The Cuckoo's Child

by Marjorie Eccles

  ‘Mrs Ormerod, Mrs Booth,’ Tom acknowledged the occupants as they passed.

  The two ladies watched with avid curiosity as they took their seats – Laura, who was already the subject of much speculation in the town, and Tom, the local wanderer returned, his presence equally intriguing, and particularly Empson, the stranger. Gentlemen did not often come into this place, whose main function was to provide a trading post for the exchange of information and tittle-tattle. The newcomers, however, were irritatingly shown to a table in the farthest corner, just out of earshot, and only after tea had been brought and poured did they begin to talk, and then in low voices which did not carry.

  ‘We know who you are, Mr Empson,’ Laura said directly. ‘I have told Mr Illingworth how you gave yourself away by your handwriting when you wrote down your address for me. I’d already found a manuscript you had written in the library at Farr Clough.’

  She was not likely to forget the shock she had felt on seeing that particular handwriting once more, the immediate recognition. She had seen it before, and recently. There had been no mistaking the idiosyncratic curls and the Greek ‘e’s, the left-handed, backward slope of the letters, and no need to compare it with that on the roll of papers she had found in the library. He might just as well have signed his name as Benjamin Kindersley.

  He did not conform to the picture she had in her mind. He was twenty years older, of course, than the young Ben Kindersley who, as described by himself, had been a big, muscular young farmer’s son; this man was certainly tall, and there was no reason to think he was not still strong, but any breadth of shoulder was obscured by the slight stoop of someone who had spent much of his life bent over a desk, reading or writing.

  ‘So you found that old manuscript? I showed it to no one because I was afraid it might offend by being too . . . honest. I left it behind, though not intentionally, when I quitted Farr Clough in something of a hurry.’

  ‘You are Ben Kindersley, then?’

  ‘Not a fact known to many, now. I have worked professionally as William Empson for so long, and become so changed, that I’ve almost forgotten Ben Kindersley myself. And for my part, Miss Harcourt, I know who you are, and may I say that I am more than happy to meet you at last? Delighted, in fact. I have followed your progress for many years.’

  ‘Mine?’

  ‘We kept in touch, Mr Beaumont and I, after I left Farr Clough. He had been the best of friends to me when I needed him, and continued to be so.’

  ‘I read your account of how he found you in the blizzard and took you to his home, you and . . . and Lucie Picard. My mother.’

  ‘Ah. So he decided to tell you himself, after all?’

  ‘No. It was left to Mr Illingworth here to do that.’

  He looked at Tom with interest, then back to Laura. ‘He meant to tell you, I know. And would have done, had he still been alive.’

  Laura stirred her tea. ‘Why did you leave Farr Clough?’

  A shadow crossed his face. ‘You may well ask. There was the fire, as you must know, and after that, it was no place for me. The family had lost a son, a husband and father. And Lucie . . .’ He hesitated. ‘You must not blame her for what she did, Miss Harcourt. She was very young and her head was easily turned, and I believe she had given no thought as to what the consequences of her actions might be, until the terrible outcome.’

  Tom said, as the silence lengthened, ‘Are you telling us that she was responsible for that fire?’

  Empson shook his head, as if to clear it. ‘No, no, no! But she would not speak of it, would say nothing to anyone, even me. In the end, Dr Widdop advised me to go away and leave her alone for the time being, come back when she had recovered from the shock. Ainsley promised he would see that she was taken care of meanwhile – a promise he kept faithfully.’ His tea had grown cold, undrinkable, with a skin of milk on the top, and he pushed it away. ‘I was hurt and angry at her rejection of me, and God help me, it didn’t take much to let myself be persuaded to leave. Ainsley lent me the trap, since I could still not walk too well, and John Willie Sugden drove me away.’

  ‘To Manchester?’

  ‘No. I went home, back to the farm, made my peace with my father as best I could. I waited to hear from Ainsley and at last he wrote to tell me of the child Lucie was expecting. I was young, too, and judged harshly. I stayed away. And then, later, there was another letter, when she died, leaving a daughter.’ He brushed a hand across his face. ‘Lucie’s child! You may imagine how I felt, knowing I had no claim on you, Miss Harcourt – Laura. I took comfort in knowing you were being well cared for . . . by your mother, I believe, Mr Illingworth?’ Tom nodded.

  ‘I stayed at High Brow and worked there with my father until he died, and until two of my sisters were married and settled. By then I had had articles published, and my work was beginning to be known. I sold the farm and left with my eldest sister, Prue. She is still with me, she keeps me and my house near Hebden Bridge in order. Neither of us has ever married.’

  ‘What did happen, Mr Empson, that night of the fire?’

  Empson looked from one to the other, then shook his head, but Laura said, ‘You know, I know you do. Please, Mr Empson. No one else speaks of it. My father died that night – don’t you think I have a right to know?’

  After a moment, he said slowly, ‘I cannot.’

  The shop bell jangled and the two police officers, Rawlinson and Womersley, entered and crossed to their table. Tom half rose from his chair but the gangly sergeant pressed him down with a hand on his shoulder.

  ‘Sorry to interrupt, Miss Harcourt, Mr Illingworth.’ Womersley’s big presence loomed large. ‘Mr Empson, sir, I believe? My name is Womersley, Detective Inspector, and this is Detective Sergeant Rawlinson.’

  ‘Yes, I am William Empson. How did you know me?’

  ‘We came across your name, never mind where.’ He hesitated. ‘Well, as a matter of fact our local man here, Sergeant Binns, recognized it, on account of articles you write for The Wainthorpe Courier. The editor pointed you out at the funeral.’

  ‘Then what can I do for you?’

  ‘We should like a few words, sir. At the police station?’

  ‘May I ask what this is about?’

  ‘We are investigating the death of Mr Ainsley Beaumont, and I’ve reason to think you might be able to help us with our enquiries.’

  ‘I don’t understand.’

  ‘We believe you may have been the last person to see him alive.’

  Laura threw a glance of consternation at Empson, but after a moment, he said calmly, ‘I suppose that’s entirely possible. But can we not talk here? I have a feeling what you want to hear concerns us all.’

  Womersley considered. ‘All right, I don’t see why not,’ he said unexpectedly. He glanced across the room, then jerked his head at Rawlinson.

  The sergeant immediately took aside the elderly waitress who was coming for their order. She began to argue but after a moment she gave in and shrugged. ‘All right. It’s not long to closing time any road.’ While Rawlinson went to the door and turned the shop sign from ‘Open’ to ‘Closed’, she went to her other customers’ table, ‘I’m sorry, Mrs Ormerod, we’re closing now.’

  The two women, who had finished their tea, but had picked up the menu and were on the point of reordering so as not to miss anything, eventually left after some highly indignant protest, vowing to each other it would be a long time before they showed their faces in here again. ‘Don’t worry,’ Tom remarked dryly as they watched them depart. ‘They’ll be back, they’ll have plenty to pass on.’

  ‘Bring us some tea, please, will you?’ Womersley smiled at the waitress, as he and Rawlinson pulled up chairs. ‘Just tea, no sweet stuff. Make it strong, lass.’ He leaned back. The chair creaked in protest. ‘Right then, let’s start with what you were doing in Wainthorpe on the morning Mr Beaumont died. And the purpose of your visit.’

  ‘I came to meet Mr Beaumont, at his request. We had not met for many years
, though we had corresponded regularly. It seemed rather strange that he should choose the park as our rendezvous, but I could think of reasons why he did not want me either at Cross Ings Mill or at Farr Clough. We talked for perhaps half an hour. When we had finished conducting our business we parted and went in opposite directions. I went home, and I presumed he was going back to the mill. And that is essentially all there is to the matter.’

  ‘Not quite,’ Womersley said dryly. ‘What was the nature of the business between you?’

  Eventually Empson said, looking at Laura, ‘He wished to extract a rather unnecessary promise from me – that I would never enter into discussion about . . . about certain events.’

  ‘And made sure you would not. With five hundred pounds, to be exact?’

  Empson was not, Womersley thought, a man easily disconcerted, but he reddened to the roots of his greying hair. ‘He attempted to, in a way, but he misjudged me,’ he said stiffly. ‘I had promised and I do not go back on my promises. I do not take bribes, either, even for good causes – which is what he suggested I should do with the money, give it to any cause I thought fit. Naturally, I refused – and he apologized. “I should have known,” he said. “But take it anyway, and use it where you think it’s best needed. I’ve no need of it now.” I should, Inspector, be exceedingly interested to know how you knew about the money.’

  ‘So you didn’t take it?’

  ‘Well, yes, in the end, I was persuaded. The five hundred pounds has already been paid over to the Children’s Mission in Halifax. You can easily check.’

  ‘Thank you, we will. So, after you left Mr Beaumont, you say you went straight home?’

  ‘I took the tram. It would have been ten thirty-five. I heard the Town Hall clock strike the half hour as I approached the terminus and the tram left a few minutes later. I shall be remembered. There was some consternation when I proffered a twenty pound note which the conductor could not change, for my fare – I’m afraid I had neglected to provide myself with enough small change to get me there and back. In the end, when I promised to refund the fare to the company, the conductor was good natured enough to let me ride without a ticket, hoping his inspector wouldn’t board the tram. The incident amused him, I think.’

  ‘Hmm.’ Unlike the conductor, Womersley found these sort of people irritating, on too high a plane to bother about such practicalities as offering a twenty pound note, which most folks had never even seen, for a tram fare. But he saw no reason to disbelieve the story, which could easily be verified. He brought Empson back to more immediate matters. ‘“Certain events”, you said. Mr Beaumont wanted your promise not to talk about – what?’

  ‘You may rest assured, it has nothing to do with his death.’

  ‘Well, you know, the fact that he wanted a promise from you makes me think it has. You might have to reconsider your promise.’

  Empson’s mouth set in a straight line. But at length, he sighed. ‘Very well. He told me that he’d decided to make an end of it—’

  ‘Good God!’ Tom interrupted. ‘Do you mean – he meant to take his life then? It could have been suicide after all?’

  Womersley said shortly. ‘It could not, Mr Illingworth.’

  ‘No, indeed,’ Empson said. ‘That was not what he meant. He intended, he said, to put an end to all the repercussions that fire had left behind. His exact words were, “It’s gone on long enough, I don’t mean for it to go on after I’ve gone.” It was then he told me – which I could not doubt, for I’d already seen it in his face – that he was terminally ill.’

  ‘What had gone on long enough?’ Womersley asked.

  ‘I don’t know.’

  Maybe this was the truth, maybe not. He could not tell from Empson’s face. He seemed to be a man who would tell the truth on principle, but in a tight corner, anyone might lie convincingly. Yet Womersley began to hope for a motivation at last. ‘You say you don’t know what it was, sir, but I dare say you can hazard a guess?’

  Empson hesitated, and looked at Laura. ‘Have I your permission to speak of personal matters, Miss Harcourt? Your mother . . . the fire?’

  ‘I think it’s more than time they were spoken of. In any case, it’s no secret now who my parents were. All of us here know.’

  Womersley glanced towards the waitress, who had been making several impatient sorties from the back room. They were going to be turned out any minute. ‘Give us a bit longer, love?’ To Empson, he said, ‘Come on, then, we’d better have the whole story.’

  ‘If you insist. Though there’s not a great deal to tell, after all.’ He steepled his hands. ‘It happened over twenty years ago, when Lucie Picard and I were guests at Farr Clough.’ Briefly, he stated the circumstances of their arrival, and how Lucie had come to be employed to look after the twins. ‘We were there right until the time of the fire.’ His eyes closed for a moment. ‘That terrible night has stayed with me ever since, as I’m sure it has with all those others who were present.’

  ‘And they were?’ Womersley prompted.

  ‘Ainsley and his daughter-in-law, Amelia Beaumont, the doctor, and Whiteley Hirst. They met regularly to play cards. Sometimes I was asked to take the place of one of them, which did not always please Amelia, especially when I was lucky, as happened that night. She was annoyed and showed it by being particularly irritating, amusing herself by interrupting and peeping over our shoulders to see the cards. I was partnering Whiteley Hirst against Dr Widdop and Mr Beaumont, and we were all rather glad when she left the study to bring some refreshments from the other wing, the part of the house she and her husband, Theo, occupied.’

  ‘Where was he?’

  ‘Oh, he never joined us.’ He paused so long he seemed to have forgotten they were all there.

  ‘Well, Mr Empson?’ Womersley said impatiently.

  Empson said flatly, ‘The fire started, and destroyed all in its path. A brave man perished. What else is there to say?’

  ‘How did it start?’

  ‘What does it matter? How it ended was what mattered, with Lucie and the children’s lives saved.’

  But then, as if the memories wouldn’t be contained, the words tumbled out. ‘It was a wild night, a wind with scatters of rain on it tearing across the moor as it does up there, and howling down the chimneys. We were absorbed in our play and none of us noticed how long Amelia had been gone, half an hour, maybe much longer. Then the door crashed open and one of the servants rushed in, shouting that the wing was on fire, and they couldn’t find Mrs Theo anywhere. We rushed outside and found pandemonium, shouting and panicking, flames sky-high, Sugden working like a Trojan on the hoses. But the wind was fanning the flames and it was clear the fire had too great a hold, and anyone in there would have no chance. Then, like a miracle, Theo appeared in the doorway, carrying Lucie. Somebody took her – the doctor, I think – and Theo rushed straight back into that inferno – for that’s what it was by then. At the same moment one of the maids appeared with Amelia – God knows where she’d been, her hair was wild, and when she saw Theo going back into the house she shrieked like a lunatic and tried to follow . . .’

  When his voice was steady enough he went on, ‘The next thing we knew, Theo appeared at an upstairs window with the babies in his arms. He dropped each one safely out of the window for us to catch. Then . . . then he disappeared.’

  For a long time no one said anything.

  ‘How did it all start?’ Laura whispered.

  ‘Who knows? It was thought the curtains caught alight, from an overturned lamp. At any rate, it went up like a tinder box. The whole house might have gone, God knows, if the rain hadn’t started to come down in earnest.’

  ‘What do you think Mr Beaumont meant by repercussions?’ Womersley said at last. ‘I think you must know.’

  Empson gave no answer until he had thought it over. ‘Do as we’ve all done, Inspector. Let sleeping dogs lie. It was a terrible tragedy – but twenty years have gone some way to heal those old wounds. Why open them again and c
ause more misery?’

  Because, Womersley thought, there came a time when sleeping dogs had slept long enough and had to be awakened and let loose.

  Twenty-Two

  Toiling up that dispiriting hill yet again to Farr Clough the following afternoon, with Rawlinson three steps ahead, Womersley told himself that evidence must be out there somewhere, if only they could find it. Within reach had to be the answer to the question of just what it was that had created a situation that still cast its shadow over the present – if only he could grasp it. Ainsley Beaumont had told Empson he had determined to put a stop to something which had gone on long enough. As long as twenty years? Had what actually happened at the time of the fire been enough to warrant the old man’s murder? Had the fire even been started deliberately, for purposes as yet unclear?

  He would talk to them all, the survivors of that terrible night, beginning with Amelia Beaumont. A delicate business that would be, not least because she was the one who must have suffered most, losing her husband, even though she knew he had been faithless to her and had fathered another child on the young woman who looked after his own children. If she had known what was going on between them before the fire, emotions must have been running high – and from what he’d seen of her, Womersley was prepared to bet the bitterness of it was still with her.

  ‘I have told you all I know,’ Empson had said, but Womersley was not so sure. There had been a certain reserve, a hesitation about that statement. But he’d made no demur when Laura Harcourt had offered to hand over to Womersley that manuscript he had written as a young man, though both had insisted he would find nothing more than had already been told. Maybe not, but Womersley wanted to see it, anyway.

  Amelia Beaumont was not in, they were told on arrival at Farr Clough, but she was expected back within the hour. At Womersley’s request, Jessie Thwaite let them into the study to wait. He had heard that her father had suddenly died, and although it had been obvious he was a very sick man when they had spoken, he was sorry. He had liked the man. At the same time, he cursed that moment of sympathy which had stopped him from pressing Thwaite more about who or what he’d seen on the morning Beaumont was killed.