[Edith Horton 05] - Murder in Retreat

by Noreen Wainwright

  “Yes. Well. You do have a hard job to do, Bill. There are bound to be times when it becomes a burden. No excuse for bouts of temper though. I’m not putting up with that. Do you understand?”

  Bill nodded, hung his head like he was the same age as the missing boy or even younger. He picked up his fork but a lump had settled itself in his throat and he had to push the potato and carrot past it, his mother’s eyes on him, all the while.

  “Tell me to shut up, Hannah, if you think I’m overstepping the mark here.” Edith sighed, taking in air. Her heart beat had taken off, racing on, fluttering in an unpleasant way at the base of her throat.

  “What is it? Don’t be daft…sorry, Edith. I didn’t mean to say that. What is it you were thinking?”

  “I was thinking that John might have gone off with his father.”

  There she’d said it. “Would he have gone with him, do you think?

  Do you think maybe Josh has been in touch with him?” The girl’s voice cut through the tension in Hannah’s kitchen. Edith hadn’t heard Cathy come down the stairs.

  “If you ask me, Miss Horton, that’s the only likely explanation.”

  “Cathy.” The word came out like an admonishment or a warning and Hannah Braithwaite got to her feet and put both hands to her hair, tidying and patting it.

  “Well, Mam. It is, isn’t it? He’s come back. I always knew he’d do that one day. Come back and disturb our lives again, like he did before. Disturb!” The laugh she gave was sharp, angry.

  “That’s a joke. Rip our lives apart is what I mean.”

  Hannah’s voice wasn’t steady. “You sound very sure of your ground, our Cathy. What makes you think that your dad is back in Ellbeck—that he had anything to do with John’s going like that.”

  Edith bit her lip. Felt that she was in the way—another part of her needed to be here. It was looking bad. Half a day had gone by, now, a night. No news apart from the schoolbag found abandoned carelessly in a ditch. Not unusual for the lads, according to Inspector Greene. Still, though…

  “I think I saw them together.”

  “You what?” Hannah’s voice had risen, almost a note of hysteria in it.

  “I’m not sure. Walking they were, in Deep Wood Lane. Weekend before last; the Saturday. I was on the bus going to Skipton. It was definitely, John. He was wearing that bright coloured thing you knitted him; that mustard-coloured looking jumper. It was cold, not like now.”

  Already in the day, it was sultry, hot. Edith’s short-sleeved blouse clung to her back. All the farmers Archie saw in his surgery, were moaning they needed rain. Yorkshire needed rain, some respite from this pressing heat sapping the energy from everyone and raised the pressure people felt from whatever other troubles they might be having.

  Hannah crossed the kitchen to stand close to her daughter.

  “Cathy, why in God’s name didn’t you tell me this? You knew that your father was back, that John was seeing him. Why wouldn’t you tell me? I can’t understand it.” Cathy shrugged her shoulders, her face tight with misery belying the nonchalance she was pretending. “Look, I wasn’t sure, Mam. It was just a man, I thought there was something about the way he walked that reminded me of someone—my dad. I asked John. He swore it wasn’t. So, I believed him. Now it’s my fault John has gone missing?”

  She moved away from her mother, towards the door. “I’m going out.

  I can’t stand this. I think I must be going mad, Edith.”

  “You’re not, Hannah. I think I understand why she didn’t say anything. I don’t honestly think she was deliberately trying to keep it from you…”

  “Don’t you? It looks like it to me. I’m sorry, Miss Horton. I’m crossing the line. I shouldn’t be talking to you like this.

  You’ve been very good—too good. I’m your housekeeper. I’ve no right to expect you to drop everything and spend all your time here with me…”

  Edith felt as though the other woman had slapped her in the face.

  She must be overstaying her welcome. Her face grew hot and she got up from her chair by the table. Maybe she was the one who had crossed the line—playing at being the lady bountiful friend to her employee—a woman who she paid to do the drudgery in her house.

  “I’ll let you get on, Hannah. It’s time I did go home, for a while.” A choking feeling in her throat almost stopped her from speaking.

  There was a sound from the other woman—almost between a sob and a wail. “I’m sorry, Edith I’m so sorry—you’ve been the best friend anyone could ask for. It’s just that I don’t know anything anymore. I can’t trust anything - hardly even the floor there under my feet. A day ago, everything was all right. I thought.

  Safe in my little world I’ve carved out here, for myself. My job.

  The home that was left to me by my uncle, my own bit of independence. My son and my daughter…both of them doing well. I was ever so proud of them. My Cathy, a teacher. John never giving me an ounce of trouble…”

  Edith went back to the table. “I’ll put the kettle on,” she said.

  It would be something to do.

  “You’ve had a terrible shock. This waiting is a nightmare. When…”

  She cut herself off, quickly. She’d actually been going to mention the time she’d been waiting to hear about Alistair. How stupid was she? That was just what Hannah needed to hear, wasn’t it? A story of a time of waiting that had ended the worst possible way.

  “All young people have secrets, Hannah. They won’t have been deceiving you. It’s only that it looks that way. They will have been trying to protect you. I don’t know what way John would be thinking, shocked maybe to see his father back in the area.

  Curious, though. But, he’d be wary of saying anything in case of upsetting you. Cathy wasn’t sure what she saw, probably hoped she was mistaken and then John denying it…why would she tell you something she might have imagined in the first place, open up all that again…”

  It would be opening it all up again, she thought, letting herself back into the vicarage. She opened the front door, taking in the fresh wallpaper that she’d chosen and Henry had hung. That was one of the happy discoveries of their marriage. He was good at things like that, practical things. Relished them, in fact. So much had happened in Edith’s own life since Josh Braithwaite had come back before, when Cathy had been left for dead on the cottage floor, as a result, when Edith’s own life had slipped outside of her control.

  She’d get Max from Archie’s. She’d been out too long, asked her brother to pick the dog up. It wasn’t fair to leave the dog on its own for long periods of time. She missed him now, though.

  Amazing what another presence in the house meant.

  As she walked down her path to the front gate of the vicarage, she thought she heard the telephone ringing. Let it ring. It would be a parishioner. They could ring back. She needed to pick the dog up and get back here and eat something. She couldn’t go on surviving on tea and plain biscuits Staffordshire

  Henry put the telephone receiver back on—too hard. Slammed it really. It was stupid and unfair but he was annoyed with Edith.

  He’d never needed to talk to her more urgently than he did at this moment. Was she ever in? Actually, where could she be all the time? Was Archie using her as his practice manager or dogsbody?

  He walked out of St Chad’s. He’d seen a river, on his arrival here, about a mile from the retreat house. It had caught his eye, drawn as he always was to water. He hadn’t thought he’d be getting close to it, though; hadn’t thought he’d have the time to leave the retreat. Maybe he shouldn’t. If he had the right kind of faith he’d find whatever solace he needed here in the house and grounds and in the company of his fellow priests.

  There was a fat chance of that. Everyone in the house skirted round each other, avoided being in each other’s company whenever possible. There was only Larry he could talk to and he’d bored that poor man enough, going over what had happened, what could

  have happened to
David Fallon. They had seen no more of the policemen today and the word from the hospital, according to Brother Malcolm was that Stephen Bird continued to improve—may be discharged in a couple of days.

  Brother Malcolm had told him this, speaking like a man who was out of his depth. The unspoken questions hovered between them.

  “Surely, there’s someone,” Henry thought he sounded too blunt.

  But, Brother Malcolm was dithering, uncertain whether he had the patience or the skill to look after a man who was convalescing from an attack, a head injury. Surely, he had a boss somewhere, an abbot, a bishop who would tell him what he should do. He had an inspiration.

  “The church has its own nursing and convalescence homes. In fact…

  I have a feeling there is one situated here in Staffordshire, not a million miles away from here, in Oulton.” All this was coming back to Henry. He’d heard or read about the place somewhere.

  “That would be a relief, Wilkes. I don’t mind saying I’m out of my depth. I’m not a medical man. In fact, I’m ashamed to say that I’m squeamish in the presence of illness.”

  “Maybe we shouldn’t get carried away. The police will have a say about where Stephen Bird goes when he is discharged. They will question him, if they haven’t done so, already.

  Walking was good for the soul. Maybe it was as good as praying.

  It was the rhythm. It was less sticky and hot too, though they were still waiting for rain. The road leading from St Chad’s was a country road, a lane really, dusty from the hot spell of weather. Cow parsley and meadow flowers broke up the tired green browns of the grass on the road edges and the fields. Henry saw a man, stonewall mending, back bent, tweed waistcoat and cap well on the side of his head.

  He straightened as he heard or sensed Henry’s approach. “’ow do?”

  He pushed the cap back and scratched at his head. “You heading to the village?”

  Henry was only vaguely aware of the village he’d passed through on the way to St Chads in the taxi from Lichfield. Staffordshire had unexpected beauty, moors, scrubland, and closed little stone villages.

  “Yes, I’m staying at the Retreat House, St Chad’s.

  Can get a bit much, you know? Being in close company with your fellow clergy, even if it’s only for a short time.”

  “I’m Methodist myself, me and ‘missus. Always felt church was a bit…I don’t know…posh, a bit fancy for the likes of us.”

  He bent down, struggled with a coping stone—maybe emphasising that he was a simple man of the soil. Stop it. Henry gave his head a little shake. It wasn’t the first time he’d heard a variation on this theme about the church he represented.

  “You’ve ‘ad some trouble up there?”

  The frisson in the back of Henry’s neck made him shiver. What?

  What happened to Stephen Bird was bound to be common knowledge in a small place like this. They would be fascinated by the big house on the hill. Either that or they’d be clueless about its existence at all. It was like that with St Bride’s at home. A large asylum with its own farm, laundry and gardens, and so many people in Ellbeck, didn’t know it was there.

  “I had the old clergyman down here, a few days ago. A Canon Richardson. He knocked on the door, beyond there in the farm and in he came.”

  “What?” Henry didn’t know if he was on his head or his heels.

  What on earth was the old canon playing at? It was one thing dragging Henry into his paranoid world but knocking on the door of strangers…

  “He said he was lost. He’d gone for a walk and cut across the fields. Mind you, it’s easy enough done. We have walkers turning up like that on a regular basis. You should see the way some of them are dressed, too…more fit for walking around the streets of a city than out here in the country.”

  It was a dilemma—give into his raging curiosity or rise above it.

  No contest really.

  “He said something similar to me.” One thing Henry had learned was that when you gave out a bit of information you were more likely to get something back.

  “He made out that he was lost but was ready to accept a cup of tea and a piece of my wife’s tea-bread. As I say, he was slow to go. Not saying a lot to start with…just sort of sat there clearing his throat every so often. It made us feel a bit awkward to tell you the truth…th’missus and myself. We were giving each other the odd look over our mugs. Then, he came out with it.

  “I don’t want to go back to St Chad’s,” he said. “I’m in mortal danger of my life. Them were ‘is exact words…in mortal danger.

  Put a shiver right through me when he said that. But, I was wondering too. There’s one of them big loony bins, the other side of the county. Near Leek. St Edwards. You hear about people escaping now and then…poor buggers.” He shook his head and lifted his cap to scratch the sparse, almost white hair.

  “Then he said he were a clergyman, on retreat at St Chad’s and that he’d been threatened. It sounded more odd and less odd at

  same time, if that makes any kind of sense. In the end, we offered to telephone the police station in Lichfield and told him that he could stay here, in the house with us until they came.”

  “And he agreed to that?” Henry’s legs ached but he hesitated to slump against the wall the farmer had worked so hard to repair.

  “He agreed to it, yes. But, then as the time went on he got more and more restless, agitated you’d even say. And then he said he were off and that was it, there was nothing me or my wife could say to make him stay.

  “You’d already phoned for the police though? Did someone come?”

  “Aye. Talk about feeling a fool. A fella came out to see us and I could tell he thought we was making a song and dance over nowt.

  He was impatient, made a few notes in his notebook but only because he felt he had to, I reckon.”

  Henry hardly noticed a thing about his walk back to St Chad’s.

  Was Canon Richardson seriously disturbed in his mind, or, alternatively, trying to stoke up some attention? That didn’t make sense.

  His thoughts, Henry’s wildly flaying mind very gradually slowed down as he became aware of the contact of his feet against the rough surface of the country lane and smells of cut hay and woodbine filtered through the fog of his mind. Edith claimed that walking had helped her to recover from her breakdown. He could see why she might be right.

  If Canon Richardson had wanted to stir trouble in the Retreat House, he might have seen Henry as a likely soft touch onto whom he could load his fears, whether real or invented. But, would he really call at a random farm and do the same? It was unlikely in the extreme.

  He’d seek Richardson out when he got back. Confront him, get the truth out of the man. Talk to someone too. He needed to confide in someone because he couldn’t walk off all his unease. He’d talk to Larry. Clearly, he wasn’t going to get to speak to Edith anytime soon.

  Yorkshire

  Freddie Earnshaw went home eventually. There was nowhere else to go. He’d had no plan when he left school this morning. Well, maybe he’d had a half-baked one. There was a place John used to talk about. It was known as Dalton Wood, though it was a bit small to have the title of wood. The dales were better known for farms and soft and lush valleys than for woods, though according

  to the geography teacher, Mr Hancock, there had been mining in this part of the dales, centuries ago.

  John wasn’t in the wood, and no sooner had Freddie got there when he realised what a stupid idea this was from the start. John was a lad, the same age as himself and whatever Freddie might say to his big-headed brother about them being men, neither John nor himself had the bottle to stay away out in the woods for the night. John had done what he said he must do, being all mysterious about it at the same time. It was an adventure, he said. The books they read had become a big thing for both of them, recently, though Freddie hadn’t realised it until today when it jolted him. It was all a million miles away from Swallows and Amazons.

 
“Don’t you get fed-up with it, Freddie. School, the dale, Ellbeck, on and on forever and ever?”

  “What’s up with you, John. You got the scholarship to go to Craven College.”

  “That’s a year off. I want summat to happen sooner than that.”

  Anger built up in Freddie as his friend spoke. John went home every day after school to a mother who cared about him, and a smart sister, and a clean house. He didn’t have Freddie’s life, which at the moment, absolutely stank. The trouble was that he couldn’t say much about home. You got so used to keeping things to yourself, huge things that to even think about saying anything was as likely as jumping off the church tower and flying. It was easier to say nowt and just listen to John witter away in cloud cuckoo land.

  Except it wasn’t easy listening—not really. It got on his nerves and he made an excuse to go home. Now, he wished he’d stayed longer and asked John some questions. If he had him, in front of him now, for instance…..

  His feet slowed as he came near to his cottage, almost as if he didn’t have control over them. Then, he stopped, so suddenly that he felt unsteady for a few seconds. Just like that he remembered something and it seemed important because his feeling that a change had come over John was more than just a feeling and he was sure now that he knew when it had happened.

  As he got to the door with the chipped paint, his heart sounded very loud in his ears. That was one of the worse things. You could be met with anything once you got through this door. A lot of the time it was just as if she wasn’t there. She’d stare at nothing and if she looked at him at all, it was with that same nothingness, as if he had no connection at all with her. It had been like that since his dad left. Maybe that’s why he and John got on, neither had a father who was bothered enough to even stay.

  It wasn’t quite the same, because, while John had a clever sister, all he had was Joe, who seemed to take no notice at all of their mother and spent most of his time at his girlfriend’s house. You couldn’t count on a baby sister. Lucky Joe. Lucky to have a place to escape.

  Sometimes his mother cried. Tears poured down her face and every now and then she’d swipe her sleeve across her face. The first time she’d cried in front of him, Freddie had felt a hot, sick feeling right in his chest. He didn’t know what to say, so he made her a cup of tea and then he got her packet of woodbines and shoved them at her. Now, he tried to take no notice and he’d just go away upstairs to the smelly small bedroom and play with the baby, Joy. Fancy calling her Joy and then have everything in her short little life become the opposite of joy. He tried though to make her smile and laugh. He’d play incy-wincy spider on her arm and the gurgles and giggling from her would bounce around the miserable cottage like a mockery.