Sins of the Fathers

by Sally Spencer

  Harry had made good use of his space, Beresford thought. There were two battered armchairs, which stood on an off-cut of carpet in a flower pattern which had been fashionable just after the War. There was a kitchen table, on which had been placed a spirit stove, a kettle, teapot and two large enamel mugs. And there was a small black-and-white television, with a spider’s web of wire which served as an aerial, resting on a packing case.

  But it was the far wall which was most surprising. Shelves ran along it at waist height, and on those shelves were bits of junk which seemed to be vaguely connected with mattress manufacturing. Above the shelves, reaching almost to the ceiling, Harry had pasted a montage of newspaper clippings, publicity handouts and catalogue covers.

  ‘I call it my museum,’ Harry said proudly, seeing it had caught Beresford’s attention. ‘The Museum of the Mattress. When I’ve made us a brew, I’ll show it to you.’

  The old man pumped the spirit stove on the table, lit it, and then perched the kettle on top.

  ‘Do you see much of Mrs Hawtrey these days?’ Beresford asked, trying to sound casual.

  ‘Not a lot.’ Harry replied. ‘She was always here, of course, when she worked in the typin’ pool, but she’s hardly set foot in the place since she married the boss – an’ that must have been a good fifteen years ago now.’

  The kettle came to the boil, and Harry Ramsbotham poured the hot water into the teapot.

  ‘Still, she must have been a few times,’ Beresford said. ‘Like when she opened the new workshop.’

  ‘That’s right, she was here for that,’ Harry agreed. ‘Well, I suppose we might as well take a look at my museum while the tea’s brewin’.’

  Reluctantly, Beresford rose to his feet and allowed himself to be led over to the shelves.

  Harry picked a wad of cotton-packing, which must once have been white, but had now gone brown with age.

  ‘This was the flock we used for stuffin’ the mattresses when I first joined the company,’ he said. ‘We bought it in big bales, from one of the mills. Of course, that mill, like most of the others, has closed down now.’

  ‘Very interesting,’ Beresford said.

  Harry replaced the wadding reverentially on the shelf, and picked up a coil of metal.

  ‘And this is one of the first springs we used. Looks a bit clumsy now, doesn’t it? But it was very advanced for its time.’

  ‘When Mrs Hawtrey opened the new workshop, how did she and Mr Pine seem to be getting on?’ Beresford asked.

  ‘That’s Mr Hawtrey and the first Mrs Hawtrey on their weddin’ day,’ Harry said, pointing to a photograph in the middle of one of the faded newspaper articles that he’d pasted to the wall. ‘An’ that’s old Mr Hawtrey – Mr Alec’s father – standin’ next to them.’

  The two men in the picture were wearing morning suits, and the bride was dressed in an elaborate lace and silk gown. They stood as stiff as tailor’s dummies, and though they were all probably very happy on this special day, the smile the photographer had demanded from them made them look almost manic.

  His mother and father had been married at around the same time, Beresford thought, and though these people were dressed in a far grander style than his parents had been, he was still reminded of the wedding photographs which sat on the sideboard at home. Looking at his mother now – with that dead expression in her eyes – it was almost impossible to believe that she had once been young and vital, had probably danced with gay abandon and treated life as if it were a joy to experience.

  ‘Have I lost you, lad?’ Harry asked.

  ‘What?’ Beresford said, startled.

  ‘This is an article about the house that the Hawtreys moved into just after they married. Caused quite a stir at the time, it did. To be honest with you, most people didn’t care for it at all.’

  Beresford could quite see why it hadn’t been exactly popular. Whitebridge folk tended to be quite conventional when it came to matters of design – and there was nothing at all conventional about this house. For a start, it was three storeys high, rather than the normal two. Then there was the fact that there was a veranda running along the front. (Why, people must have asked when they saw it, would anybody want a veranda in Lancashire?) And as if all that were not enough to cause outrage, there was a terrace running the entire length of the first floor, supported by eight thick pillars.

  ‘They had an architect design it for them, but most of the ideas about how it should look came from Mrs Hawtrey,’ Harry said.

  ‘How did they feel when they learned that most people didn’t like it?’ Beresford asked.

  ‘I don’t know how Mrs Hawtrey felt, but Mr Hawtrey didn’t really care. It was enough for him that it was what his wife wanted – an’ he’d have done anythin’ for her in them days.’

  ‘Where is it?’ Beresford asked, allowing his natural curiosity to divert him from the line of questioning he had been intending to persue. ‘I know most places in Whitebridge, but I don’t think I’ve ever seen it.’

  ‘Ee, lad, it’s long gone. The council slapped a compulsory purchase order on it, an’ pulled it down. It stood in the way of redevelopment, you see, an’ people’s dreams don’t matter to the planners. The one good thing about the whole sorry business was that the first Mrs Hawtrey wasn’t here to see it bein’ pulled down, because it would have broken her heart. But then, I suppose, her heart had already been broken, because she’d got divorced an’ moved away by then.’

  ‘That’s certainly all very interesting,’ Beresford said, ‘but what I was wondering was—’

  ‘Here’s an article on Mr an’ Mrs Hawtreys first holiday abroad. It wouldn’t be exactly what you’d call news these days, would it?’

  ‘No, it—’

  ‘But back then, you see, most folk had been no further than Blackpool, so it had somethin’ of a novelty about it.’

  The picture in this article showed the Hawtreys standing on a beach, with camels in the background. They had their children with them, a boy of about thirteen and a girl a couple of years younger. The girl looked happy enough, but the boy had the worried look of someone with a lot on his mind.

  ‘An’ over here’s an article on Mr Hawtrey’s funeral,’ Harry said, pointing out a page of newspaper which – being more recent – had yellowed less than most of the others. ‘That’s the second Mrs Hawtrey by the grave.’

  ‘She’s standing quite close to Mr Pine, but she’s not really looking at him, is she?’ Beresford asked.

  ‘You don’t have much interest in my museum, do you, lad?’ Harry asked, in a tone which was mid-way between anger and sadness.

  ‘Yes, I do,’ Beresford protested. ‘Honestly, I do!’

  ‘I may be gettin’ old, but I’m still a long way from senile – an’ I can see what you’re after,’ Harry said.

  ‘I promise you, I’m not—’

  ‘My old dad never taught me much, but one thing he always said is that you should hold your employer in respect,’ Harry said. ‘“It’s the wages they pay you that puts food on the table an’ keeps a roof over your head,” he told me.’

  ‘All I want to know is how Mrs Hawtrey and Mr Pine got on after Mr Hawtrey’s death,’ Beresford protested.

  ‘An’ do you know what else my old dad said?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘He said, “It doesn’t matter what your boss does in his private life – it’s not your place to judge him, an’ it’s not your place to criticize him.” There’s not many people still hold them views these days, but I do.’

  ‘Mr Pine’s dead,’ Beresford pointed out.

  ‘So he is, but that still doesn’t give me licence to tear his good name to shreds. Anyway, I thought it was Mrs Hawtrey you were more interested in.’

  ‘Yes, it is, but—’

  ‘Now that Mr Pine is dead, she’s the only boss I’ve got. That may have slipped your attention, but it certainly hasn’t slipped mine.’

  ‘I didn’t mean to offend you, Harry,’ Beresford said, r
emorsefully. ‘I honestly didn’t.’

  ‘Didn’t you?’ the old man countered. ‘Well, you succeeded, whether or not. I think you should go now – an’ I’d rather you didn’t come again.’

  Nineteen

  The public service bus did not actually pass through Upper Bankside – the residents would not have wanted their living space polluted by the intrusion of mass transportation – but it did skirt the area, and there was a bus stop just beyond the end of Lawrence Road, at which a number of women in cheap coats and thick stockings were just alighting.

  Woodend, sitting behind the wheel of his Wolseley, turned to Paniatowski, who was in the passenger seat.

  ‘Of course, what the women who reside around here – I beg your pardon, what the ladies who reside around here – would really like to have would be live-in servants,’ he said. ‘An’ there’d certainly be plenty of space to accommodate them in those big double-fronted houses. But since the War, you can’t get anybody to do that kind of job, however much you’re willin’ to pay, so they’ve just had to settle for a daily visit from the charwomen.’

  ‘You can’t be sure that Thelma Hawtrey has one though, can you?’ Paniatowski pointed out, as the women crossed the street and began to walk down Lawrence Road.

  ‘I’d be most surprised if she didn’t,’ Woodend replied. ‘It’d be seen as lettin’ the side down to actually do any of your own cleanin’ yourself. Besides, I’ve had a look at the fingernails on the woman, an’ you don’t keep your nails lookin’ like that if you do any bloody work.’

  He eased the car into gear, and began to drive slowly down Lawrence Road. The ragged column of charwomen was already beginning to thin out, as some of its number peeled off and made their way up the driveways to one or other of the big houses.

  ‘We won’t know which of them “does” for Mrs Hawtrey until she reaches the house, so you’ll have to move a bit sharpish and catch her up before she reaches the front door,’ Woodend said.

  ‘What if she doesn’t want to come with us?’ Paniatowski asked. ‘I mean, it’s not as if we’re arresting her, is it?’

  ‘True,’ Woodend agreed. ‘So you’ll just have to use your powers of persuasion, won’t you?’

  ‘And if she says she can’t be late for work?’

  ‘Tell her she’s nothing to worry about, because we’ll ring Mrs Hawtrey up, an’ explain that she’s helpin’ us with our inquiries.’

  ‘And will we really do that?’

  ‘Really do what?’

  ‘Ring up Mrs Hawtrey?’

  ‘I don’t see why we shouldn’t.’

  ‘Don’t you?’ Paniatowski asked. ‘Suppose we do ring her up and tell her what’s going on. What do you think is the first thing that Mrs Hawtrey will do when the charwoman does eventually arrive on her doorstep?’

  ‘I imagine she’ll ask her exactly what the police wanted to question her about.’

  ‘And the charwoman will tell her that what we’ve been asking questions about is her.’

  ‘Yes, she will.’

  ‘And doesn’t that bother you?’

  ‘Not a lot.’

  ‘You’re not worried that when Mrs Hawtrey learns we’re taking such a close interest in her, she might get rattled?’

  ‘On the contrary,’ Woodend said. ‘Getting rattled is exactly what I want her to do.’

  The nearest café to Upper Bankside – and it was not that near, because Banksiders would never demean themselves by entering such an establishment – was called The Cosy Corner. It had formica-topped tables, a linoleum floor, and a large metal urn which gurgled constantly and occasionally let loose a jet of steam. It was just the sort of place you might expect to find a woman in the heavy brown coat and knitted woollen hat, but the woman in question certainly didn’t seem very happy to be there at that particular moment.

  ‘I’d normally like nothin’ better than to be sittin’ in a nice café, sippin’ a nice hot cup of tea,’ she explained to Woodend and Paniatowski, ‘but I do have a job to do, you know – an’ I am paid by the hour.’

  Woodend reached into his pocket, pulled out a ten shilling note, and laid it on the table.

  ‘That should more than cover the time you’ll lose, shouldn’t it, Mrs Chubb?’ he asked.

  ‘I suppose so,’ the woman agreed. ‘But there’s other things to be taken into consideration as well, aren’t there?’

  ‘Such as?’

  ‘I don’t want to get anybody in trouble.’

  ‘Why should you even think that you would?’

  ‘Well, you’re the police, aren’t you?’

  ‘So we are,’ Woodend agreed. ‘But the questions we want to ask you are very innocent ones, an’ if you feel uncomfortable about answerin’ any of them, you don’t have to. All right?’

  ‘All right,’ Mrs Chubb agreed, though she still sounded dubious about the whole idea.

  ‘How long have you been working for Mrs Hawtrey?’

  ‘Must be a good ten years now.’

  ‘Which means that you were working for her long before her husband was killed?’

  ‘Yes, I was.’

  ‘How did she take his death?’ Woodend wondered.

  ‘How would you expect her to take it? She was absolutely devastated, as anybody in her place would be.’

  ‘But I expect her family were very supportive of her in her time of need,’ Paniatowski said.

  ‘Her family?’ Mrs Chubb repeated.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘She hasn’t got no family.’

  ‘None?’ Woodend asked.

  ‘None at all.’

  ‘That’s very unusual, isn’t it?’

  ‘I suppose it is, if you don’t happen to know the circumstances.’

  ‘An’ what are the circumstances, in her case?’

  ‘Accordin’ to what Mrs Hawtrey told me once, her family were big landowners somewhere down south, an’ when her mum an’ dad were killed in a tragic motorin’ accident, the rest of the family – all the uncles an’ aunts an’ cousins – got together an’ grabbed the land for themselves. Well, she couldn’t stand to be anywhere near them after that happened, could she? So she came up north to start a new life for herself.’

  ‘You don’t sound as if you entirely believe the story,’ Monika Paniatowski said.

  ‘Well, I do and I don’t, if you see what I mean,’ Mrs Chubb replied. ‘I believe her mum an’ dad were killed, an’ that the relatives grabbed what they could – because that’s what some relatives do. My Auntie Betty had this lovely grandfather clock, which she’d definitely promised to me, but she’d no sooner passed on than my cousin, Vera—’

  ‘What part don’t you believe?’ Paniatowski interrupted.

  ‘The bit about them bein’ big landowners.’

  ‘And why don’t you believe it?’

  ‘Because I’ve worked for a lot of posh folk in my time, an’ I could tell that Mrs Hawtrey hadn’t been posh for that long.’

  ‘So she didn’t have any relatives to give her the support she needed,’ Paniatowski said. ‘Which means, I suppose, that she just had to rely on her friends instead.’

  ‘Didn’t have many of them, neither.’

  ‘And why was that?’

  ‘Lots of reasons,’ Mrs Chubb said evasively.

  ‘Tell me a few of them,’ Paniatowski suggested.

  ‘Well, like I may have hinted earlier, she wasn’t quite posh enough for some of her neighbours.’

  ‘What else?’

  ‘I did hear that most of Mr Hawtrey’s old friends wouldn’t have anythin’ to do with him after he married her. They’re Catholic, you see,’ Mrs Chubb said, mouthing the word ‘Catholic’ with much the same reverential dread as some women mouthed the word ‘cancer’. ‘They don’t believe in divorce, you know. They’re old-fashioned in that way.’

  ‘So the neighbouring ladies didn’t have much to do with her, and neither did her husband’s old friends, but did she have any male friends of her own?’ Paniatows
ki asked.

  ‘That Mr Pine, the one who got himself murdered—’ Mrs Chubb stopped suddenly. ‘Hang on, is that what this is all about?’

  ‘Don’t go worryin’ your head over that,’ Woodend told her. ‘Just carry on with what you were sayin’.’

  ‘That Mr Pine came round to the house a few times in the first couple of weeks after Mr Hawtrey’s funeral, but you could tell he wasn’t really welcome, an’ in the end, the visits stopped.’

  ‘How could you tell he wasn’t really welcome in the house?’ Woodend wondered.

  ‘Well, Mrs Hawtrey was very cold an’ distant with him. Not that you can altogether blame her – he was with her husband when he died, you see, an’ maybe he could have done more to save him.’

  ‘Where did you get that idea from, Mrs Chubb?’ Paniatowski asked. ‘Did it come from Mrs Hawtrey?’

  ‘What idea are you talkin’ about?’

  ‘The idea that maybe Mr Pine could have done more to save Mr Hawtrey?’

  ‘No, I can’t say I really got it from her,’ Mrs Chubb said, slightly unconvincingly. ‘It was more just what I was thinking myself.’

  ‘You didn’t really answer the question about Mrs Hawtrey’s male friends,’ Paniatowski pointed out. ‘Does she have any?’

  ‘Not really,’ Mrs Chubb replied – just a little too quickly.

  ‘Lyin’ to the police is a serious matter, you know,’ Woodend said, in his gravest and most official voice.

  ‘I’m not lyin’!’ Mrs Chubb protested.

  ‘Of course you’re not. I know that. But maybe you’re not quite telling us the whole truth?’ Paniatowski suggested, gently.

  ‘I don’t actually know anythin’,’ Mrs Chubb told her, reluctantly.

  ‘But you have guessed something?’

  Mrs Chubb shrugged. ‘I notice things.’

  ‘Like what?’

  ‘When I leave that house of an afternoon, it’s in a perfect condition. Everythin’s neat an’ tidy, an’ you could eat your dinner right out of the toilet bowl, if you were so inclined.’

  ‘I’m sure you could.’

  ‘So if anythin’s changed between me leavin’ the house one day an’ comin’ back the next, I notice it.’