested. Some fine woollen shawls, locally woven. Purple and green cushions, embroidered with the Yorkshire White Rose emblem, and hand-painted china decorated likewise. A milliner was inspired to offer half a dozen hats. Perhaps, suggested someone, getting carried away, they could have a bazaar of their own, as well, to raise funds for the local branches.

  Laura listened and wondered if this was what suffrage was really all about; there was something incompatible with the gentle art of setting up and running bazaars and the escalating violence within the movement, while more and more women were getting themselves into prison, hunger striking, damaging, defacing and setting fire to property. Broken glass, according to Mrs Pankhurst, was the most valuable argument in present day politics. Endeavouring to raise funds by selling trinkets and tea sets and baking parkin seemed to have little to do with all that, and would surely only arouse derision and more opposition in the men who were against them, another proof that women were incapable of thinking in any way beyond hearth and home? Laura sensed she was far from being alone in this; there were stirrings in the audience and between Jessie and Una long-suffering looks passed.

  It was a relief when Sylvia Pankhurst rose to enthusiastic applause, but she was not to speak long this evening, it appeared. She was here to introduce and recommend the next speaker, a very popular choice. W.B. Empson was a man noted locally for his stirring oratory and his wholehearted support of the women’s movement, outspoken on radical issues and well known to many of them, through his books, newspaper articles and speeches. He was not on the platform to begin with, but appeared when he was called on to speak; a tall, middle-aged man, he walked on to the stage with some panache, twirling a walking stick. Like a music hall turn, thought Laura. Any amusement faded, however, as Empson began to speak to an audience which became hushed and quiet the moment he began his introductory words.

  He was younger than Laura had first thought him, perhaps no more than in his mid-forties, a handsome man, though his face was lined and the fall of hair over his brow was more silver than dark. His scholarly stoop suggested a middle-aged academic, but his voice when he spoke was that of a young man. He was a powerful orator, and an actor more than a little, and he spoke in a ringing voice, using that silver-banded stick theatrically, like a stage-prop, leaning forward, his hands cupped over its handle. Then waving it, brandishing it like a sword, stabbing it on the floor to emphasize his points. What a humbug! But when he got into his stride, he seemed to forget his mannerisms – and so did Laura. His arguments had cogency, there was truth in the pictures he painted. He passionately believed in universal suffrage, for both men and women, he supported Trades Unions and fair wages for all, and above all, Lloyd George’s promises for redistribution of wealth in his People’s Budget. His eyes flashed. His face was noble. He drew himself up to his considerable height and spoke with grave concern and common sense, captivating his audience, male and female, speaking with such honesty, sincerity and depth of feeling that some of the women round about them were in tears. Laura found herself almost moved to join them, and even Gideon, who had sat throughout with his arms folded, joined in the applause at the end with hearty approval. And Una? His speech had ignited a flame in her. There was silence when he had finished and then a roar of applause, and she was on her feet with the rest, her face incandescent.

  When the applause died down, Empson bowed but did not take the seat which had been left vacant for him, and walked off the stage. The performance – Laura could not think of it as anything else – had perhaps taken it out of him.

  ‘There, what did you think of that?’ She turned to Tom, sitting on her other side.

  ‘The speech? Marvellous. The rest of them? Blinkered, perhaps,’ he returned, smiling. ‘Right about their ideals, perhaps, but mistaken in the way they’re going about it. Nothing’s calculated to rouse opposition more than violence. Are you of their persuasion? I can see you might be.’

  ‘Certainly not! As a matter of fact, I agree with you about the violence.’ Yet more and more did Laura agree with their aims and ideals. The constant reiteration of them at Farr Clough was infectious.

  Tom, however, was not inclined to pursue the conversation and went to find them the cup of tea that had been promised. They appeared to be back on their former footing. Perhaps he had only been angry with himself for being so precipitate, and not offended that she had so quickly appeared to reject his overtures out of hand. More likely, he regretted an impulsive moment, she thought as she joined Una among the women gathered at the back of the hall.

  Empson’s speech had been worth the effort of turning out on a cold night, they agreed. ‘I wonder if I could persuade him to write something for Unity? But I can’t ask him now,’ Una said. ‘He’s being mobbed and there are people I want to see. I shall have to find out his address and then I’ll write to ask him.’

  ‘I’ll get it for you.’

  The speaker sat at a table with his books and pamphlets displayed, and Laura waited her turn, reluctant to push herself forward. However, when he happened to look up and see her standing at the back of the crowd something prompted him to ask, ‘Is there anything I can do for you?’

  H
e beckoned to her and the sea of women gave way. She passed on Una’s hope that he might write something for her magazine.

  ‘Unity? Oh yes, I’ve seen it, and admired it. Una Beaumont, isn’t it, who produces it? Is she here?’ Laura waved to where Una stood with her friends, a tall and graceful figure, unusually animated, her eyes shining and her blonde looks enhanced rather than diminished by the black she was wearing. He considered her thoughtfully for several moments. ‘She is in mourning? And you, too?’ he asked, turning back to Laura

  ‘Yes. A . . . relative has died.’

  ‘My condolences to you both. Well, when you’re ready, I shall be honoured to help. Let me give you my address.’

  ‘I’m afraid she won’t be able to pay you,’ Laura warned. He waved a hand. None of these little magazines could pay. ‘But Unity has a good circulation,’ she added.

  ‘That would clearly be an advantage.’

  He had a slow smile of great charm. But he was much less flamboyant than he had appeared on the stage. He scribbled something in a notebook, tore the sheet out, folded it and handed it to her. She slipped it into her bag. ‘And you are, Miss . . . ?’

  ‘My name’s Harcourt, Laura Harcourt.’

  He shook her hand. ‘I look forward to hearing from Miss Beaumont, and have the privilege of meeting her – and you, too, again, Miss Harcourt, I hope.’

  Tom drew the car up outside Jessie’s house. Immediately, Jessie noticed that the light was still on. ‘He hasn’t gone to bed yet!’

  She flew up the short path to the house. Una and Laura looked at each other and followed. They found Jessie kneeling beside her father’s chair, her arms around him and her head buried against his shoulder. Walter Thwaite had died sitting in his armchair, a rug over his knees, his hands on his Bible. He looked as though he had quietly gone to sleep. Jessie raised her head, her face blank with shock. ‘I should never have gone. Left him with nobody to sit with him.’