The Body on the Train

by Frances Brody

  “Do you think it might Benjie’s difficulty rather than yours?”

  Her look of surprise seemed to say that this had never occurred to her. “Heavens no! Even if it is, it couldn’t be admitted, if you see what I mean. So I have made a decision to adopt. Do you think that’s shocking?”

  “It would be odd if I thought that shocking. I’m adopted.”

  “Never!”

  “I don’t go around saying it, but it’s not something I would hide.”

  “Then I’m glad I’ve told you. You are the perfect person to stand by me and persuade Benjie that I’m doing the right thing.”

  “Why, what does he say?”

  “He refuses to discuss the matter. I have visited the National Adoption Society’s office in Baker Street. I intend that we should choose a baby.”

  “Why London? Aren’t there children nearby that you might consider? What about all the children who have just gone to the orphanage in Wakefield?”

  She hesitated. “This may sound hard-hearted, but I don’t want just any child. It could be from some poor creature who got herself into trouble up a back alley on a dark night and ended up in the workhouse. I want an intelligent child. The Adoption Society takes family histories. They have babies whose lineage is impeccable.”

  I could not think what to say. No one would describe my heritage as impeccable, yet I had turned out well. “You would be giving a child a good chance in life, Gertrude.”

  “And taking a big risk myself. No, Kate, harsh as this may seem, I want a baby from a good source. There wasn’t one Bluebell child I would have wanted, none I could have taken to my heart.”

  I tried to think fast, and avoid involvement without seeming unkind, or shocked at her callousness. After all, I had never considered adopting. It must be something that begins to loom huge, large as life—because that is just what it is. Life.

  “Then if you’re set on it, I’m sure you’ll persuade Benjie.”

  “One infant might jump out straight away, so to speak. Benjie would be more detached than I in considering lineage and so on.”

  I doubted anyone would be more detached than Gertrude.

  In one of those sudden insights that might turn out to be completely wrong, I wondered if the existence of Alec confirmed Gertrude’s feeling that barrenness was her burden, and not Benjie’s. Benjie had brought Alec to Thorpefield Manor. He was a potential heir. Gertrude could not have missed the Brockman family resemblance.

  Fortunately, she left that subject hanging and asked me about my fascinating project.

  “Let me take a picture of you, on the window seat—that outfit is just perfect. And as soon as Benjie comes home, if the light’s still good, I’ll capture the two of you for posterity.”

  “He’ll like that. He’s had rather a lot on his mind lately.”

  I resisted the urge to appear to curious and ask what was on his mind. There would be a better moment for that.

  “You both take a good photograph. I think young Milly will too. She tells me she’s a Sunday school teacher, so perhaps I’ll photograph her in her Sunday best.”

  “Oh take her in uniform, her best is rather shabby. But I suppose that won’t show up in photographs.”

  “Everything looks better if the light is kind.”

  “Did Milly look after you?”

  “Perfectly.”

  “If you’re not accustomed to having a maid, I suppose you won’t mind her clumsiness.”

  “What is her background?”

  “She’s the late child of a feckless widowed mother. For a short time, I had a girl from the children’s home, where they were properly trained, but she turned into a rude minx when she realised she could find work in the mill.”

  A shaft of light made the window seat the perfect spot for Gertrude. I chatted, hoping to make her feel less self-conscious when I took her photograph. “It’s such a shame that the Bluebell Home had to close.”

  “Yes it was a blow.”

  “I would have liked a picture.”

  “We might have one somewhere, in the Trust Fund files.”

  “That would be good. And there’s a camera club in Rothwell. I’ve met some of the members from there. I’ll probably say hello to one or two, offer to include some of their pictures. Snappers can be jealous of their own territory.”

  Gertrude laughed. “You’ll endear yourself to them I’m sure.”

  Benjie arrived home while the afternoon was still light. He is one of those men who must bend over backwards to prove that his wife’s widowed friend is the person he is most delighted to welcome into his home.

  He did not look like a man who has had rather a lot on his mind lately. But then, I probably did not look like a woman working for Scotland Yard.

  “Kate m’dear, so lovely to see you. Your name came up today.”

  “Oh?” I am used to Benjie’s banter but hadn’t expected him to tell me that I was mentioned at a county event.

  “You’ve gathered quite a reputation over the years. The missing maharajah, the library business, and then that unfortunate incident that marred the day in Haworth.”

  “I didn’t realise I was so under discussion, Benjie.”

  “So what mystery brings you to our neck of the woods?”

  “No mystery. I’m here on an assignment –”

  “I’m sure you are.”

  “For a magazine.”

  Gertrude tutted at Benjie. “Stop teasing. Kate is here to take photographs and write about this neglected part of Yorkshire, and why not? It’s all Harrogate and York and picturesque coastlines, and the importance and grandeur of Bradford. We matter too.”

  He gave a mock bow. “You must be right, Gertrude. Kate is not here undercover for some nefarious reason. She would not do such a thing in the house of her old friends.”

  “Absolutely not,” I said. “Benjie, you ought to be writing novels.”

  My heart was beating a little too fast. He knew.

  I picked up my camera. “Benjie, you look handsome as ever. Now don’t prevaricate.”

  Gertrude winked at me. “He always comes back from these official dos full of himself. And I don’t know why. It’s usually overseas businessmen here to pick British brains. Hope you didn’t tell Johnny Foreigner we’re putting the mill on short time.”

  At the mention of short time, Benjie looked suddenly glum.

  I looked at my friends through the camera. As they put on their best faces, not a whit of discord or anxiety showed. They were, for that instant, lord and lady of the manor, without a care in the world.

  After the photograph, Benjie rang for Raynor. The two retreated to the library.

  Gertrude sighed. “What other husband would regard his butler as chief financial adviser?”

  “Quite a few I should think.”

  “It’s not as if I came empty-handed into this marriage. That mill was my father’s. It just happened to be on Benjie’s family land.”

  Gertrude is an expert embroiderer, and that seems to be her refuge. She moved to her usual chair and picked up her needle.

  Glancing through the window, I noticed the light, and the shadows made by the poplar trees.

  “Gertrude, I’m inclined to take a stroll, while we still have the afternoon light. Will you come?”

  “You go, Kate.” She smiled. “Never let it be said that I come between an artist and her inspiration.”

  I needed to think. Gertrude was unlikely to be of much help. So taken up with this new idea of adoption, she had probably paid no attention to someone coming to talk to Benjie about a body on a train. He was behaving abominably, by hinting that he knew I was on a case. Either he should come out with it, or keep quiet. So much for the Official Secrets Act.

  Chapter Thirteen

  I walked through the grounds to the walled garden, making my way towards the bee boles. Philip had indeed left his treatise on rhubarb in the third bole. The sheet was rolled, tied with a narrow strip of ribbon and with a small squar
e of paper tucked into the ribbon. Good old Philip. If Gertrude asked me about my plans, I would at least have all sorts of information about rhubarb for my imaginary article.

  The voice startled me. “Are you interested in bee boles, Mrs. Shackleton?”

  I turned to see Raynor. He must have seen me from the library window, and followed. He could not miss that I held something in my hand, but had he seen me pick it up?

  “There were bee boles where I stayed last year.” I pushed Philip’s roll of paper up my sleeve. “Such a pity these aren’t in use any more.”

  “The hives are far more practical, but I do agree. There is something poetic about ancient beekeeping.”

  Time to divert him from what might appear odd behaviour, and a feigned interest in the living quarters of bygone bees.

  “I’ve been explaining to Mr. and Mrs. Brockman that I’m creating a photographic essay about people and places, including this house and its occupants. I should love to take your photograph.”

  He gave a small embarrassed laugh. “I am not considered an oil painting, Mrs. Shackleton.”

  “But you have character, Raynor, and to my mind that is far more impressive.”

  “I don’t know what to say. I am overcome at the thought of a portrait.”

  Perhaps it was my imagination, but there seemed a mocking edge to his tone. Gertrude may not have known that Benjie was asked about the man on the train, Raynor most certainly would know. I had always had the impression that there were no secrets between Benjie and his butler.

  “Raynor, wait here while I fetch my camera.”

  “The bag in the music room?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then let me, Mrs. Shackleton.” Raynor smiled agreement at his own sudden decision, all at once eager to have his picture taken.

  When he had gone, I read the message that Philip had tucked in with his treatise on rhubarb:

  Leave a note if you need help.

  What on earth did he imagine might happen?

  But he was making a good point. I should have set up some code, some way of keeping Sykes and Mrs. Sugden up to date on my progress, or lack of it. Of course there was a telephone here.

  I had a long time to consider this as Raynor did not come back as quickly as he went. His lengthy absence could be accounted for by the amount of pomade on his hair, a fresh starched collar and a pair of patent shoes that he admitted to wearing infrequently on the grounds that they nipped.

  We chose his favoured spot, by the sundial in the walled garden, another by the gate.

  “Shouldn’t I have one with the house in the background, as an indication of my position?”

  “Yes of course, if that’s what you would like. But let’s try taking a picture in the wood if we can find the right spot.”

  “I know just the place. There’s a glade where I sit sometimes, just for a few moments’ contemplation.” He began to walk, leading the way to his private place.

  In the centre of a clearing was a carved seat carefully wrought with a back and arm rests.

  He turned to me. “It’s not too dark?”

  “It will be in another hour, but not now.”

  “Jimmy Noakes the gardener created this, when he came back from the war. The dream of it kept him going during his time in the trenches. He lived for the moment when he could come back, and make this chair from a tree that fell before it all began. He thought of sitting here, listening to birdsong, hearing a gentle wind disturb the leaves.”

  “This is a beautiful spot.”

  “He said for me to feel free to sit here whenever I want, even though I passed the war in the admiralty with Mr. Brockman.” He sat down.

  Sometimes the very first shot is the right one, and I felt that. All the same, I took a few more, just to be certain.

  When we were finished, and walking back to the house, I asked Raynor about using the telephone to speak to my housekeeper.

  “Of course. You can use the telephone in the hall, unless you would like privacy.”

  “The telephone in the hall will be fine.”

  “I’ll leave you to it.” He opened the door to Benjie’s study. “Some papers for me to sort for Mr. Brockman.”

  He closed the study door behind him.”

  I put in the call, and waited for the operator to ring back.

  After a few minutes, I was speaking to Mrs. Sugden.

  I kept the conversation short. Would she let my mother know I would not be there for Sunday dinner? She would, and assured me all was well at the house, and with Harriet and the dog. We said goodbye. She hung up. I waited. There was a click on the line.

  Someone had listened in.

  It would not be safe for me to make calls from Thorpefield Manor.

  Later, I asked Milly. “Are there many telephones in the house?”

  “The one in the hall, Mrs. Brockman’s bedroom, and Mr. Brockman’s study.”

  Benjie had set Raynor to spy on me. It was nothing to worry about. We were on the same side, after all, but I needed to stay in touch with Sykes and Mrs. Sugden. Perhaps Philip’s idea about my leaving messages in the third bee bole was not so outlandish.

  I went up to my room, to read Philip’s schoolboy treatise on rhubarb. He must have scoured his dictionaries and encyclopaedias, probably after one of our illicit cycling trips to the rhubarb fields. We were all so very young, thought we knew everything, and that grown-ups were extremely dense.

  Chapter Fourteen

  RHUBARB by Philip Goodchild, age 11, of Wakefield, Yorkshire, England, Great Britain, the World

  Rhubarb, roó barb, n. a plant whose leaf-stalks are used for culinary purposes, and its root used in medicine as a purgative.

  A perennial long-living herb (Rheum rhaponticum) native to Siberia and related to dock; heart-shaped, wavy leaves can be poisonous; 6-petalled small white flowers; edible stalks, red or green. (Family: Polygonaceae)

  In the Opium War (1839–42) the Chinese authorities stopped exports of rhubarb in the belief that British soldiers would give up the fight when constipated. They were wrong.

  I am proud to live in the heart of Yorkshire’s Rhubarb Country in the frost pocket below the Pennines where market gardeners know what to do with the land to make it fertile. Some say the ground is like the ground of Siberia. We have much rain, plentiful coal and coke to heat the rhubarb sheds and shoddy from the mills that contains nitrogen and does the roots good. It is as if they are covered by a cloak that feeds them.

  First of all the plant was used as a medicine for the gut and inner organs. Marco Polo brought the drug to Europe and to Britain where it did not work as a medicine. Only rich people could afford it as it was three times as expensive as opium and gave them the runs. It was used to bake pies instead.

  Some people write that in Chelsea Physic Gardens in 1817 rhubarb roots were accidentally covered by a plant pot over the winter. When the plant pot was moved in the spring, tender shoots were discovered. This was the start of the rhubarb we now grow and call Forced Rhubarb. This is poppycock. I happen to know the real fact. A gardener from Rothwell found this out, not a person from Chelsea. These roots were then forced in sheds in the dark.

  Forced rhubarb is pink or red and is good for you. Here is my own experience of going into a rhubarb shed with my next door neighbour Kate Hood and our friends.

  It was February. The ground was frosty. There was frost on the hedgerows. We left our bikes by the road and walked along the edge of the fields. Bobby’s uncle works with the rhubarb so we know things about being careful. Outside the shed were two very heavy spades. This is because rhubarb roots weigh as much as a robust child or even more. Only heavy spades can lift the roots which must not be damaged. It was completely dark in the shed and warm as well because no air comes in and the rhubarb likes to be hot and heat comes along the pipes from the stove. We brought a whole box of matches and a candle. Candles are what the men use when they lift the rhubarb. Kate said that the rhubarb knows there is light above the r
oof and that is why it reaches up and grows. We each took it in turns to hold a candle under our chins, to look like a terrifying creature.

  We did not break off the shed rhubarb. The rhubarb in the sheds is special. Kate says perhaps it hears us. We hear it, when it pops. Some children eat raw rhubarb because they are hungry. Some boys and girls pretend a stick of rhubarb is a sword.

  My mother bakes rhubarb pie. She buys a big orange and squeezes juice onto the rhubarb. I do not like rhubarb pie. My dad does not like rhubarb pie. We eat it. Dad says, “That was up to your usual standard, love.”

  I say nothing.

  Chapter Fifteen

  The oak-panelled dining room at Thorpefield Manor is mock Tudor. The fireplace would hold an ox. Plentiful coal ensured a huge fire. A certain amount of smoke belched into the room. The heat did not travel as far as the long table where we took our seats. In spite of the chill, and the need for shawls, it is a magical room. The chandelier above the table holds fat candles whose dripping wax had created intriguing shapes.

  We were five for dinner. Benjamin sat at one end of the table and Gertrude at the other. The thought came to me that when they grew old, they might need speaking trumpets to hear each other across that distance. Opposite me was their friend and business partner, Eliot Dell. If you saw Eliot on the street, you would know he was well off. His suits are made by the best tailor on North Street in Leeds, who it is said knocks all London tailors into a cocked hat. Their money comes from land. He is flaxen-haired, with deep-set blue eyes, a generous nose, slightly pointy ears, and an expressive mouth. When listening, he tilts his head as if that might help him catch every word that comes his way. I would have suspected Gertrude of matchmaking, but he and his mother are still in mourning for his wife. During our drinks before dinner, I had expressed my belated condolences to them.

  Old Mrs. Dell sat beside me. She dresses plainly, without so much as a jet pendant, her only jewellery being her wedding ring. She gave the impression of having spent her life in mourning. “My left ear is the sharper,” she confided. “I will try not to ask you to shout, my dear.”