A Snapshot of Murder

by Frances Brody

  ‘Marcus?’

  ‘It was a flying visit to Wakefield on some case. He brought flowers.’

  ‘That was thoughtful of him.’

  ‘I believe he hoped you might be here.’

  ‘He knows where I am.’

  ‘There has to be some iota of encouragement.’

  ‘It wouldn’t work.’

  ‘Berta always says how plucky you are, making your own way. She’s right.’

  This was not a conversation I wanted to have. I attempted a diversion. ‘You miss the twins. Perhaps one of them will marry.’

  ‘They’d be here if not for that war.’

  ‘You don’t know that.’

  ‘Yes I do. They met those Canadian soldiers, over to fight for the mother country but full of the joys and promise of a new world. Don’t tell me Canada would have popped into my boys’ heads if not for those charming young boys.’

  ‘I suppose you’re right.’

  ‘Of course I am. And I am right about what must come next.’

  ‘And what is that?’

  ‘Your father must retire.’ She said this with such certainty that it brought us to a halt. Next door’s cat walked along the wall, sat and stared at us for a moment and then leaped down and took up a position by the apple tree.

  I could not imagine my father willingly retiring and said so.

  ‘Well it’s time he did, willing or not.’

  Mother does not cook. She tried once but suffered a burn, so that was that. The accident left a small red scar just under her wrist, a scar now visible only to herself.

  Mother’s maid, Pamela, comes in for an hour on Saturday to leave everything ready, including the Yorkshire pudding mix. When Mother was a girl, staff did all the cooking at the kitchen range. Pamela refuses point blank to come in on Sundays, and also insisted on having a gas stove. Like my own housekeeper, Mrs Sugden, Pamela has very definite opinions about almost everything.

  Some Sundays, I am Chief Cook. This Sunday, Mother persuaded Dad that he was carrying out some highly technical and semi-industrial activity when lighting the gas, taking out the joint of meat at the right moment, and putting the Yorkshire pudding in the oven. He also made gravy. Mother long ago explained to him that dealing with hot dripping is a dangerous task, suited to his rank as police superintendent.

  I have vast admiration for my mother. She will meet her maker with the credential of never having boiled an egg.

  We do not need to be sworn to secrecy regarding Dad’s domestic tasks. He would be mortified beyond measure if such shameful activities became known outside the family circle.

  After dinner, I washed the dishes and pots and Dad dried. This was our time for a chat. He couldn’t help watching when I picked up the gravy boat that belonged to his mother and grandmother, back into infinity. It is covered in a thousand tiny surface cracks that obscure the willow pattern.

  He took it from me, dried it carefully and placed it on the top shelf of the cupboard.

  ‘Mother wants you to retire.’

  I lowered the clothes airer from the ceiling and spread the damp tea cloth across. ‘I’m staying here tonight. I’m not going home until you’ve talked to Mother.’

  ‘Your mother has friends whose husbands have retired. I can’t. We are missing a generation who would have come into the force to be senior police officers. I will probably die in harness, like some faithful old carthorse. I won’t see my sons unless they come home. Some of us have to stay where we are and keep the wheels turning.’

  After dinner, Dad went upstairs for his nap. Mother went up with him, to tuck him in, and left me to read Wuthering Heights for rather a long time.

  When she came down, she looked pleased with herself. ‘He has accepted that sixty-six is old enough to hand over his truncheon, metaphorically speaking.’ She sat opposite me, placing a cushion behind her neck. ‘He has agreed that we must do things together while we still can, and that will include a voyage to Canada, to see the boys.’

  ‘He is not going to retire, Mother. He is saying that for a quiet life.’

  She made a dismissive gesture. ‘You must come with us to Canada. Leave Sykes and the admirable Mrs Sugden to hold the fort.’ She did not give me time to reply. ‘Not that the voyage is imminent.’

  ‘What then?’

  ‘We are to have a weekend away, near Haworth. He’ll like the moors. We may move to the country when he retires. It would be somewhere I could invite my London friends.’

  I picked up my old copy of Wuthering Heights that she had left on the sofa arm. ‘Is that why this is here?’

  ‘Haworth and the moors will be the coming place. Have you heard of the industrialist James Roberts? He was awarded a baronetcy.’

  ‘The name rings a bell. But James Roberts is that kind of name. It sounds as if it belongs to someone solid and reliable.’

  ‘He is a rags-to-riches Yorkshireman who owns Salt’s mill. He has bought Haworth Parsonage for the nation.’

  ‘How very generous.’

  ‘In August, Lady Roberts will perform the opening ceremony. She will give the building into the keeping of the Brontë Society, for use as a museum.’

  ‘That’s excellent news. It will be much better than the little old museum above the bank.’

  ‘You must come.’

  ‘I will. I’d love to be there!’

  ‘You should have joined the Brontë Society. Those of us who are already members in good standing have been allocated a special viewing spot.’

  ‘I suppose one can just turn up on the day.’

  ‘I hope you will. There are people I should like you to meet, and a house I want you to see.’

  ‘Is this connected with Dad’s “retirement”?’

  We heard Dad’s footsteps on the stairs. She put a finger to her lips. ‘The parsonage will become a home for a valuable collection of Brontë memorabilia bequeathed by Mr Henry Houston Bonnell, a Philadelphia gentleman. He stipulated that the relics should be kept in a fireproof room.’

  Dad came in.

  ‘Are you bending Kate’s ear about Haworth?’

  Mother continued. ‘I am just telling Kate about the all the work that is going on. It’s costing a fortune to lay down … What are those floors called, darling?’

  ‘Ferro-concrete.’

  ‘That’s the word, and all camouflaged. There are to be fireproof steel doors made to look like the originals. Such a costly business but it would not do for the parsonage to resemble a bank vault.’

  As she spoke, I thought about our photographic society’s plans for a weekend away. We could do worse than go to Haworth. ‘I think that would be a perfect place to go.’

  ‘At a constabulary dinner dance, we sat with your father’s old colleague Peter Porter and his wife. Mrs Porter inherited Laverall Hall at Stanbury, just a little way from Haworth. It is a seventeenth-century gentry house that she does not appreciate. She would like to move nearer to her daughter who is in some seaside resort.’ Mother shuddered at the thought of moving to the coast. ‘She has invited us to stay for that weekend at the beginning of August. The parsonage opening is on the first Saturday of August.’

  Dad put in his two-pennyworth. ‘Ginny, you won’t like Stanbury. There’ll be a butcher, a baker and a candlestick maker.’

  ‘Then I shall admire the landscape, the moorland.’

  ‘Just because you like the Brontë sisters’ books, it doesn’t mean you’ll like the area where they once lived.’

  ‘Credit me with a little intelligence, darling.’ Mother shook her head at his persistence in being dense. ‘I was thrilled by King Solomon’s Mines as a gel but had no desire to visit Kukuanaland.’

  Dad’s driver called for him on Monday morning. Mother and I stood by the window and watched the car move away.

  She turned to me. ‘I’m glad you stayed the night, Kate.’

  ‘So am I.’

  ‘I hope we can move to the country. It would do him the world of good.’


  Pamela approached the front gate and stopped to talk to a neighbour.

  ‘Before Pamela comes in, let me just tell you something.’ She smiled. ‘Do you remember when you all used to walk Constable?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I must remember to tell whoever comes to live here after us, not to dig where he is buried. Oh, and just so that you know, I put down our names for another dog. The next constabulary bloodhound that fails to come up to scratch will be ours.’

  ‘Constable the second?’

  She shook her head. ‘Oh no. The next dog should have a position of rank.’

  ‘Who will walk this dog?’

  ‘I will, and when your father retires, we will walk the dear creature together. He will like being by the moors.’

  ‘The dog?’

  ‘Your father. Our weekend with the Porters will sway him. Mrs Porter is amiable, and it will be a change of routine. A dry run for when we visit the twins in Canada.’ She sat back in her chair and played a trump card that must have taken a great deal of thought. ‘The moorland is rugged. Canada is rugged.’

  CHAPTER SIX

  A Brush with Death

  The Headingley Photographic Society Outings (1928) Sub-Committee had arranged to meet on Tuesday, in the Kardomah Café on Briggate. We would now, without Carine, be a committee of two.

  The café was busy and so I ordered two sandwiches and a pot of tea, knowing that Derek would be on his lunch break, and perhaps short of time.

  He came in, looking pale and shaken. There was a scratch on his cheek and his coat was dusty.

  ‘Whatever happened?’ I thought he must have tripped and fallen.

  ‘Someone tried to kill me.’ He spoke rather loudly. Heads turned.

  ‘What?’

  ‘In a car, a lunatic driving down Albion Street. I swear he went straight for me, knocked me flying and drove on.’

  ‘You must go to the dispensary.’

  He shook his head. ‘Luckily I’m not badly hurt, except my ankle. No bones broken. Chap on the pavement saw what was about to happen, threw his arms around me and pulled me back. If he hadn’t I might have been a goner.’

  The waitress, who had just brought our order, overheard. She put our sandwiches, teapot and milk jug on the table. ‘You poor lad! You need extra sugar in your tea.’

  ‘That’s what my gran would say.’ Derek picked up the tongs and dropped four cubes in his cup. ‘The maniac must have braked at the last minute before skidding off. He sent me and my rescuer into the gutter.’

  The waitress tutted. ‘They want locking up, these motorists. They’ve no notion of letting people go about their lawful business.’ She glanced about and then silently mouthed, ‘I’m going to bring you an iced bun, on the house.’

  Derek perked up. ‘Thank you.’

  I poured tea. ‘Did you see the driver, or note any details?’

  ‘No. It all happened too quickly, but I’ll tell you whose car it put me in mind of, same shape, same colour.’

  ‘Whose?’

  ‘Tobias Murchison’s, and it’s just the kind of driving you’d expect of him. I caught a glimpse of the driver’s hat, like that homburg Murchison wears. But it couldn’t have been because he’ll be in the studio – what with Carine coming here.’

  ‘Ah of course, you haven’t heard. Carine can’t come. Sadly, her father died on Sunday morning.’

  ‘Oh? Was that sudden? I know he was bedridden.’

  ‘It was rather sudden.’

  ‘Should I go see her? Is there anything I can do?’

  ‘Not for now, Derek.’

  ‘The death isn’t in today’s paper. I could go in person and see what insertion they would like.’

  ‘Tobias is dealing with everything.’ It suddenly occurred to me that Tobias may have come into town to register the death and notify the bank and the solicitor. If he was distracted, he might well not have noticed Derek. On the other hand, he may have driven slowly down Albion Street, waiting for Derek to leave the premises at noon, and made a beeline for him. Bereavement might be a good defence against manslaughter of his wife’s young lover. ‘He practically threw himself under my wheels, your honour.’

  I brought us round to the subject of our outing. ‘We must decide, between the two of us, Derek. I’ve looked at the suggestions and my preference is for Haworth over that first weekend of August. On the Saturday, the deeds of the Haworth parsonage will be given to the Brontë Society by Sir James Roberts, for the benefit of the nation.’

  ‘That will be newsworthy. I could be official photographer for the paper. I’m for Haworth then.’

  ‘Yes.’

  Derek seemed to have forgotten his brush with death. He leaned forward, asking anxiously, ‘Do you think that will suit Carine and that she’ll be able to come?’

  ‘We shall have to see, nearer the time. I’ll do my best to persuade her.’

  It would suit me to be in Haworth on that day, especially since my parents were going to be there. Mother particularly wanted me to see the house they would stay at. She felt sure that I would be welcomed at the Porters’, but I could hardly ask to bring along a gaggle of amateur photographers to occupy their attic.

  Having demolished his sandwich and made a start on the iced bun, Derek seemed a little recovered.

  ‘Derek, although I’m in favour of Haworth, we must look at other suggestions members have put in the box, and consider them.’ I took the scraps of paper from the used envelope and placed them on the table.

  Derek set them in neat lines. I had not looked at them until now. The fact that there were only six did not indicate wild enthusiasm for an outing.

  ‘I thought we would have to put it to the vote at a meeting.’

  ‘It’s the kind of discussion that could go on for hours. I prefer to present a fait accompli.’

  I was looking at one particular suggestion, block printed. ‘Ponden, Stanbury.’

  ‘Where’s Stanbury?’ Derek asked.

  ‘It’s two miles from Haworth. My parents will be staying there with friends. Oddly enough, I was going to suggest that we try and book accommodation at Ponden Hall in Stanbury.’

  Although I could not be sure, I thought the writing was Carine’s. I tried to remember whether I had mentioned my idea to her, but no. It had only come into my head after seeing mother on Sunday. Today was Tuesday. I hadn’t seen or spoken to Carine since Sunday morning, when I dropped her off at the railway station.

  ‘And what’s Ponden?’ Derek asked. ‘Is it an hotel or an area?’

  ‘There’s a Ponden Mill and a Ponden Hall, which is a working farm that does afternoon teas.’

  ‘Have you stayed there?’

  ‘Not stayed. Mother and Dad took me and the twins there, years ago. We had tea in the garden. Ponden Hall was said to be Emily Brontë’s inspiration for Thrushcross Grange in Wuthering Heights. It’s walking distance from Haworth.’

  We looked at each of the other suggestions. Some were for the seaside – Scarborough, Whitby and Filey. ‘We need to think about the travelling and accommodation. Over an August weekend, the resorts are going to be booked up. It might be difficult to find accommodation for a group.’

  Derek pushed aside suggestions of York and Ilkley. ‘We could go there and back in a day on the train.’ He had eaten his iced bun and gulped down his tea. ‘Do you mind hanging on, Kate? I’ll dash up to the General Post Office telephone, and see if we’re right, and if she agrees that we should choose Stanbury. I’ll ask how she is, and if there’s anything I can do.’

  ‘Sit down, Derek. You don’t telephone someone about an outing two days after their father has died. We could be wrong about the handwriting. I can’t think how she would have come up with this. She’s not a great reader.’

  ‘Everybody knows about the Brontës. Perhaps Carine heard about the parsonage handover, as you did.’

  ‘I think we’ve settled where we’re going.’

  Derek dabbed up the remains of the icing from his
bun. ‘Will it look odd that three supposedly impartial members all want to go to the same place?’

  ‘You mean the three impartial committee members who are doing the work?’ I put the suggestions back in the envelope, writing a slip of my own: Ponden Hall, Stanbury. This made two votes for Stanbury.

  ‘I’m sure you’ll find a way of making everyone see the sense of such a good choice.’

  ‘You can rely on that, Derek.’

  ‘That’s decided then!’ He wiped a speck of icing from his lip. ‘My boss said I can use the office spirit duplicator to do a letter to our members. I’ll add a tear-off slip to return if they want to go. I’ll stay late and do it, and then I can deliver them tomorrow.’

  ‘Wait until I’ve contacted Ponden Hall to see if they do bed, breakfast and an evening meal. Oh, and ask members for a five shilling deposit and give them a week to reply.’

  ‘Five shillings!’

  ‘What’s wrong with five shillings?’

  ‘I thought the society would pay.’

  ‘Not the whole amount. We would have fifty applicants and an empty bank account. Save a shilling a week between now and August, and give what you can for the deposit.’

  At that stage, my only misgiving was uncertainty about numbers and whether we might all be accommodated.

  Derek’s enthusiasm was aroused, his cuts and bruises from the run-in with a car forgotten. He beamed. ‘I feel like packing my bags already. We have Sir Arthur Conan Doyle to thank for this. If it had not been for his early pieces in the Photographic Journal, we would not be going on a weekend outing.’

  ‘Do you take the photographic magazines?’

  ‘We have them at work, but it was Carine who showed me that piece.’

  ‘Well it is such a good idea. And you know, Derek, it’s not too soon to let members know about the plan to visit Haworth that August weekend. We can give details of where we’ll be staying nearer the time, after I’ve contacted Ponden Hall.’

  So it was that over sandwiches and an iced bun, we helped fate take its cruel twist. And there would be no Arthur Conan Doyle in Haworth to solve the dastardly crime.

  The newspaper building where Derek works is on Albion Street. I walked back with him in that direction, intending to call at my library. Afterwards I would go to the newspaper offices and collect the mimeographed notices about the trip. We agreed that Derek would deliver half the notices to our society members. I would take the other half to Harriet, who had volunteered to do some legwork in return for being enrolled in the society. On hearing that it was Derek’s idea, she had decided that society members were not such a bunch of old fuddy-duddies after all.