‘I am.’
‘Family? Children?’
‘No, I – we – have no children.’
‘Well, for me, being childless means I have no one to leave this to.’ He gestured, indicating the house around us and the landscape visible through the windows. ‘It is a matter of some concern to me. I am now fifty-seven.’
He stared past me through the windows again, at the snowy landscape. ‘There are labourers working on my land out there, who have a dozen children apiece. Not every family is so large but most have two or three, at least. There is irony in it, is there not? Poor families all around us with a brood of thriving youngsters. Yet I, and my late Aunt Maude down there in Salisbury, both remained childless.’
‘Your Aunt Maude, Mrs Waterfield, was your father’s or your mother’s sister?’
‘My father’s sister. She and I were the last of the Andersons. If I had broken my neck one night tumbling down the stairs, not just an ankle, and had Aunt Maude still been alive at the time, she would have inherited this estate from me. Given she was nearly twenty years older than I am, that would have been less than ideal! Now only I am left, and the matter is serious.’ He reached out and tugged at a bell rope hanging by the hearth. ‘We shall have another toddy,’ he said.
The one I had drunk had already made its way pleasantly to my head, but I dared not risk offending my host. He seemed in a mood to talk. Besides, I was beginning to suspect where this was leading.
Anderson proved he was not a man to beat about the bush. ‘There has been much gossip, I dare say, in Salisbury about my aunt’s will. I have been informed that you have been down there, poking around and asking questions. It will be that which has brought you running up here from London.’
I guessed it would have been Carroway who had informed him.
‘Yes, Mr Anderson, a lot of gossip, or so I understand from my colleague, Inspector Colby, of Salisbury City Police.’
‘Hah!’ exclaimed Anderson fiercely. ‘I can imagine it! All those old biddies with their tea and card parties – ah, Gregson!’ The door had opened noiselessly behind me. ‘Another couple of toddies!’
I decided to take a hand in the direction of our conversation. ‘It has been suggested in some quarters that Mrs Waterfield changed her will not long before she died. Previously, in another will, she had been more generous towards Miss Devray. After the change, much less so.’
‘Well, that is correct enough, as far as it goes,’ Anderson agreed. ‘Mind you, Inspector Ross, I won’t ask you who told you that. I will point out that, legally, my aunt was not required to do anything for Emily.’
‘But she had brought her up from babyhood,’ I protested.
‘That’s as may be. But Emily Devray was a child no longer. My Aunt Maude was not a sentimental woman, Ross, and neither am I a sentimental man. That doesn’t make either of us heartless. Let me explain it to you in simple terms. There you are, Gregson! Set them down.’
The hot toddies were arriving at a speed that suggested a generous supply had been brewed up ready and was waiting in Gregson’s pantry.
‘I’m a practical fellow. My aunt was a Yorkshirewoman by birth and breeding and she was practical, too. Some months before she died, she wrote asking me to pay her a visit in Salisbury, stay with her for a week or two. I have a competent land manager here. I went to Salisbury. When I had been there a week, my aunt explained what was on her mind, why she wanted me there. I suspected it already. She was getting on in years and her heart was weak. She was concerned about Emily’s situation, when she, Aunt Maude, should be gone. She wasn’t callously indifferent to Emily’s future, as you seem to have decided, Ross! As you were rightly informed, by whichever busybody told you, she had made a will some years earlier leaving the bulk of her estate to me. Emily was, however, generously provided for under this will.
‘But Emily was a bookish girl, always reading. She was shy in company. Aunt Maude feared that, left without protection, and with a small but respectable fortune, Emily would see a queue of unsuitable hopefuls at the door, proposing marriage. She could not trust Emily to make a good choice. Probably, in the circumstances, she’d make one she would regret.
‘Well, as Aunt Maude pointed out, I am without an heir. Surely the simplest solution would be that I should marry Emily?’
He broke off, because I was so startled at hearing this I couldn’t disguise it, and sat with my mouth open like a perfect fool.
Anderson bridled. ‘I thought it was a very good suggestion!’ he said truculently. ‘Emily was young. We could have children. She would have a comfortable home. With luck, I would have another son; or even a daughter would do. There are several landed families around here with sons. A daughter could have been married to any one of them, and the pair of them could have stayed here and taken over from me. But a son would have been preferable, of course. A man likes to see the family name continued.’
Anderson waved a hand at the room around us. ‘In return, Emily would have as much pin money as she wanted. She could run the household as she liked, changing all the furniture, curtains, all the rest of it. And she would be safe, protected. She had seen the house when she was a little younger and knew it. She would be well aware of what I was offering. So, I told Aunt Maude I was very content with the idea; and asked formal leave to address myself to Emily on the matter. Aunt Maude was delighted. She thought everything would be taken care of in the best way available. Everyone would get what they wanted, eh?’
Anderson ceased speaking and stared into the dancing flames in the hearth.
‘And you did so?’ I prompted tactfully. ‘You asked Miss Devray to marry you.’
‘Aye,’ returned Anderson, still staring into the flames. ‘I did. And she turned me down flat. No other way to describe it. She didn’t mince her words or even try to hide her— her horror at the idea. She spouted a lot of nonsense besides, such as she would not be “bought and sold”, that sort of rubbish. That’s what comes of a girl having her nose in books all the time.’
‘You were angry?’ I suggested, after a tactful silence. He must have been embarrassed, furious and confused, I thought.
‘I was, I admit it, for a while. But not nearly as angry as Aunt Maude. She was bitterly disappointed. It was her idea, you see, and after all she had done for Emily, the girl had not even considered it. Very well, then, so my aunt told her. Emily would have to make her own way. She could start right away by seeking a situation as a governess or companion. My aunt would support her no longer. My aunt underlined this by writing herself to an acquaintance, Lady Temple, seeking a position for Emily as a nurse-companion. She, my aunt, also changed her will and reduced considerably the amount she had originally bequeathed Emily. She would have cut her out altogether, but I persuaded her this would attract far too much comment. Well, it has attracted comment enough, anyway. I understand the lawyer, Carroway, has had to shoulder much of the blame. It won’t worry him. He never cared much for Emily. He saw her as a parasite.’
I was right: Carroway had been keeping Anderson abreast of all that went on in Salisbury.
‘Is that how you saw Miss Devray?’ I ventured. ‘As taking advantage of your aunt’s kindness?’
Anderson turned his head sharply and snapped, ‘Of course not, damn it! I was very taken with Emily, as it happens. And, at my time of life, a wife who wants to sit reading is perhaps preferable to one who wants to go to balls and parties all the time. Nor do I give up easily!
‘I was prepared to wait and try again. But then, as if matters couldn’t be made worse, they were. Aunt Maude died suddenly. Lady Temple was prepared to hold the position of nurse-companion open for Emily, until the house in Salisbury was sold. I thought I would wait until Emily had been in London a little while, running around looking after an invalid lady. It ought to bring her to her senses, make her see the reality of her situation. I then intended to present my case to her again. I hoped the second time she might be persuaded to marry me. But, as it turned out, some
scoundrel stepped in and took Emily from this world. So I had not the opportunity to ask her again.’
Sammy had fallen asleep and twitched in his dreams, perhaps remembering chasing rats and rabbits in his youth. Anderson leaned back in his chair, moving his leg a little, and winced. ‘Dratted ankle!’ he muttered. He looked up at me. ‘Heard enough? Got some more questions?’
‘No, Mr Anderson, I have no more questions.’
‘Do you think I acted badly?’ he asked suddenly. ‘You can speak freely.’
I was startled. I hadn’t thought him a man who would ask a stranger to comment on his private affairs.
‘That is not for me to say, sir.’
Anderson jabbed a stubby forefinger at me. ‘Don’t be mealy-mouthed about it!’
‘I’m not!’ I protested. ‘But I am here in an official capacity, investigating the background of a murder victim. I am only interested in such facts as may have a bearing on my work.’
‘Come now, you are an intelligent fellow. In your time as a detective, you must have peered behind the parlour curtains of a good many folk, I’ll be bound. I am interested to hear your opinion. I won’t hold it against you!’ he added drily.
I took a deep breath. ‘Well, then, urged on by your aunt, and perhaps believing she had already won over Emily to your cause, you were misled into being overconfident. Perhaps if you had wooed the girl a little longer, not just presented her with an ultimatum…’
‘Humph!’ muttered Anderson.
I decided not to say Mrs Waterfield ought to have shown more sense. She certainly seemed to have lacked insight into her young ward’s mind. Tactfully, I added, ‘Possibly Mrs Waterfield felt time was not on her side. It was an unfortunate situation.’
Anderson leaned forward in his chair. ‘It was an unnecessary one! My aunt trusted the girl to show some common sense.’
‘She was very young and— and the offer of marriage very sudden,’ I offered feebly, wishing I had not let myself be drawn into making any comment.
‘Head in books!’ muttered Anderson. ‘Well, well, my aunt bore a degree of responsibility, I have to agree with you there.’
Had I said that? I’d meant it, certainly, but tried to avoid stating it baldly.
‘She should have made it clear to Emily much earlier than she couldn’t depend on Aunt Maude’s charity forever. She certainly couldn’t expect an independence from any will,’ Anderson rumbled.
‘You think Emily did expect what you call “an independence” from Mrs Waterfield’s will?’ I asked quickly.
‘Who knows what Emily thought?’ was Anderson’s moody reply.
No, I said to myself, nobody knew what Emily thought, or wanted or expected, simply because nobody had ever asked her. But I didn’t say this aloud.
Anderson had picked up the walking stick by his chair and was prodding gently at the plaster cast. ‘Have to get the dashed surgeon to come out again and take a look at that. It itches like the devil!’ He looked up and at me. ‘Well, if there is nothing more you want to know from me, I’ll have Gregson tell Wainwright to bring the trap around.’
I was not to be offered anything to eat. I was meant to sustain myself with hot toddies. It was probably what Anderson himself did until the roast appeared on his dinner table. But he was also sending me an unspoken message. I was not an invited guest. I was an intruder; into the house and into his business. Perhaps it was my meddling in what he considered his private affairs that he resented most, no matter that I had an official interest in Emily’s death. He had dealt with me as briskly as he would his estate manager. Business over. Dismissed.
Sammy woke and followed me to the door, seeing me off the premises. On leaving, I found myself pleased to be in the cold crisp air again. It cleared my head.
As he drove me back across the moors, Herbert Wainwright asked me suddenly, ‘Get what you wanted, did you?’
‘I think so,’ I told him. Around us the early winter evening was drawing in. The failing light caused strange shadows to play among the lingering heaps of snow, distorted and alarming. The pony was stepping out smartly. Perhaps it knew it was homeward bound and wanted to be in its warm stable; or perhaps it didn’t like the shadows either.
‘Wanted the young lass to wed him, didn’t he?’ asked Herbert suddenly.
‘You know about it?’ I replied in surprise.
‘Couldn’t not know. He came back from that place down South…’
‘Salisbury.’
‘Aye, Salisbury. Mr Anderson came home in a rare old state. Everyone was afraid of him. He’s got a temper, as all know. Even Isaac Gregson had to mind what he said or did, and Isaac has worked at Ridge House for years. Mr Anderson told Isaac some of what had happened, one evening when he was in his cups. He’s not normally a drinking man. But he was embarrassed, you understand? Made to feel a fool, and he’s not a fool. Not him, no. To my mind, the lass should have accepted him.’
‘Perhaps the young lady didn’t want to leave the South and live up here,’ I offered, as I peered, a little nervously, into the lengthening shadows. There was a black shape by the side of the road which looked like a huge mythical beast. It was only a bush, of course.
‘Don’t talk daft,’ said Herbert.
* * *
I dined with Barnes and his wife, a cheerful evening. Later, in my bed at the Commercial Hotel, my thoughts were more sombre and I lay awake for some time, staring into the darkness. My sleeplessness was not the fault of the Commercial. The bed was comfortable enough. Nor were my thoughts because of the case I was on.
Old memories had been jogged by the dark shape at the side of the road, glimpsed as Herbert Wainwright drove me back to Harrogate from Ridge House. I had felt again that small boy, sent down into the mines at the age of seven to be a ‘trapper’. That is, to sit long hours in the darkness by the wooden doors that open and shut as required to control the flow of air drawn in through ventilation shafts to prevent suffocation in the mine’s Stygian tunnels. The law had already been brought in that children under the age of ten could no longer work underground. Mostly pit children were small and scrawny and had the faces of old men. But I was a sturdy child; and if a boy looked near enough ten, then he was reckoned to be ten, as far as the mine managers were concerned.
So I crouched there keeping my lonely vigil in the darkness, ears straining for sounds, even the pitter-patter of rats’ claws, because the silence was worse. In it I feared I’d been forgotten and no one would come to relieve me, or send me up to the surface. My father had died in an accident underground and never come up to the surface alive.
From time to time lights wavered in the darkness and my ear caught the crunch of heavy boots. Miners appeared, so blackened by the coal that they were mere shapes in the gloom despite the lamps they carried, shapes like the bush on the moor. Mostly they passed me by in silence. Sometimes one of them would speak to me, but usually they were too tired, and just trudged wordlessly by. Sometimes, making my way to or from my station, I would hear the hooves of a pony hauling a wagon of coal and the creak and rattle of the wheels. Then I had to scramble aside, for there was little room to pass. I was small and I could not be sure they’d seen me. The ponies were small, too, shaggy and near-blind. They hardly ever saw light other than by the miners’ lamps. Later, when I was a little older, I was given other work in the pit, harder, but not so lonely.
Dr Mackay had remarked to me, before I left for my present visit to Yorkshire, that ‘blood gets everywhere’. So does coal dust. When I made my way home at the end of the day, my mother would weep at the sight of me. She worked washing the floors and cleaning the stove at the house of the mine manager, which was reckoned a good job and a clean one, better by far than sorting coal at the pithead, as other women did. My mother could both read and write and she had taught me, and another boy. Lizzie’s father, Dr Martin, saved me from that life: when he learned by chance that I was literate. He paid for me to go to school. He brought me up from the darkness into the ligh
t; so that my mother no long wept when she saw me. That is the way I remember it.
They are stricter now regarding children working underground. At least, that’s the theory of it. When I look into the fire of an evening, sitting by my own hearth, I don’t see the dancing flames. I see the tired men, and the blind ponies, and I hear the rats scrabbling out there in the darkness.
Lying there in my bed at the Commercial Hotel, I could see and hear all these then, but only in my head. As a policeman I have seen some dreadful sights, but none that haunt me so much as those childhood images that lurk in my brain.
* * *
I took the train back to London the following morning and went straight from the station to Scotland Yard to report to Superintendent Dunn.
‘Well?’ he asked. ‘Did you discover a plot, such as Colby fancied?’
‘I did discover a plot,’ I told him. ‘But it was not quite as Colby imagined.’ I related what I had learned from Anderson.
Dunn listened in silence, occasionally punctuated by the ‘tock-tock’ noises. I did wish he would stop that.
‘Well, well,’ he said thoughtfully when I fell silent. ‘So it was all about a marriage, eh? Or a proposal that was turned down.’
‘It was. Mrs Waterfield wanted to provide for Emily in a way she thought suitable, without leaving her vulnerable to the wrong sort of man. Anderson wanted a wife. Mrs Waterfield thought that he was the right sort of man. Nobody consulted the girl.’
‘And he was angry at being turned down, eh?’ Dunn mused, tapping the desk with his stubby fingers. ‘Embarrassed, too, I dare say. Insulted, perhaps?’
‘All of those things, I would guess. In his part of the world he’d probably be considered a catch, a man of property and so on. I do wonder if he had not had his eye on Emily for some time, watching her grow up and understanding his aunt’s concerns for her. He is anxious to have an heir, but he’d done nothing about it until a year or so ago. To my mind, it’s because he’d decided on Emily Devray, as soon as she was of an age to marry. He is the fellow accustomed to have his own way; not many would argue with him. I was told he is known to have a temper.’
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