A Snapshot of Murder

by Frances Brody

  I sat on the edge of my bed, considering what to do. I could confront Edward and Elisa with suspicions of some collusion. They would, of course, deny it.

  As Rita had reminded me when we spoke in the church, bees were regarded as messengers between the living and the dead. The Ponden hives were an important part of day-to-day survival for those whose living came from the land, and from nature. It was natural that a countrywoman like Elisa would follow the tradition of placating the hive.

  I heard Edward on the landing. He must be carrying his shoes, but creaking floorboards betrayed him.

  For now, I would hold tonight’s experience in my thoughts and wait to see how it might fit the bigger picture, if ever I could see that bigger picture.

  No sooner had I climbed exhausted into bed than a drop of rain blessed my forehead, and another, and another. I was almost too tired to move. From my knowledge of the many holes in the ceiling, I knew it would be a long task to place buckets and basins everywhere.

  One more drop of rain, and I left my bed. I clambered into the box bed, at the bottom end, carefully fitting my legs to one side of Rita’s. Sleep was a long time coming.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  What the Bloodhound Found

  Mrs Sugden would never dream of working on the Sabbath Day. A person needed some private time in the week: a spell in chapel with someone else doing the talking; a walk along the lane without carrying a shopping basket; a window-shopping tour of the town, without rush, push, clatter.

  On the other hand, she had no intention of losing the generous payment promised by Tobias Murchison for the simple task of cleaning a cellar. She and Jim Sykes had made a start. Jim had shoved that pile of film into sacks. He had been ready to do the same with the old newspapers, but she had set them aside for firelighters. She had swept the floor. How good he would be with a mop and bucket was an open question but he had brushed away the cobwebs on the ceiling.

  The chapel would have to manage without her today. God would understand that a woman had obligations. She had thought to do the cleaning at the crack of dawn on Monday, but the Murchisons might take it into their heads to come back early and she would miss the opportunity to bottom that cellar. Also, Jim might find himself otherwise occupied, if one of those insurance companies required his services.

  She let herself into the studio. The mop and bucket stood in the back room, where she had left them. Mrs Sugden put several handfuls of borax in the bucket and set a kettle to boil.

  Jim arrived, bringing that dog, which she thought he would leave with Rosie.

  ‘Rosie’s going to see her sister,’ Sykes explained.

  The dog came up, slobbering, wagging its tail. Mrs Sugden patted its head. ‘I’ve seen you. Now go lie down and try not to get in the way.’

  ‘And the kids have gone to the park with their friends.’ Jim unclipped the animal’s leash. ‘They wanted to take the dog but I daren’t risk it. Now that they’re grown, they go in a café. They’d fasten him outside for someone to steal and then where would we be?’

  The dog followed them down the stairs into the cellar. Sykes set to, filling another sack with rubbish.

  Mrs Sugden went round the ledges with a dustpan and brush. The dog joined in, scratching at the flagstones by the wall, making a nuisance of itself.

  ‘It’s not doing any harm,’ Sykes said, as he took a couple of bags of rubbish upstairs. ‘Let it be.’

  The cellar floor took two lots of mopping to have it anything like approaching clean. ‘Right, Jim, that’s done. I’ll go up and make a pot of tea. I brought us a bite to eat.’

  ‘I’ll be up in a minute then.’

  Jim didn’t come when she called. She drank her tea and ate a sandwich. The dog appeared. ‘Mr Sykes fed up of you, is he?’ The dog jumped up on its hind legs and ate a sandwich. ‘Is that what they teach you at the police dog school?’ She shut it outside with a bowl of water, hoping it wouldn’t try and jump the fence. She had no idea how you teach a dog to stay put. At least with a cat you can put butter on its paws.

  When she had eaten a slice of cake, she went back down to the cellar to see what Sykes was up to.

  ‘What on earth are you doing, Jim?’ The room was full of dust. ‘You’ve made a bigger mess than when we started.’ The loose plaster set her coughing.

  ‘Look at this! Come over here!’ he said. He had scraped the plaster off the wall along from the darkroom.

  ‘Are you mad? We’re doing this for two guineas. We’ll have to pay him a fiver for ruining his wall.’

  ‘I’ve a friend who’s a plasterer. He’ll skim it back to how it was, only better. They won’t know the difference. It wasn’t even distempered, just plain plaster. Only I wanted to see what was attracting the dog. He’s been at this wall on and off since we arrived.’

  She saw that there was a door in the wall. It had been plastered over and plaster still clung to it. Sykes was trying to open it, but there was no handle.

  ‘Leave it alone, Jim. You’ll be letting yourself into next door’s property.’

  He was edging a big screwdriver all the way down the side of the door, and then he put his shoulder to it and shoved. More plaster came falling down. He shoved again and the door opened. He took a torch and shone it.

  ‘You meant to do this, you monkey, or you wouldn’t have brought that torch. You’ve made a right mess now. There’ll be no putting this right by morning.’

  He closed the door. ‘I think you’re right, Mrs Sugden. There’ll be no way of turning the clock back on this.’

  ‘What is it?’

  His voice was hoarse. The dust had got to him. ‘Go upstairs. I need to telephone the police.’ His face was pale, and not just from the plaster dust.

  She went back up the stairs. Sykes followed. Mrs Sugden had put a saucer on his tea to keep it warm. She brought it through. ‘Have a drink or your voice will fail you.’

  He took a drink and picked up the telephone receiver.

  It was less than ten minutes before there was a rap on the shop door. Mrs Sugden recognised the young constable who had brought the dog on Friday.

  Sykes let him in. ‘Are you on your own, constable?’

  ‘I am. I didn’t expect anyone to be here. I’m told that the owners are away.’

  ‘Well, who do you think rang?’ Sykes asked.

  ‘No one rang. My sergeant sent me, to gain entry. I thought I might have to come to the back door but I saw you through the window.’

  ‘I rang,’ Sykes said. ‘And this is a CID job.’

  ‘Well it might be, but not yet. Now I need to know your names.’

  Mrs Sugden intervened. ‘Just a minute! Are you telling us that you’re not here because Mr Sykes just rang to report something?’

  ‘No.’ He took out his notebook. ‘Your names please.’

  ‘You know who I am. You left the dog with me.’

  ‘Just your names, please, and your business here.’

  ‘Well, what do you want? I’m Mrs Sugden, same as I was yesterday. I’ve been left to look after this studio for the weekend, so will you please tell me what brings you here if it wasn’t in answer to Mr Sykes’s telephone call.’

  ‘So you’re Mr Sykes?’

  ‘James Sykes. What’s this about?’

  ‘I’m not supposed to say.’

  Sykes took charge. ‘Mrs Sugden, I think we need to explain to the constable.’

  ‘Can’t you see we’re upset, constable? We’ve had a shock. I’ve had a shock. Your dog and Mr Sykes might take this kind of thing in their stride but I don’t. Now what’s this about if it’s not about what’s in the cellar? Have you come for the dog back?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Then what are you here for? Because as Mr Sykes says, he thinks this is a matter for CID, not the constabulary, and if Mr Sykes says that, then it’s true.’

  ‘What are you talking about?’ the young constable asked. ‘I think we’re at cross purposes.’

  ‘There’s a bo
dy in the cellar,’ Sykes said. ‘I just reported it.’

  ‘Oh.’

  ‘But that’s not why you’re here?’

  ‘No. I’m here in connection with a Scotland Yard enquiry over an incident in Haworth. We’ve been asked to co-operate.’

  A sergeant appeared behind him. ‘Why don’t you walk down Headingley Lane with a rattle and a loudhailer, telling the world police business?’

  ‘Sorry, sir. This is Mrs Sugden and Mr Sykes, they’re looking after the premises.’

  ‘Are they now?’

  ‘And it seems there’s a body in the cellar.’

  ‘Well I’m here to secure the premises prior to the issuance of a search warrant, so I’ll just take a look in the cellar first.’

  ‘I’d rather you didn’t, sergeant.’ A third police officer entered, this one in plain clothes.

  The dog barked.

  Mrs Sugden recognised the man who spoke. It was Detective Inspector Wallis. You would know him by the one good worsted suit.

  He straightened his maroon tie. ‘Mr Sykes?’

  ‘That’s me,’ Jim said.

  ‘You telephoned.’

  ‘Inspector, a word please,’ the sergeant pleaded, ‘only we have had a communication from Scotland Yard asking us to secure the premises in connection with an investigation of an incident in Haworth.’

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  A Rain-Sodden Room

  Rain continued steadily during the night. I woke intermittently. Pitter-pattering raindrops made a variety of sounds, depending on which piece of furniture or floor they landed. Sharp, almost bell-like chimes must be raindrops hitting the galvanised bucket in the corner. Rain slapping into the enamel basin beside it struck a softer note. I listened until rain music lulled me into a fitful sleep.

  By morning, the rain had stopped.

  Exiting the box bed when Rita was sprawled at the other end, still sleeping, required a careful manoeuvre.

  I managed to sit up, and found a way of moving my legs so that I was ready to climb out. Without looking down, I placed one foot on the floor.

  Water and muck oozed from under the strip of once-scarlet carpet that was now a muddy brown. The squelch felt toe-curlingly horrible.

  There was a tap on the door. Derek said, ‘Breakfast is ready.’

  ‘Derek, be a dear and fetch my cream boots from by the front door, and Rita’s wellingtons if they’re there.’

  ‘Right-o.’

  Rita stirred. ‘What’s the matter? I was dreaming!’

  With what I thought was remarkable restraint, I said, ‘It rained in the night. The carpet is soaking.’

  ‘Is that all? I’ve been having such dreams. Do you think the visions of past dreamers have been trapped in this bed? Only one of them was about cats and I never dream of cats.’ She sat up. ‘No, wait! I tell a lie, I once dreamed of a leopard. I still see its eyes.’

  ‘I’ve asked Derek to bring up our boots. The floor has turned into a marsh.’

  ‘Oh, I’ve trodden barefoot through marshes. At least we don’t have mosquitoes.’ She took a hanky from the pocket of her nightie and gently blew her nose. ‘Only in this dream I see cats curled up in a chair, and four of them are dead and two alive. Another dream swiftly followed, or it may have been the second act of the first dream. I dream in three acts. Well then, some time had passed, a night, and it was morning. All the cats were alive. Some had just been tired and the others needed food. I felt so pleased. I think it was because my brain couldn’t bear the thought of seeing them dead. I’m not sure what that signifies.’

  ‘I feel sick, Rita. This floor is the last straw.’

  ‘I haven’t finished telling you. There was a third act. In this third act there were dead rabbits in the chair. Now here’s the interesting thing, why should my dream response be different? To see a dead cat upsets me. I can look at the bodies of rabbits with sadness but without repulsion.’

  The floor was more than soaking. Here and there strips of carpet had somehow managed to float. Whoever created the carpet jigsaw had not thought to nail it down. Below the carpet pieces was a layer of something dark and a little lumpy. It might have been flocks from a mattress, or black-currant jam. In a dream by Rita, it might have been caviar.

  Rita paid no attention. ‘I have it! I see the connection. Perhaps in my dream – before they came back to life – my subconscious thought the cats had been poisoned.’

  ‘Rita, why would anyone go to the trouble of laying carpets rather than mending the roof?’

  ‘The connection is poison.’

  ‘What connection?’

  ‘The connection between my subconscious and the dream. You know I work in Norton’s pharmacy?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Do you think I should admit to the police that I had it in mind to poison Tobias?’

  ‘That’s probably not a good idea.’

  ‘Only he was poisoning Carine. I’m sure of it, from Carine’s symptoms.’

  ‘What symptoms?’

  ‘Upset stomach. Sickness. He was always dosing her with something. So much so that I took samples of the dandelion tea and the tonic wine. He never touched that you see, it was always for her.’

  She had my attention. ‘And what were the results of your tests?’

  ‘There was nothing. He was too crafty. He obviously added something afterwards.’

  ‘Rita, did you murder Tobias?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Then don’t say anything that will put a noose around your neck.’

  Derek did not come back with our boots.

  It was Elisa who brought them. ‘Ah,’ she said when she saw the floor. ‘I did wonder, only I slept through.’

  I supposed she would have slept through, given that she was out late telling the bees about Tobias’s death.

  Perching on the side of the bed, I put on my boots, glad that my clothing was in the trunk, and dry. I crossed to the trunk, and wiped water from the lid with the sleeve of my nightgown.

  There was a squelching sound as Rita stepped from the bed. ‘I see what it is now. It’s the kind of thing to expect in the country.’

  ‘What do you see?’ I scooped up my clothes, intending to dress elsewhere.

  ‘We had to do summat when there was to be seven people staying the weekend,’ Elisa said somewhat defensively.

  Rita wiped the soles of her feet with the edge of the blanket. ‘It’s chicken shit. I’d know it anywhere, worldwide. Everyone in Africa and India who could afford chickens would keep them. And do you know what? It’s the same in the poorest parts of Leeds. Pigs as well, though they’re not supposed to.’

  Elisa shrugged. ‘We hoped it wouldn’t rain. We kept the chickens up here last year, just to be cracking on you know.’

  I didn’t know, but nor did I know what to say. The words came to me. ‘Elisa, would you please send up tea and toast to the library? I’ll change in there.’

  Along the landing was the little washroom. Someone had placed a jug of hot water there, and a clean, well-worn towel. There was a bucket to empty the water, and a tablet of carbolic soap.

  Feeling a little revived after my ablutions, I went into the library, which I had so longed to see. There was a book on the table, Agricultural Implements and their Best Usages.

  Rita came in shortly after me, wearing her silks and a familiar long cardigan. ‘Is it all right to borrow this cardigan?’

  ‘It’s Harriet’s. She won’t mind.’

  ‘Thanks. I stupidly left your other one on the chair and it’s soaked. Shall I tell you something else?’

  ‘I’m just going to take a first and last look at the books.’

  I hoped we would be leaving soon, and that I would never come here again as long as I lived. The ghosts of the former owners and their Brontë visitors were welcome to the place.

  ‘You know I told you that Tobias was unfaithful to Carine.’

  ‘Yes, weekly at the Leeds Club, with a buxom cook called Molly who makes p
ancakes.’

  ‘Carine was past caring about it. Tobias talked in his sleep. That’s how she got wind of certain things.’

  ‘What kind of things?’

  ‘Well, Molly the cook, and that he got a girl in the family way. It must have preyed on his mind. Even the worst people might have a guilty conscience and troubled dreams.’

  ‘Did Carine find out any more about this girl, who she was or where she lived?’

  ‘He said her name sometimes. It was the name of a flower, or something like a flower. Now what was it? Not pansy, but something beginning with p.’

  ‘Perhaps it will come to you.’

  ‘I suppose it will.’

  I did not want to name ‘Picotee’, Elisa’s drowned sister, the daughter that Mrs Varey mourned. It began to seem as if Carine may have deliberately manoeuvred us into coming to a place where Tobias might at the very least be uncomfortable and unwelcome and, at worst, in danger from people who bore him a mighty grudge. If that was the case, it would be better if Rita remembered the name, so that any account she might give would not be prompted by me.

  Of course, Carine could not have been sure that we would follow her suggestion. The terrible thing was, I made the final choice on our destination.

  As a girl I used to play whip and top around Whitsuntide. We would chalk colourful patterns onto our tops. As the top spun, the pattern became a blur of colour. I felt at the centre of such a blur and needed to be outside, to walk, to clear my head. If I could still my brain, I might make some sense of a senseless situation.

  The door to the kitchen was open. Collusion. Someone must have colluded.

  I went in and tapped on the door of the box bed. No one answered, but I knew Mrs Varey was there. ‘Why are you avoiding us, Mrs Varey? The deed is done. Why are you laying low?’

  I waited. ‘I know you’re in there.’

  ‘And what if I am? You’re in and out of this kitchen like a new broom. The public isn’t allowed in here.’

  ‘Answer me this if you’ve nothing to hide. Had you ever met Carine Murchison before we arrived on Friday?’

  ‘I never met her before and I never met her now or since.’