‘There are no proper looking glasses in this place. Do you think they are expecting Count Dracula?’
Harriet took the comb from Rita. ‘It’s sticking up at the back.’
We all managed to shuffle into place in time for a breakfast of bacon and eggs, bread and butter and dishes of blackberry and strawberry jam.
Derek was last to the table, his hair wet and slicked down, a cut on his chin from shaving. He wished us all good morning.
Everyone answered, except Tobias. I wondered had Tobias wakened and discovered Carine was not beside him. He may have made a false assumption about whose bed she shared last night.
Carine smiled. ‘Derek! I thought I was going to have to come and wake you.’
Edward’s Kodak was on the table. ‘I don’t know if it’ll come out but I took a photo of Elisa Varey in the milking parlour earlier. She’s from an old family. As we talked, I had this queer sensation that I’d stepped into the pages of Tess of the D’Urbervilles. It was that same story of a fine family toppling down the social scale, and a father convinced that something is due to them.’
Harriet stirred her tea somewhat aggressively. ‘I like Elisa.’
‘Oh, so do I,’ Edward said quickly. ‘She does not hold a grievance about the past, or carry a sense of entitlement. It is more a kind of obligation to let it be known that there is a history to her name. The sensation of being in Tess of the D’Urbervilles fled as soon as she started to tell me about a Rin Tin Tin showing at the Hippodrome.’
‘Which Rin Tin Tin?’ Harriet asked.
Edward could not remember.
When there are seven of you around a table, people offer up their own little titbits that don’t always lead to a conversation.
I took charge of the teapot. Cups were handed along for a refill.
Harriet passed the milk. ‘Did anyone see The Ring when it came out? I missed it and that’s on in Keighley.’
Derek spread his jam very thickly. ‘I liked it. But why do people who work in picture houses always go to the pictures on their evenings off?’
Rita took a sip of tea. ‘I saw The Ring but I didn’t like it. Too much boxing. There’s a Charlie Chaplin on.’
‘Which Charlie Chaplin?’ Harriet asked. She dislikes vagueness when it comes to the discussion of pictures.
Rita shook her head.
Elisa brought in our packed lunches, wrapped in snowy white napkins. The invisible Mrs Varey was going to a lot of trouble. We represented a serious addition to her income and she was determined there would be no cause for complaint. Elisa whispered something to Harriet. Harriet laughed, and Elisa looked pleased with herself.
‘What did she say?’ I asked Harriet when Elisa had gone.
We were sufficiently separated from the others for Harriet to whisper her answer. ‘She hasn’t spat on my sandwich because she didn’t know which was mine.’
‘What a cheek!’
‘No. She’s saying she likes me. She’s let me off for being nosey.’
I do not usually roll my eyes, but in Harriet’s company they occasionally seem to roll of their own accord. ‘What were you nosing about this time?’
She did not lower her voice. ‘I just happened to look in the sideboard drawer, at a battered hat. And I was curious about some baby clothes. They’d never been worn.’
Tobias dropped his knife. It clattered to the stone floor making far too much noise for a knife.
Only later did that clattering sound echo in my thoughts, taking on a new and sinister significance.
I pushed back my chair. ‘Come on everyone. We need to be early if we want a good viewing place.’
But first I decided to have a word with Elisa, or her mother. I did not know how I would approach this, but the story of the unworn baby clothes and Mr Porter’s tale of the drowning of a young weaver troubled me. It was late in the day, but if there was a connection to Tobias Murchison and his presence upset Elisa and Mrs Varey, he should leave. The Black Bull would suit him better.
I tapped on the kitchen door, and opened it. No Elisa. No Mrs Varey. A woman in a turban stood at the sink, washing dishes. ‘Sorry to intrude, do you know where I might find Elisa or Mrs Varey?’
The woman hesitated just a little too long. She glanced, probably without meaning to, at the box bed. ‘Elisa’s off to see the do at the parsonage. Mrs Varey’s not here.’
I remembered Harriet’s account of the conversation between Elisa and her mother. Mrs Varey was almost certainly there, in her box bed – listening.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
A Deadly Outing
We walked into Haworth along the road. Harriet wore her new navy blue sailor dress that she and Mrs Sugden had made, with V neck, squared collar and white linen bow tie. She wore navy Cuban heels and a neat little navy hat trimmed with white. Derek glanced at her several times. She ignored him and chatted to Rita who was decked out in her silks and bejewelled slippers.
The Haworth band had taken up a position outside the Yorkshire Penny Bank. They were playing ‘Sweet Lass of Richmond Hill’, with great gusto. Villagers turned out, dressed in their best. If some curmudgeonly persons decided to stay indoors, they were not missed. The place teemed with visitors, all attempting to come as close as possible to the parsonage.
Our small group stuck close because we planned to have a meal at the Fleece afterwards and had booked a table.
Walking the pavement became a difficult business. Visitors were arriving from all directions, on foot from the railway station, and on bicycles that wobbled as riders swerved to avoid pedestrians. More motorcars than had ever been seen in that place coughed their way up Main Street whose cobbles were not designed for motor transport.
Members of the Brontë Society, including my mother and father, with Mr and Mrs Porter, took up their allotted place in the garden at the front of the parsonage. The well-tended garden borders were so close on the churchyard that if a fierce wind demolished the wall, garden and graveyard would happily merge.
That morning, Tobias’s knee had troubled him after yesterday’s long walk. He had brought his silver-topped cane and leaned on it, giving him a slightly slanted stance that matched his view of life. ‘What a palaver!’
Having achieved a good place on the path that led from the lane, we stayed put, apart from Harriet and Derek who manged to slither in and out of the crowd and return carrying bottles of ginger beer and bringing exciting news of increasing multitudes.
We would have a reasonable view of proceedings. It was astonishing to experience the sheer numbers and be part of such a crush. I felt this odd sensation of being in two different eras. There we were in the here and now, waiting, ready to witness the important event, a milestone for Haworth and all of us who loved the Brontës. Yet at the same time, I half expected Charlotte to come bustling through, asking who were all these people and why was there such a fuss.
The front door opened. There was a whisper and then a subdued round of applause as Sir James and Lady Roberts emerged, ushered by the President of the Brontë Society. Someone had placed a cordon a yard or so from the entrance, one of those obligatory plaited red silk cords that even the most modest villages keep tucked away for use on grand occasions.
The President introduced Sir James Roberts. We strained to hear his speech. A Haworth-born lad, young James Roberts had risen in the world but never forgot his roots or his days at the Haworth Sunday School. Sir James spoke of his boyhood. As a youngster he had listened to the sermons of the old and frail Reverend Patrick Brontë.
I missed a few words as Tobias, murmured – too loudly – ‘Here it comes. This is where the self-made man tells us he pulled himself up by the cheeks of his own bum.’
I was not the only one to shush him.
It was left to Carine to tell her husband to behave himself and not show us up.
Sir James’s words were few. He was honoured to play a small part in keeping alive the memory of that humble parson and his industrious and talented childr
en.
As the crowd applauded, Carine whispered to Tobias and then to me, ‘Kate, I’m going to sit in the Sunday school. I’ll be sick if I stay in this crush.’
‘I’ll come with you.’
‘No! Don’t worry about me.’
The moment she moved, those ranked behind her shoved up, and so I could hardly have pushed my way through had I wanted to.
It was Lady Roberts’s turn. She said a few words that I did not catch and then in a loud clear voice declared the Brontë Parsonage Museum open. She handed the deeds to Sir Edward Brotherton, President of the Brontë Society. A little girl gave Lady Roberts a sprig of heather. A murmur of excitement followed as Lady Roberts unlocked the door to the parsonage with what was whispered to be a golden key. The hurrahs and clapping began anew.
Tobias bumped against me. I thought his knee must have given way. The crowd was too dense for me to move. A woman nearby clutched her child close, wary of the push and crush. ‘Come on, love, there’s jam tarts in the Sunday school.’ Excusing herself, she began to move away.
As the woman moved away, Tobias staggered and slumped against me. I turned. His mouth was open, his eyes wide. He would have slid to the ground except that the solid mass of the crowd held him steady.
I thought at first the cane had slipped from his grasp and that his gammy leg had given way. I moved to help him. He seemed to stare at me with eyes full of fear, but they were clouded by death. His lips were parted but he made no sound. He was no longer holding his stick. The silver top of the cane gleamed by his foot. I called to people to give way, let us have some air, though it was too late for air.
Still the crowd pinned us into intimacy. It was not until I managed to persuade those around to push back and give room that Tobias slumped.
I saw what had happened. Tobias’s silver-topped cane was no normal aid to walking. It was a sword stick. The pressing of a catch had transformed it into a deadly weapon, letting loose a long sharp blade.
A trickle of blood stained his tweed jacket, making its way through a slit in the fabric, at the level of his heart.
Bending down beside him, I called out that we must have a doctor.
Edward took up the cry so loudly that it might have echoed all around the little hill town. The cry was carried across the crowd and at some point the call changed from simply ‘A doctor!’ to ‘Where’s Dr McCracken?!’
As he lay on the ground, I put pressure on Tobias’s wound, even while I knew that action must be in vain. ‘Help’s coming, Tobias.’
The blood from his wound was on my gloves and on the cuffs of my coat. I looked up at a blur of faces. A small group of strangers intermingled with our party. Someone, Edward I think, told people to stand back. Edward fell to his knees and was feeling for a pulse. Like me, he must have known it was too late.
Rita said, ‘Where’s Carine?’
Bizarrely, Derek was taking photographs. He stopped and pushed the camera in his pocket, turning to me and Edward. ‘Your camera! I’m out of film.’ No one responded. He took Harriet’s camera from her hand but she did not notice. Harriet stood still as a statue, her face white. She was shaking. In that split-second way we have of knowing what must be done, I knew that it was Harriet who mattered now. She was sixteen. Only three years ago she had found her father’s lifeless body. With childhood logic, she had blamed herself for his murder.
I stood and took off my coat. Derek was clicking Harriet’s camera again. ‘Derek, stop it!’ I put my coat around Harriet’s shoulders. She had refused to wear a coat that morning, saying it was August, saying it was summer, wanting to show off her new dress.
Derek paused in his snapping. In a sulky voice, he said, ‘I’m photographing the scene of the crime and the witnesses.’
Someone in the crowd yelled at him to show respect or he would fetch him a clout around the ear ’ole.
Subdued, Derek took a cloak from his haversack. He and Edward laid it carefully over Tobias, covering his face.
At that moment, our earlier cries for a doctor were answered. A murmur went up that the doctor was here. There were calls of, ‘Here’s the doctor,’ and ‘Make way for Dr McCracken!’
I spoke to Derek. ‘Don’t let anyone touch the swordstick.’
In a state of disbelief, I glanced at Harriet. White and shaken, she shivered as I pushed my way through the crowd, my arm around her, leading her towards the garden.
Had she seen what happened? We were pushing against the tide as people were leaving the garden. I only hoped that mother and Mrs Porter would still be there. Most people ignored us but several gave us an odd look. They had heard the commotion and the call for a doctor. It is likely that both Harriet and I looked as if we needed medical attention.
Someone was calling through a megaphone. His hollow voice floated around our heads like fog. It might as well have been a foreign tongue.
Through a gap in the crowd, I caught a glimpse of Mother’s cherry-coloured hat. At the same time, she must have seen us. She rose from the bench and hurried towards me. ‘Darling, what’s wrong?’
‘Something happened.’
‘We saw the commotion and thought we should wait as you’d know where to find us.’
I did not answer straight away. Words would not come, and when they did it was not an answer to her question. ‘Where’s Dad? I have to take Harriet home.’
Mother put her arms around Harriet and drew her to the bench. ‘He and Mr Porter have gone to help. They heard the call for a doctor.’
Mrs Porter fumbled in her bag, as she made room for me to sit down. ‘I have smelling salts.’
Mother opened her bag. ‘The girl needs brandy.’
Though Harriet tried to resist, Mother made her take a sip from a small flask. Mrs Porter waved smelling salts under Harriet’s nose, and then put them on the bench beside me.
Mother said quietly, ‘Let me take your gloves.’
I glanced at my gloves and saw that they were soaked in Tobias’s blood. I peeled them off. She whipped them into a handkerchief and then passed me the brandy. I took a sip, and another, but handed back the smelling salts, preferring not to start a sneezing fit.
Only a dozen or so people were now in the garden. Heads turned as the police officer with the megaphone strode towards our bench. He greeted Mrs Porter politely, nodded to Mother in the same manner and then turned to me. ‘Mrs Shackleton?’
‘Yes.’
‘I believe you are responsible for the party of visitors that is staying at Ponden Hall.’
Now that our chairman was dead, I suppose I was the person responsible for our party, though ‘party’ seemed an odd word under the circumstances. ‘I arranged the visit, officer.’
‘Then I should like a word with you please.’
He walked a little closer to the wall that separated garden and churchyard. I followed him. He placed the megaphone wide side down on the grass and took a notebook from his pocket.
‘Your full name and address, please, madam.’
I answered, wondering whether he would have been so polite if I had not been in Mrs Porter’s company.
‘Now I must ask you to hand over your camera, Mrs Shackleton.’
For the moment I had forgotten I ever had a camera and must have looked at him blankly.
‘I will give you a receipt and it will be returned to you in due course.’
I handed him the camera.
‘And you are staying at Ponden Hall?’
‘That is correct.’
‘Until?’
‘I want to take my niece home today, as soon as possible.’
‘Please do not leave the area until you have police permission.’ He glanced at Mrs Porter, as if including her in his remark would ensure that we did not run off.
‘Is that necessary, officer? I can give you my address in Leeds.’
‘We will try to detain you no longer than necessary. You were the first person to give aid to the unfortunate gentleman. Would you please tell me what you
saw?’
Of course I had seen nothing that could possibly be of use. I was aware of something having happened to Tobias only when it was too late. ‘I didn’t see what happened to Mr Murchison. He collapsed onto me, nearly took me down. I saw straight away that there was nothing to be done. He was wounded. It was afterwards that I took in the sight of his swordstick, lying on the ground.’
He made a brief note. ‘And the young lady on the bench?’
‘She is my niece, Harriet Armstrong, staying at my address.’ I gave him Harriet’s full name, and her family address. He hesitated, and then went to Harriet. ‘Miss Armstrong?’ She looked up at him, without answering. ‘Harriet?’
She nodded. ‘Just for the record Harriet, can you confirm your address?’
Harriet did not speak, and then she began to give the address she had before she and her mother and brother moved away from Great Applewick.
‘Harriet,’ I said gently, ‘you moved from there. And then you came to stay with me.’
‘Oh yes.’ It took her a moment to think of her mother’s address, and mine.
Mrs Porter intervened. ‘Constable Briggs, the child has had a shock. Please take Mrs Shackleton’s word, and give her and the girl time to recover.’
Constable Briggs nodded. ‘Very well, Mrs Porter.’ He glanced at Harriet. ‘Do you have a camera with you, Miss Armstrong?’
This she understood and seemed relieved to be able to answer a question. ‘Yes.’ She looked in her bag. ‘It’s not there.’
‘Derek took it,’ I said. ‘Derek Blondell.’
The constable consulted his notebook, where perhaps he had a note that Derek had handed over two cameras. He snapped his notebook closed. ‘Miss Armstrong, why did Mr Blondell take your camera?’
Harriet seemed not to be taking in the conversation. When the constable repeated the question, she said, ‘I don’t know.’
Speaking quietly and out of Harriet’s earshot, I said, ‘I believe he thought it a good idea to take photographs at the scene, and must have run out of film.’
The policeman looked momentarily pleased at this initiative and then puzzled. His eyebrows rose of their own accord. ‘Why would he do that?’
A Snapshot of Murder Page 14