A Snapshot of Murder

by Frances Brody

  So many men wear suits, or parts of suits. He wore a check shirt, open at the neck, and flannel trousers with turn-ups. His head was bare.

  What was he doing here? He had not signed up for our outing. Perhaps it was pure chance that Edward Chester had chosen the same place and the same weekend. I dismissed that thought straight away. The information would have been forwarded to him.

  I felt suddenly ill-at-ease, with a sense of foreboding. Carine’s first love, who moved so gracefully towards me, appeared to me to be everything Tobias was not. He was an acclaimed poet whose work I had read and admired. Little wonder the memory of him turned Carine’s world upside down. This weekend would be about more than photographs and a new museum.

  ‘Hello, Mr Chester. It is Mr Chester?’

  ‘Edward. And you are Mrs Kate Shackleton.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I enjoyed your photo display that evening. You and Carine made a good pair. I could see that you were friends.’

  We were facing each other on the narrow path.

  ‘Are you staying nearby, Edward?’

  ‘I’m at Ponden Hall, like you. I have been here a couple of days. I thought I would join your party, if that is agreeable.’ He did not wait for an answer. ‘I spotted the others, striding along by the stream.’ He lit a cigarette. ‘I suppose some explanation is required, my turning up like this.’

  ‘Was it a last-minute decision?’

  He smiled. ‘Not exactly. Being a new member of the society, it would have been presumptuous of me to jump on the bandwagon and accept the society’s subsidy and organisation.’

  ‘That is why you did not return your form?’

  ‘I did not return my form because I thought that if I did, Carine and Toby would not come. After all these years, it’s time for me to speak with them.’

  ‘Do the others know you are here?’

  ‘No. They were just disappearing round the bend. I expect they’ll be back shortly. Elisa, Miss Varey, said they would be meeting you here. I thought I would wait and say hello, so I hung about by the bee boles.’

  ‘The bee boles?’

  ‘Come and see.’

  Curious, I walked alongside him. I had heard of bee boles but never went out of my way to look at any and would have passed these by had he not stopped and pointed them out.

  ‘Usually, a bole is a recess in a wall. Each recess is big enough to hold a skep, the coiled-straw hive.’

  These were set into an angle of the field, where the ground sloped. ‘I haven’t seen any like this before, even from a distance. Now that you mention it, I know I’ve spotted them in castle walls.’

  ‘They’ve got the flat stone lintels and the sills. They’re seventeenth century.’

  I stepped closer treading on small thistles, and heard, or imagined I heard, a sound from within. ‘They face in two different directions.’

  ‘Four boles are south facing and four west facing, to give protection from the worst of the weather.’

  ‘Who is the beekeeper?’

  ‘Mrs Varey. She and her daughter Elisa are the joint keepers of bees, so if there’s honey for tea we’ll know who to thank. Oh and they sell beeswax candles.’

  A crow alighted on the top of the bee boles, tilted its head and fixed us with its beady eye. It was all very well having a lecture on bees, but I wondered how the lecturer’s presence would affect our weekend.

  ‘That’s all very interesting, Edward.’

  ‘But?’

  ‘Exactly.’

  ‘Kate, I’m not here to cause trouble. It’s ten years since I spoke to Toby. He and I were very close once. It’s time for me to know him again, and to see how we three stand.’

  ‘Is that wise?’

  ‘Perhaps not. If they want me to leave, I will.’

  From a little way off, I heard my name. I turned to see Harriet and Rita waving to me as they walked back along the stream. I presumed that the others were a little way behind them.

  ‘Well, Edward, are you ready to join the party?’

  ‘I am indeed.’

  We walked down the slope together. I made the introductions. ‘Rita, Harriet, this is Edward Chester – the last member of our party to arrive. Edward, Rita Rufus and my niece Harriet Armstrong.’

  Rita looked at the newcomer as though he presented a puzzle that she must solve. They shook hands. ‘So we are seven. You have broken my dream.’

  She and Harriet exchanged a look.

  ‘How do you do, Rita, Harriet. We’ve chosen a fine spot.’

  I looked about. ‘So where are the Murchisons, and Derek?’

  Rita said, ‘They’re not far off.’

  ‘I’ll whistle.’ Edward put his fingers to his lips and let out a short and a long whistle.

  ‘They’ll think you’re a cuckoo,’ Rita said.

  ‘Wrong time of year.’

  After a few moments Carine, Tobias and Derek appeared.

  ‘Told you,’ Edward said. ‘Whistle and they’ll come.’

  I walked on a little way, prompting Rita and Harriet to come too. It would be better to let Carine and Tobias decide how to treat this reappearance of the resurrected poet.

  Rita, oblivious of the potential drama of the situation called back to them. ‘We’re setting off for Top Withins now. Keep up!’

  Derek must have caught a whiff of being unwelcome. He fell into step with me, Rita and Harriet.

  ‘What’s going on between those three?’

  ‘Just keep walking, Derek.’

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  Top Withins

  Under a hot sun, we strode towards Top Withins. Our newcomer, Edward, was determined to fall in with Carine, regardless of the fact that Tobias stuck doggedly to her other side.

  Carine put one foot before the other like a woman in a trance.

  Tobias soon got out of breath. Pretending he wanted to look at something in the distance, he would catch Carine’s arm to make her pause.

  Only Edward was in control of himself, a man biding his time. He chatted a little, behaving as if to turn up after a decade of being pronounced dead was the most natural thing in the world.

  We were on a carters’ track where there were some oddly shaped flat stones, and here and there paving stones on either side. To our left there was evidence of quarrying, and a distant crane. Beyond that, the hills rose. I imagined how green this beautiful valley would have been before quarrying began. Even now there was an astonishing variety of textures. The land dipped and rose, as though waiting to come to life like a turbulent sea.

  Tobias grew irritable. As we passed Lower Heights Farm, he began to complain about the heat. The air was still and the day glorious. Heather turned the hills purple.

  Harriet had been walking alongside Derek. She hung back and joined me. We kept to the rear.

  ‘There’s something funny going on, Auntie.’

  ‘Do you mean the arrival of the poet?’

  ‘No. I mean besides that. Back at the house, when Rita, Derek and I arrived, Elisa asked me about Mr Murchison, his first name and how he looked. She knows him. And Carine hadn’t told him we were coming here. He was under the impression he’d be staying at one of the pubs in Haworth.’

  ‘Wishful thinking on his part probably. What makes you think Elisa knows him?’

  ‘I don’t just think that, I’m certain. I listened in the hall when Elisa was telling her mother about us. I know you say don’t eavesdrop but you’ve done it plenty of times.’

  ‘Only in the line of duty.’ I like to encourage Harriet in good habits when possible. ‘So you saw Mrs Varey?’

  ‘No, just heard their voices. Elisa said, “Mam, it’s him.” And she said, “Get him out of this house or I’ll batter him.” Elisa wouldn’t. She said they had to have our money and if he went we’d all go. Then there was a slamming sound and I heard the mother say, “I’m not coming out ’til they’re gone.”’

  ‘Not coming out of where?’

  ‘I don’t know.
Her voice was muffled as if she was speaking from the pantry.’

  ‘It must have been the box bed. I heard a noise from there when I went in to ask for Mrs Varey. If you’re right –’

  ‘I am.’

  ‘It’s not surprising I didn’t see her.’

  Our conversation was cut short, because we were almost at the house. Top Withins came into view. We caught up with the others, and gathered round. Tobias glared at the house. ‘I’m glad we didn’t have to come any farther to see this. There’s nothing special here. It’s a house like any other.’

  Edward was beside him. ‘Where’s the romance in your soul, Toby? This is the farmhouse, said to be Emily Brontë’s inspiration for the home of the Earnshaw family in Wuthering Heights. Just as importantly, it provides a livelihood for an old soldier.’

  Tobias said nothing.

  Derek and Harriet went into the garden.

  I called to them that someone lived there, and not to make nuisances of themselves.

  ‘I read about him in the paper,’ Edward said. ‘He came out of the army unfit for his previous work and took a course in keeping chickens. Ernest Roddie is his name. It’s the main reason I wanted to come.’

  Tobias grunted. ‘If this is the best he can do, Teddy, I pity the fellow.’

  ‘I thought I’d see how Roddie is getting on. I’ve brought him a packet of smokes.’ Edward took cigarettes from his pocket and a bar of chocolate.

  The chickens had left their mark, with droppings and scratched up soil on what might once have been a garden. Of the old soldier, there was no sign.

  A window pane was broken. There was no peat, coal or logs in the storage place.

  The door was unlocked. Edward pushed it open and looked in. ‘No one here. No furniture, except for a battered chair.’ His disappointment was great. ‘He didn’t make a go of it then.’

  Derek went in, calling back to us, ‘Someone could make this habitable again.’

  Tobias followed him.

  Tobias came out first. ‘I don’t recommend it, ladies, the inside is rather insalubrious.’

  Harriet immediately decided to explore and went inside.

  Carine was looking out towards the hills beyond. Tobias touched her arm. ‘Are you warm enough?’

  When Harriet came from the deserted house, Edward gave her the chocolate. She offered it round but sharing melting chocolate proved difficult. She and Derek ate it.

  Edward spoke with such command that the wind may have carried his voice to Haworth. ‘Attention all! I know this is a photographic outing and not a literary pilgrimage but I have brought my copy of Wuthering Heights. Judge for yourselves whether this is truly Miss Emily’s model, or whether she transposed some other house and kept the surrounding landscape.’

  He read. Harriet, Derek and I listened. Carine was trying to, but Tobias took her arm and drew her away. Rita had taken off her wellington boots and socks and was wiggling her toes.

  I walked up the slope at the side of the house and sat down on a large flat stone.

  As we had walked, the wind seemed still. Now, sitting low on my perching place, I could hear and feel the wind. Imitating the sound of the sea, it blew against the back of my neck tickling my hair. Even had the wind not stirred today, I would have known its direction from the leaning of the stunted tree.

  Perhaps Edward was one of those men who need an audience, or perhaps he was regretting his intrusion and hiding the awkwardness by resorting to what he knew best: words. Holding his copy of Wuthering Heights, he came to sit by me and Rita, and cleared his throat. ‘The narrator is Mr Lockwood. You’ll know that Wuthering Heights is the name of Mr Heathcliff’s dwelling.’

  ‘Yes, it’s a favourite of mine, Edward,’ I said. This did not prevent his continuing.

  ‘ “Wuthering” describes the wildness, “the atmospheric tumult to which its station is exposed in stormy weather. Pure, bracing ventilation they must have up there at all times, indeed.”’

  ‘It’s certainly bracing,’ I agreed.

  Rita yawned.

  I watched Carine and Tobias’s faces as Edward read. After a moment, I had the feeling that although Rita and I were nearer to him, it was Carine and Tobias, pretending not to hear, who now listened most intently.

  They stood side by side. In the same instant they turned to each other and a look I could not fathom came over them both.

  Edward put away his book.

  Rita whispered to me, ‘We know nothing about Edward. He is either a resting actor or a defrocked clergyman.’

  ‘He is a poet –’

  ‘Ah, that explains it. I have decided to like him.’

  ‘– and a teacher.’

  Before me lay the still landscape all greens and browns. Below was a considerably larger house. No smoke came from the chimney. Perhaps it had been built for some younger son whose bones now rested in the churchyard.

  Criss-crossing the moorland were dry stone walls, some beginning to fall into disrepair as men and women, defeated by time and progress, left the land.

  A red kite flew low across the roof of the house, as if on some urgent mission. I felt sympathy with the visiting photographers Mr Porter described, who had come hoping to capture a bird in flight. Looking across the dip of the valley, I was tempted to bring out my camera but I knew the result would be disappointing.

  Rita said quietly, ‘Is he the poet? Carine’s poet?’

  ‘Yes.’

  Now that we were here, no one quite knew what to do next. Everyone seemed dissatisfied with everyone else.

  What I could do was take a photograph of someone in the house doorway. If this house stayed untenanted much longer, that door might soon be carried off, by vandals or the weather.

  Tobias was taking a picture of the house. He had begun, confidentially, to explain to me a plan that he considered an invention. He would provide a projected backdrop for his and Carine’s portraiture. That partly explained why he had decided to come. Of course there was also the small matter of keeping an eye on his wife and Derek. No one had anticipated the complication of the poet.

  Derek, in a state of indecision, took out his camera and put it away again. Probably he had a limited amount of film and was being cautious.

  Edward passed round a bag of toffees.

  Carine drew me aside. ‘I’m sucking a toffee to keep from crying.’

  ‘What’s wrong?’ I caught myself holding my breath.

  ‘Edward hasn’t said it, but he wants me to choose. He wants me to choose by Sunday. He is challenging Tobias, daring him to try and stop us.’

  ‘How do you know?’

  ‘I just do. My father came between us once. That can never happen again.’

  There was something in her tone that struck me as odd. Discordant. It could never happen again because her father was dead. Perhaps she was connecting the thought that her father had died so soon after Edward had put in an appearance at our meeting in April. The person to stand in her way now was Tobias.

  ‘Tobias has everything that is mine. If I leave him, winner takes all.’

  What followed felt like a dream, as though nothing was quite real and there might be some sudden switch to another time and another place. Rita came over and listened, and caught the drift of our conversation. ‘Carine, where has Edward been all this time?’

  Carine said quietly, ‘He teaches in a boys’ school, less than thirty miles from here.’

  As Edward took out his pocket Ensign, he pretended to be oblivious to the effect he had on everyone. Edward was photographing Tobias, as Tobias photographed the house. I had the mad thought that we could all copy him. There would be seven photographs of six photographers, photographing each other. If we stood in a circle, then would we all be included? No, there would always be six.

  We might create a new collective noun: a shutter of photographers, a shudder of photographers, a blur of photographers.

  What did each one of us look for as we held a camera lens between ourselves and
the world?

  I turned to Carine. ‘Do you want to go home?’

  After a long time, Carine said, ‘Who was it told me that if in doubt about what to say and do, say nothing and do nothing?’

  Rita said, ‘The poet has a lovely voice. Does he sing tenor?’

  I took out my camera. I would photograph Harriet, standing in the doorway of Top Withins. At the very least, I would be able to send it to my sister, and to Harriet’s granny.

  Tobias set up his tripod a little way from the house, and summoned us. ‘This will be a group photograph for the society’s records.’

  Dutifully, we gathered.

  He had a long cord attached to the camera so that he could include himself in the shot.

  The seven of us formed a group, blinking against the sun.

  Edward objected. ‘If you’re going to make us all look into the sun, we might as well be having the photograph taken in 1836 when no one was ever photographed with their eyes open.’

  Tobias grumbled that no one else was offering to do this, but then he changed the angle. We shunted ourselves to face the camera.

  The shutter clicked.

  It was time to move on, downhill on the rough track that led to the waterfall. The space, the openness and the moorland breeze created a sense of solitude as we walked in single file, each wrapped in our own thoughts.

  Tobias led the way. At Top Withins, he had played the part of a stranger to the area. I watched him. You have been this way before, Tobias. Carine knew. That was why she let him think they would stay in Haworth. The Vareys had not forgotten him.

  From our spot above, the waterfall looked barely worth the walk, but we descended all the same, and I was glad we did.

  We stepped into a bubble of tranquillity. The gentle melody of water urged us to listen as it flowed through and over pebbles. A perfect peace descended as we each found a spot to stand and stare, or sit and listen to the water music. For several serene moments, no one produced a camera.

  Tobias had crossed the bridge to the other side of the stream. He broke the spell by opening his walking stick tripod, digging its feet into the ground to make it steady and fixing his Noiram. He looked into the view finder, across at Carine who had stayed on the other bank. For a moment it appeared that he intended to take her picture. He raised his head and waved at her with a dismissive motion. ‘Sorry, darling, just move along a bit, I’m after the backdrop you know.’