[Edith Horton 05] - Murder in Retreat

by Noreen Wainwright

  Someone had put the wireless on and a Strauss waltz was playing.

  Henry wasn’t sure that music was allowed but Brother Malcolm hadn’t objected. It was a strange idea, this whole thing about going on retreat. Tough but good for you, or so they said. It was the company of his fellow priests that Henry was finding most challenging. There was one exception. Larry Harrison, who came from a South London parish, was easy-going and affable; qualities very welcome in the atmosphere of St Chad’s, which was becoming strained.

  It was like a party where the high point had passed but no-one made the first move to go. People were getting on each other’s nerves and that was hard to understand because most of the time, they weren’t even speaking to each other. It was intolerant in

  the extreme to be irritated by the way another human being sighed and shuffled and knelt ostentatiously. Maybe it was just him. He didn’t think so, though. There had been a bad-tempered exchange between Stephen Bird and David Fallon just as the day’s silence ended.

  “We all have our struggles; some are just better at handling them than others.”

  Bird drew in his breath and his face stretched, a muscle moving in his left cheek. He’d had a bad night and his face reflected it; pale with shadows under the eyes.

  “That’s a cruel thing to say.” His voice was tight with just held-back fury.

  “Oh, grow up and stop being an ass.” Henry stopped breathing and it was, for a second or two as if all animation was drained from the room.

  It also looked as if Bird was going to explode and punch Fallon, whose expression looked as if he was expecting it. Unbelievably, he was smirking.

  “This isn’t right, Stephen, David. It isn’t in the spirit of why we’re here.” The words were out of Henry’s mouth almost without his volition. He hated what a prig he sounded.

  Stephen Bird looked at him. His expression was indefinable. Was he sneering or was his mouth still twisted in fury at Fallon’s comments.

  At that moment there was a noise at the door and they all turned in that direction. The relief at the distraction was like an exhalation from the whole room.

  Fiona Elliott wheeled in a trolley laden with a heavy silver coffee pot, cups, saucers and a plate of biscuits. There was no self-denial aspect to this retreat. To be fair, that wasn’t quite accurate. The meals in the day time were frugal, mainly consisting of bread and broth. At six o’ clock everything relaxed.

  She poured the coffee though everyone was meant to help themselves from the trolley. What actually happened was that people passed the cups around and there was an air of conviviality, even some joshing for that few minutes. Not tonight, though. Fiona Elliott’s face was closed. A good-looking woman but there was something about her that made Henry uneasy.

  He tried to identify what it was but couldn’t explain it. Maybe there was nothing at all and time spent at St Chad’s was making his mind play tricks on him.

  Fiona Elliott had been polite, so far as he had anything to do with him. She was intense; not a woman to share a laugh with and if Fallon had become entangled with her, he would be overstepping the mark. Not only would any relationship in this setting be highly inappropriate and condemned by the church authorities but she didn’t strike Henry as a woman to dally with. It was all implausible, though. They had been here five days. How likely was it that two people would form a serious relationship in that sort of time? It was far more likely that they had known each other before the retreat.

  “A turn around the grounds before evensong?” It was Larry Harrison.

  Being in his company restored normality to Henry. “What in heaven’s name was that all about, between Stephen Bird and David Fallon?” he asked.

  “They don’t like each other, clearly.” Henry answered.

  “But Fallon was going out of his way to be objectionable tonight.

  I thought Bird was going to react badly; that we were going to be pulling them apart.”

  Henry was half-joking but Larry didn’t laugh.

  “He was prodding the man for a reaction. Clearly, poor Bird is near the edge, at least, some of the time, so it is quite a nasty thing to do…unless…””

  “Unless, what?” Henry said.

  “It seemed staged. I’m not sure why I’m saying it. It’s just that the antagonism between the two men is extreme if they only met a few days ago.”

  “Are you saying they knew each other before, too?”

  He hesitated. Was the environment, the cloistered away feeling making them see things that weren’t there? Distorting their perceptions. Was it possible that being in a small contained group of people could do that to you? Make you see conspiracies everywhere? Make you paranoid?

  “How do you mean, too, Henry?”

  In for a penny. “I thought there was some sort of an intimacy between Fiona Elliott and Fallon, I might be reading too much into it. It’s just that they were walking together, earlier.

  There was a bench and I’d decided to have a sit down. They came up before I could let them know I was there and I got the impression that there was tension between them.”

  “Well, Fallon is married for a start.”

  Henry supposed that wasn’t surprising. He was a ridiculously good-looking man in his forties and rumour had it that women flocked around a single clergyman…that wasn’t something he’d experienced. But, maybe Yorkshire was different. Somehow, you couldn’t imagine a sensible Yorkshire woman harbouring romantic notions of the local vicar.

  He’d go inside now and go upstairs to his austere bedroom, try to pray and begin another letter to Edith. He was beginning to wish for the end of the retreat. It had started well but something had gone sour. It would be better when the place was full for conference and they could listen to some speeches, have their brains and hearts awakened by some challenging talks. Maybe too much silence and introspection led to pent up emotions and too much watchful behaviour.

  Chapter Two

  Yorkshire

  Inspector Albert Greene sat in his kitchen on the outskirts of the village - his cottage, his garden and that feeling growing on him that this was it for him, now. No big changes to come. The local paper, the Chronicle was open in front of him and he was trying to read it, the fetes and children’s sports and the few miscreants up before the bench—names nearly all familiar to him.

  He found local papers irritating but had this feeling that he was somehow bound to keep up with what passed for local news.

  He must get a dog. The thought had been with him a lot lately.

  For months he had languished in the peace following Bet’s departure. She had finally pushed him too far and they both knew there would be no more going back. That had been a strange time when she had reappeared and tried to pretend—and get him to pretend—that they were a normal married couple.

  It did seem a bad dream now, that strange time when his life had been outside of his control and he’d feared he would be stuck with Bet for the rest of his life. She had played one game too far, and he had been summoned to the morgue to identify a body that he’d been convinced was hers. Following the massive relief that it wasn’t her.

  The telephone rang interrupting his inner musings.

  “Boss?”

  It was his sergeant, Bill Brown.

  “It’s my telephone; no one else here. So, it’s me, yes.” Greene cringed a soon as the words were out.

  “There’s a young boy not come home from school, Sir. John Braithwaite.” There was a stirring of memory in Greene’s mind and he knew he’d remember the connection in a minute.

  “There was a telephone call from Miss Horton. Well, she’s Mrs Wilkes now. I suppose. She married the vicar, didn’t she?”

  It was back to him now, all right. The woman who helped her in the house and who had helped in the doctor’s house, too, was Hannah Braithwaite. Married to that good-for-nothing who’d fetched up back in Ellbeck a few years ago after a spell in his Majesty’s accommodation down south somewhere. Pound to a penn
y he’d be at the back of this somehow.

  “They were ringing from Hauxwell’s farm. That’s where she went to use the telephone, you see.”

  “I’ll see you out there in…” He glanced at the grandfather clock in the corner of the room. It was now going towards nine o’ clock and it would be going dark soon. “I’ll see you out there in twenty minutes.”

  In a little under a half an hour, they sat across the farmhouse kitchen facing Hannah Braithwaite. The kitchen was big; the very familiar Yorkshire farm kitchen with a mixture of agriculture and domestic. There were corn bills and seed catalogues in a pile on the table, wellies by the door and a dog laying on the cool of the red quarry tiles. With his newly developed dog antennae, Greene noticed it was the results of a farm collie getting together with something a bit softer, a Labrador possibly. What on earth was he doing mithering about dog breeds?

  Mrs Hauxwell brewed tea in a big, brown teapot. An old man sat in the corner wheezing in between puffs of a short stubby pipe. Mrs Hauxwell had referred briefly to “grandad” when they came in, also dispatching a child of about ten upstairs to, “get to bed or there’ll be no getting you up for school in the morning.”

  Brown had anticipated his instructions and started the procedure for organising a search of the few miles between John Braithwaite’s house and the school bus stop.

  On a kitchen chair, pushed back from the table sat Edith Wilkes, as she was now. Horton or Wilkes, once again she was right here in the thick of things.

  He was being unfair. It was natural that Hannah Braithwaite would ask her for help; she spent hours of her time with the woman.

  Hannah Braithwaite was pale and frowning but there was no panic and no tears.

  “Was there anything unusual, this morning or at all, in the past few days?”

  She blinked.

  “No. I said to Edith that I made a mistake about the evening he was going back to his friend’s house. That’s how normal everything was…you see…John wasn’t even especially in my mind…or I wouldn’t have mistaken something like that. I would have been looking out for him, wouldn’t I? Worried as soon as he was the least bit late?”

  There was probably some sort of logic in that. Or it was possible that she was trying to convince herself that everything was completely normal?

  “Has it ever happened before—staying out without telling you?”

  She shook her head, again maybe too quickly without giving it much thought. The lad was fifteen. Didn’t all young lads of that age take the odd liberty? Try to test the water a bit? Still what did he know about youngsters? It would take a lot of effort to think back to the centuries that had passed since he was fifteen.

  He gave a quick look at Brown. He was in his twenties and might have a better idea of the mind of a lad of that age.

  “Had there been any arguments?” Again she shook her head and scant as his knowledge of children growing into adulthood was, this all seemed a bit too good to be true. Never out late. Never arguing with his mother. All a bit unlikely.

  She’d told them the daughter was staying out for the night with another pupil teacher. Maybe she’d have a more realistic view of her brother.

  “Did he normally walk home with anybody—from the bus stop, I mean?” That would narrow it down. There was a bit of foot-work at this stage. They’d need to talk to people, trace the lad’s movements. Had he even been to school? Had he left early, been taken? He spoke aloud one of the biggest factors in the boy’s disappearance.

  “It’s a very unusual situation, Mrs Braithwaite. His age, you see. A younger child and we might think he was taken, snatched, like.”

  He paused; no need to go too far into all that at the moment.”

  Mrs Braithwaite was looking at him, intently taking in everything he said, probably every nuance. She was still calm…he looked at her and unease hit him, made him lose track for a few seconds of what he was about to say next. Was she calm or was it shock?

  There was something glazed about her eyes. Was this false, this

  self-contained control—and was she going to break down and have hysterics any minute now?

  He glanced at Edith…whatever her surname was. She did always seem in his line of vision when there was a drama in the village and she had her own mental problems in the past but she did have a cool enough head in a crisis. Must come from having a brother a doctor and that VAD experience. They had it tough those women—

  unwelcome to start with and then faced with sights they were in no way prepared for. Maybe she’d be useful here, though. If the Braithwaite woman burst into tears or started screaming or something.

  “You see, Mrs Braithwaite, the most common reason for a boy of John’s age to go missing is that they run away. Thankfully, it is usually fairly easily resolved when the child either has second thoughts or runs out of money…”

  She shook her head.

  “No.” Edith broke in—her first words since they arrived in the farmhouse. “I agree with Hannah. He’s very settled, excited about a scholarship to go to agricultural college next year. And…” She looked at Hannah Braithwaite. “He’s very protective of his mother.” Hannah broke in, more animated than she’d been so far.

  “That’s true, Inspector Greene. Ever since Joshua— - my husband

  …” Her facial muscles moved in a wince.

  “Ever since he came back and went again, well, our John has taken on the job of the man of the house. I tease him about it.”

  There was a second’s loss of control then, when she came near to breaking down. Her mouth trembled.

  “Yes, well,” he cut in. The glimpse of emotion had terrified him for a moment. “The young can act out of character.” Anyone of any age can act out of character.

  “Young lads and lasses too. Things can build up. They can have a secret and instead of sharing it, they bottle it up. Lack the life experience you see. The best thing to do with secrets very often is to share them. A young person can be frightened to do that.”

  He didn’t know what instinct made him think that might be an explanation but when he looked at Hannah Braithwaite he thought he had struck something. Even if the woman didn’t realise it or acknowledge it, the thought John had secrets didn’t come as a complete surprise.

  Staffordshire

  The familiar words of evensong comforted Henry a little.

  He looked around the Chapel. It was small with much dark wood and the mingled smell of beeswax and lilies. Brasses gleamed and a gold-embroidered altar frontal came from the Leek school of embroidery, according to the brother in charge of the retreat, Brother Malcolm. In the row in front on the other aisle, sat Canon Ephraim Richardson. He was by far the oldest of the clergy on the retreat at St Chad’s; a watchful man Henry struggled to figure out.

  He had a real lack of connection with the man, whose behaviour belied his mild appearance. Henry generally got on well with elderly people; for instance, he had an excellent relationship with Edith’s Aunt Alicia but the Canon jarred on him. Then again, maybe that was more about Henry’s own preconception. In his experience, older people, particularly clergymen, were a fount of stories. They spoke about the interesting people they had encountered, their life experience—not this man though. He answered politely when you spoke directly to him but that was as good as it got. You felt that he wasn’t really listening to a word you said.

  Young Roland Weston had crashed in at the last minute just as the presiding clergyman came through the vestry door ready to begin the service. Henry closed his eyes and cringed at the disruption Roland caused. Why on earth didn’t he slip in quietly and sit in the back without drawing attention to himself like this? Slowly, Henry scanned the people present. One was missing—Stephen Bird.

  Henry’s heart jumped in his chest for some strange reason, and he thought back to the last time he’d seen Bird.

  He’d seen him at Matins and he thought, at lunch in the oak-panelled refectory—a pleasantly cool room in the intense July heat.
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  The two women didn’t attend in services during the week. Fiona Elliott was busy with household tasks, no doubt. The other woman, Iris Miller, an austere, spare woman in her fifties, was the secretary. She looked efficient and neat and Henry hadn’t exchanged a word with her yet.

  He closed his eyes, let the words of The Magnificat wash over him. He had started out on this retreat with the best of intentions and his memories of past retreats were positive. Maybe it had been different back then—he had been on his own; solitary.

  Everything that happened in his parish that was remotely related to religion or to life and death, for that matter, came back to him. He had to help families make sense of things that didn’t make any sense to him.

  He’d noticed a change in people since the immediate post-war period. That toughness or stoicism was fading. There was a brittleness, especially amongst young people which was new to him. Clergymen he knew who lived in the bigger cities said they noticed it even more strongly. Even in Ellbeck, there was somehow

  a blitheness in young couples who came to him to arrange marriages and christenings that was difficult to deal with.

  “You’re imagining it,” Edith said when he’d tried to explain.

  She’d laughed, in fact. “I’ve heard Yorkshire people called many things, Henry, stubborn, taciturn, undemonstrative but blithe is a new one on me.”

  He’d given up. It wasn’t easy to explain and far more likely was it that he was comparing them to his own generation. He needed to remember that they were the anomalies, those of his generation, who had returned. They were the outsiders, maybe a grim reminder too, of things people thought it better to forget.

  Everything was changing again, anyway. The stock crash in America, the hunger marches here, in England, last year. Germany.

  Now, the newspapers said the only political party which was legal there, was the Nationalist Socialist party. He’d seen Adolf Hitler in the newsreel in the cinema. How could you take that gesticulating showman seriously? Surely the German people would come to their senses, and see through the posturing. But then, the German people had taken an awful punishing with the crazy exchange rate. Cigarettes being used as money, one dollar worth trillions of marks. The world was a troubled place. The politicians had promised that the Great War was the war to end all wars and you could only hope and pray that they were right.