Echoes of Silence

by Marjorie Eccles

  The door opened and Manning came in. ‘He’s hopped it.’

  Richmond blinked, still back in his fractured past. ‘Who has?’

  ‘Trevor Austwick. He came out on licence from Armley about a month ago, but he hasn’t reported to his probation officer for two weeks. He’s a bad lad, he is, and right. Sent down for armed robbery, as I said, and got five years because he had previous form. Did the whole stretch – he’d likely have been released earlier, except he was as bloody-minded in there as he was out here.’

  ‘Pull the stops out to find him, Steve. And here, have a read of this.’ Richmond handed over the report Sally Jenner had brought in.

  ‘“Winifred Austwick, née Seaton, born 1952 in Consett, Co. Durham,”’ Manning read aloud. ‘“Father a miner … both parents died early … family dispersed, no connections there now. Nothing more known until she moved into the Clough Head Estate five years ago –” that’d be when Trev went down, I reckon.’

  ‘Read on and you’ll see there’s been bad blood between them seemingly, at any rate she’d filed for divorce. But we haven’t come across a will, and since he’s still her next of kin, he’ll come in for a tidy bit – unless he’s the one who topped her.’

  ‘No justice, is there?’

  ‘Unlikely he’d risk it, though, isn’t it?’

  ‘That note he sent her didn’t sound very conciliatory. More like he was out to touch her for what he could get. Maybe they had a row and he clobbered her. It’d stack, he’s not noted for his forward thinking, and he has a very nasty temper.’

  ‘All the more reason for getting hold of him. Meanwhile, how’ve you been getting on with the budding authors?’

  Manning moved his backside off the corner of the desk and went to sit opposite Richmond. ‘I’ve been at it since yesterday and I feel gutted.’ He looked it, his face settling into despondency. He’d obviously hated the task that had fallen to him. Community policing was all very well, but you could get too involved. ‘You were right, blackmail was the name of her game - with two of them, so far, but that’s enough to be going on with. She did try it on with Willie Muff, but he told her to get knotted. He’s been in enough hot water for that sort of threat not to bother him. But he’s been spreading the word not to get involved with Austwick, so it looks as though her days here were numbered anyway, if you see what I mean.’

  ‘What about the others?’

  ‘Harold Brackenroyd’s dead and I doubt she’d ever have got much change out of him anyway, he wasn’t a Brackenroyd for nowt! Harrison Priestley denies anything of the sort, but he would – I’ve been asking round, though, and it seems he has a little bit on the side, tucked away in a flat in Hebden Bridge. He’d be terrified of his wife getting to hear. So I think we might count him in for a contribution.’

  ‘You said two. Who’s the other?’

  ‘Oh aye. Margaret Whitfield.’ Manning looked down at his shoes and sighed. ‘Headmistress at the Girls’ High, very respected figure in the town. She lives with her sister. Who turns out not to be her sister, if you see what I mean. Austwick was getting four hundred a month from her, can you believe!’ He stopped and said awkwardly, ‘They’re good women, what they do’s their own business – but not a haporth of sense between them! If they hadn’t tried to cover up, reckoning they were sisters … folks don’t automatically assume two women sharing the same house are lesbians – not round here, anyway, not yet.’

  ‘Would that sort of thing really matter to anyone if it came out?’

  ‘Probably not – but it would to them, Miss Whitfield especially, she’s that sort. Spent her life instilling moral sense and good behaviour into her girls … The speculation alone would kill her.’

  And that was what blackmail was all about, of course, preying on the fears of people who had secrets, real or imagined, which they lived in dread of being exposed. Hush money, conscience money, guilt money. Trying to cover up like that, Margaret Whitfield had automatically put herself at risk. While Austwick was ostensibly helping her write up the school’s history, she was ferreting out some nice little juicy personal details at the same time, which was how it would work out with her other victims. ‘I dare say she and Priestley won’t be the only ones,’ Richmond observed. ‘Which means a lot of people won’t be sorry to have seen the back of Mrs Austwick. Including Miss Whitfield.’

  9

  There were no daffodils in November, but sometimes an unexpected bonus like this arrived: another golden day, when the deep intensity of the light made the distant hills look teal blue and the air was like chilled wine. This time, Richmond didn’t stop his car in the lane outside the stone gateposts and sit there; this time, there were no thousands of blowing trumpets in the garden simply to sit and stare at, as on the one and only time he’d ever passed Low Rigg.

  Correction. No one ever passed this house – the unmade-up road soon petered out into nothing more than a stony footpath up to the top of the moor, and there were better ways of getting up there. Neither had the daffodils been the attraction. The truth was, he’d gone there on purpose, driven by some masochistic need to picture Isobel and Beth as part of the family who lived here. Consumed with jealousy of all these unknown people, and with self-hatred because somehow, without meaning it, he’d failed both wife and child. This time, however, he drove right up to the flagged frontage, left his car and walked directly to the door. Out of the sun, it was sharply, bitterly cold. Snow was predicted and couldn’t be far off.

  There was a modern bell, inviting you to ignore the heavy, old-fashioned iron knocker beside it. He pushed it, heard it ring and looked around while he waited.

  It needed attention, obviously, this place. Not so much the house itself – the windows were stone mullioned, the door was of ancient weathered oak, and although the low, stone-tiled roof dipped somewhat, it was sturdy enough. But grass sprouted in the gutterings, a seedling tree grew in a gully between the gables, and the sun on the window panes showed them smeary and in need of a clean, the flags in front of the door were grouted with weeds, and unswept. The sloping garden too, was uncared for, wild and overgrown, an untidy straggle of untended herbaceous debris, mostly dead michaelmas daisies by the look of it, competing with more weeds. Moss furred its flagged paths, a sundial lay toppled on its side, the centuries-old dry-stone wall surrounding the garden had finally collapsed in places.

  He’d prepared himself, but hadn’t expected the upsurge of emotion brought on by the sight of this garden, where Beth had last been seen, playing in the snow.

  He hadn’t expected Polly Winslow to answer the door, either, but she it was who stood there, framed in the darkness of the large hall behind her. Strangely subdued and pale, the deep rich colours she wore seeming a little dimmed, even her hair having less bounce and shine than he remembered.

  ‘Oh,’ she said, ‘it’s you,’ then flapped a hand in apology. ‘Forgive me … It’s just that I was expecting … We’re all at sixes and sevens this morning.’

  ‘I’m sorry if it’s inconvenient, Mrs Winslow. I wanted a brief word with your mother. In connection with the death of Mrs Wyn Austwick,’ he added, in case she thought he was pursuing his own concerns.

  ‘My mother?’ She caught her breath and stared at him. ‘You’d better come in,’ she said at last, stepping back and holding the door open wider. ‘I don’t think you can have heard. My mother died last night.’

  Momentarily, what she’d said didn’t register, but then the shock of it hit him. ‘No, I hadn’t heard. I’m so sorry.’ And he was, for the woman in front of him, understanding now why it was she appeared so diminished was the only word he could think of. Sorry for her, yes, but also bitterly disappointed for himself, which told him how much he’d been hoping from the interview, and aware that yet another door had closed to him in his search for the answer to why Beth’s short life had been ended so needlessly. ‘I’ll make myself scarce, come back later.’

  ‘You couldn’t have known. Please come in. I really think you ou
ght. There’s something you should know.’ There was an edge to her tone that intrigued him, over and above the natural distress one would have expected at such a time. ‘Wait in here, if you will, my brother-in-law will know what to do,’ she added oddly.

  Almost before he knew it, he’d been ushered inside and left alone in a large, shabby room, sunny and low-ceilinged, with panels whose white paint was cracking, tatty yellow silk curtains and a ceiling painted yellow between the beams. An enormous, ancient radiator added to the heat given out by a piled-up leaping fire in the huge stone fireplace – you’d need to chuck whole bucketfuls of fuel into a grate that size to make any difference, and it looked as though that’s exactly what had been done.

  In the corner by a window stood a large grand piano, spread with a silk shawl and covered with dozens of slightly tarnished silver-framed photos. He caught his breath, still shaken by that vision of Beth playing in the snow, half afraid he might see her ghost – silver-blonde hair, tip-tilted nose – sitting reluctantly at the piano stool.

  ‘Why do I have to practise scales all the time, Daddy? I want to learn to play “White Christmas”, like Miss Crisp, at school.’

  (‘White Christmas’? Good God, what have you started, Miss Crisp?)

  ‘Fact of life, sprog. Can’t have one without the other.’

  He averted his eyes, turned away, concentrated on the rest of the room. Cluttered with a haphazard arrangement of furniture - two huge, comfortable-looking settees covered in some worn, indeterminate fabric, chairs of all shapes and sizes, various tables and an exceedingly tall, breakfront bookcase, all of which were obviously old and almost certainly valuable. Scattered around on the seating were piles of beautiful cushions, glowing in embroidered silk and needlepoint. A large tapestry frame with a half-finished piece of work stretched on it stood in front of a chair and footstool. Threadbare rugs covered a stone-flagged floor that was time-smoothed and polished by the passage of many feet. Hanging incongruously over the mantelpiece was a large, blown-up, modern-framed colour photograph of Freya Cass in her heyday, modelling a stiffly off-the-shoulder ball gown.

  He scarcely had time to take in the fashionably nonchalant pose, the throwaway grace of the long, elegant figure carelessly displaying a fortune on her back, before Polly Winslow returned, followed by a big man bearing a tea tray whom Richmond immediately recognised as Leon Katz. He’d hardly changed at all from the smooth, good-looking, solidly built young lawyer Richmond remembered, though he’d lost some of his hair and gained a lot of authority. Behind him came a tall, fair, generously proportioned woman, beautifully dressed in black, carefully made up. Polly introduced them both shortly: ‘My sister, Ginny, my brother-in-law, Leon Katz.’ A heightened atmosphere seemed to come into the room with them, a sense of words of some sort having been exchanged before they entered.

  Katz remembered Richmond, too. ‘We’ve met. Leeds Crown Court, wasn’t it?’ He proffered a large, warm handshake.

  His wife offered tea. ‘You might as well join us, Mr Richmond, at the moment we’re drinking it as though there’s no tomorrow. The universal panacea.’ She had an attractive, husky voice. She sounded slightly ironic, calm, in control. The two women were not much alike – Ginny with her slow-moving elegance and Polly, every movement quick and impulsive. But they bore that elusive, underlying family resemblance, always difficult to define, and both, in their different ways, had inherited their mother’s grace.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ he said formally, ‘I couldn’t have chosen a worse moment – ’ He wished to God he wasn’t here, or that he hadn’t come alone, could have anticipated this and brought Sally Jenner with him. A woman helped, at times like this, knew what to say other than sorry. He’d never been good at sympathising, himself.

  ‘On the contrary,’ Katz interrupted authoritatively, waving him to a seat. ‘Please sit down.’ He himself settled into a wide Georgian wing chair. Every inch the lawyer, calm, well-tailored, carefully non-judgemental. ‘So, you’re here in connection with the murder of Wyn Austwick?’

  ‘That’s right, checking up on her movements – I understand she was working with Mrs Denshaw on a family history. It was only a matter of when Mrs Denshaw last saw her.’

  If any of them wondered why a chief inspector was undertaking such a menial task, they didn’t show it.

  ‘Well, none of us here ever met the woman,’ Katz said, ‘so you’d be wasting your time with us! Dot Nagle would tell you, though I doubt she’s in a position to answer questions at the moment. She’s been with Mrs Denshaw for many years, and she’s naturally very upset by what’s happened.’

  Nagle. Dot, and her husband, Eddie, the housekeeper/ companion and the handyman, thought Richmond, slotting them into place from the old case notes he’d been reading only a few hours ago. ‘I can see them later, then, if necessary.’

  ‘They don’t live in. They have one of the cottages down by the Moorcock.’

  Richmond nodded, waited. No one said anything more. ‘What’s this something you thought I should know, Mrs Winslow?’

  Katz smoothly intercepted. ‘I think I can answer that. It’s simply that Mrs Denshaw had made up her mind not to pursue the matter of this book with Mrs Austwick – and my sister-in-law has the idea the decision may possibly be indirectly relevant to your inquiries.’ He arched an eyebrow at Polly, and Richmond sensed dissension.

  ‘In what way relevant?’ he asked, speaking to her. Never mind Katz.

  ‘When Freya told Mrs Austwick of her decision, she became very abusive. Not surprisingly, that upset my mother very much. Then, last night, she died of a stroke.’

  ‘I can see that something like that might have distressed her. But how do you think this affects the inquiries into Mrs Austwick’s death?’

  ‘Isn’t it obvious?’ Quick colour came into her face. ‘The woman didn’t exactly go out of her way to make friends, if she treated all her clients like she treated my mother!’

  ‘Are you implying one of her other clients killed her?’

  ‘Would that be so surprising? In the nature of things, she was given access to a lot of private family matters, and if she chose not to be discreet – ’

  ‘Polly’

  Polly looked at her sister, took a deep breath and subsided, though looking very much as though she would like to continue.

  ‘Did she threaten Mrs Denshaw in any way?’

  ‘Not that we know of,’ Ginny replied quickly.

  The air was full of what wasn’t being said. Richmond let the silence go on, sipping his tea and looking out of the window towards a group of near-leafless elms, and the huddle of ragged-feathered crows (or were they rooks? He never knew which were which), their empty nests now exposed, wedged high up in the forks of branches that were limned black against the cold sky. Behind him, the mechanism of a big, mahogany long-case clock, its hood within an inch of the ceiling, whirred and then bonged out eleven strokes while he speculated on the cause of the tension between the three of them.

  Katz was frowning, tapping his fingers on his chair arm, watching Richmond in a cautious, lawyerly way. He must know who I am, Richmond thought, other than as the police officer he remembered through seeing him from time to time in court. If nothing else, Polly would surely have given warning that the man on their doorstep was not only the officer investigating Wyn Austwick’s murder, but also Beth’s father. She, too, was now gazing out of the window, perching on the arm of the deep old settee where her sister sat as if, having said her piece, she was deliberately distancing herself. The light lit her hair, which Richmond saw now had lost none of its gloss. That had been a trick of the light as she’d stood in the doorway of the dark hall. It gleamed in the strong sunlight like a polished conker.

  ‘Do you smoke, Mr Richmond?’ Katz asked suddenly.

  Richmond shook his head and the lawyer brought a pack of cigarettes from his pockets and lit one. ‘Neither do I, except in emergencies.’ Richmond finished his tea, reached out to put the empty cup and saucer on the t
able next to him, expecting to be enlightened as to the nature of the emergency, but nothing was forthcoming.

  ‘And that’s all you wanted to tell me?’ he said eventually.

  ‘Isn’t it enough?’ Katz asked.

  Polly suddenly went to sit on the needlepoint stool which had been in front of the embroidery frame, pulling it up to the fire, hunching her arms around her knees. Stifled enough in the suffocating room to wish he could remove his jacket, Richmond shifted uneasily when she shivered and leant forward to pick up the long iron poker lying on the hearth, prodded the fire and the whole edifice that had been built up fell in a blaze of flame and smoke. A wave of heat and a strong smell of sulphur pervaded the room.

  He wondered where to begin sorting out the lies. Or perhaps the half-truths, which virtually amounted to the same thing. He’d only been told what he was bound to find out, anyway. He spoke to Polly again, whom he guessed to be the most vulnerable of the three. She, at least, looked so shiningly honest and sincere, he wanted to believe her; but he was damn certain that what he’d been told was a long way from the whole story, and she was no more immune from suspicion than the rest.

  ‘Why do you think your mother decided to abandon the project?’

  ‘Does that matter?’

  Her question was followed by another irritating silence, orchestrated by the crows outside, setting up a raucous quarrelling, engaging themselves in furious activity around the elm branches. She looked at him with those amazing lustrous eyes, and after a moment added, in a low voice, ‘I think now that it was because she knew she was dying.’