“I’m a bit embarrassed to admit it, Henry but I don’t think we’ve seen the end of the trouble at St Chad’s not by a long chalk.”
“Embarrassed is a strange word to use.”
“Maybe not the best word to use then but it’s a bit like waiting to go over the top. We have the feeling that somethings about to happen. We’re all supposed to be well versed in dabbling in the souls of our fellow man. Yet, we’re helpless here. We’re as good as admitting that someone’s going to get hurt and that someone else in the house is disturbed or vengeful yet we cannot pinpoint either of them.
A strong shiver rose in the centre of Henry’s body. Not a visible tremor just a surge of unpleasant sensation. He thought again of his inability to talk to Edith, just when he really needed to do so.
Chapter Eight
Yorkshire
You could tell he had been a good looking man. He gave the impression of being stuck in that stage of his life too, where he still believed that about himself. It was in the cockiness that even the worry about what might have happened to his son, could not quell. Behind the cocksure swagger belonging to a younger man, there was worry. Josh Braithwaite fidgeted, his leg swaying showing off an inch of white leg between the turn up of his trousers and the brown sock.
Hannah sat as far away from her husband as she could get without being out of hearing range. The meeting was in the lounge bar of The Dun Cow, a few miles from Ellbeck. Josh hadn’t wanted to come back to the village itself, people there he could do without seeing. I bet, thought Brown. He was surprised that the inspector had allowed Braithwaite dictate the terms like that but Greene did that—surprise you from time to time.
Cathy Braithwaite got upset when she heard her father was coming back, though nothing like as upset as she’d become when she realised that John wasn’t with their father, hadn’t been with him at all since Tuesday evening when he hadn’t returned from school.
“You’ve been in touch with your son on a regular basis?”
Braithwaite took a long drag of his woodbine and coughed. “I wrote to him, yes.”
“It seems out of the blue. How long since you left the village, now, Josh? Six years, more or less? But, we can only find letters going back about a year. Is that fair to say? A year or so?”
“Summat like that, yes. What’s your problem, Inspector? He was a kid when I left. He was growing up, got to the age of needing a father’s guidance, hadn’t he?”
“I’m sorry, Inspector. I can’t sit here listening to this.”
There was a shake in Hannah Braithwaite’s voice. You could hear it and the fury behind it. If she’d once been a timid woman who was frightened of her husband, that had changed.
“You talk of a father’s guidance. With the sort of example you set…he were far better off without that.” She got up, walked across towards Josh Braithwaite.
Brown started and thought she was actually going to attack him.
What a stupid thought. She wasn’t that kind of woman and she was half the size of Braithwaite.
“Aw, sit back down Hannah, what’s wrong with you, woman? Put it aside can’t you? Your beef with me, because I didn’t want to come back and stay stuck in the arse end of nowhere with you. Get over it, Hannah. It were never going to work between you and me. What we need to be thinking about now is the lad.”
How had he done it? Put her in the wrong. Made himself out to be the more responsible one.
They were drinking tea, even Josh Braithwaite who had given it a quick look and shook his head when the girl had first brought it in.
Now, just as Brown wondered how long his boss was going to allow this, Greene put his cup back on the saucer a bit more loudly than necessary and spoke.
“This is neither the time nor the place to be discussing your marriage. We need to concentrate on finding out what happened to John,”
“Oh, Inspector, you’re right. I’m sorry. Did you meet him, Josh, here in Ellbeck—a few weeks ago?”
“What would I be doing back here a few weeks ago? Don’t talk daft, Hannah.” The man had spoken too quickly. Either he was lying or the girl had got it wrong.
Now, Cathy spoke, in a high voice, as though summoning her courage.
“I saw you…Dad.” Brown saw her swallow, knowing she hated using the name but was trying to appeal to some remnant of fatherly feeling. Strange, how all Josh Brathwaite’s attention had been focused on just one of his children. Or maybe not. It would be all about the son, with a man like Braithwaite. The look he turned on Cathy and the tone of his voice told Brown that it wasn’t just that.
“Oh, trust you, our Cathy. Always in yer mam’s corner, ain’t you?
Another ‘butter wouldn’t melt’ woman.”
Greene was shifting in his upright chair. Patience wasn’t his strong suit.
“So, you’re denying that you were back in Ellbeck?”
“Oh, for the love of Mike. All right…” Josh Braithwaite threw out his arms as though trying to escape the confines of the snug.
“All right. I saw him. I had a call to make in Leeds. I knew I’d be as welcome back the village as a sick headache.”
He looked directly at Hannah. “I mentioned it to John and we arranged to meet at Thorny Wood crossroads, where we must have been spotted. I always said you couldn’t sneeze in this place without it being in Chronicle the next Thursday that you had the bloody Spanish flu.”
“Right, so you lied to us,” Greene took control. “Even in the extreme circumstances of your son going missing, you still choose to cloud things by wasting my time with pointless lies. So, I suggest you start talking, Braithwaite. Now. It’s a big coincidence that you met with John after all this time, just a few weeks before he disappears. I don’t believe it’s a coincidence.”
“Well, he isn’t with me and I haven’t laid eyes upon him since that Sunday. It must be a coincidence, mustn’t it?” Brown looked from the inspector to Josh Braithwaite. Though he still sounded belligerent, Brown just knew he was going through the motions.
Josh Braithwaite was worried.
Edith had mainly arranged to meet Julia for the selfish purpose of distraction. Hannah was meeting with her husband and the two policemen in the Dun Cow. It had been shocking, the realisation that John was not with his father. How much they had all clung on to that hope was now clear. He was involved in John’s disappearance, though. As sure as Edith could be of anything, she was sure of that. He lurked in the background with that unsavoury whiff he’d had back in the nightmare that had followed Mrs Butler’s death. Where he featured remained a mystery, however.
Edith wanted to put the time down until Hannah returned home with, please God, some bit of information that might lead to finding John.
Edith parked her Morris Minor in the car park by Harrogate Station and walked through the town to Betty’s tea-shop. She had wanted to get away from Ellbeck and Julia suggested Harrogate and a look at some of the fashion in what some locals referred to as
“the London of the North.” Edith smiled at that. Yorkshire, the biggest county in England was a place of contrast. The landscape varied from mysterious moorland to verdant dale and traditional seaside towns like Whitby. The people varied too, from the solid to the snobbish. London of the North indeed. Frivolous train of thought. It wasn’t only John who was worrying away at her peace of mind. The day was, thankfully cooler than it had been of late but sweat prickled at her top lip and Edith was glad of the cool linen of her blue dress and short jacket.
Julia had bagged a table, within sight of the now silent piano. A black and white clad waitress hovered, eager to look busy, perhaps in case the manager made an appearance.
Julia wore a green and pink floral dress and looked well and happy and just for a second. Giles Etherington, Julia’s first husband flashed in Edith’s mind’s eye.
They talked about Peter and the children and of course, the disappearance of John Braithwaite.
“When does Archie get back from this retreat?�
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Edith swallowed and wished she’d given the vanilla slice a miss.
She sipped the refreshing sugarless tea, which cooled the blood better than a glass of water.
“It’s another week but I can’t wait, Julia. I know my brain goes off on its own daft spin from time to time but I’m very worried about him.”
Julia smiled. “It’s a retreat he’s on, Edie. Not a trip up the Orinoco in a leaky boat. Whatever are you worried about?”
“I know it sounds stupid. But, it’s not all my imagination going mad, here, Julia. He’s been trying to ring me for days. Of course I‘ve been out, at Hannah’s. He finally got through to me yesterday. I don’t know if you remember me saying where he went but it’s a house called St Chad’s, not far from Lichfield. I think there’s about eight of them and from the start there’s been an atmosphere in the house. A sense of unease. He writes to me all the time. He mentioned it and as you know, with Henry…”
“He’s not one for airy-fairy feelings and picking up on atmosphere?”
“No, he isn’t it and I suppose that’s what I mean, Jules. I might be completely over-reacting and allowing myself to get carried away but I keep having thoughts even dreams where he’s in some sort of danger.”
Julia frowned. “Stop it, Edith.” She gave a nervous laugh.
“Actually, this is not like you. It really isn’t. You’re a worrier and you’ve had that breakdown. But this is different. You don’t go in for atmospheres and auras and all of that nonsense.
All that tomfoolery that went on after the war. Charlatans, exploiting people’s grief.”
“I know. I wish I could shake it off.”
“Forget all that, Edith. Forget any doubts or berating yourself for being stupid. You’ll be basing all off this on things he said, or wrote. My advice is to go there.”
“Are you serious? He’ll think I’m mad. I think I’m mad.”
“I am serious. I’ll go with you, if you like.”
Edith hesitated. After her first shock at Julia’s words she’d felt a rush of something like excitement. But, then she lost courage and hesitated and as she was doing so, she hoped she wouldn’t regret it.
“I’ll think about it, Jules. Maybe give it a day or two…see what his next letter is like…” Julia raised her eyebrows.
It was a long time since Greene had given way to such sheer ill-humour. Brown knew his man well enough to stay very quiet as he manoeuvred the narrow lanes back to Ellbeck.
“Well, that went well, didn’t it, Sergeant?” Hopefully, that wasn’t directed only at him.
“Mmm, twisted us good and proper and ran rings around us, didn’t he?”
Presumably, the question, as well as the sarcasm was all rhetorical. “There’s a definite connection, Inspector and he knows at least something about John’s disappearance.”
“Good thinking, Sherlock. No, you’re right. He was in Ellbeck after a gap of years, running a fair risk, to make contact with a son he hasn’t shown an awful lot of interest in. Well, apart from a handful of letters. Trouble-making principally. Trying to turn the boy against his mother and sister, no doubt. Playing on a young lad’s need for a father. I suppose. Not having sons myself, maybe I’m guessing a bit.”
“Yes. I’d go along with that.” Brown closed his eyes and took in a big breath. What’s the worst that could happen here?
“I’m thinking, sir that John went off because he thought he was going with his father.” He hurried on, recognising how daft this might sound.
“Maybe not with his father but to his father. So, either Braithwaite led him to believe that he would be sending for him or the lad got it into his head, somehow.” There was a silence.
Brown licked his lips.
“So, there was something said which led John to believe that he was going to his father. That his father had sent for him?”
“I think it’s an explanation, Sir. It never seemed likely that he’d been snatched.”
“You might be right. He’s a shifty sod, Josh Braithwaite. He knew more that he was giving away back there in that pub. He’s laughing at us and I don’t like that. We’ll be returning, when his wife and daughter aren’t there, see what he has to say about your theory, Sergeant.”
Brown held back from adding his other thought. Joshua Braithwaite was worried too. Whatever he knew or half-knew about his son’s disappearance, he was worried and that was not a good sign.
Staffordshire
Henry had a terrifying dream that woke him in the middle of the night, the remnants of the nightmare clinging to him like the tentacles of some unknown creature. He could remember no details of the dream for which he was grateful. He just recalled the terror of an unexpected person turning into an evil threat.
It was a classic dream of an anxious mind and he didn’t intend wasting any time dwelling on it.
Canon Ephraim Richardson was on his mind because as he shook off the remnants of the nightmare the thought struck him. What if he had got it completely wrong about the canon? He had viewed him as an attention-seeking nuisance but maybe that was to muddy the waters. Maybe there was something actually wrong with the man.
Henry had felt uneasy ever since he had spoken to the farmer.
Whatever reason Richardson had to draw attention to himself at St Chad’s it was a different matter to go wandering off into the countryside telling all and sundry that he was threatened. Could there be something the matter with the man’s brain? Any knowledge Henry had of serious medical conditions, could be written on the back of a small envelope.
He was never going to be able to sleep and the idea of going down to the kitchen gripped him and he couldn’t get rid of the thought. He had a strong longing to be in his own house. If he woke up there, he’d have the option to go downstairs or wherever he wanted. Different altogether in an institutional setting like this.
Without thinking much more about it, Henry took his plaid, woollen dressing-gown from the hook on the back of the door and put his slippers on.
Creeping into the silent kitchen felt like one of the most illicit things Henry had ever done. How ridiculous.
He pushed the Bakelite button and was glad to see that the light wasn’t bright and stark. Couldn’t be great to cook by but the mellow glow was enough to guide him to the stove. He pushed the great kettle onto the hob where it soon began to whistle. Another noise caught his attention and he stood for a few seconds and eventually smiled. The well-fed black cat was stretched full length on a covered settle on the other side of the range.
Typical cat—finding the position of optimal comfort. He found a small tea-pot and a canister of tea. A cupboard was full of serviceable mugs, probably intended for Armstrong and any other outdoor staff and tradesmen. Suited Henry’s purposes.
His mind had eased so much since Edith’s letter had reached him and he had managed to speak to her on the telephone. She had been on edge, though, even above and beyond her worry for John Braithwaite and Hannah and Cathy.
“How many more days, Henry?”
“Five. I’m on a countdown, myself. I half expected us all to be sent home after the attack on Stephen Bird but the message seems to be to carry on as normal. It’s strange. The police seem to have pulled away completely and even Stephen Bird has returned to complete the retreat and attend the conference. It’s almost as if…”
“As if what, Henry?” Edith’s voice was tight with tension.
“Oh, almost as if they have just put it down to a random attack and don’t want to let the attacker to feel he was able to cause the whole place to grind to a halt. St Chad’s, I mean.”
That was what he’d been going to say, what he’d thought. What he really thought was that they were waiting to see what would happen next. He hadn’t wanted to say that to Edith, though. She was worried enough.
As he slowly drank his tea, his thoughts steadied, his mind drifting over instant impressions of his fellow residents of St Chad’s. He remembered reading an article in one
of Edith’s psychology journals. She’d passed it to him, over a leisurely breakfast one Saturday morning.
“I’d be interested in what you make of this,” she said.
“It’s a sort of word association thing. So you think of a situation or a person and you take note of the first word that pops into your mind. Don’t allow yourself to start questioning or filtering out. Anyway, I’ll let you read it.”
So, here and now, Henry allowed his mind to drift to each of the people in the house.
Brother Malcolm— – well-meaning, weak. Canon Richardson— –
nuisance, senile. Ivy Miller— – innocent, gullible. Fiona Elliott
— – dangerous, aggressive. David Fallon— – arrogant, vain.
Stephen Bird— – nervous, touchy. Larry Harrison— –
straightforward, level-headed. Roland Weston— – intense, self-absorbed. The pair from Derbyshire? He shook his head, annoyed with himself. He honestly could barely distinguish between them.
How unobservant was that?
The door opened and Henry’s heart skipped. It was as though he had missed a step. For a few minutes there, caught up in his amateur psychology, he had forgotten where he was—and that he
could be seen to be sneaking around in the middle of the night, perhaps where he had no right to be.
Stephen Bird. Not such a surprise. The man suffered badly from insomnia and after the attack on him, it was hardly surprising that he should have a disturbed night.
“Bird?” Henry got up, trying to startle the other man as little as possible.
A noise came from Bird, nonetheless, an alarmed sound.
“I’m sorry. I expect, like me you couldn’t sleep. So much worse when you’re not in your own bed isn’t it? I’ve made tea and it should still be drinkable.”
Henry felt as though he was calming a highly strung foal.
“All right. Thank you. I’d be tempted to have something stronger but maybe not advisable after a knock to the head.”
Henry didn’t reply, just getting another mug from the cupboard and pouring the tea.
[Edith Horton 05] - Murder in Retreat Page 11
