Swallow Hall Murder

by Noreen Wainwright

“This is the wrong, wrong way to do this, Bet.”

  Margaret was wasting her breath. Still, she had to say it and try her best to dissuade her sister from this stupid course of action. She’d spent too long, along with everyone else, pandering to Bet. That was at the root of the way her sister had turned out.

  She turned round, from her passenger seat in the Morris Minor and looked hard at Bet. Stan, in the driver’s seat, stared ahead and kept his thoughts to himself.

  It was ridiculous really to be afraid of your own younger sister. Maybe fear was the wrong word. She dreaded the way Bet could be at times.

  Margaret wasn’t good with confrontation and scenes and nerves. If she allowed herself to think about it, she could trace that back to her childhood and tiptoeing around her mother and always wanting everything to be calm and peaceful. You couldn’t always have that. You couldn’t always be a coward.

  “Albert doesn’t want you back, you know, Bet.” There. It was out. She took a deep breath, and then the searing tones of her sister, like burning acid, spat from the back of the car.

  “You’re stupid, stupid, Margaret. I don’t know why I have to listen to this. It’s rubbish. You don’t know the first thing about me and Albert.”

  Give me strength…Margaret hoped she hadn’t actually said the words aloud. Any minute now and Bet would be sticking her fingers in her ears and humming loudly to drown out what she didn’t want to hear just as she’d done as a child.

  “You’ve got your key?”

  “Of course I have.”

  The possibility Albert might have changed the locks crossed Margaret’s mind, but she didn’t seriously think he’d go so far.

  She watched Bet go up the path to the door of the stone cottage, and Margaret felt such a mixture of things, worried, relieved, and at a loss. Panic fizzed through her for a moment until Stan turned the car in the road, and they drove away. She’d gone to see Albert, tried to warn him. She couldn’t do any more, not for now. She and Stan had discussed Bet until they had worn the subject out.

  “You stop worrying about that one, Margaret. She’s a survivor.” Stan’s voice was calm as always, and she willed herself to be reassured by his words.

  * * *

  Back in the station, Bill Brown looked at the words in the slim book that Inspector Greene had managed to get hold of. Sean Bracken’s poetry had been published by small, London-based publisher by the name of Huston & Barrows. “What do you make of it?”

  He wished the inspector hadn’t asked him. He needed time to think about the words. Of course, he’d read some of the war poetry, although his master at school had been dead against the whole thing. He’d been a tough, ex-army man, Mr. Miller, and he had no truck with anything that questioned the rights and wrongs of the war.

  He wasn’t alone in that. Plenty of others hated the way the war poets cast doubt on the purpose of the war and insisted on bringing the battlefield into the homes and libraries at home. It was a thorny issue. Brown could understand that viewpoint.

  The war had been fought, and those who went to battle had to be left with the certainty that their bravery was honoured; that they had answered their country’s call. What would it do to them if poets and writers questioned and condemned it all the time?

  So you went to France and lost a limb or had your nerves shattered and now you’re back in England, and you’re being told that it was all a misguided farce over a few miles of ground. Brown could understand that argument, but he was beginning to doubt it was right. Didn’t you owe it to the servicemen, to those who died and those who were damaged to question the politicians, to maybe make them slower another time to issue the call to arms?

  “I think it’s probably good, sir.”

  He did need to read the words again on his own because the verse was full of what he thought was known as symbolism—about open mouths and eyes and maws of mud. It made you shudder, but that was no doubt the point. There was a lot about colour and the lack of colour, and he got that. Ireland was meant to be very green due to the rain and Bracken had brought that into his verse too about the rain and the green and the rain and the mud.

  “Before we go any further, we need to check Bracken’s cottage. It’s rented from one of the local farmers, but there’s a key with his nearest neighbour, a Miss Grove.”

  So not all that much of a recluse then.

  This part of an investigation—in the few cases where the perpetrator wasn’t instantly apprehended was all about finding out about people and you wouldn’t be human if you didn’t find that interesting.

  The phone rang, and Inspector Greene was very quick to pick up the receiver. “Yes?” There was a pause while the operator put the caller through. “What? I said…for the love of…”

  He looked straight at his sergeant, and his eyes were hard. A prickle of unease glanced over the little hairs on the skin of Brown’s back.

  The inspector put the phone down and took his overcoat from the coat stand in the corner. “I have to go…personal business…get out to the cottage, will you…you know what to look for—go to the pub. I put my trust in you lad—no mistakes. Take Robinson.”

  Robinson was a new recruit and raw as a baby rabbit. He made Brown feel like a middle-aged, experienced policeman. One good thing about Robinson, he didn’t talk much. He’d probably been told by his mam to say nowt and mind his manners.

  The cottage was tidy; that was the first thing that hit you. It was small and simply laid out but with the addition of a small indoor lavatory and bathroom. That was unusual for a country cottage of this size.

  Upstairs, was a narrow, iron bed in a small bedroom with a small wardrobe and chair also crammed into the space. He couldn’t imagine a woman here or a person doing any writing in here. There wasn’t the room; it was more like a monk’s cell than a bedroom. Except for one thing—there was a striped, knitted cover on the bed and the chances were a woman had made it. There was one other anomaly. In the bathroom, in a small, wall-mounted cabinet was a bottle, half-empty of Joy perfume. So, either, Bracken had an unusual side to him, indeed, or there was a woman somewhere in the picture.

  “Cherchez la femme,” he muttered.

  “What was that you said, Serge?”

  “I said, Cherchez la femme. It means look for a woman—more than that—when you’ve found the woman, then you have your answer.”

  The only area of untidiness was in Bracken’s work—very odd. There was a stack of notebooks on a low table in the downstairs room, the living room, he supposed, and by his bed, and several loose sheets were interspersed in the pages.

  He was a tidy man; why would he keep his work in such a messy fashion?

  “This looks a bit odd, Serge.”

  Robinson pointed at the heavy trunk at the foot of the bed. It must have been dragged out; the lid was up, and it was empty. The drawers of a bureau in the downstairs room also looked as though they had been rifled when Brown went down and looked again. So, a very tidy house with elements of hastily shoved back and ransacked storing places. Either the man himself had been looking for something or someone else had been in here.

  * * *

  They had called at Miss Grove’s cottage for the key. She reminded Brown of one of his earliest teachers at school. A quiet authority; that was it. So, when she offered tea, Brown accepted. It was doubtful Miss Grove would be able to give them any great insight into the man. But, she’d known him and that, in itself, was worth something. Knowledge about Bracken was sparse.

  “Sean never harmed anyone. He was a good neighbour to me on the odd occasion when I had a problem. In the winter, he cleared the snow or he’d cut me some logs.” She paused and looked down,

  “But…”

  “But,” Brown prompted, matching her low tone.

  “He would go into a black mood sometimes, a depression, I suppose.” She cleared her throat, and her cheeks became pink. Brown couldn’t think why she should find it difficult to talk about such a thing. Perhaps it was her generation,
maybe things like emotions were difficult.

  She confirmed this view. “I heard Sean was dead and thought he must have taken his own life. As I said, there were times when he would become almost reclusive. I can only imagine that the war…” She didn’t finish the sentence.

  “Did he have visitors?”

  This would be even more difficult for the poor woman. “Yes, Serena Grant from Swallow Hall used to come to see him regularly. But, I haven’t seen her for a while. I’m not sure but possibly not since Christmas.”

  “Did he have any other visitors?”

  She shook her head and passed a plate of biscuits across to him.

  The cottage was warm and cosy, and a tiger cat stretched luxuriantly across the hearth rug. Out of the blue, she said, “A woman came to see him one day. She called here first, asking which cottage he lived in. A quiet-spoken woman, southern accent. I noticed it because it was very unusual for Sean to have visitors.”

  * * *

  Edith looked at Archie. His reaction to the news of the discovery of the body at Swallow Hall had taken her by surprise - more than that. She couldn’t understand it. He had clammed up too, something he was past master at.

  “Archie, what is it? Did you know the man? Is there some connection I know nothing about?” Why was he so often like this? She could have shouted at him. It was like getting blood from a stone. “Archie, you put an expression like that on your face, and it just about drives me mad. Why the shock? I mean…”

  “If you’d let me get a word in edgeways, I’d tell you.”

  He was the limit—she’d been trying to get a response out of him for the past quarter of an hour.

  “It was Brigid. Sean Bracken came from the same part of Wicklow as she did. They knew each other well. When I say, town, I mean townland. The families were friends, and they knew each other in London before the war. I used to be jealous of him.” He winced then grinned, more in nostalgia than sadness.

  Thank goodness. He hardly ever mentioned his wife. It really was another world; the pre-war London. Not that she knew it, not really. Archie had trained at St Thomas’ and met Brigid there. All Edith knew of London then was from visits down when she’d looked at Archie’s life and at his friends and railed at God for making her a girl. It had taken a terrible world event to bring about her escape from the countryside.

  “What was he like?”

  Archie shrugged. “Full of idealism and literary aspirations. Fell out with his family I think. Not interested in Brigid, not in that way, anyway.”

  Edith looked at him. What was he saying? She frowned, but Archie shook his head.

  “No, nothing like that. Rumour was that Bracken was involved with a married woman, and that was the reason he was hanging about, unattached. He joined up and went to France and had a rough do, by all accounts—well, he certainly made some mileage out of it…”

  “Archie, that’s a rotten thing to say.”

  “Probably. Take no notice of me. So, he’s got himself murdered? He fell out with his family as I say. Lots of Irishmen joined up and fought; in many cases because they were desperate, in poverty. Bracken wasn’t, and I think there were some in his family who found his decision difficult to understand. They’d see it that he had a more noble fight at a home on his doorstep, the fight for independence. That’s how it’s viewed now, though, not necessarily at the time.”

  “I don’t understand enough about Irish history to take sides in that argument. Anyway, I suppose the same thing would apply to thousands of others who fought, from India, the West Indies…” Edith tried to remember some of the other countries who had answered the call to help the mother country. It was something that wasn’t much talked about.

  “So, since he’s been living here…did you meet him, talk to him?”

  Archie shrugged and for a second his shoulders sagged. “A few times. There are times when you want to run a mile away from those years and times when you need to go back. Of course, Bracken was always going back. A bit like Giles Etherington, I suppose, though with a totally opposing viewpoint. Etherington hankered after the war years. Sean Bracken was fixated on the anger he felt about the whole thing. Except…”

  Edith looked across at him, wondering at the puzzlement in his voice.

  “Except, funnily enough, the last time I met him, which was sometime around Christmas. I was visiting old Seth Carson, who lives in a neighbouring cottage, Woodbine Cottage. I couldn’t get away from him, lonely old boy…felt the need for a drink, so I called in at the Drover’s Arms.

  Bracken was there with his newspaper, propping up the bar. We had a couple of drinks together. Talked about Brigid as we always did. A bit about his writing. But, there was something different in his outlook, and he was talking about moving. Said he’d had enough of the country life for now. Talked about going back to Ireland, to Dublin, maybe do some teaching. He’d been asked to give a couple of lectures at York University in the autumn, enjoyed it, gave him a taste for it, I should say. Could be that the novelty of being a recluse poet was wearing off.

  Or, it could be that the relationship with the married woman had ended.”

  Archie got up from the table and stretched. “About time I was in the surgery next door. Shame about Bracken, after all this time, on the verge of moving on with his life and he goes and gets himself murdered.”

  Chapter Nine

  “What are you doing back here, Bet?” Greene had to hold on tight to his temper. If he started shouting at her, he wouldn’t be able to stop. If he pushed her through the door, she would hammer on it and bring the neighbours out, and it would be terrible, wouldn’t it? A delicate, little woman being pushed around by a big and burly man—a police inspector too.

  His head and neck and shoulders ached. More than anything, he wanted to sit in the big armchair he’d bought at a furniture sale in Harrogate, lean back and close his eyes.

  How was he going to play this? She couldn’t be allowed to walk back in and destroy his life again. But, she had walked back in. Margaret had warned him, but he’d been too angry to listen. Talk about shooting the messenger. He hadn’t wanted to hear, hoped it would all go away.

  “I’ve made you a lovely dinner, Albert…chops, mashed potatoes, some of the carrots, you’d stored in the shed.”

  He looked at her. He’d stepped into some other world.

  “I’m not hungry. What the hell…”

  He swallowed. Whatever the way to deal with this, losing his temper wasn’t it, and he’d seen the flash in her eyes as he’d raised his voice. It was what she expected, what she’d geared herself up to.

  Without saying another word, he left the kitchen and went upstairs. He thought about the half-bottle of whiskey in the top of his wardrobe. There was plenty to drink in the cupboard in the sitting room, but maybe she wouldn’t follow him upstairs. One thing sure—however this thing panned out, he wasn’t going to be sharing a bed with her, tonight or any other night in the foreseeable future.

  The very thought of it turned his stomach—unlike once upon a time when they couldn’t stay away from each other. That was one of the most curious things in the whole world—how the way you felt about a person could change from one extreme to the other.

  * * *

  Brown stopped at the Drover’s Arms, even though it felt of odd and awkward to be going in there—just him and young Robinson. It was a ridiculous thought. He was over twenty-one and a uniformed policeman. Having someone younger and less experienced than himself alongside should have made it easier, but it didn’t.

  He ordered a shandy for himself and Robinson and cleared his throat.

  The landlord wasn’t the sort who was going to make it easy for him. He polished a glass and looked into it, all the while eyeing Brown every few seconds. The sort of thing to make you feel nothing but a callow youth.

  “I bet you’re here to ask about Sean Bracken,” came a voice from the gloom of the corner. Brown could have kissed him. No, he couldn’t. He was an unsavoury l
ooking specimen who could be anywhere in age between seventy and ninety.

  “We are, yes.” See, unlike his boss, he was going to include his junior.

  His boss would probably offer the old man a drink if he’d been here. “What’ll you have?” said Brown.

  “A pint of mild, lad.”

  The response was out almost before Brown had finished asking. He took the glass and put it on the scarred table in front of the man.

  The pub was rough; no prettification for tourists or hikers here. It was strictly for old codgers who wanted to drink and maybe exchange the odd remark. Talk about getting blood from a stone. The way the landlord was scrutinising him made the skin on the back of his neck itch. Whatever he said or did would be sneered at.

  “Never wish your life away,” was one of his mother’s saying, but at the moment it would have been good to have another fifteen years and a bit of authority behind him.

  Even that probably wouldn’t have got him anywhere with the old man, who told them his name was Ted Prentice. He did a lot of squinting and grimacing, but had little to say and virtually nothing that was of any use to them.

  “Grand fella, Sean. Wrote poetry, aye.” He nodded his head and supped at his pint—a good swallow.

  “And did he come in here often?” The landlord had gone out the back, thank God so Brown could concentrate. For all the good it was doing him.

  “Aye, most days, I’d say, grand fella. Used to buy me a pint sometimes.” He gave a look at the diminishing pint. Brown ignored the hint.

  “Did he ever have company, ever come in with anybody?”

  Ted lifted his tweed cap off his head and scratched at his scalp. “Come in with anybody? No, don’t think so. He were a grand chap, though, used to buy me a pint sometimes.”

  Robinson went to the counter—obviously in an attempt to move things on and ordered two more shandies, paying out of his own pocket. Brown would never have taken the initiative like that even though Inspector Greene often told him he should. Robinson had no such qualms. Was that a good thing, or not?