Family Ties (The Mark Pemberton Cases Book 1)
Page 8
‘There used to be a ghost here,’ he said as if on cue.
‘You’re joking?’
‘Not me. It was the ghost of Jimmy Hartley, so they said. Wandering this lane in his uniform. A soldier’s uniform. It haunted this place because there was a murder here, in 1916.’ He was in full flow now, having found an interested audience. ‘That rock was where the body was found, it was Jimmy Hartley, one of the Hartleys from Wolversdale. Nice folk, nasty thing to happen to them. They still live there, you know, up at Pike Hill Farm. Decent people, very hardworking and honest. The police never did get the killer, but folks don’t talk about it nowadays. The family never mentions it. Afterwards though, folks would never walk this way after dark; some said Jimmy’s ghost haunted the lane. They moved the lane a bit, to make this new road. When they moved it, in the 1950s it would be, there were no more hauntings.’
‘Right here, was it?’ she asked, hoping as if she sounded astonished. ‘The murder, I mean.’
‘This very place.’ The man was clearly keen to air his local knowledge. ‘Come back from the army, he had, getting ready to go to France to fight for King and country, and somebody shot him. It was in all the papers. Before my time, of course, but when I was a lad we were told all about it by our parents. We even sang a song about it.’
‘A song? What sort of song?’
‘It was a nursery rhyme sort of thing. All the school kids would sing it.’
‘Can you remember it?’ she asked.
‘Oh, aye. The tune was Bobby Shafto — you know, Bobby Shafto’s gone to sea, silver buckles on his knee…’
‘I know the tune,’ she said.
‘Well, this was it,’ and to the tune of Bobby Shafto, the man sang:
Jimmy Hartley’s gone to hell,
And his brother’s gone as well;
Jimmy Hartley’s gone to hell,
Tainted Jimmy Hartley.
‘Those are very strange words,’ Lorraine said. ‘What do they mean?’
‘No idea, I wasn’t born till 1929, but we sang that as kids. Mind, we had no idea what it was all about.’
‘They’re not very flattering words, are they? You’d think if Jimmy was from a good family, the song would have been nicer. You know, a sort of memorial.’
‘They do say that there was a lot of nasty things going on up at that farm, secret things, you understand,’ and he winked in what she regarded as a conspiratorial manner.
‘Nasty things?’ She was puzzled by this remark, but when she pressed him to elaborate, he shook his head. ‘Best leave things alone,’ he nodded. ‘Let sleeping dogs lie, isn’t that what they say?’
‘Perhaps you’re right,’ she agreed. ‘But who’d shoot a soldier who was about to go to war?’ she continued, hoping some gossip or folk memory had survived down the years.
‘You’d have to ask old Millie,’ said the man. ‘She saw him.’
‘Saw who?’
‘The killer, he was just where you are now. In his pony and trap or horse and cart. Only a lass she was then, of course.’
‘Millie? Who’s Millie?’
‘Old Millie Roe at Priory Cottage, across two fields from me. She’s in her eighties, mind, but as wick as they come. She knows all about it, she saw the killer.’
‘She saw the killer?’ Lorraine cried.
‘So they said. She reckons she did.’
‘But not the actual murder?’
‘No, I don’t think she’s ever claimed that much. Mind, her story gets better with every telling. But she does say she saw him hiding in the bushes, right where you are now.’
‘And you say she’s still living there?’ Lorraine was amazed. ‘At Priory Cottage?’
‘Oh, aye. It was her mother and father’s house before they died. Millie was the youngest of a big family — she never got wed, you see, and lived with her parents. She stayed on when they died. Worked on the brickyard for years, she did, clerking. She’s still hale and hearty and she loves a chat — we send all the reporters and writers down to her. Folks still write about the murder and she loves to tell ’em a tale or two.’
‘I might just pop and see her,’ smiled Lorraine.
‘She’ll be capped to bits. Tell her Arthur Harland sent you,’ he said.
‘Thanks,’ smiled Lorraine.
‘Well I must be getting along. I’m off to the post office for a postal order for my pools. One day, I’ll win a fortune, you’ll see if I don’t…’
‘You live locally?’
‘Oh, aye, at Ford End Cottage, not far from here, just around a corner or two.’
‘Did there used to be a toll road here?’ she asked him.
‘Yes, it started near our house, where the ford crosses the beck. It belonged to Rosenthorpe Estate and was used well into the 1960s. Then they closed it, it needed loads of repairs and was too costly, but you can still walk along to the old toll gate. It’s there, still got its list of charges up.’
‘And are there any ghost stories about the toll road?’
‘Some said there was a phantom stage coach with four black stallions that used to gallop down that road just before a death in the Rosenthorpe family. But I’ve never seen it, and no one’s seen it for years.’
‘It’ll do for my collection.’ She smiled her gratitude.
‘It allus showed up the night before a Rosenthorpe died,’ he said. ‘Galloped right along the toll road and vanished near that ford. There’s allus some good tales around if you get talking to folks.’ He beamed and went on his way.
He was right, of course, and so Lorraine decided to visit old Millie Roe. She’d continue her pretence of being a writer — people were far more forthcoming when talking to an author than when being quizzed by a police officer.
Millie lived in a hovel. It was a small, stone-built house with a honeysuckle-covered porch, and the door was standing open. The dark interior reminded her of Victorian times; a log fire smouldered in the grate where a kettle was singing on the hob, and the stone-flagged floor was covered with clip rugs. There was dirt everywhere.
‘Yes, who is it?’ A small and stooped old lady answered her knock. She wore carpet slippers, an old flower-patterned apron and a ragged brown woollen cardigan.
‘Arthur sent me,’ Lorraine began. ‘Arthur Harland. He was telling me about the ghost along the lane. He said you knew the story behind it.’
‘Aye, lass, I do. I knows all about it. It was a murder, you see…’
And leaving Lorraine standing at the door, she launched without any prompting into the story of James Hartley’s death.
Lorraine listened. It was a fairly faithful but somewhat elaborated account of her childhood statement and she dwelt at some length on her sighting of the man with the pony and trap. Lorraine noticed she did refer to a pony and trap now, although as a child she’d said it was a horse and cart. Did such discrepancies matter?
Millie went on to say she was adamant the man had been sitting very still just off the road, on precisely the spot where the body was later found.
‘Who was it?’ asked Lorraine.
‘Now I’ve never said who I thought it was. I mean, some things is best left alone. I was only a bairn, you see, and didn’t know the man then, but well, later, mebbe I began to realise who it was. But I never can tell. My lips are sealed.’
‘I know the verse they used to sing,’ said Lorraine, singing it in her soft musical voice.
‘Aye, we sang that at school,’ said Millicent.
‘I thought Jimmy was a good man,’ said Lorraine. ‘I thought he wasn’t the sort to get himself into trouble? He was the sort who’d go to heaven, not to hell. And what a funny word to use — tainted.’
‘That’s because he wasn’t as pure as folks reckoned,’ said Millicent, who then added, ‘Neither him nor his brother. I reckon that Luke went to hell an’ all. But how did you know about them, then?’
‘It’s just what people said, people I’ve talked to about my book of stories…Arthur…’
‘So what had Jimmy done?’ Lorraine persisted.
‘I think I’ve said enough,’ said Millicent.
‘The man you saw in the bushes, Millicent, when you were six. Was it Luke Hartley?’
‘You ask some very direct questions, young lady,’ said Millie. ‘Not the sort a normal visitor asks.’
‘I’m a policewoman, but I’m off duty, visiting the area,’ Lorraine said. ‘I suppose I’m trained to ask questions.’
‘Then you’ll get nothing more from me!’ and Millie closed her mouth, folded her arms across her breast, turned away from Lorraine and slammed the door.
Chapter Eight
While Lorraine was in Wolversdale that Thursday afternoon, Detective Superintendent Pemberton remained at Thirklewood Hall. There were always minor details to attend to, but the American contingent did not interfere. They were too busy decorating the suite and making the final plans for the arrival of their Vice-President. Their last-minute work was keeping them very busy. This allowed Mark to study an account of the search of the scene of the discovery of Hartley’s body.
As it was September, the ground had been dry, but very faint wheel marks had been found. The wheels had formed shallow depressions in the one or two areas of softer ground and had been identified as the tracks of a pair of wheels such as those on a light cart or gig. The marks lacked any identifying characteristics, other than that the wheels were slightly dished; the tracks were sixty inches apart. In other words, the tracks could have been left by almost any two-wheeled horse-drawn vehicle, although they were probably from a lighter type, such as a gig, a governess cart or a light market cart rather than a heavier four-wheeled vehicle such as a hay-cart or farm waggon. The report added that the wheels of Luke’s trap had been compared and did match the width of those found at the scene, although that width was standard on many types of light cart.
Similarly, the marks suggested that the wheels had worn solid rubber tyres rather than iron rims; Luke’s cart had rubber tyres. Rubber tyres did not crush the smaller grains of stone as steel would have done. Mark examined the photograph of Luke’s cart; it was lightweight and built of wood with large wheels and high sides. To the rear there was a low door above a step which hung low, while the high sides bore wooden mudguards. Inside were two seats which faced each other across the narrow floor, not facing the front like some. These carts were fast and light, often being used by women or governesses taking children on outings. They were easily hauled by a single pony and were sometimes called traps. So Millicent would be right calling it either a cart or a trap.
Similarly, hoof prints had been found, but the hardness of the earth had rendered any detailed comparison impossible. Mark sought a paragraph which might say that the shoes of Luke’s pony had matched any marks found at the scene but found no such entry. There were no photographs of either the wheel marks or the hoof prints, the impressions being too faint to register on the film of that time.
There was no indication of when the vehicle in question had made those impressions — it could have been the previous day or even earlier. The only fact to emerge was that the child witness, Millicent Roe, had probably been correct in her statement that there was a stationary pony and trap or horse and cart at the scene on the afternoon of the murder.
There was nothing to suggest who that vehicle belonged to, nor was there any real evidence to link it to the crime. It was good circumstantial evidence, however, although enquiries had failed to substantiate Millicent’s tale — no pony and trap or horse and cart, other than Luke’s, and no man other than Luke, was known to have passed that way around the material time. Mark knew that assumptions could be drawn from those facts, but as a piece of hard evidence, such assumptions were almost useless. Besides, it was doubtful if the child’s story would withstand a sustained cross-examination in court.
It was clear that the police had done a thorough job in searching the scene. They had found a penknife, rusty and broken, which had been eliminated; they had found an old leather shoe, size nine, which had been eliminated; and they had found a half-crown which could not be associated with the murder. The locations of those items were marked on a sketch. No spent bullet had been found, suggesting that there had been only one shot aimed at James, the one which had lodged in his head. The bullet casing had not been located either, suggesting the killer had taken it away, and no other firearm had been discovered in spite of an extensive search. A note said the murder weapon had never been found; in addition to the immediate surrounds of the murder scene, Pike Hill Farm had been thoroughly searched for a murder weapon or any weapon of .45 calibre. Several shotguns and two .22 rifles had been found, but all were legitimately held. Nothing else was found. None was the murder weapon, and all had been eliminated. There were photographs of all the weapons and other objects found during those searches.
So far as the discovery of James’s body was concerned, the report was very detailed. Dr Herring, the village general practitioner, had examined the body in situ to certify death and said that, in his opinion, death had occurred some six or eight hours prior to his examination. He could not be any more precise. He refused to certify the cause of death and so the post-mortem had been arranged. Mark had already studied that report.
The body had been lying on its back with arms and legs outstretched, albeit not to their fullest extent. The rifle had been lying with its butt about ten inches from the index finger of the victim’s right hand. There was a wound in the left temple with congealed blood. The body was clad in the military uniform of a private soldier, a 2 ½ inch square red flash at the top of the sleeves identifying the uniform as that of the 5th Battalion of the Green Howards. A uniform peaked cap lay some distance from the body, closer to the lane; a tin hat was fastened to the top of the back-pack which was still worn by the deceased on his back. A kitbag, also unopened, lay nearby, some four feet from the body.
The uniform on the body comprised black boots, puttees, belt and webbing, trousers, tunic, underwear, socks and shirt, all of which were present.
His back-pack was complete and in position; when opened, it was found to contain his army greatcoat and some smaller items of spare clothing like socks. It also contained letters from his mother and some family photographs. His other small side packs contained items such as iron rations, a ‘housewife’ (needle, cotton, scissors, etc), ear-plugs, a trench pipe (which could be smoked upside down) and a trench tea-making outfit comprising firelighters, water purification tablets and tea tablets. Among his equipment were his knife, fork and spoon, a billy can, a tin mug and a book of orders about his posting. A check with his unit confirmed nothing had been stolen from his kit. Theft did not therefore appear to be the motive.
His pockets had contained £1.15s.7d cash, a rosewood pipe, a tin of tobacco, a box of matches, a handkerchief, a wallet and rail ticket for his posting, a comb, a penknife, an apple and some sweets. A detailed search of his belongings revealed no letters other than those from his mother and no indication that there was another woman in his life. There were no letters from eager girlfriends awaiting his return to Wolversdale and none carrying threats from jealous rivals. It was all innocuous stuff with nothing to hint at any enmity from any quarter. Pemberton realised that James was something of a mystery man and he decided he must learn more about him. Surely Dawson had researched his background in greater depth?
From his reading of the papers, however, it was clear that Dawson had also done some careful research into Luke’s background. The file contained a fairly comprehensive biography. Luke Caleb Hartley was born on 10th March 1879 at Pike Hill Farm, Wolversdale, the eldest son of Sarah and Caleb Hartley. He had attended St Monica’s Catholic school in Wolversdale, leaving at the age of fourteen to work on his father’s farm. He had never undergone any form of further education.
He had married Edith Brown in 1900 and shortly aft
erwards had had a brief overseas encounter as a private in the Boer War; he’d embarked late in 1900 and had returned in May 1902 at the end of hostilities. He then produced three children, Sarah Jane born in 1903, Caleb James born in 1905 and Paul Simon born in 1907. Discreet enquiries by the police had shown that Luke was considered a very good and protective father who was very serious in his outlook. He had very little sense of humour; when away from the farm, he always dressed smartly and would never enter the village in his working clothes in the way that many of his contemporaries did, nor did he spend his evenings in the inns drinking beer. Although born a Catholic, he had lapsed, never going to Mass or receiving the sacraments, although he did insist that his children went to the Catholic school and followed their faith. He was very strict with his children and did not even let them play with others in the village. They had, therefore, a rather sheltered upbringing.
The police knew nothing against Luke, however; he had no convictions and his marriage seemed happy. He owed no money to traders in the district and appeared not to have any enemies. In short, he was a dull, hard-working and very honest Yorkshire moorland farmer who assisted his ageing father in the family business. It seemed that his few months in South Africa had been the only excitement in his mundane life.
In his capacity as the eldest son, he would naturally inherit the farm. That was the moorland custom at that time, farms always passing from father to eldest son. The farm was owned by the Hartleys and thus there was no tenancy problem to worry about. Locally, these small moorland farmers were known as yeoman, a name signifying they were not landed gentry but landowners in their own right, albeit in a minor way.
In 1916, at the time of James’s death, Luke was thirty-seven and his father was sixty-four; there was no such thing as a retiring age for farmers at that time, but old Mr Hartley and his wife would one day decide to move into a cottage, the move symbolising the shift of power from father to son. From that day, Luke would occupy the farmhouse and would be in charge. In some cases, the change-over was long awaited — some old farmers worked well into their eighties.