“Right, John, your role in this is to save my hide. I don’t fancy swinging for you but, I won’t hesitate to cut your throat, if you decide to give me any trouble.”
All through the drive to the smallholding, Brown tried to talk himself out of the miserable mood he’d sunk into. Guilt added to the self-pity he felt. So, he hadn’t proved himself by solving the case of the missing boy. It wasn’t about Bill Brown. The important thing was that they knew where John Braithwaite was.
Even more important was that they would get him back. Back to his mother and sister. Wonder if he knows that his father was dead.
The man who came to the door was wiry and dressed like a countryman, in checked shirt and moleskin trousers.
Greene and Brown, it was agreed, would approach the house and the other two wait outside. They didn’t have any idea what they were facing.
The man opened the door wide and stood back to let the two of them in. No argument, too easily. They weren’t usually so readily admitted. Brown’s mouth was dry and all his senses were on edge.
This could be a trap. It probably was a trap.
In a few seconds Brown had taken in the situation. A woman sat at the kitchen table, slight like the man, her body wrapped in a navy-blue print apron. Her hands were clasped in front of her on the table. She made to stand up but sat again, her expression one of terror.
The other two people in the room formed a tableau that was unreal. It wasn’t unreal, though.
The man looked fired up, dishevelled, eyes staring straight at them. He stood at the far side of the table, alongside a chair where John Braithwaite sat. Denis Howard was as close as possible to the boy’s chair and on the table, just in front of him, within far too easy reach was a large, vicious knife.
It took seconds to summarise the situation. The old man had been told to open the door to them. In the kitchen, it was clear who was setting the pace.
Brown looked at John, trying to will him to stay calm. John was so pale, face white, slight acne standing out vividly on his cheeks and forehead.
“Here’s the plan.” Denis Howard picked up the knife and held it in such a strange way, close to John but not so close. Almost subtle, though that was a ridiculous thing to think.
Brown was suddenly almost felled by a surge of anger. Anger. It was almost a pure feeling. If it hadn’t been for the threat to John, it would almost be exhilaration, this feeling. The intensity of it.
“You’ve come from home, from Ellbeck?” He hadn’t been expecting John to speak. Brown wished he hadn’t.
Howard whipped the knife round to the front of John’s body, close to his neck.
“Shut up.”
John swallowed hard, visibly.
His throat. That knife was so near his throat. The carotid artery. Brown’s first aid training came back too vividly at times. He saw a jet of arterial blood shoot across the room. He closed his eyes against the vividness of the image.
“There’s a Bedford van out in the yard with a tank full of petrol. Me and the lad are going for a drive. Any hitches, his throat is cut. You stand back and make sure your mates stand back and no harm will come to John here.”
Inspector Greene spoke for the first time. His tone was mild if you didn’t know him. Brown caught the underlying anger.
“What are you proposing to do with John?”
Denis Howard laughed; a short and humourless laugh.
“Proposing? Proposing? What I’m proposing, Inspector…it is Inspector, isn’t it, is to drop John off somewhere, without harming a hair on his head. That’s if there are no hitches, of course.”
His face told its own story, belying the bravado in his voice.
The muscles in his face were taut and there was sweat on his forehead. You could look at that as a good sign—he was panicked and thus vulnerable or he felt he had nothing to lose and was very dangerous.
It didn’t add up. Surely the murder of a young boy, he must know would have one ending only; he would be caught and he would be hanged. Up to this point, what had he done? He had taken John but a good solicitor could fudge that enough to make out that he had been taking the lad to his father. There was enough evidence that something like that had been, at least, talked about, to throw doubt into it.
Maybe, the man had a trail of other offences though. Most likely, he was focused on getting away and cornered and was prepared to do what it took to avoid being taken in.
“There are two local officers in the car; brought us out here.”
Denis swore; his mother made a sound of protest, which was almost laughable, or would be in other circumstances. Her son’s language was the least of her worries.
“This is what you do. You,” he pointed at Inspector Greene, “you go out and get in the car with the other pair. Me and John here, will walk slowly out.”
John looked at Brown.
“Please, no,” he said and Brown closed his eyes in utter despair.
Just for a second. He opened them to the sight of Howard smacking John hard across the head.
“I told you. Shut up.”
Brown willed John to do what he was told. It might be in Howard’s best interests to keep John alive but he was volatile. The situation was volatile.
I have to stop them leaving.
The thought came from nowhere but took him over. If Denis Howard got him in the car who knew what might happen? Another accident?
Or Howard losing his temper again, maybe.
Greene left the kitchen.
“Go out, walking in front of me. Stay in my sight.”
“Son, Denis, let the young lad go. You’re making everything worse.” The father spoke but Brown knew he was wasting his breath. Denis Howard wasn’t going to let John go, and walk straight into a prison cell.
“Give it a rest, dad.”
Brown walked slowly out the cottage door, his heart thumping, mouth dry and a ball of anger, heavy in middle of his chest.
It was humiliating. It was important to put that to one side, though. There was a knife at John Braithwaite’s neck. It wouldn’t take much. This wasn’t the time for heroics. It was the time to preserve life.
Still. He wasn’t going to let them get in that Bedford van. There must be something.
“Stand by your police car, facing me.”
Distraction. He needed to force Howard’s attention away from John, just long enough so Brown could grab the knife. There would be one chance to do this.
Brown was disadvantaged in every possible way—the boy, the knife and the fact that he was yards away from Howard with no way of getting any nearer.
“Get in the car and wait until you hear from me. John will be dropped somewhere safe but only if no-one gets in my way.”
Was it best to leave it like that?
“What the …what the…you little.”
Howard’s shout was outraged. Brown turned heel and was on him before figuring out what had happened.
John shouted, then, as if hurt, and a stumbling Howard had righted himself. He held the knife high over his head. Brown launched himself at the man, shouting to John to get out of the way.
There was a rush of bodies as three police officers were upon them. It took Brown several seconds to feel the pressure somewhere in his neck and to realise that there was blood and that it was his.
“I didn’t do this, Reverend Wilkes.”
“It’s Henry, Roland. You keep telling me you didn’t do it and I want to believe you but they must have had some grounds to arrest you.”
He hated himself for saying this and he really wanted to believe Weston, otherwise he might not have responded so readily when Inspector Jardine told him that Weston had been asking to see him and that it might help. After being dragged into things by Canon Richardson, and after getting things so very wrong, Henry felt like withdrawing; withdrawing and getting back to Edith and the dales as quickly as possible.
“They arrested me because I was seen arguing with David Fallon and because they have
no one else…and…” He hesitated and looked at Henry… “because Stephen Bird is no friend of mine and he won’t have done me any favours when he spoke to the inspector.”
“Do you have a solicitor? Do you want me to see what I can do to see that you have proper legal representation?” Weston shook his head. Impatient.
“The church have that in hand. They haven’t completely abandoned me. I want you to do something back in St Chad’s. I heard something, the day before David Fallon was shot. There’s an old lean-to shed, up the path, near the stables.” Henry thought he’d seen it; it looked out of place amongst the traditional buildings, obviously a functional addition to the garden.
“I walked to the stables. To be honest, I hardly knew where I was going. I needed to get away from the house, from everyone.”
He looked at Henry; that almost frightening intensity behind his eyes again.
“It has made everything worse, for me, being here. Worse, not better. The dreams have been more vivid. My sleep…I think I’m afraid of going to sleep and that’s a disgusting, unmanly
admission to have to make. Plenty of men have been through worse than me and without jibbing.”
It was hard to do so but Henry stayed quiet. Anything he said at this moment would be no help at all, would probably make things worse.
“I wanted to see inside the stables. There’s something soothing, isn’t there about an old building like that. Thought there might be stalls, maybe harnesses, signs anyway of the olden days. I spent a happy twenty minutes having a look around. It made me find something that I thought I’d find in the retreat and didn’t.
Peace.”
He paused. He needed to get on with it. He was now under arrest and at any moment, they could be told that the visit was at an end.
“Coming from the shed, I heard voices. Angry voices. It was the housekeeper, Fiona Elliott. She was the one who was doing most of the talking, or shouting. I couldn’t catch much of what was being said. I didn’t want to catch much of it, if I’m honest. That was my peace, shattered. But, she was angry and she was threatening him, too. I heard her say about his wife and he laughed and then she really was loud, Mrs Elliott I mean. Shouting that he deserved what Stephen Bird had got but that the job needed to be done properly—not a half-cocked effort.
I left before I could be seen. You probably don’t know but I know Fiona from London. She worked in St Gabriel’s. She’s a person who holds a lot of anger. Someone who feels that she has been dealt a raw deal. I suppose she has. But, I don’t want to be hanged for a crime that I had nothing to do with.
Henry had taken a taxi cab from St Chad’s to the police station where Roland Weston was being held before appearing before the magistrate’s. Now, he asked the officer on the reception desk, a red-faced, overweight man, to telephone the firm and ask for a return cab.
The journey back to St Chad’s seemed to take no time, so oblivious was he to the streets and the passing countryside.
So, his feelings about Fiona Elliott had been right. Her only just controlled anger, the disregard for any pleasantries. She had been different, of late but there may well be a good, solid reason of self-preservation behind that. She had planned to leave St Chad’s and in the meantime would make life a lot easier to have as many people as possible on her side, to avoid anyone looking too closely at her.
A revolver. When Ivy Miller had been defending her, she’d mentioned something about war work. Some woman had been taught to
shoot. He had no proof and conjecture wouldn’t be enough to get Roland Weston out of the police cell. There had been a bad moment as Henry had stood up to go.
“I can’t,” Weston whispered.
“Not back in that cell. Hemmed in like that, the walls coming in on top of me. I’m frightened I’ll lose my reason, altogether.”
“You won’t, Roland.” Henry summoned up every resource he had,“If you did not do this, Roland, we’ll get you out of here. It is a nightmare but that’s all it is. You’ve had enough of them to know that they don’t last. All you have to do is to stay with it for now. With every hour that passes you’ll be getting near to getting out of this place.”
“What if you can’t get any evidence against Mrs Elliott; if the police don’t believe you; if she leaves even sooner? My story about what I heard won’t hold water, not with a motive like I have, to misdirect the police.”
Every word he uttered was right, of course but thinking like that wasn’t going to help him endure the night ahead.”
For another ten minutes, Henry reasoned with him and did his best to convince Roland Weston that he would get him out. Now, he just had to deliver his promise.
It had rained in the time Henry had been in the station and the smell of refreshed earth calmed his spirits as he walked from the taxi to the house. Like autumn bonfires, or the innocence of a frosty morning, the aftermath of rain in summer was redolent and he was reminded in a sensuous sweep, of walks with Edith and Max amidst the birdsong and farm smells and rushing the last bit home, for tea and ginger cake.
He forced his mind back to the now. Would he confront Fiona Elliott straightaway and if he did so, what would be the response? Well, he wasn’t about to ask her whether she had shot David Fallon. He would say that she had been overheard arguing with him; take it from there. There was a sudden prickling between his shoulder blades that made Henry arch his back and shiver. Probably the thought of confronting the woman, and bringing her anger down on his head. She would have every reason to be angry. Now, that he was away from Roland Weston, Henry’s certainty waivered.
Weston was in a state of extreme distress being confined to a cell, even more so than anyone else would feel. Understandable, considering the nervous collapse he’d had, and the fragile state he was in. He was fragile, regardless of the shame and guilt he felt about it. Would he say anything to get out?
He had to speak to Fiona Elliott, at least. He said he was going to, had given his word.
She would be in the kitchen. It was approaching supper time. The young girl, Mary, who helped from the village normally went home a couple of hours or so after lunch when the clearing up was finished and things were got ready for supper, which was usually a light meal.
She would be in the kitchen, having some quiet time; that mysterious and sacred time, when those whose job was to serve others had a bit of time, to sit with a cup of tea and their feet up.
At home, Edith told him to stay out of the kitchen in the afternoons while Hannah had a break. Hannah. Edith had managed to get through to St Chad’s to tell him about Joshua Braithwaite.
How on earth were Hannah and Cathy dealing with all that happened?
“She’s remarkable, Hannah but Henry, I think the accident, Josh’s death and most of all the hope that he was going to fetch John back, gone with him…I don’t know how the poor woman is managing to put one foot in front of the other.”
There was nothing he could do at this moment about the situation back in Ellbeck, apart from praying and hoping. It was strange that both he and Edith were going through their own trials at the same time but many miles apart.
He gave a light tap on the kitchen door but there was no response. Saved by the bell, maybe. That was stupid. This must be faced. Maybe she had finished early, gone to her flat, prepared and left a cold collation for them to help themselves. After all, she was leaving—or that was the plan. People working out their notice sometimes developed a more cavalier attitude to work responsibilities.
The pricking sensation between his shoulders was back and he cursed himself for a fool. What was wrong with him? With these intangible sensations, coming out of nowhere and not helping him or anyone else.
Maybe Ivy Miller was in her small office on the second floor.
Talking to her might just be the dose of calming common sense he needed and she might have an idea where Fiona Elliott was.
He should really go and see Brother Malcolm and report back on Roland Weston. Not that there was much
to say. He could do that later.
The feeling of, what was it? Unease, impending doom, intensified as he mounted the back stairs. Probably reminded him of Canon
Richardson whose room was on a different floor but at the same side of the house.
He heard the raised voices as soon as he got to the top of the stairs and without thinking at all he rushed to the office and turned the door knob.
It took a few seconds to process what was in front of him. He swallowed and tried to ignore the slow loud pumping of blood in his ears. Pulled back from its position behind the desk was the leather office chair. Fiona Elliott was slumped in it, like a rag doll. Standing a couple of feet away from her was a figure holding a gun. For Henry everything went into a sort of alternative reality as his brain struggled to process what was in front of his eyes.
“Miss Miller?”
“Come into the room and close the door behind you. Don’t say anything.”
He did as he was told, still struggling to take in this new reality. If it was reality. He looked at the older woman and for a bizarre moment, he convinced himself that this was some sort of prank.
It was real, really happening and there wasn’t time now to figure out any rhyme or reason. The woman must be mad.
She turned to face him, now weighing the gun in the palm of her hand, considering it before whipping round to face the chair and Fiona Elliott, holding the gun seriously now.
“You. Why?”
“Don’t ask any questions.”
She sounded different. Not the woman he had admired in a patronising way, half-sorry for her spinster state.
“Ivy, stop this. It’s madness.” Fiona Elliott had struck the wrong note and Henry closed his eyes for a second.
“Madness? Madness? No, what was mad, was being fooled by you, being set up to act as your protector when all along you were planning your next escape with your next man.”
Henry’s mind felt sluggish and stubborn, refusing to keep up with what was happening. What was it that was happening?
[Edith Horton 05] - Murder in Retreat Page 20
