I recognised the bandmaster from Sunday. He nudged the man beside him, who produced a trumpet and began to play an air so melancholy that on the last note, the heavens opened and the rains came.
Raynor stood behind us. He unfurled an umbrella over me and Mrs. Dell, who clung to my arm.
Eliot held a huge umbrella over himself, Gertrude and Benjie.
Gertrude gave the vicar a meaningful nod, which he may or may not have noticed.
He wiped his glasses with the edge of his stole before saying a final prayer, and then addressed the mourners.
“Mr. and Mrs. Brockman extend an invitation to mourners to come back to Thorpefield Manor for a funeral repast. All are welcome.” He cleared his throat. “With agreement from the churchwardens, I have arranged a charabanc to take those without transport to Thorpefield Manor.”
Gertrude’s mouth opened. Perhaps she had not intended to extend the invitation to the whole congregation.
Rain sped departure from the cemetery onto the cobbled lane. Mrs. Dell still held my arm. I noticed that it was Benjie who took Gertrude’s arm, and not the other way round. He seemed to hesitate, and I suddenly realised what had passed me by. Benjie was losing his sight. That is why Raynor helped him with his stamp collection. That is why there was a magnifying glass at his place on the breakfast table.
Joan, walking beside Milly, saw me with Mrs. Dell. I had given the girls a lift. Now she signalled that she and Joan would go back in the charabanc.
Mrs. Dell still clung to my arm. “Mrs. Shackleton, I know Eliot will want to go back to the Manor. Would you be so good as to take me home?”
Before I had time to hesitate—for I was wondering whether to follow Sykes—her grip on my arm tightened. She lowered her voice to a whisper. “There is something I must tell you, before it is too late.”
“Yes, then of course I’ll drive you, if you’ll give me directions.” This would not take long, I hoped.
In the crush of mourners, we had become separated from Raynor and his umbrella, but he once more appeared, seeming determined to keep me in his sights.
My car was parked on the roadside. “Raynor, would you tell Mrs. Brockman that I am taking Mrs. Dell home?”
“Of course, madam.” He opened the passenger door and helped Mrs. Dell.
As soon as I got into the car, I read Sykes’s note.
Identity discovered: Harry Aspinall, recognised by golfers and Vicar. Resident of France. Owner of Rothwell Manor. Absentee trustee of Bluebell Children’s Home. His son here. Meet at White Swan?
The message stopped my breath. My wild guess turned out to be near the mark.
If ever a summons struck a note of urgency, this was it.
And there was Sykes’s motor now. He was offering a lift to the stranger—Harry Aspinall’s son? I caught Sykes’s eye, and nodded agreement to his suggestion. He could spot that I had a passenger so would be unable to follow.
Fortunately, the rainstorm ended, as quickly as it had begun.
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Mrs. Sugden walked smartly out of the station, looking out for Mr. Gopnik the estate agent. Harriet hung back, because Sergeant Dog insisted on sniffing his new surroundings. She would not deprive him of that small joy. When they did emerge, Harriet saw Mrs. Sugden talking to a florid-faced man with a bulbous nose. He stood with his back to a black saloon car. As she drew nearer, Harriet saw that the side of the car had been lettered in gold:
GOPNIK ESTATE AGENT
Mrs. Sugden turned and looked towards Harriet and the dog. Mr. Gopnik followed her gaze. He then leaned back against his car, with a look that said he was ready to go home now.
Sergeant Dog, the instant it was polite to do so, put his leg up on the car’s rear wheel.
Mrs. Sugden temporarily adopted Harriet. “This my granddaughter who’ll help in the shop.”
Already in possession of grandmothers, Harriet was intrigued at the thought of adding to the collection.
“Harriet, meet Mr. Gopnik who will kindly show us round the shop in Thorpefield.”
“How do you do, sir.” Harriet spoke in her most polite voice, not wanting there to be any objections. “Granny and I would have our dog with us in the shop.”
“Well then you’d better climb in.” He opened the front passenger door for Mrs. Sugden and the rear door for Harriet. “Try and keep him off the seats.”
They set off, passing White Swan Yard where one of Harriet’s real grannies lived.
Sergeant Dog, who must in his own mind imagine himself small and dainty, decided that the best place for him to sit would be on Harriet’s lap. Harriet was behind Mr. Gopnik, meaning that Sergeant Dog was ideally situated to sniff the back of the driver’s neck.
Mr. Gopnik leaned forward. So did Sergeant Dog. He dribbled on Mr. Gopnik’s collar. Harriet put her arms around Sergeant and tried to hold him back.
The smell of dog mingled with the existing odours of petrol, upholstery, whisky and cigarettes.
Mrs. Sugden looked out of the window, assessing Wakefield.
Once he had negotiated the traffic near the station, and reached a less busy road, Mr. Gopnik began to tell Mrs. Sugden about the shop’s advantages. It was near the miners’ cottages and the mill. There wasn’t another grocery shop for three miles. Trade was brisk. She and her granddaughter would like the accommodation, and so on. He asked what she did now, and what interested her in taking on a shop.
Mrs. Sugden once told Harriet that it was better to tell as much truth as you could, because lies are forgettable. “I’m a housekeeper, but I want my independence.”
Harriet put her face against Sergeant’s neck so she could smother her laughter. No one was more independent than Mrs. Sugden. If Mrs. Sugden left, Harriet and her auntie wouldn’t know what to do. There would be no one there to tell them.
After a longish drive, they reached Silver Street. They passed a row of cottages with well-tended gardens. The driver stopped the car beyond the last cottage, outside an odd-looking building that stood all on its own. “It was allus a shop, being the end house in a row what was demolished,” Mr. Gopnik explained. “It’s spacious. It’s airy. It’s a little gold mine.”
“So you said.”
“It has a garden at the back as would make a town allotment shrivel in shame. You could grow your own veg. Rhubarb puts in an appearance of its own accord and so do spuds.”
Harriet looked through the shop window at rows of shelves with tins and jars. He unlocked the door. “I won’t stand in the way of you taking your own good look round. How long do you need?”
“As long as you like,” Mrs. Sugden said. “Give us an hour or more. We’ve brought us lunch. I want to stroll about, get the lie of the land and the feel of the place.”
He seemed pleased at this. “That suits me very well, Mrs. Sugden. I have another call to make.” He looked at his watch. “I’ll come back for you. If you think of any questions whatsoever, stock, turnover, anything at all, you only have to ask.”
Harriet watched the car drive away. Sergeant Dog gave a little whimper. He liked to travel with a herd and was sorry to see a person leave.
“Where is Mr. Gopnik going?” Harriet asked.
Mrs. Sugden shook her head sadly. “Where do you think?”
“I don’t know.”
“He hasn’t had a drink since he woke this morning. He’s desperate.”
“I thought he must be a drinker by his face and his nose.”
“Come on then, let’s look inside.”
They went in the shop entrance. Harriet was impressed by the array of sweet jars. The pear drops jar was almost full. The liquorice allsorts and dolly mixtures would need filling soon. She had seen bigger shops that didn’t have as many varieties. “There’s nothing but sweets and tins.”
“Aye well there wouldn’t be any perishables, not since it’s stood empty.”
There was a good rag hearthrug for sale, bright colours, six shillings. There was a cheese slicer, a butter p
latter and a bacon slicer. Harriet sniffed. You could still smell bacon and cheese. “Why did the person leave?”
“Ah.” Mrs. Sugden walked through to the back room.
Harriet followed.
“People get old,” Mrs. Sugden explained. “There’s a time when a person is past it.”
“Oh.” Harriet believed her until Mrs. Sugden added, “Everything comes to an end.”
The shopkeeper died, Harriet thought. Why doesn’t she just say that?
They looked round the back room, the cellar, and the upstairs. Mrs. Sugden was paying so much attention to everything that Harriet began to think she was serious, and would leave them.
“I don’t want you to take over a shop, Mrs. Sugden. I’d miss you. Auntie Kate wouldn’t want you to go.”
“I’m going nowhere, love.”
“Is it to do with a case?”
“In a manner of speaking, it’s to do with a case as you say.”
“The shopkeeper died.”
“She did.”
“She was murdered.”
“That’s putting it very harshly.”
“But true.”
“Some nasty so-and-so took her life. I wasn’t going to tell you. You should have stopped at home. Now I’m going to speak to a few neighbours.” She took Harriet’s arm. “Come on, outside into the fresh air.”
Harriet watched Mrs. Sugden walk towards the miners’ cottages.
Sergeant Dog did not like his people to separate. He looked at Harriet, gave a little whimper, and tugged on the lead, wanting to follow. “She’s coming back,” Harriet explained. “We’re looking round. Keep to the edge of this allotment.” For that’s what the long garden was. Drills and trenches had been prepared. There was a seedbed and a cold frame. Harriet wondered whether seeds had been planted. One bed was covered with sacking against the frost.
Inspecting the shopkeeper’s vegetable garden gave Harriet a strange feeling. When she was little, she helped her dad in their allotment. He always explained everything to her. He followed his own father’s tradition and planted potatoes on Good Friday. She would trot alongside him when he went to consult a gnarled old man who was renowned for predicting the weather. She remembered this old man’s words: “Don’t venture to plant out until May comes in.”
Frost was the danger. Yet Harriet liked frost. She used to look out of her bedroom window and see the furrowed ground sparkling white. What she loved most of all was the intricate frosty webs on hedges and privets all along the walk to school. That was then. That was before. That was the life she thought would never end.
When she was with her dad, she loved to pick up a stick, pretend it was a walking stick and she was going to walk a very long way, somewhere beyond the horizon.
She led Sergeant Dog to the end of the garden. Soft fruit bushes were cut back. One was a strawberry plant. Destructive little creatures sat on its leaves. There would be no strawberries if aphids had their way. You could get rid of them with soapy water, but she had none. Leaning down, she picked up a little fly and squashed it between finger and thumb.
When she dropped his lead, Sergeant Dog sloped away through the hedge, following a scent.
She wondered what people did round here for enjoyment, and where was the nearest picture house.
She picked up a stick, a perfect walking stick. Someone had cleared old branches. A bonfire had been started but was only half burned. She poked it with the stick. Sergeant Dog came to look. He took a good sniff.
He then turned his attention to the scarecrow. He began to whine. He stood on his hind legs and put his paws on the scarecrow’s shoulder.
Harriet pulled at his collar. “You’ll get us in trouble, Sergeant.”
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Mrs. Sugden knew that she looked respectable. That was what counted among working people. She wore a serge coat, a felt hat and brown gloves. It would help that she clearly had nothing to sell.
Four doors up Silver Street, a woman had just brought out a pail of slops and thrown it onto the compost heap. Mrs. Sugden called to her before she went back in and closed the door. “Excuse me!”
The woman held the pail like a shield against evil, and waited.
“Hello, I’m Mrs. Sugden, brought by the estate agent to look at yonder shop. He’s left me a wee while to get the feel of the place. There’s no better way of learning than to ask someone nearby.”
“What do you want to know?”
“I’m sorry to ask this and no ill reflection on you and your neighbours, but is this a place where ruffians are likely to murder a body for a shilling?”
“It is not, by no means. This is a respectable place. We pay our way and look out for each other. Our men are in the pit. When they come up they’ve a mind to look to their pigeons and the garden and have a drink.”
“So there’d be no violence from this direction?”
“I’m not saying there’s no fights. I’m not saying there isn’t them that knock their wives about, but it’s all among each other. If Mrs. Farrar’s death is going to put a person off taking on the shop it’ll be a poor do.”
“That’s just what I would have thought. No insult intended.”
“None taken. You won’t find so many people to talk to today. They’re at the funeral. I would’ve been there myself but I have an invalid indoors.”
Mrs. Sugden knew she shouldn’t have come until Mrs. Farrar was decently laid to rest, and a passage of days. But now she was here, she must get on with it. Mention of the murder had not gone down well. She would keep her questions as to whether the shop was well patronised and whether a woman who charged fair prices might make a living. That would open a conversation.
A tall thin woman, wearing dark clothes and black felt hat, alighted from a heavy bicycle at the gate of the end house in the row. As she walked along the path she picked up a carpet beater and walloped a rag rug that hung on the line, as if its dust had tried to choke her as she passed by, and she must exact revenge.
Mrs. Sugden approached. “I’m sorry to interrupt you. Nice rug.”
The praise of her rug drew a more friendly response than Mrs. Sugden had expected.
“Made by my great gran and it’ll see me out.”
In an instant, Mrs. Sugden put the woman’s philosophy of life into words. “Waste not, want not.”
This pleased the woman. She paused in her beating. “That’s what I say. Young uns today, they want everything new.” She pointed to a stool by the door. “I stuck the leg back. It’d been thrown out for last year’s bonfire.”
“Good for you.” Mrs. Sugden’s admiration was genuine.
Mrs. Sugden noticed that the woman wore no wedding ring, but a signet ring on her right hand. Now that they had reached agreement that thrift mattered, the woman commented that she had seen the estate agent’s car. “They wasted no time putting Mrs. Farrar’s shop out for rent. I’m just back from her funeral.”
“I wouldn’t have come if I’d known the funeral was today.”
Mrs. Sugden would have a word with Mrs. Shackleton, and Jim Sykes, too. They must have known.
“Well she had a good funeral. The vicar gave a fine service. I saw her lowered into her resting place and I came straight back. I’m not one for funeral breakfasts and long faces.”
“You’ll have known Mrs. Farrar well?”
“We got on. You’ll see a bonny rag rug for sale in her window and one inside, both made by me. She’d take my pies, apple, blackberry, plum. I go out picking when some’d leave fruit to rot.”
Mrs. Sugden doubted many round here would leave fruit to rot. She pigeon-holed this rug beater as someone who would get there first, strip trees and bushes bare.
“Is there anything else you can tell me about what happened that dreadful night? Only I wouldn’t want to put myself in harm’s way. History has a habit of repeating itself.”
“Nothing ever happens here. It was Friday night. All Fridays are the same. Women clear their slate at the sh
op. Lads go to Rothwell to hang about on street corners. Fellers go to the pub or the club as takes their fancy. Lassies stop at home and wash their hair.”
“And what about the lad they got for the murder?”
“I saw him going to his band practice, and I saw him coming back.”
“And after that?”
“Nay, I’ve stuff to get on with. I don’t sit watching other folks all day and all night.”
“So nothing at all unusual?”
“Only that –”
“What?”
“Oh summat and nowt. She didn’t usually light a garden fire on a Friday.”
“Did you tell the police?”
“They didn’t ask so I didn’t tell.”
Chapter Forty
Sergeant Dog sniffed at the scarecrow’s sacking coat with such enthusiasm that he almost toppled the figure. Harriet saw that under the sacking coat was another coat. Like the sacking, it was damp from rain. It was charred, too. Scorch marks. Threads of hemp attached themselves to the wool of the second coat. She examined it more closely, knowing a bit of good cloth when she saw it, fingering the wool. This must be the most thoroughly dressed scarecrow in Yorkshire. Under the jacket, it wore a shirt. It wore a pair of trousers.
She put Sergeant on his lead. “You best leave this alone. It’s a puzzle.”
His interest in the scarecrow waned.
He had been trained not to pull, not to drag, not to be a blooming nuisance. Now he pulled. He dragged. He became a blooming nuisance. She let him have his way, to see where he would lead. He led her back into the shop. He sniffed all about, making small whining noises.
Harriet decided she did not like it in here, not one little bit.
Sergeant led her all around, sniff-sniffing. He led her to the back door. When he put his snout to the mat, he let out a whine.
The mat was none too clean. Harriet felt suddenly cold. This wasn’t a good place to be. “Come on. We’re off outside.”
She forgot that today Mrs. Sugden was supposed to be her grandmother. She walked to the row of houses, where Mrs. Sugden was chatting over the fence with the woman in the end house. Mrs. Sugden was so engrossed that Harriet went back to the garden bench and sat down. Holding Sergeant Dog by the collar, she patted his head. Still whining, he licked her face.
The Body on the Train Page 19