A Snapshot of Murder

by Frances Brody

‘The voice distinctly said, “Someone you love is in jeopardy”.’

  ‘Where is Jeopardy?’

  ‘It’s not a place, dear girl. Jeopardy means to be in a state of peril or hazard.’

  ‘And is it true?’

  ‘Possibly. But to be forewarned is to be forearmed.’ She rubbed her other foot. ‘I must wear socks with my wellingtons. Do you have spare socks in this trunk?’

  ‘Auntie Kate does.’ Harriet sat up and looked out of the window. The pane had not been washed. Ivy almost blocked out the view, except for a large tree whose branches moved so slightly in the wind that they might be doing it just to please. ‘Who is in jeopardy?’

  ‘No details emerged. Of course, the voice may be speaking through corridors of time and space. You won’t have anything to worry about.’

  ‘If that’s the kind of thing the voice says, I don’t want to hear it.’

  ‘Yes, but if you are given a sign, be forewarned. You will never again dither about the direction of your life.’

  ‘I don’t dither.’

  ‘Good. I like a girl who doesn’t dither. I like your aunt and I like you. We shall be good roommates.’ She wound the woven stole around her shoulders. ‘I don’t suppose those spare socks are near the top of your trunk?’

  ‘I’ll look.’ Harriet swung down from her special bed, took the key from her satchel. ‘Shift then!’

  Rita moved so that Harriet could open the trunk.

  She found a pair of socks and tossed them to Rita.

  Rita put them on. She pulled on her wellingtons and tucked in the silk trousers. ‘I had these pants run up in Jaipur. People think silk impractical but it is warm enough and dries easily.’ She knotted the stole. ‘Now, I’m off across the moors. Will you join me?’

  ‘No, I’ll unpack our trunk and wait for my auntie.’

  Rita tilted her head to one side and looked at the trunk. It was Auntie Kate’s smallest trunk but when Rita looked at it, the item took on massive proportions. ‘People take too much with them. I crossed Africa with a small haversack and India with a cloth bag on a rope.’

  ‘You should’ve brought it today, and put a pair of socks in.’

  ‘My travels were charmed. If you give off the right aura, people leave you alone, or be helpful. Which reminds me to say, did Tobias Murchison pinch your bottom as you stepped from the train?’

  Harriet blushed. ‘Yes he did, and not for the first time.’

  ‘It’s because you are young and he thinks you dare not say anything. I’ll tell you what you must do.’

  Harriet, who hoped for adventure at some point in the future, listened carefully.

  When Rita had gone, and Harriet was looking about the room for somewhere to put their clothes, she made a mental note to ask Rita how a person might set about crossing continents. She had also meant to ask Rita if she knew why Tobias Murchison had the impression they would stay in Haworth.

  Auntie Kate had packed suitable clothes for being invited to the Porters’ on Sunday. These, Harriet lay in the clothes-press. There was the sideboard, with two cupboards and two drawers.

  When Harriet planned how she would furnish a place of her own, a sideboard came near the top, along with a gramophone and cat’s whiskers. She must ask Rita if she had these desirable items, and a room of her own to put them in. She wondered what Rita did, or who she came from, that allowed her to dress so well, cross Africa and India, and have silk trousers run up in Jaipur.

  The sideboard’s top drawer held someone’s underclothes and a nightdress.

  She opened the bottom drawer.

  In it was a baby’s outfit, finely knitted, the colour of fresh dairy cream and soft to touch. She could see straight away that it had never been worn: leggings, jacket, bonnet and bootees. Who is going to have a baby, she wondered. Beside it was a broad-brimmed hat decorated with a cabbage rose. The hat might once have been pink but was now well past its best. Harriet did not hear the footsteps.

  ‘What do you think you’re doing?’

  It was Elisa Varey. Harriet saw now that her lived-in face wore a deep frown mark. Her eyes turned hard and angry.

  Harriet dropped the outfit back into the drawer and closed it. ‘I’m looking for somewhere to put my clothes, what’s wrong with that?’

  ‘Keep your stuff in your own trunk.’ Elisa Varey snapped. She pushed her way to the sideboard, opened each drawer and took out the nightdress, the baby’s outfit and the hat. ‘You’ve got our room and now you want all else on top.’

  ‘You showed us into this room.’

  ‘The room yes, the sideboard no.’

  ‘Do you mean to say we’ve taken your bed?’

  ‘Aye.’

  ‘Well good.’

  Elisa had turned to go and now turned back. ‘What did you say?’

  ‘I said good, because anyone less rude would pretend to make us welcome.’

  ‘Well then, hear this from the rude piece of work. Mam says you’re to come down. There’s tea and sandwiches.’

  ‘My aunt isn’t here yet.’

  ‘You better not eat it all then, but I expect you will.’

  A sudden thought came into Harriet’s head, and it was about the knitted outfit, just the size for a new-born baby.

  She spoke softly this time. ‘Was that outfit for your own bairn?’

  ‘Do you always push your nose into other people’s business?’

  ‘Often I do.’

  ‘No. It wasn’t my bairn.’ She strode to the door. ‘The bairn never wore it, so shut your cake hole and leave that drawer alone.’

  With that, Elisa was gone.

  Harriet felt an anger rising up in her. It was not anger for Elisa Varey because she saw that she was close to tears. It was that old anger particular to Harriet herself, that helplessness and hopelessness that would hit her suddenly out of nowhere.

  She wondered about the baby that died.

  Harriet gave herself a little shake. She placed her nightgown on the box bed, to claim it, and wondered what sort of dreams she would have.

  Elisa Varey popped her head around the door.

  Harriet looked at her.

  Elisa said, ‘I might ask you summat, since you’re a know-it-all.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘I said might. I might and I might not.’

  ‘Well I can see you intend to ask, so do it.’

  ‘This Mr and Mrs T Murchison that are coming, what is his Christian name?’

  ‘Tobias.’

  Elisa’s mouth opened. She stared at Harriet. ‘He’s big, he has a red face, he’s rude.’

  ‘That’s him.’

  ‘How dare, how dare he come here?’

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  Nothing Bad Ever Happens Here

  Relieved to see Mother and Dad comfortably settled with Mr and Mrs Porter, I decided it was time for me to set off for Ponden Hall. I couldn’t wait to see the place.

  Mr Porter, offered to show me the way. After my exhausting journey with Dad at the wheel, I was glad to be walking, and to have an escort through unfamiliar territory.

  The village of Stanbury seemed to me to be a single long street with a mixture of houses and shops on either side, with the added bonus of a tea room. It was the kind of place where people knew each other. Every twenty paces, or so it seemed, Mr Porter exchanged a greeting with fellow villagers. Outside the Co-operative Store, by the butcher’s and the baker’s, there were pauses for thoughtful observation about the weather: presently fine and breezy, but – and this was not unanimous – likely to rain.

  Mr Porter pointed out the Manor House, the Co-op, the church, the school, and the house where a police constable lived. He came to a halt at the bus stop. ‘You’ll catch the bus to Haworth here. Or if you prefer, go back the way we’ve come, pass our place and at the end of the road turn left. It’s no distance.’

  ‘What if I take the bus in the other direction?’

  ‘I shouldn’t bother about that if I were you. You’ll have
enough on in the short time you’re here.’

  The village of Stanbury came to an abrupt stop, as if the place grew tired of putting on a busy face. Now fields and moors stretched for as far as I could see. The sky was a deep blue, dotted with a gliding parade of picture-book fluffy clouds.

  We crossed the road. The ground rose towards sloping hills.

  Determined to give me topographical instructions, Mr Porter stopped again. ‘Now the way to Ponden Hall by the road is to continue along in the direction we’ve come. The road twists, and turns so watch out for mad motorists and lunatic cyclists. You’ll pass a public house on your left. When you come to a mill, turn left and keep walking.’

  ‘But we’re not going that way?’

  ‘We’re going the scenic route from Hob Hill, and cutting off the corner.’

  We turned onto a track, passing a house on our right.

  After a few yards, I stopped to admire the fall and rise of the moors. Ancient patterns of fields were clearly marked by drystone walls. In the distance, heather bloomed a deep purple. Sheep looked up from their grazing to watch us, and then ambled closer for a better look.

  ‘I admire the chaps who come struggling up here with a ton of equipment in the hope of photographing a curlew mid-flight. Oh, and don’t be deceived by the clear sky. A mist can descend very quickly, even in August. Taking a wrong path is easily done.’

  Mr Porter gave me an account of the farms in the area, the names of the families who remained and those who had gone.

  ‘It must have been a hard life,’ I commented.

  ‘It was what folks knew, along with the quarrying. Women found work in the mill, when the handlooms went out.’

  ‘And now the tenant farmers at Ponden Hall increase their income by providing teas and taking in guests.’

  ‘They’ll be glad to have you. Now tell me all about this photography hobby of yours. I’ve only ever taken snaps of the kids at the seaside.’

  I did not say very much before he told me where I would find good views on a fine day. ‘So many ways of looking at the world, eh? It is not what we see but what we make of it.’ He named the farms on either side of our path, Cold Knoll, and Cold Knoll End. ‘Where will you go today?’

  ‘The waterfall and Top Withins, and perhaps into Haworth.’

  ‘There’s talk of fencing off Top Withins to stop the vandals.’

  ‘So there is crime in this idyllic spot?’

  ‘It’s a free country, Kate. We can’t keep you townies away.’

  For a while, we walked in perfect silence, with the only sounds coming from the cry of a bird and the crunch of our footsteps. The air was clear and fresh. Even in my tucked away part of Leeds there is always the sound of the tramcar, children playing, horses’ hooves on cobbles. The smoke from factories rises and though it is blown south and east there is always a pall hanging over the city, blackening its buildings and bringing the gift of coughs, catarrh and bad chests.

  Where the ways forked, we paused near a row of cottages. ‘We’re at Buckley Green.’ He pointed to one of the cottages. ‘Timothy Feather, the last handloom weaver lived there.’

  ‘When did he die?’

  ‘Eighteen years ago, and a way of life went with him.’ He took out a map. ‘Now your best way to Top Withins is to pass Timothy Feather’s cottage and stick to the farm track.’ Expertly, he folded the map and held it for me, tracing the routes with his finger. ‘There’s Top Withins. From there, you’ll go across and downhill for the waterfall. It’s a poor specimen of a waterfall but tuneful enough. Lydia tells me Emily Brontë loved its song. And from there a path takes you into Haworth.’

  I thanked him and would have been willing to continue the rest of the way alone but he insisted on walking with me, back onto the right fork of the path. ‘That’s Buckley Farm.’ He opened a gate that led us onto a rough track where wildflowers grew on the bank at either side. ‘This takes us to Ponden Lane.’

  We startled a rabbit that made a dash for its burrow. As we walked, he told me stories that I might hear about goblins and the Gytrash in the form of a barrel of fire rolling down the hill. ‘There’s a lot of superstition around these parts.’

  ‘The barrel of fire sounds scary.’

  ‘It can all be explained. There are marsh gases across these moors, and sometimes small explosions.’

  At the end of the track, by a farm gate, hens, geese and ducks pecked at the ground. We reached the lane. I had glimpsed the reservoir from above. Now the stretch of bright water came into view, sparkling in the sunlight. It was an impressive and yet somehow eerie sight. When I see man-made stretches of water, I always wonder what was there before, some lost village, or a stretch of meadow.

  A broad road crossed the reservoir.

  Mr Porter followed my gaze. ‘A lass from Ponden Hall lost her life there some years ago.’

  ‘How tragic.’ The thought made me shiver. It seemed to me that there was not a stretch of water or an acre of land that did not nurse a history of human grief. Even this peaceful scene held concealed dangers, and lurking threats. ‘How did it happen?’

  ‘She was crossing the reservoir road on her way to Scar Top chapel on a Sunday morning. This was about fifteen years ago. Her hat blew off. The daft lass, she had a reputation as a daredevil, climbed the wall because she could see her hat lying on the overflow. A young fellow saw her. He was at the other end of the reservoir and too far away to help. She toppled in, and couldn’t swim.’

  His words stunned me into silence.

  He continued. ‘You can’t go wrong from here. Follow this lane round the bend and you’ll see Ponden Hall. And you know where we are if you need anything.’

  ‘Thank you, Mr Porter. You’ve been very helpful.’

  He cleared his throat. ‘Your father told me about the unlucky incidents you have been wrapped up with in recent years.’

  ‘Ah, yes. My investigating.’

  ‘After forty years in this area, I can vouch for the law-abiding nature of this place. Oh there’s poaching, there are Saturday night incidents of drunk and disorderly. We have trespass difficulties, usually with people from the towns, but never anything more serious than that.’

  ‘That’s reassuring.’

  ‘You are in a safe place here. I’ve made something of a study of local history and I can tell you that there has been no murder in these parts for a thousand years.’

  Did he believe that, or was it for my benefit? Did he really imagine he knew of all the jealousies and rivalries of the past millennium, the moments of madness, blind and drunken rages? But then neither did I know about them and so I said, quite mildly, ‘What about William the Conqueror’s harrying of the North?’

  ‘Oh that,’ he said. ‘When it comes to murder, I leave aside war and politics.’

  He was determined to reassure this little woman that she would be safe from harm. It was kindly meant. Even with the most reasonable and intelligent men, there is so often that revealing moment when one experiences the unbridgeable gulf.

  We parted.

  Only the low murmur of the wind disturbed the afternoon’s stillness. Mr Porter must be right. Nothing bad could happen here.

  The first frisson of excitement came as I approached Ponden Hall. This was where Branwell and the sisters were made welcome when they visited the Heatons. They would have entered the door that I now approached, made themselves at home, chatted with the family, gone up to the library to see what they might read.

  Did they all troop here together, or come in twos? Had Emily and Branwell visited on a winter’s day, looking for a change of scene, a warm fire and fresh conversation, or on a day such as this when they might sit in the garden?

  I had exchanged letters with the present mistress of the house, Mrs Varey. Now I would meet her. I tapped on the knocker, and waited, half expecting a latter-day Nelly Dean.

  No one came. The door was ajar. I stepped inside and walked along the corridor, calling hello. It would be too much to hope t
hat Mrs Varey, like Mrs Dean, would be sitting with a fist on either knee, and a cloud of meditation over her ruddy countenance, ready to regale me with some fascinating tale.

  The smell of baking drew me to an open door. It was a large kitchen with an open fire and a gleaming black-leaded range.

  A youngish woman did not pause in the spreading of mashed potatoes on the top of a large pie. One pie tin had already been prepared. She looked up.

  I said hello, and asked, ‘Is Mrs Varey here?’

  ‘She’s doing summat. I’m her daughter Elisa. Are you Mrs Shackleton?’

  ‘Yes, how do you do.’

  ‘Do you want me to show you your room, only your lot are waiting for you in’t field, to go on a walk.’ She gave me an odd look, as if there might be some secret and nefarious purpose behind the proposed walk.

  I looked at my watch, remembering that we had agreed to meet half an hour ago. ‘Oh, then I’ll speak to Mrs Varey later.’

  ‘I’ll tell her.’

  I heard a grunt and a sneeze, and glanced to the corner of the room where the sound came from. There was a box bed, the kind that one sometimes sees in old farmhouses. Its door was firmly shut. Tactfully, I ignored the occupant.

  ‘Where is the field?’

  ‘You’ll see a gate opposite our entrance. That’s it.’

  Her directions led me to a wild space, dotted with trees. It was a pretty place, as much a wood as a field. Canopies of leaves created dramatic contrasts of light and shade. On either side of an overgrown path there were purple orchids, red campion, dog roses, honeysuckle and wild garlic – a dizzying combination of scents.

  In a sheltered spot between the trees stood a small tent. What an idyllic place to camp, if a person liked camping.

  I called Harriet’s name, hoping that she and the others would be somewhere nearby, but no one answered. Perhaps they had given up on me and set off. I walked a little farther turning right onto another path. Someone was walking towards me. I did not want to bump into a stranger in the wood, yet as he came closer, I saw that the figure was familiar, a man of middling height, with broad shoulders. Closer still, I saw the scarred face that was not in the least ugly. There was a kind of beauty about him, and a grace of movement.