Tabitha looked up from buttering toast and ordered me to sit down.
‘Have you had breakfast?’
Evelyn looked pale and drawn. Compared with the confident figure I had met on my first visit, she looked like a woman who was unravelling before my eyes. For a moment I felt a pang of pity. If my guess was correct, she and Gregory Grainger had been lovers for almost seven years. That was a longer time than Gerald and I had together. First Edmund killed in action, Joshua unfaithful, Gregory at the other end of the country. Now two of her workers killed and another accused of their murder.
I helped myself to a rasher of bacon and a sausage from the dishes set out on the sideboard.
Tabitha asked me about my visit to London. I told her the blue dress was a huge success.
She smiled. ‘Comes to something when my dress gets out more than I do. Still, we’ve plumped on Paris for the honeymoon, and it’s my resolution that Hector and I shall have a spectacular time.’ As she rose from the table, the sleeves of her red satin dressing gown with its fiery dragons turned into wings. ‘I’d better get changed. Mustn’t be late for the funeral.’
She left the table.
‘Close the door!’ Evelyn called after her. ‘You weren’t born in a field.’
Evelyn was studying a pot of marmalade carefully, as if it presented a deep puzzle. She looked at me with barely disguised fury.
‘It must have been lovely for you, to get away to London.’
The simplest and expected answer was to agree that it was.
‘Did you see anyone we know?’ she asked pointedly, her fury seeping away.
Should I tell her? No point in lying. ‘Dr Grainger came to my aunt’s birthday dinner. The professor he works with attended and so he brought him along.’
She lowered her head. Her hands clung to each other. ‘I won’t go to the chapel. I’ll come to the cemetery.’
‘Evelyn!’ I wanted to offer some comfort, but did not know how. ‘It was none of my doing that Dr Grainger came.’
With a sigh she pushed herself up from the table. ‘It’s all right. It’s over between us. I thought we might go to London together, but that was nonsense on my part. It’s better this way.’
Stoddard seemed to me a far more suitable person for Evelyn than Dr Grainger. Stupidly, I started to say that, and then hoped she did not realise that I had overheard him propose to her at the Gawthorpes’ party.
‘Neville?’ She looked at me in astonishment. ‘Some things are just not possible.’
Tabitha took my arm as we walked along the drive on our way to the chapel. ‘About what you asked me, regarding Dad’s neuralgia. He was taking something for that.’
‘Do you know what he was taking?’
‘Something from Aunt Catherine. She was our treasure trove of medicines, poor woman. Is it important?’
‘It might explain his confused state of mind that day.’
‘And have you found out anything else? I know you haven’t had a lot of time.’
I took a deep breath. ‘I’d better tell you this, in case it comes out some other way. Your father had been seeing a young woman.’
If it had not been for the existence of a half-brother, I might have kept that information to myself. To my surprise the news did not seem to worry Tabitha, but rather to raise her hopes.
‘You think he went away with her?’
‘It did strike me as possible, but I now know that didn’t happen.’
We walked against the wind towards Bridgestead and the chapel. Mill workers made their way in twos and threes towards the chapel. Older women wore shawls around their shoulders or on their heads. The younger women wore coats and hats or headscarves.
‘On the day your father went missing, there was a series of explosions at Low Moor.’
For the briefest time, Tabitha’s hand tightened on my arm.
‘What does that have to do with Dad?’
‘I think that’s where this young woman worked, on munitions.’
The sky had turned white. Once the wind dropped, we could be in for snow.
Now I had to say it, just to prepare Tabitha, in case.
‘Thirty-eight people died as a result of that explosion. Among the bodies …’
She stopped suddenly. ‘Dad’s fancy woman?’
‘No. The women got out.’ The article in the Cleckheaton and Spenborough Guardian had not included all the details of the tragedy, but the editor had attended the coroner’s inquest into the deaths and had been willing to tell Sykes and me what he heard. ‘There was one unidentified man.’
Tabitha’s voice came out breathless, as though my words winded her. ‘You’re not suggesting … that just doesn’t … just because she, this woman …’ Tabitha rubbed at her forehead with her fist. With her other hand she steadied herself against a low wall.
‘It’s unlikely to be your father, but best to rule out the possibility.’
‘Then don’t say … I want something definite. When you asked me about his painting stuff and I told you it had gone you made me think …’
I felt furious with myself for not waiting, for my need to keep her in the picture. My blow-by-blow account had turned out to be just that – heavy blows. I reached out to her. ‘I’m still working on that.’
I did not say that I was also waiting to hear whether there was a pathologist’s report on the unidentified man. For once, I had used my influence, getting Dad to ask for any such information to be sent to Keighley, Constable Mitchell’s headquarters.
We were on the flat now, nearing the chapel. Tabitha had recovered a little from her shock at the directions my enquiries had taken. Hector stood by the chapel door, top hat in hand, waiting patiently for Tabitha. He had watched our progress and looked concerned as he took her arm. ‘Uncle Neville’s inside already.’
Hector greeted me briefly, expecting me to walk in with them, but I let them go first and found a seat near theback. The whole of Braithwaites’ Mill must have been granted time off to attend. Women in shawls, headscarves and turbans were seated in the rows in front of me. Men occupied the other side of the chapel, caps lying on the kneeling board.
Sykes slid in beside me.
The minister read the service.
I wondered whether Mrs Kellett would have preferred a different kind of funeral where her spiritualist beliefs would have been acknowledged. What a small world this was, that Mrs Kellett had lived here all her life. She must have thought she would go on and on, living into old age as her own mother had. A few sobs came from her workmates, hankies pulled out, noses blown.
I heard Stoddard’s deep bass voice before seeing him, near the front ahead of his workforce, leading the singing. He then took to the lectern. No one coughed or blew their nose as he spoke into the hushed chapel of the deep shock the village felt at the death of two such good neighbours and good workers in so untimely and violent a fashion. He begged for mercy for their souls, and prayed that justice would prevail.
‘He’s keeping it short so they can all bugger off back to work,’ Sykes whispered. I hit him sharply him in the ribs with my elbow. He grunted in pain as the final hymn began.
Constable Mitchell and his wife had slipped in at the back of the church. As we came out, Mrs Mitchell and their small grandchildren split off and headed home.
‘It does the young uns good to learn to be solemn at funerals,’ Mitchell confided as we walked behind the coffins to the cemetery at the back of the chapel. He looked round quickly. ‘Come and see me this afternoon, eh?’
White misshapen clouds scudded at speed across the bright blue sky. The wind moaned through an oak tree.
Evelyn had avoided the chapel service and simply waited by the newly dug grave. Tabitha and Hector joined her.
The crowd of mourners thronged the cemetery. I stayed with Sykes, on the edge, observing.
People formed themselves into groups. The chief mourners, Mrs Kellett’s sister and brother and their families, stood close to the grave. I did no
t straight away notice the odd-woman-out. It was Evelyn’s gaze that drew my attention. Evelyn glanced across the grave, stared for a moment, and then averted her eyes, but not quickly enough to hide the look of pure hatred. Stoddard noticed the change in Evelyn, and he looked in the same direction.
I glanced to my right, then whispered to Sykes, ‘That’s her. Mrs Horrocks said she was dead.’
‘The woman in the painting?’
‘Yes.’
She wore a smart black coat, black shoes and a small hat with a flimsy veil that stopped short at her eyebrows. The child, a boy of about seven years old, was also dressed in black, a cut-down suit with a jacket that imitated a man’s, and dark trousers reaching just below his knees.
Mrs Kellett’s sister began to cry. Her husband put his arm around her. He couldn’t find a handkerchief. The mystery woman in black handed her one.
‘I’m very sorry for your loss.’
The sister blew her nose. ‘Thank you. There’s some sandwiches and a pot of tea in the chapel hall.’
The woman seemed undecided. The boy looked at her hopefully.
Stoddard stepped towards them. He said, in a kindly voice, ‘You were a workmate of Lizzie’s once, I believe? In the weaving shed?’
‘No.’ She grasped the child’s hand. ‘She once or twice attended the same church as me.’
‘What church was that?’ Stoddard asked.
She seemed as though she would not answer then tossed her head back and said, ‘The Spiritualist church in Bradford.’
Stoddard all but snorted, but managed to keep his kindly tone. ‘It was good of you to come. Is this your child?’
‘Yes.’
‘You’ll be going back for refreshments?’
She hesitated.
The mill workers were already leaving, and not in the direction of the chapel hall but back to work.
I came between Stoddard and the woman and child. ‘I’ll show this lady the way.’ I took her elbow and we walked to the gate.
‘I’m not off back for refreshments. I’ve a train to catch.’ She shook free of me.
I turned back. Evelyn was watching us. She spoke to Stoddard.
It gave me an unwelcome feeling of déjà vu to be back at the High Street café – the place where Tabitha and I had met to discuss her father’s disappearance. It was unnerving to sit opposite someone who was the image of Agnes in the painting. She had only agreed to talk because she was early for the train back to Bradford.
‘Will it be all right if Mr Sykes takes Frederick to the park?’
She nodded warily, but a moment after changed her mind and leaped to her feet to run after them.
‘It’s all right, Miss Horrocks.’
She hurried onto the street, with me in pursuit. ‘You want the child.’
‘No. You have my word. Mr Sykes is taking the boy to the park, as I said. It will give us time to talk.’
‘What do you want to talk about? You got me here offering a lift but we’ve legs. If you’re trying to kidnap …’
‘No one wants to harm your nephew. Your mother must have told you we called to see her.’
‘So it was you, enquiring about the postal orders, and telling Mam about Mrs Kellett. Look, he may not be my child, but he’s ours. He’s Mam’s grandson and he’s going nowhere.’
‘You must be Beatrice, or Julia?’
She hurried on, calling back, ‘I’m Beatrice, and not gabbing to you while your accomplice makes off with our lad.’ Rushing across the road between a horse and cart and a delivery boy on his bicycle, she caused the cyclist to swerve. Eyes only for the child, she stepped into horse muck without noticing, quickening her pace until there was a moment’s distance between her and them.
When I caught her up, she had calmed down a little. ‘I came today to pay respects to the Kelletts. I brought the child so he could do the same. There were times before Julia married and I got a job when we hadn’t a crust. Mrs Kellett’s ten bob kept us from clemming.’
‘Earlier, when Mr Stoddard asked if you had worked in the weaving mill, I think he must have been mistaking you for your sister. You’re very much alike.’
She paused mid-stride and turned to me. ‘Did you know her?’
‘Not personally. But the photograph I left with your mother, the one from the painting done by Joshua Braithwaite. Agnes is standing on the old bridge across the beck …’
‘Her stranded on a bridge. That’s where he put her all right, with all his promises. And a Moses basket for the child! He might as well have put him in one and sent him floating down the river to be caught in reeds or to drown, for all the mind Joshua Braithwaite paid him.’
‘I believe he did care about her, and Frederick.’
‘Believe as you please. He dumped her and the child and went off.’
‘Why would he have done that? He left a family, a business, a home.’
‘Oh I heard about all that. If you ask me, our Agnes wasn’t the only woman in his life. He probably tossed a coin and went with the one he liked the best.’
We had reached the park gates. Sykes let go of the boy’s hand. Frederick bounded onto the grass like a horse hearing the starter’s pistol. Then he turned and waved to Beatrice. She waved back.
‘Will you tell me what happened to your sister?’ I asked Beatrice.
‘She died three months after Bigshot Braithwaite let her down. She’d found work in a chemist’s shop. Whilst she was at work, she collapsed. The chemist tried to revive her. She was rushed to St Luke’s, but it was too late.’
‘I’m sorry.’
Frederick had spotted the children’s play area with swings, roundabout and slides. He approached shyly. We were still in Easter week and other children played there. I remembered that feeling of being the stranger, on the edge of the group, wondering would you be accepted.
Sykes hung back, watching Frederick enter the playground.
‘Beatrice, when you say Braithwaite let Agnes down, how did that come about?’
‘He made promises to her. It was wrong. I knew no good would come of it. I told her that, but she wouldn’t have it. They loved each other, she said, and loved the child. He said he’d come to her, on the Saturday. The house was rented in Robin Hood’s Bay. He’d given her a key, and the address and everything. She waited, all packed and ready, and so excited. Of course he didn’t come, or send word. She waited, all day, and all the next day. When Monday came, she gave up hoping and went back to work.’
‘Were you there?’
‘Yes. I was the one told her not to be so soft in the head. He’d no intention of coming. I told her if she didn’t get back to work, she’d lose a good job.’
‘So were you looking after Frederick while she went to work?’
‘No. She left him with an old woman down the street. That’s why we asked Mam to come in the end, to be sure Fred was properly taken care of, and it’s a good thing we did, given that Agnes wasn’t much longer for this world.’
Now that she had slowed down, Beatrice noticed her shoe and wiped it on the grass verge to try and get rid of the horse muck, turning her foot sideways to wipe it on the grass.
I plucked some leaves. ‘If we go to the horse trough, you’ll be able to get your shoe clean.’
After she had cleaned her shoe, we both sat on the bench. ‘It was my fault. I was too hard on Agnes for being a fool. She listened to me, that he wasn’t coming. She went to work.’
‘Where did you work?’
‘At Wibsey Mills.’
I tried to keep my voice calm. If Marjorie Wilson was wrong, and Agnes had not worked at Low Moor on munitions, there would have been no reason for Braithwaite to change his plans and to impulsively set off to find her.
‘Were you both employed at Wibsey Mills?’ I asked. ‘You and Agnes?’
She shut her eyes for a moment. ‘No. She was at the Low Moor Works, filling shells. On the one day she might have stayed at home, still hoping for a different life, I’d bullied he
r into going back to work. She got caught up in that damned explosion, ran miles to find Fred and the old woman. She was never the same again after that.’
‘You weren’t to know.’
‘Never the same Agnes after that day, all that running, the stench of it. She started to get headaches. I’d say take an aspirin. I thought nowt of it, only that she got the headaches because she’d been let down so bad.’
We watched Frederick, who had managed to grab a swing. He waved for Sykes to come and push him, going higher and higher.
Beatrice’s anger at Braithwaite and at herself had slid away. It’s strange how we get so angry on behalf of someone we love, much more angry than they might be on their own account. Evelyn was angry with Joshua because of his infidelity, but she was angrier still because she blamed him for Edmund’s death. Beatrice Horrocks, after all this time, was in a fury with Joshua Braithwaite because he had abandoned her sister. What would she do with all that anger if I told her what I thought to be the truth?
As if she knew something was coming, she went very still, folding her hands across her middle.
‘I believe Mr Braithwaite tried to come for your sister on Saturday, and someone stopped him.’
‘Whitewash!’
‘I believe he was on his way to her on that Monday, that he would have come to the house, and that he went to search for Agnes because of the explosion.’
I had her attention now.
‘And then what?’
‘I’m not sure. There was one unidentified body found after the Low Moor explosion. It may have been his.’
She turned to me, white-faced, her mouth open. I immediately regretted telling her, but it was too late to stop. ‘I can’t know for sure, but I suspect he may have been caught up in the explosions.’
‘The firemen wouldn’t have let him through.’
‘That’s what I thought at first. The firemen were all killed. It must have been mayhem. The explosions went on for hours, explosion after explosion.’
Sykes and the boy were on their way back.
Dying In The Wool: A Kate Shackleton Mystery Page 30