Shadows & Lies (15 page)
Alfred Crowther gave a resigned sigh. “That's what I thought you'd say, Hannah. So be it then. So be it.”
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“What a spree,” said Willie Dyson mildly, admirably concealing his true feelings.
“Well, I don't know about that. It won't all be a bed of roses.”
That wasn't in any way how I really thought of the prospect that was opening before me, of course, but I'd always tried, in fairness to him, to conceal my restless nature. My sharpness didn' t fool him, however, and he had the sense to see it was no use trying to stop me. The wide world beckoned and he couldn't deprive me of my chance to see some of it. “I'll come back, Willie,” I promised. He smiled a little wryly, but made the best of a bad job. Perhaps he knew me better than I knew myself. Every time he'd urged me to name a date for our wedding, I'd always responded by telling him there was plenty of time.
The evening before I left, we set out for the last time on our favourite walk up on to the moors, our destination being the Old Pack Horse right on the top, where we would stop for refreshments before the walk back. Not inside the inn, of course, for Willie was a staunch teetotaller and had signed the Pledge. Touch, taste nor handle, for strong drink was the temptation of the devil. Instead, we would find a grassy bank outside to sit and rest and drink the ginger beer from a stone bottle he had brought for us in his pocket.
As we walked, he put whatever he was feeling behind him, took my hand and sang softly. He was a happy, contented man, and he loved to sing. I think this capacity he had for taking joy from the moment was the thing I liked most about him. He was studying to be a lay reader at the church, which was as near a substitute
for being ordained as he could get. The possibility of theological college, with all its attendant expenses, even had he been able to gain admission, was denied him. Where would he have got the money, who would then have supported his mother? It never entered his head to be resentful of his fate, as it entered mine. He was a much better person than I was.
for being ordained as he could get. The possibility of theological college, with all its attendant expenses, even had he been able to gain admission, was denied him. Where would he have got the money, who would then have supported his mother? It never entered his head to be resentful of his fate, as it entered mine. He was a much better person than I was.
After we'd walked for about a mile, and left behind the last huddle of old, stone-roofed weavers' cottages, the road became rougher under our feet, and the little pebbles rolling on the thin layer of soil over the rocks beneath made the going harder. We paused for a breather and Willie spread his jacket to enable us to sit on some craggy outcrop near the path. It was a lovely early summer evening, with a beautiful sky, and the wide, free moors spread all around us. From up here, the dirt and drabness were obscured, and the view, perversely now that my departure was near, made me realise that in many ways I was going to miss my familiar life very much. Dull as it was, I still loved Bridge End, and the warmth of the people who lived there; it was all I'd ever known. Below us was spread the unremarkable little town, where presently the lights would prick the dusk, and where the foursquare mills rose by the river, their tall chimney-stacks reaching to the sky. At the head of the valley the brickworks loomed, now closed for the night, with a telpher-span for carrying clay from a pit at the far side. The winding gear stood quiet, and the wheel and the trucks, suspended in midair, hung dramatically black against the pale green and rose evening sky.
Presently, Willie put his arm around my waist, and as if sensing my thoughts, he said, “You won't get all this in Africa, Hannah. You'll miss it.”
“Of course I shall, but I won't mind. Not for the short time I shall be there. At least there won't be ten-foot snowdrifts like we had here last winter.”
“Indeed no, I'm told it's a thirsty land, hot and dusty. It can be harsh and cruel, too.”
“Don't forget how I like the sun. And think how much better it will be for my cough.”
“Will you miss
me
?”
me
?”
“Of course I shall.” I was truly sorry I couldn't put more conviction
into my voice. He was so
nice â
and sensitive, too, not to have mentioned the danger I was sailing into. I'd really become quite fed up with people warning me of that, as if I was too stupid to be aware of it.
into my voice. He was so
nice â
and sensitive, too, not to have mentioned the danger I was sailing into. I'd really become quite fed up with people warning me of that, as if I was too stupid to be aware of it.
The rough, tussocky grass around us was all bent in one direction by the strong breeze that even now came down from the tops, though it wasn't cold. A clattering beck beside us tumbled downwards to join the shallow river in the valley bottom, and all around were gorse and cotton grass and delicate, nodding harebells. Nearby, a pair of laverocks sang a courting duet, liquid and sweet. Never had an evening seemed more poignant.
Willie had been casting glances at me for a long time. Then suddenly, he pulled me to him and began to kiss me in a way he'd never done before. He became more urgent, and I drew back in a sort of panic, though I ought to have known I needn't worry. Being Willie, he released me at once, sensing my reluctance, and didn't force himself on me, but when he spoke, his voice was hoarse, and he put his finger under my chin to make me look at him. “Why not, Hannah? You know what they say, when the gorse is out, it's kissing time.”
It wasn't the kissing in itself I objected to. I tried to laugh it off. “That's just an excuse. There aren't many months when the gorse isn't out, somewhere.”
“Exactly. So why have we waited so long to get married?”
I did, then, begin to be a little afraid of what I heard in his voice. “This isn't the time to talk of that, when I'm going away.” I pulled myself away, stood up and smoothed my skirt. “We'll never get to the Pack Horse at this rate.”
“To the deuce with the Pack Horse!” he said, quite roughly for Willie. “Sit down again, Hannah.” His hand, as he pulled me back down, was hard and strong and for the first time in my life, I felt a stir of excitement as his skin touched mine. But what he saw in my face softened his voice as he went on, with a sigh, “Don't be frightened of me, lass, there's no cause.”
After that we sat for a while in silence, until he stood up and held out his hand to help me to my feet. We resumed our walk.
I knew that he'd mastered himself when presently he began to sing softly again, under his breath, in his lovely baritone voice.
The tune was vaguely familiar.
The tune was vaguely familiar.
“What's that you're singing, Willie?”
He smiled and raised his voice a little and repeated the chorus:
“When the fields are white with daisies,
I'll be coming back to you â¦
When the fields are white with daisies, I'll return ⦔
“I remember it now,” I said. “And I promise I will. Before the daisies and buttercups are out again, I'll be home.”
November came, and with it fog that blanketed most of England. Here in the capital, the added fumes of London's million smoking, belching chimneys brewed it up into a real pea-souper; gaslights became yellow glimmers in the gloom, making the roads and streets death-traps for the unwary, and into every building a noxious yellow reek filtered, laying a film of grime over everything. Yet the fog seemed no denser to Detective Chief Inspector Crockett than the doubts, uncertainties and silences still surrounding the case of the dead woman found two months ago at Belmonde.
It was unheard of for Crockett to feel at a loss, yet today, free for the moment after being under constant pressure for the last few weeks, at liberty for once to reflect on the Belmonde case and the short time he'd spent working there, he felt distinctly unsettled. Though the murder was still officially the business of the police in Shropshire, he couldn't escape the mortified feeling, always at the back of his mind, that he, the man from the Yard, had failed to provide the experienced help they'd needed, and that the mystery had never been as fully investigated as it should have been. His summons back to London had been to a case considered by the powers-that-be more important than an investigation out in the back of beyond which was already losing its steam, and he'd had no choice but to return.
Since then, the enquiry had, to all intents and purposes, been unofficially abandoned, though not in Crockett's mind. As far as he was concerned, failure was never a condition to be contemplated, and a morose conviction that he ought to do something about it had grown. The investigation he'd returned to deal with â a series of rapes and murder in the docklands area â had been successfully concluded with the capture and arrest of the killer. Relief that it had not after all turned out to be another unsolved Jack the Ripper case had resulted in much appreciation from high places for Crockett's part in apprehending him, but the initial euphoria of that was wearing off: he knew it wouldn't be long before another job landed on his desk, in which he might not be
so lucky. That there were murders which never would be solved was one of the facts of life every police officer was bound to accept. Mercifully few with which he'd been called to deal had fallen into this category; all the same, he was always dogged by the feeling that next time could turn out very differently.
so lucky. That there were murders which never would be solved was one of the facts of life every police officer was bound to accept. Mercifully few with which he'd been called to deal had fallen into this category; all the same, he was always dogged by the feeling that next time could turn out very differently.
Inaction of any sort was anathema to him; moreover, he had his reputation to consider here at the Yard, where he was able to bear the nickname of Dandy Crockett with equanimity because he knew that his reputation stood high enough to overcome it â so far. But I'll be hanged if I know what to do about Belmonde, he'd said to himself. Then this morning he'd received an unexpected communication from Meredith, still apparently chasing shadows out there at the back end of nowhere. Not that he seemed to be getting any further, Crockett thought as he rubbed his eyes, smarting from the fog, put on his spectacles and made another attempt to re-read the notes. Meredith's writing was difficult to decipher in the dim room. He swore under his breath at the dratted day and found a wax taper to light the gas, merely to discover with increased irritation that not only had the incandescent mantle burnt out, but so had the one in the other bracket on the opposite wall; no one had bothered to change them, and without a mantle the blue flame when the gas was lit was useless. Nor could he find replacements in the cupboard where they were supposedly kept.
He swore again, and for a while, continued the losing struggle to read what seemed to be a mere treading over the same old ground â until the name of Louisa Fox â that young woman who'd marched in on him in the schoolroom â caught his eye. Meredith had also talked to her and made the point that she knew the family well: there was, he felt, something she and young Chetwynd had up their sleeves, though he didn't go so far as to believe either were involved in the murder. Some family secret, he had surmised, which could have a bearing on the present case?
Well, that was nothing new. It was something Crockett himself had sensed. Murder inevitably brought skeletons out of cupboards, where most families would have preferred them to remain hidden. It would be odd indeed if, in their long history,
the Chetwynds possessed none â and to say the least, not one of them had been forthcoming when they were first questioned. But the particular mention of Sebastian Chetwynd and Louisa Fox interested him. He gave up his attempt to read, sat thinking for a while, then went across to the telephone.
the Chetwynds possessed none â and to say the least, not one of them had been forthcoming when they were first questioned. But the particular mention of Sebastian Chetwynd and Louisa Fox interested him. He gave up his attempt to read, sat thinking for a while, then went across to the telephone.
Propping his buttocks on a desk, he reached for the wall-mounted instrument and asked for the number of the police station at Bridgnorth. After some time, he was connected to a faraway voice on the other end of the line which informed him that the inspector was at that very moment driving out to Belmonde.
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Meredith's methods might be slower than Crockett's, but he had not been idle since the departure of his colleague. He had, early on, been forced to let his prime suspect, Tom Jordan, go, through lack of any evidence, or indeed any motive. But far from consigning the mystery of the murdered woman to the unsolved annals of police history, he had kept it in his mind ever since the London man had been called back to the Yard. Meredith's was a slow and patient nature; he believed in giving time for the initial excitement and perhaps panic to subside, when, lulled into a sense of false security, the culprit might give himself away. After Crockett's initial questioning, and the apparent abandonment of the case, whoever had done the murder must by now believe himself in the clear. It was perhaps time for Meredith to do a little questioning on his own account, even if it meant disturbing once more the apparently smooth relationships and comfortable lives of those fortunate beings living at the Abbey.
The pony-trap's wheels grated on the stony road surface in the eerie silence engendered by the fog â not the obnoxious yellow reek that it was in the capital â but all the same, progress was slow as it swirled around, thick as curdled cream. Trees loomed spectrally along the sides of the road, familiar landmarks were non-existent. The pony trotted on, blinkered and unaware of anything but the small section of road ahead visible to him. Meredith reflected that he was rather glad he had not elected to arrive at Belmonde by one of the new-fangled motors (though it might have been more appropriate perhaps, given the status of this enquiry). As the hollow clop of a big horse's hooves and the rumble of heavy wheels signalled a cart approaching in the other
direction, which then loomed up through the fog with alarming suddenness, he was glad that he had, after all, elected to drive himself in the pony trap. As far as he knew, it had never yet killed anyone.
direction, which then loomed up through the fog with alarming suddenness, he was glad that he had, after all, elected to drive himself in the pony trap. As far as he knew, it had never yet killed anyone.
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It seemed his first interview would have to be postponed, since the man he wanted to see, Joseph Blythe, the butler, was busy elsewhere at the moment. “Tell him I'd be obliged if he would spare me a few minutes later, then,” Meredith said to the young footman who'd opened the door, and asked for Lady Chetwynd's maid meanwhile.
Lily Chater received him in a small room that was strewn with bits of sewing and feminine garments of all kinds, evidently devoted to the mending, pressing and repairing of her mistress's clothes. A flat iron stood on its end on an ironing table and a smell of warm linen pervaded the room. An elegant tweed walking costume on a hanger depended from the picture rail. The maid had been busy treadling a sewing machine when he was shown in, and rattled along to the end of a long seam in some grey, silky material, then took her time to snip off the thread with scissors and fasten it off before looking up. “What is it?” she asked coolly, raising her eyebrows.
Meredith gave his name and sat himself on a chair inside the door. He hadn't been invited to take a seat but he was not going to stand in front of this young madam. She had a pursy little mouth and it hadn't taken him a minute to see that he couldn't expect much from her, certainly nothing in the way of tittle-tattle or gossip which might turn out to be useful. However, his first question, as to how long she had been with Lady Chetwynd and whether she was happy in her position as lady's maid, elicited a sharp response.
“Happy? Of course I am. Nobody could wish for a better mistress.” Lily was quick and alert, slim and personable, dressed in a tailored serge skirt and a modestly patterned blouse tucked into a neat waist, but she had knowing eyes and had cultivated a painfully genteel accent that grated on him. “When she heard that my previous lady had dismissed me â without a character, I might say, and only because she found I was walking out with my young man and hadn't seen fit to tell her about him â Lady
Chetwynd took me on and I've been with her ever since â that's five years.” Unlike most of the other servants, he recalled, nearly all of whom had been with the family all their working lives. Which was, of course, part of the trouble. So far they could not be induced, through loyalty â or maybe fear of losing their positions â to say anything remotely damaging to their employers. “She's that kind and considerate,” went on Lily Chater, in her affected voice, “I'd do anything for her Ladyship â¦I won't have a word said against her, nor would I leave her for all the tea in China.”
Chetwynd took me on and I've been with her ever since â that's five years.” Unlike most of the other servants, he recalled, nearly all of whom had been with the family all their working lives. Which was, of course, part of the trouble. So far they could not be induced, through loyalty â or maybe fear of losing their positions â to say anything remotely damaging to their employers. “She's that kind and considerate,” went on Lily Chater, in her affected voice, “I'd do anything for her Ladyship â¦I won't have a word said against her, nor would I leave her for all the tea in China.”
“Not even for your young man?”
“Oh, him,” Lily said, tossing her head. “He's long gone. Wanted me to marry him straight away and give up being in service, but he wasn't worth losing the opportunity of being with her Ladyship.”
When it came to the day in question, Lily said in a rather bored voice that she didn't remember much about it, and implied, picking a stray thread off her dark blue skirt, and beginning to thread a needle, that it was unreasonable to expect her to remember details after two months. “Oh come,” said Meredith, “a bright young woman like you must have a better memory than that.”
Oh. Well, not really, but she did remember that her mistress hadn't been so well that day. She sometimes had trouble with her chest, and her breathing had been quite bad. She'd retired to her room after lunch and stayed there until she called Lily to redo her hair and help her dress before going down for tea. “Wet weather frizzes one's hair up no end, you know,” added Lily, who evidently remembered the essentials, if little else, patting her own. “The dampness gets everywhere when it's as wet as it was those last few weeks.”
“I see.” Meredith absorbed this hitherto unsuspected piece of information on the feminine toilette while thinking of what the young woman had just said. Her mistress could evidently do no wrong in Lily Chater's eyes.
I'd do anything for her.
Did that include lying for her mistress? Meredith decided the question was, for the moment at any rate, irrelevant, since he couldn't see what Lady Chetwynd could have to conceal. He could hardly envisage her white, be-ringed hands round anyone's throat, throttling the life out of them.
I'd do anything for her.
Did that include lying for her mistress? Meredith decided the question was, for the moment at any rate, irrelevant, since he couldn't see what Lady Chetwynd could have to conceal. He could hardly envisage her white, be-ringed hands round anyone's throat, throttling the life out of them.
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“Sorry to keep you waiting,” apologised Blythe. “We can use Mrs Fosset's room, where we can be undisturbed. No doubt she will send us some refreshment presently.”
The housekeeper's room was a cosy, old-fashioned sanctuary, with a bright fire blazing, dark green and red crotcheted woollen antimaccassars smoothed over the back of each of the horsehair chairs drawn up to the hearth, a small polished table already laid with cups and saucers and a lace-trimmed cloth. The walls were covered with a fruit-patterned wallpaper from the last century, in colours predominantly plum, grey and brown; framed photographs of the family stood on every available surface, and on the sideboard, a pair of glass domes covered arrangements of wax fruit and flowers. It was a comfortable Victorian haven in which Blythe was evidently accustomed to making himself at home.
Coffee was brought in by a maid who remained to pour it before departing with a bob. Despite his affability, Meredith saw from the first that old Blythe would be a hard nut to crack. He was very old indeed, but spry and by no means slow-witted. He had ruled below-stairs for more years than Meredith had been alive, and loyalty to the family above stairs was the paramount thing in his life. Service with the Chetwynds must have something to recommend it, the inspector mused, to be able to inspire devotion in two such different personalities as Lily Chater and Joseph Blythe.
“What's all this about, Inspector? I thought it was all over. I've been here fifty-eight years, man and boy, and we have never had such a thing happen before at Belmonde.”
It seemed to Meredith that the old butler was affronted at the indignity of what had occurred rather than the tragedy. “Oh dear me, no, Mr Blythe. We police are like the British bulldog, you know. Never let go,” he said portentously, swallowing the last mouthful of an excellent slice of Madeira cake, “But now and then we do miss the odd little thing that might just turn out to be important. So let's go over your original statement again, if you don't mind. Let's see, what time did you say Mr Sebastian got here?”
“Three-thirty. In the middle of a thunderstorm.”
“Three-thirty. So he said, too. Precisely?”
“Perhaps a few minutes before.”
“I believe in your original statement you said no one else had called at the house that day. That would be at the front door, of course?” Blythe inclined his head. “Good. Before I go, I'll confirm with those in the kitchen that no one came to the back, either.”
“That won't be necessary. I can speak for the rest of the staff,” Blythe said stiffly. “I questioned them myself, and there was no one except for the usual delivery people and so on â all of them known to us.”
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