Swallow Hall Murder

by Noreen Wainwright

  “Bracken frequented The Drover’s Arms, a half mile from his cottage. We need to call in there and see what the locals have to say about him. Should be interesting, eh, lad? A poet. Can’t see much common ground with local farmers and tradesmen, can you?”

  Brown was answering the telephone by then and handed the receiver over to Inspector Greene. It was the woman who’d been berating him. Brown was as sure as he could be. There had been something in her voice, a local accent, flattened out. It had struck him at the time. Now, he would make himself scarce. There was a small back kitchen where they brewed up. He took the cup and saucer from the inspector’s desk and left the office. He tried to avoid looking or listening, but he couldn’t miss the sight of Greene putting his other hand to his forehead and rubbing.

  * * *

  “Are you sure you’re doing the right thing, Bet?”

  Inspector Greene’s wife looked back at her sister, and Margaret licked her lips and swallowed. She knew that look all too well. She’d seen it all her sister’s life. The eyes half-narrowed and fixed straight ahead like an athlete approaching the finishing line. Bet’s mouth was pressed tight shut.

  Then, probably to divert Margaret’s attention, she took a shiny gold-coloured powder compact out of her fake-leather handbag and looked into it.

  Typical Bet. In one way, Margaret couldn’t wait for her to go. The news she’d decided to return to Albert, to “give him another chance”, was, for Margaret, like being handed the sweepstake. The fact that it was going to lead to disaster—again wasn’t her business. Oh, if she could only toughen up and really think like that. But, all Bet’s life, she’d been a big burden of guilt and love and upset right in the centre of Margaret’s chest. Margaret had been twelve, and Bet’s birth had been the second most important thing that had ever happened in her life. There had been only her and a brother who had died, aged three, of meningitis.

  Richie’s death when Margaret was seven, had changed her life and taught her about terror. She hadn’t been aware of that state of terror and what it did to her whole body until adulthood because it had crept up on her and grew and eventually became all she knew. It became normal to creep about the place almost on the tips of her toes, her shoulders hunched up; the muscles in the back of her neck so tight she got headaches. She became far too aware of every murmur in the house, every nuance and the slightest change in mood.

  Her father went quietly back to his job teaching woodwork at the local technical college. On the weekends he would go into his work shed or if the weather allowed, would take off on his bike with a parcel of sandwiches in his carrier bag. There had been a time before Richie died when they would all go on walks. Farmland and hills were all within reach of their cottage and their mother used to make the sandwiches for a picnic.

  Then, Richie died, and everything changed in a day. Sorrow and pain were like a heavy covering over the house, and the three of them went their own ways. Once, she had asked her dad if he’d take her on a picnic.

  She’d thought about it and screwed up her courage and followed him out to the shed. It was a Friday and every Friday evening he went and got fish and chips from Hill’s chip shop on Victoria Street. The fish and chips supper was a perfect example of how things had changed in the house. It used to be a happy, happy time, and she and Richie would drink lemonade and her parents a glass of beer. They’d tell her and Richie about the hiking tours they’d had in the Lake District and even in Scotland and how they’d take them too one day.

  Excitement so strong that it would cause a flutter in her stomach, and a jittery restlessness would come over Margaret, and she’d think of the books and pictures of purple heather and bonnie Prince Charlie and boats, and the whole world would just seem so huge and thrilling.

  Then, in the space of a few days, Richie went from being a bit pale and listless to dead. Life in their house changed utterly. Margaret got so that she was frightened of being anywhere near her mother. It was as if her mother’s pain was too much to take, and though it was selfish to mind that her mother barely knew she was there, it hurt. Wicked thoughts like, would her parents have been less upset if it had been her who’d contracted meningitis and died, wormed their way into her brain and ate away at her peace.

  “Dad, can I go with you? I have my own bicycle now and if we didn’t go too far…?”

  Her father stopped his sawing, just for a few seconds and glanced at her. He was wearing a big, long, navy-blue apron over his normal jumper, shirt, and tie. His sleeves were rolled up, and Margaret saw the movement under the brown skin of his forearms, and then she noticed a jumping movement, farther up, on the side of his face. She shouldn’t have come in here and asked him.

  “Not, at the moment, Margaret. Your mother needs you at home.”

  His words were like rocks plummeting into a big, dark pool. She didn’t want to be having to look after her mother, and as she turned away to go back to the house, a ball of hot guilt lodged itself in the base of her throat.

  Now, with years and years of hindsight and a bit of reckoning up, she realised that her mother was pregnant at that time, and maybe her parents thought that that would make things all right, and for a while, it sort of had done that. It had made things different, anyway.

  Elizabeth—soon known as Bet, had been a beautiful baby, but delicate-looking, which made everyone who met her, rush to protect her.

  Margaret looked at Bet now and not for the first time, thought that had been the ruination of her. She hadn’t been really delicate, but that was how she became known, and they all indulged and spoilt her and look at the result. Their mother’s behaviour changed slowly, subtly and it was only now looking down through the periscope of years that Margaret could see how really peculiar mother had become after Bet’s birth. Her obsession with minding Bet and keeping her safe hadn’t stopped there. There had been the excessive cleaning and routines that she tried to pass off as good housekeeping. Even then, Margaret knew household tasks shouldn’t be allowed to make you a prisoner in your own home. But Margaret couldn’t discuss it with anyone.

  If she thought of talking to Dad, the memory of his tight, pained expression when she’d asked him to take her out with him would come back to her. She’d attempted to talk to Bet once. What a mistake that had been.

  “What’s wrong with you, Mag? There’s nothing wrong with Mother. Did you see the pattern of the bolero she’s making for me?” In her excitement, Bet jumped up from the bed where she’d been perched and moved like a faun to the other side of the room and her wardrobe and pulled out several hangers.

  One held a sky-blue skirt, and now, she pulled it on over her pyjamas and twirled round, the skirt lifting and billowing, the fluidity of the movement cutting through Margaret’s sour disapproval. More and more, her sister was bringing this out in her, this miserable jealousy that she hated but couldn’t help.

  “Sarah Davies birthday party. Can’t you just see it, Mag? Everyone will be so jealous. The bolero is going to match this perfectly. Don’t you think? Oh, Mag, your face…you look like a jealous, old biddy.”

  That was the moment Margaret began to see her sister. Strangely, at this moment when she most hated her, would have loved to slap her for her vanity and selfishness, the small seed of understanding inside Margaret germinated. She felt sorry for her sister.

  Margaret didn’t know how she knew, but she could remember having the strong feeling that that vanity and selfishness would hinder and trip her sister up for the rest of her life unless she could change.

  She hadn’t changed, and all these years later, Margaret sat on the edge of another bed in her own house this time and looked at Bet, again handling clothing carefully, even in her eagerness to be gone and be back with Albert to start the new thrilling chapter in her life story. Whether Albert would want that too, Bet didn’t even have the awareness to consider.

  * * *

  All day, Inspector Greene was preoccupied, but he wasn’t difficult or picking fault with Brown. He wasn’
t exactly ignoring him, either. It was more that he seemed hardly conscious of his presence, which in its way was disconcerting.

  Then he was on the phone and with a gesture of his hand, an upward motion, Brown swallowed and left the room. It was about that woman and whatever it was, it was causing Inspector Greene to behave as though he was only half-there. Brown must be in a state of high alert because if they missed anything in the Sean Bracken case, whatever it was that was going wrong in his boss’s life would be made a hundred times worse.

  Still, the inspector was preoccupied. As they were on their way out to Swallow Hall, he said, “I might have to go home a bit early today.” That was unheard of in all Brown’s time working with the man.

  “We need to speak to this Serena woman. May be able to get a bit more sense out of her than the two mad aunts. Kate is the one to talk to…a bit more normal, I’d say. But, cagey. Whatever the connection is with Bracken, I’ll get to it.”

  Inspector Greene was saying all the right things. It was as though he’d had a spark of conscience and a spurt of vigour but for all that, Brown still knew that his heart wasn’t really in it. It would be up to him, then.

  * * *

  Serena Grant had made no effort with her appearance, but she was still striking. She was dressed in a brown and blue tweed suit. She would look different if she’d paid more attention. As it was, he could imagine the effort it had taken for her to get out of bed and put on the brave face. Her appearance made his mind race though because Serena couldn’t deny that she’d been affected by Bracken’s death. She didn’t even try.

  “Sean and I were good friends, Inspector. We knew each other in London before the war, afterwards too. He was part of the reason I came up here. Just friends, though, but very close.”

  She had to be lying. Brown looked at her. Her shoulders were set, and she held her head high; her hands were folded in her lap. Every so often she’d clench and then relax them. She’d move her hands against each other, then take hold of herself and stop. She was making a tremendous effort to appear as though she had nothing to hide—too much effort.

  “So, no romantic involvement?” Inspector Greene shot the question out, and Brown was sure he didn’t imagine the cynicism in his voice.

  Then she was defensive. “Sean and I were just good friends as I keep saying…it is possible you know—between a man and a woman. He had … had problems. He needed a friend. So did I.”

  “Did he have enemies?”

  Inspector Greene was doing that thing where he seemed to look up at the person he was speaking to from a slightly bent head. The look was intense, but unless you knew him like Brown did by now, you could miss it.

  “Enemies…why would he have enemies, Inspector?”

  Greene shrugged as though he had all the time in the world. “You tell me, Mrs. Grant.”

  Brown swallowed. His throat felt dry and scratchy, and the feeling at the back of his nose told him he was getting a cold. Great. The inspector with goodness knows what going on at home and the very fact of being in this house... being at Swallow Hall did something to him. It wasn’t rational, but the place pulled him down. If they would just decorate the place. He looked at the wall behind the ugly marble fireplace. It was a dark green, a flocked paper that reflected no light. The place was so full of stuff too; stuffed owls behind glass, fiddly ornaments that looked a nightmare to clean. God help poor Ivy Moss. He had drifted. He must pay attention. The woman denied that Sean Bracken had enemies.

  “It’s far too fanciful, Inspector. Sean didn’t mix enough to have enemies nor friends for that matter. He went to the local pub, the Drover’s Arms.” Her voice trailed off; she cleared her throat. “I’m sorry. I need to go, Inspector. I need to get some air…I don’t feel at all well.”

  That startled Brown. Right out of his reverie.

  The inspector got up, gestured to Brown to go to the woman. He himself made a move in her direction as if to waylay her. He put a hand out.

  Then, she gave a cry and fell to the floor.

  Brown’s heart banged in his chest as he went and crouched down beside her. “She’s fainted, sir. I think that’s all.” Brown’s medical knowledge was very patchy. He’d attended a first aid course as part of his training, and there had been a course run by the Red Cross when he’d been a lad. He had attended that mainly in the vain hope of meeting lasses. The reality had been serious-minded, middle-aged women wanting to practise their bandaging on him. But there had been a boy in his class at school who was always fainting. He knew what a faint looked like, or he thought he did.

  She came round then, and he was a bit more relieved than he let on.

  “Oh, dear.” She sat up and put her hand to her forehead. “I’m so sorry. I feel a bit sick, now.” Her voice was high and shaky.

  “Get a cushion, Sergeant,” Greene looked at him and in a lower voice told him to get a glass of water too and to get one of the aunts.

  “Don’t try and get up too soon. Stay there for a minute.” He put his hand on the woman’s shoulder, and as Brown left the room, he told her to take deep breaths.

  Brown’s mind raced as he went across the hall and knocked on the big sitting or drawing-room or whatever they called it; the one on the right side as you came in through the huge front door. He hadn’t seen that coming and it belied her statement about her and Sean Bracken being just friends. Well, either that or something else altogether had caused her to faint. The old lady was on her own in the drawing-room, and that was as much use to him as a chocolate teapot.

  She looked affronted as he came through the door. She was sitting on a high-backed armchair with something, a jigsaw laid out on an occasional table beside her. “Do you normally just wander about people’s houses without a by-your-leave?”

  “No, I’m sorry.” Inside, he cursed himself for his servility. Why did the old bat reduce him to this? He cleared his throat and determined to be firm. “Your granddaughter, Mrs. Grant, has been taken ill. The inspector sent me out to fetch one of your daughters or one of the maids to help—to maybe get her a drink, help her to her room.”

  “Tsk.” The old lady shook her head. “No backbone, that generation. How they came through a war, I’ll never know. Press the bell behind my head.”

  He walked across as cagily as if he was on broken grass and keeping as much distance as possible, he pushed on the brass bell. Within a couple of minutes, Ivy Moss came into the room and stopped when she saw him, her air of distraction being replaced with a more cautious look. She’d no doubt thought it was Mrs. Turner demanding a hot drink or a shawl or whatever she could think of to keep the girl on her toes. He explained about Mrs. Grant’s faint and Ivy accompanied him back to the small sitting-room.

  Serena was looking better, much better, the buttermilk pallor gone. “No need to fuss, Ivy. I fainted. It’s happened before, a touch of anaemia I think. No doubt the shock of what happened to poor Sean too…and this place.” Her voice lowered as she said the last few words so Brown couldn’t tell whether she’d just been thinking aloud or was at the end of her tether.

  “We’ll come back, Mrs. Grant, when you’re feeling better. I suggest you rest. If you’re absolutely sure you don’t need to see a doctor?”

  She sat up straighter at that. Ivy had gone to her and was crouched down beside her chair. “No, as I said, Inspector. It’s nothing, a bit of shock, that’s all.”

  Brown was surprised at the inspector’s decision to leave the woman; not wait around, not take the opportunity to probe a bit deeper. Maybe Brown was becoming hardened but if it had been up to him, he didn’t think he’d leave it at that.

  “So, give me your summary of the case up to this point, Sergeant Brown.”

  That was a jolt. He was thinking about it, of course he was, driving along the lanes, still barren with winter, eye out for sheep, which round here was a hazard always; they knew no boundaries. He narrowed his focus away from the broader vista and steadied his driving to a thinking pace.

&
nbsp; “The old lady, Mrs. Turner, seems a tyrant, rules them all and despises them for letting themselves be ruled…” He risked a sideways glance at his boss.

  Inspector Greene was staring ahead through the windscreen, his profile craggy and expressionless.

  “The sensible one amongst the sisters is Kate, though it’s difficult to see how she puts up with her life at Swallow Hall, having lived in the outside world. Hubert…” He swallowed, knowing that he hadn’t covered himself in glory in his interview with the only man in the place. He’d bungled it. The inspector was aware he’d bungled it, and Brown couldn’t be completely sure whether he was having a dig. As a rule, he wasn’t the sort of person to do that, but very occasionally he would refer to a mistake, later, when Brown was beginning to think he was home and dry.

  “Hubert seems difficult to fathom. Maybe Swallow Hall for all its faults is a refuge for the misfits, sir.”

  “A refuge for the misfits…mmm, well that’s an interesting perspective.”

  “I mean…Mrs. Grant. She seems a worldly-wise woman; the last type of person you’d imagine in a place like this. I know her grandmother may have put pressure on her to come up when her husband died. I understand that, I suppose. But, why would she stay?”

  “And what’s your answer to that, Sergeant?”

  “I think she and Bracken were more than friends, sir.”

  “You think that because of her reaction. Too obvious, maybe, lad. Cherchez la femme, they say. A good-looking man like that. We may find more than one femme in the case.”

  Chapter Eight