‘But the knife that killed Mr Murchison came from this kitchen, didn’t it?’
It was a wild guess, an attempt at provocation.
She did not reply.
So much for my interviewing techniques.
The air was fresh after the rain. I left Ponden Hall and set off on the path to Stanbury. I hoped to take Harriet home. Even if I had to return and answer more questions, it would give me peace of mind to know that she was safely with Mrs Sugden and able to return to her work at the cinema. That would divert her, if nothing else did. If Dad or Mr Porter put a word in, I would be able to set off right away.
I had reckoned without Mrs Porter. Mother was glad to see me. She and her hostess were enjoying a late breakfast. Mrs Porter was quick to intervene when I said I wanted to see Harriet.
‘Don’t trouble yourself, Ginny,’ Mrs Porter said. ‘I’ll take Kate up.’
She led me upstairs to a room where the curtains were tightly drawn. Harriet was curled under the eiderdown. The Porters’ dog lay beside her. Harriet had her hand on the dog’s head. Something about her told me she was not sleeping.
‘I’ll sit with her awhile, Mrs Porter.’
‘Of course.’ There was already a chair by the bed. I sat down. Mrs Porter went quietly from the room.
‘Harriet, are you awake?’
She turned and opened her eyes. ‘Yes.’
‘We should be able to go home soon.’
‘Is Mr Murchison dead?’
‘Yes.’
‘Ah, only I thought I might have dreamed it. Mrs Porter gave me something to drink, she called it Nighter. It sent me to sleep.’
‘Well that’s good that you’ve had some rest.’
‘Was it my fault?’
‘What?’
‘That he died.’
‘No, of course not! How could it possibly be your fault?’
‘I was going to tell you.’
‘What?’
‘It’s seems so silly now.’
‘Harriet, just tell me.’
‘When we were getting off the train in Keighley, to change for Haworth, he pinched my bottom.’
‘Go on.’
‘Rita saw him and I told her it wasn’t the first time. She said there was a way to deal with a man like that.’
I suppressed the urge to ask why she had not told me, and I braced myself to hear Rita’s method of dealing with the business. ‘What did she say?’
‘She said you must on the instant grab the man’s hand, pass it back to him forcefully and say, “If you do that again I will call a policeman”.’
‘And he did it again?’
‘On the landing. I did what Rita said.’
‘What did Tobias say?’
‘Nothing. I think he was flabbergasted, and of course there was no policeman to call.’
‘No.’
‘But he must have been so ashamed and embarrassed by what happened that he fell on his sword. He must have thought I would tell Carine that he had been cheeky and rude.’
‘Harriet, we don’t know exactly what happened, but it wasn’t your fault. His death had no connection with you and what he did.’
‘Oh. Are you sure?’
‘Entirely sure.’
‘What time is it?’
‘Ten o’clock, Sunday morning. Are you hungry?’
She shook her head. ‘Auntie Ginny sat by me while I ate a boiled egg. She said I should rest a bit more.’
I put my hand on her forehead. She had a temperature.
I poured water into a glass. ‘Sit up then, eh?’ The dog adjusted its position and she was able to move. ‘Here, take a drink. I have a little bottle of aspirins. Hold out your hand.’ I tipped a couple of aspirins onto her palm. ‘Take those.’
There was a creaking sound on the landing by the door.
I crossed the room as quietly as I could but in an old house there are always creaking floorboards. By the time I opened the door, Mrs Porter was at the other end of the landing. She had been listening.
‘Mrs Porter!’ She turned, not looking in the least guilty, but then why should she? This was her house. She might eavesdrop if that was her pleasure. ‘Do you have a flannel I might dampen for Harriet’s brow?’
She did. I heard her open a cupboard on the landing, and then walk to the bathroom. She came back with a wet flannel and handed it to me, not having squeezed it well enough. Water dripped onto the floor between us.
‘Thank you.’
When she left, I squeezed excess water into the chamber pot and placed the folded flannel on Harriet’s brow.
Rest and sleep would be the best cure for her now. ‘Are your feet warm?’
‘Yes. Auntie Ginny found a pair of Uncle’s socks for me.’
‘Good.’
‘Is she still here?’
‘She is downstairs and will come and say hello. And Max is staying by you.’ I stroked the dog’s head. ‘Is there anything else you want?’
She shook her head. ‘I like this bed, and it’s so quiet here, but I want to go home soon.’
‘We will. Rest a little longer.’
It would be wrong to move her until she got over the immediate shock. Strange as it seemed, less than twenty-four hours had passed since Tobias’s death. The time since then had both stretched to infinity, and flown like a startled bird.
‘How is she?’ Mother asked when I went downstairs.
‘I’ve given her a couple of aspirins. Sleep will be the best remedy.’
‘Did she know the deceased gentleman well?’ Mrs Porter asked. ‘She seems to be taking it very hard.’
Mother looked surprised. ‘Lydia, she’s just a child. What happened yesterday would be a terrible shock for anyone.’
‘Mother, I told Harriet you would go up. She was asking for you.’
‘Bless the child. Of course I will.’
Mother went upstairs, leaving me with Mrs Porter.
‘I couldn’t help overhearing,’ Mrs Porter said.
Obviously not, since she had stood by the door listening.
Unblushingly, she continued. ‘Had Mr Murchison made a nuisance of himself with your niece?’
‘You will have heard her say that he has – had – wandering hands.’
‘Do you think he did anything worse?’
‘I have no reason to think so.’ It was difficult to know whether Mrs Porter had appointed herself special constable, was being nosey, or was genuinely concerned about Harriet.
‘I ask because of his reputation hereabouts. People have long memories. I suppose he thought no one would recognise or remember him. My aunt told me the story years ago, and my maid brought it up when your party arrived at Ponden Hall.’
‘What is his reputation?’
‘It was Tobias Murchison who got a mill girl pregnant and never showed his face again. She drowned. It wasn’t thought to be suicide but no one with her wits about her and in her Sunday best would climb a reservoir wall to chase a hat.’
Oh but they would, I thought. That is exactly what a person might do if she loved the hat. Mrs Porter continued. ‘It’s said that she was distracted by her predicament. And how that man had the nerve and was foolish enough to show his face here again I do not know.’
‘Are you suggesting Mr Murchison’s death may have been some sort of revenge?’
‘That sort of thing has been known. The blood boils in certain circumstances. I had a friend …’
It was going to be one of those stories, I thought. Whenever one hears the words ‘I had a friend’, in a certain tone of voice, that is usually a substitute for saying, ‘something happened to me’, and it is a good idea to listen carefully.
‘I had a friend who when she was nineteen and visiting relatives in Dublin, in a household where supervision was rather lax, was courted by a man who led her something of a merry dance. One day, out walking with him by the Liffey, he confessed that he had become engaged to someone else. She felt an urge to push him into the river,
and knew he could not swim.’
‘And did she push him?’
‘No, and I believe she regrets it to this day, because she could have made good her escape. He would not have dared – had he lived – reveal her name.’
‘Goodness.’
‘So, what I am wondering, Kate, is whether anyone took similar revenge yesterday afternoon. The Varey girl was there, I think, the sister. Elisa.’
She had come up with two suspects in as many minutes. ‘Are you suggesting that Tobias was murdered for his past sins, or his recently wandering hands?’
‘Either is a possibility.’
In that moment, I wanted to rush up the stairs, throw Harriet over my shoulders in a fireman’s lift, take my father’s car and drive away from this dreadful place.
I remained calm. ‘Mrs Porter, you ought to be writing novels.’
She gave a superior smile. ‘It’s funny you should say that. It did once cross my mind to write something more profound and grammatically correct than the books one sees on the shelves these days, but I have so many more important calls upon my time.’
I waited until Mother came down, reporting that Harriet slept again. When Mrs Porter’s attention was turned to the maid’s removal of the breakfast things, Mother caught my eye and indicated that she wanted to talk to me.
‘Well, I’d best be off,’ I said. ‘Mother, as soon as Harriet is feeling better, I want to take her home.’
‘Of course,’ Mother said. ‘Kate, I could do with a walk myself, I’ll come with you part of the way.’
Before self-appointed special constable and would-be novelist Mrs Porter had time to intervene, we were at the door.
‘See you shortly,’ Mother called.
As we left the grounds of the Hall, Mother said, ‘Do you think Harriet is so deeply affected not just because of what happened this morning, but because it brings back the memory of finding her father’s body?’
‘That’s exactly what I think.’
I was undecided whether I should tell Mother about Mrs Porter’s wild suspicions regarding Harriet. After all, Mother would be staying there at least a week and I did not want to do or say anything that would make her feel uncomfortable.
We were in the main street. Bells were ringing. People were making their way to the church. Those who weren’t, or had been to church or chapel earlier, found a reason to be visible. Because of the fine day, and the increased likelihood of good gossip, there were several people seated on chairs in cottage doorways. Since the doors opened directly onto the street, we had to be circumspect.
Mother spoke quietly without moving her lips. ‘There’ll be a lot of speculation going on round here. I swear that old woman in the doorway was trying to read your lips.’
We proceeded cautiously, returning greetings and appreciation of a blue and almost cloudless sky, along with the absence of rain. It is sometimes difficult to come up with a variation on that theme, but no one seems to mind. It is not the words about the weather that matter, but the fact that they are said.
When it was safe to speak, I told Mother about the camper, and also about Constable Briggs spending the night at Ponden Hall.
Mother waited until we were at the turning, the parting of our ways. ‘Mr Briggs would have sent a special constable with your message about the camper. I know there was a search for him. They also have special constables out searching for a knife. The doctor says that it wasn’t the sword stick that killed him.’
‘I knew that it would have been far too unwieldy.’
‘It is horrible to think that someone came up really close to him and stabbed him in the heart. Who could have hated him that much?’
I decided I ought to tell her of Mrs Porter’s thinly veiled hints that Harriet might have had something to do with the death.
‘That woman is preposterous. She was so charming at the functions. It is never a good idea to base one’s judgement on a person one has only met while wearing an evening dress.’
‘Are the police making any progress at all?’
‘They are bringing in Scotland Yard.’
‘Thank goodness for that.’
‘Whoever it is might be here by now. He was booked on the overnight sleeper from King’s Cross. Wouldn’t it be nice if it were Marcus Charles?’
‘No, it would not!’
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
The Man from Scotland Yard
I saw Marcus before he saw me. I had just reached the track that led to Ponden Hall when I heard the car’s motor. I held back, and looked to see who was coming. The car was being driven by a uniformed officer. Marcus sat on the back seat. He was looking in the direction of the reservoir and so did not notice me. When it comes to investigating cases in Yorkshire, he seems to be Scotland Yard’s first choice. He and I have become close over the years. As my mother has pointed out to me, any woman of sense would have married him. He did propose. I turned him down. He now says that next time, I must propose to him. I do wish Scotland Yard had sent someone else.
I took my time walking the rest of the way, thinking about what might lie ahead, for all of us. Once the car had gone from view, it was as if it had never been. The morning was as peaceful and quiet as one might have wished. Only a slight breeze caused a rustle in the air. A red grouse, paused in its pecking at the grass, and turned to stare.
As I came in sight of Ponden Hall, Rita appeared, carrying a posy of wildflowers. She looked a little upset. ‘All I was doing was gathering a few flowers as a welcome back for Carine.’
‘Is she back?’
‘Not yet, but the constable thinks it likely. Only the field is teeming with special constables tripping over each other as they search for something. One of them said I was impeding his investigations. I ask you! How can picking buttercups and daisies impede anything? I might have helped if they’d told me what to look for.’
‘They should put someone on the gate if they want to keep people out.’
‘Exactly! Anyhow, I’m glad that Carine will be back. I’ll put these on the table in the dining hall. I’m thinking, Kate, that she won’t want to go back to the studio. She might want to stay with me.’
I didn’t want to dash her hopes. ‘That’s a possibility. She’ll be relying on her friends.’ Rita needed to feel she was doing something useful. The courtyard was deserted. ‘Let’s sit down. Did you do that sketch I mentioned, of where we were all standing?’
‘I had a go. I’m hopeless at drawing and I don’t know whether I’ve remembered properly.’ She dipped into the pocket of her silk trousers. ‘I made a mess of my first effort. Edward gave me a sheet of paper from his notebook.’
The diagram was neatly drawn, the figures numbered. ‘You have such a good memory, Rita.’
‘You learn to be precise if you work in a pharmacy. It’s just a snapshot and it might not be exact. I’ve put Carine in but I don’t know who took her space when she moved away.’
‘Did you see her go?’
‘If I had, I would have gone with her.’
‘I offered but she said no.’
Derek came to meet us. ‘A detective has arrived from Scotland Yard. All the photographs from our cameras have been developed and printed. They are spread on the big table for us to look at. He sent me to find everyone. A constable from Keighley is searching our rooms.’
I thought of the squelching carpet. ‘I hope he’s wearing good boots.’
The three of us trooped inside. Rita popped into the kitchen to beg a vase for her flowers.
Marcus, of course, looked immaculate and fresh as the morning. He is good at sleeping on trains. He was wearing a grey suit, a spotless white shirt and a blue tie, with the tie pin I gave him for Christmas. Looking up from the photographs that were grouped on the table, he tilted his head and raised an eyebrow. Briefly, I held his glance.
‘Good morning, ladies and gentlemen.’ He spoke with cold courtesy. ‘I am Chief Inspector Charles of Scotland Yard. I extend my condolences for the loss of
your friend, Mr Murchison. I have some questions for you, with the intention of gaining a picture of what happened yesterday.’ He cleared his throat. ‘An officer is upstairs, taking a look around. We are in possession of search warrants.’
‘I don’t understand,’ Rita said. ‘Wasn’t it just a terrible accident? I thought such matters were for the coroner.’
‘That is something you will be able to help me with. I’m sorry to keep you standing but it may be the easiest way for you all to take a look at these photographs.’
Marcus has become a little more impressive over time. When I first knew him, he was rather abrupt and made no attempt to hide that he suspected everyone he met of some hideous crime, if not recently, then in their dim and distant past. I looked at my friends. Rita and Derek were certainly taking him at face value. It was not so easy to read Edward. His scarred and reconstructed face did not allow for a change of expression.
Marcus began with Derek, first ascertaining his name. ‘Mr Blondell?’
‘Yes.’ A surprised shiver of importance made Derek stand taller. No one ever called him mister.
‘You handed two cameras to the constable on duty yesterday, your own and Harriet Armstrong’s.’
‘Yes.’
‘Would you tell me which of these photographs are yours and which are Harriet’s?’
Before Derek said, ‘These are Harriet’s,’ I knew straight away which photographs were my niece’s. There was a dead hare, just on the point of decay; a ram’s skull; a ring of daisies encircled by sheep droppings, giving the impression of a wreath. In a picture that made me blink with astonishment, Derek lay on a gravestone, his hands clasped in prayer on his chest. The avant garde set would love these.
‘Whose idea was it to have a photograph of you lying on a grave?’
‘Harriet’s, sir. I took these of her wearing my gran’s cloak, so that she would look like someone from the last century. In return, she asked me to pose for her.’
Everyone stared. No one said a word.
Marcus continued, moving on to the next group of photographs. He had separated the images of the moments after Tobias’s collapse. ‘Mr Blondell, you took Harriet’s camera from her …’
‘Yes, my camera was out of film.’
A Snapshot of Murder Page 19