Death at Dawn

by Noreen Wainwright

  It was actually a relief, when Henry, paying no heed to the policemen approached Julia and had a quiet word. Then the coffin was carried to the graveside and the short burial service took place. The two policemen stood very unobtrusively, just the slightest distance from the rest of the mourners. They didn’t speak to anyone. They’re biding their time, Edith thought and whispered this to Archie, hoping that he would contradict her, but he nodded and glanced across at the two men.

  Then there was a bustle with cars as people returned to the Etherington’s house.

  Julia approached Edith. “Will you come back in the car with me, Edith, stay with me, please?”

  “Of course.”

  * * *

  Daisy grabbed her cousin’s hand. She would make her talk, see if she wouldn’t. It was horrible to see her Bea like this. In the church, tears had hurt Daisy’s chest and she’d tried and tried to stop them, but they’d come anyway and a sobbing sound and her dad had put his arm around her shoulder and that had made the tears come all the more because Bea didn’t have her daddy any more. She would never, ever see him again. It was too big to think about but maybe she could just distract Bea, maybe for a while. She’s tried when they’d all come up to the farm. The boys had seemed as usual, to her, anyway, but Bea just wouldn’t say anything. She was there all the time with Daisy, like a shadow, but no words came out of her mouth. It had been embarrassing first, then it had been just very strange.

  Now, she caught Bea’s arm. “Come on,” she said and they’d gone out onto the terrace, then back behind the house, where the buildings were, their favourite place. Unusually, for Bea, she didn’t seem to want to go to the stable to see Frankie.

  “Here, then,” Daisy said, and still holding onto her cousin’s arm, half dragged her into the hay barn. Daisy could smell the hay, which had once been grass growing in the long meadow at home. Bales of straw were stacked at the far end of the barn and without either of them deciding anything that’s where they went and sat down, Daisy sparing a quick thought for her mother’s warning to keep her good clothes clean. But, this was an emergency.

  She put a hand on either side of her cousin’s face, just like she used to do when as a small child, she wanted someone’s attention.

  “Bea, talk to me, just talk to me, please.”

  Bea twisted her face, looking away.

  Daisy took her hands away and they sat for a moment, in silence.

  Daisy didn’t know what to do or say next. She’d been determined not to go back inside until Bea talked but they might be here a long time, in that case.

  “I saw a man, Daisy,” Daisy started, Bea’s voice sounded different and then she coughed.

  “What man?” Daisy was almost whispering and her heart was racing because Bea was talking.

  “With my dad, when I found him, when… you know.”

  Daisy’s arm was still around her and she felt Bea really shake. She tightened her arm around her.

  “He swore and said really bad words and said he would hurt mummy and my brothers if I told anyone I’d seen him. Then he went away, he was limping. I was frightened.”

  Daisy felt her throat tighten and her stomach became fluttery, like the time when her dad had let the bull get out and had told them all to get in the house.

  “We can tell my dad, please, Bea, he’ll make it all right. We can trust him.”

  But Bea pulled away and stood up, putting her hands over her face. “No, no, Daisy, promise me, swear on your life, my life, Frankie’s life. If you say anything, he’ll kill the rest of my family and it’ll be my fault….Promise, are you going to promise?”

  “I promise,” said Daisy. Her heart felt like a huge weight inside her chest.

  Mrs. Sugden had prepared and set out plates of cold meats and salads and glasses of sherry and whiskey were handed out by the two boys who were clearly relieved to be given a job.

  Very shortly, after arriving back at the house, a maid came across to where Julia was trying to talk to an elderly aunt of Giles who was hard of hearing and continuously saying, “eh?” and “speak up, my dear.”

  Then, Julia left the room and Edith knew she’d been summoned by the police.

  What on earth could have happened?

  She soon knew when the same maid approached her and she was asked to step out into the hall.

  “What is it? Where’s Julia?”

  Inspector Greene had removed his hat and coat and his expression remained stern.

  “Could you please step into this room, here?” He indicated Julia’s small sitting room. The funeral reception was being held in the drawing room where some of the guests had already stepped through the French windows out onto the terrace. The weather had cleared and many of them seemed glad to breathe the fresh air and remove themselves from the solemnity and grief for a few moments.

  The room they entered was quiet and Edith could no longer hear the guests’ voices.

  Her mouth was dry and she regretted the sherry she’d drank. She wanted a glass of water but didn’t feel like asking him for anything.

  Sergeant Brown was nowhere in sight and Edith presumed he was with Julia.

  “Did you come to this house, last evening, or last night, to see Mrs. Etherington, Miss Horton?”

  Instinctively, she answered, needing to tell the truth.

  “Yes, Henry and I came to see Julia.”

  “What time, Miss Horton?

  He barked out the questions and she saw something in the man that she’d never seen before. With her and particularly with Archie, he’d been dogged and sometimes supercilious; now he was completely focused on whatever was occupying his mind and he had about him, almost an aura of danger. Don’t be stupid, she told herself as she answered his question about the time, she and Henry had called to see Julia and then her heart dropped like a stone when he asked for the reason for the visit. Her first, panicked thought was to lie. Wouldn’t it be normal for her and Henry to visit a good friend on the night before her husband’s funeral?

  He must have read her mind.

  I know you visited Betty’s tea-rooms with the husband of the woman Giles Etherington had had a relationship with.”

  Edith knew she would have to just tell him the plain truth, but first she would ask an explanation for this visit, just at this particular time.

  “Why have you come here today of all days, Inspector? Has something happened?”

  He inclined his head, his lips compressed; a look of impatience on the rugged face.

  “You might indeed say that, Miss Horton. Something has indeed happened. The body of a woman has been found on the grounds here. Mrs. Sheridan’s body. The circumstances of her death are suspicious.”

  Edith felt a cold shock through her body and she shivered. Her heart pounded hard and that was good in a way, bringing her back to the physical. For a horrible moment, there she’d thought the room was going to fade out and she was going to faint.

  Then she was disturbed anew to realise that though she had been shocked, as soon as the news had begun to sink in, she wasn’t all that surprised. There was something inevitable about it.

  “Can you tell me exactly what was said at your meeting with John Sheridan, yesterday?”

  A dozen questions jostled with each other in Edith’s mind. Most pressingly she wanted to ask him if John Sheridan was a suspect. It was a strange coincidence that he was here in Ellbeck too, to say the very least. Her most urgent question was about Julia, though. Did the police think they had their woman?

  She answered his question about the meeting with John Sheridan but most of her mind was worrying about Julia; to an outside person, someone who didn’t know her, this looked very black.

  “He said he was going to spent spend the night in The Old Swan, principally to make sure his wife didn’t turn up to John’s funeral and make a scene and upset everyone, particularly the children.”

  “Well, someone certainly made sure of that, Miss Horton.”

  She dared to ask
a question, “Have you seen Mr. Sheridan…spoken to him?”

  She held her breath; surely he’d be the first person to come under suspicion. She didn’t wish the man any harm, but better him than Julia.

  “We have spoken to him, yes.”

  His answer was loaded with implacability. He’d said all he was going to on the subject.

  Bill Brown was in mental torment.

  The woman before him was dressed in black, relieved with a cream blouse. Her eyes were dry and huge and haunted and he felt like the worst kind of monster as he sat with her in the kitchen, following Inspector Greene’s orders.

  Greene himself had grilled her on everything she’d done the day before–everybody she’d seen or spoken to on the telephone.

  She’d been calm at the start, calmer than he’d expected seeing that she’d just buried her husband and had been hauled away from family and friends to answer questions.

  Brown had been given his instructions, which were one or another variation on, say as little as possible. As Greene began going over old ground about the morning her husband had been shot, the woman’s demeanour changed. She began to shake and sweat broke out on her forehead. She’d asked for a glass of water and had had to use both hands to bring it to her lips, so badly did her hands shake.

  Greene’s eyes met his, briefly and Brown had thought he saw a gleam of triumph in them and his chest filled with sheer rage, so much so that he had had to walk to the other side of the room in the pretext of checking that the door was properly closed. Sometimes this was a despicable job. Could Inspector Green not see that extreme distress could show itself in a very similar way to guilt?

  Then he had mentioned taking her down to the station to ask some further questions and she had cried out.

  “I can’t possibly, Inspector, please, no! I can’t leave my children tonight of all nights. Surely you can see that?”

  Greene had gone through to the drawing room where the friends were gathered, to speak to Miss Horton. Brown had the feeling that he was uncertain whether or not to take the woman in for further questioning, though what she could tell them beyond what she already had was a mystery to him.

  Now, Julia spoke to him, her voice low.

  “I don’t want to put you in a difficult position, Sergeant or to get you in any trouble, but do you think Inspector Greene really is going to take me to the station? What about the children? What am I going to tell them?”

  Bill Brown felt his throat tighten, actually wished that Greene would come back.

  To hell with it, he decided. Whatever he said could be used against him by Greene at one time or another. He really may as well be hung for a sheep as a lamb. At that thought he looked with horror at Julia’s face, at her white neck. No! He pushed morbid thoughts from his head. His mother had always told him he had too much imagination.

  “Maybe not, maybe if you have someone stay with you overnight, say Miss Horton or one of your relatives?.”

  “I’ll ask Edith,” she said and he hoped in his heart that he was not giving her false hope. Who could really tell what Greene could do? It would depend, maybe on what Edith Horton and Henry Wilkes said.

  “You’ll have a solicitor?” he asked urgently. It was an impulse, but he wanted it said before his boss came back into the kitchen.

  “Yes, George Stubbs, of Stubbs and Ainsworth from Harrogate. Do you think I need to speak to him?”

  “Definitely, Mrs. Etherington,” he said. It felt better having said that.

  Then, they sat in silence. He glanced at her and she looked miles away, calmer, more still but her mind was so clearly elsewhere that when he felt a tickle in his throat and coughed, she started.

  “Sorry,” he said.

  “That’s all right. I was just thinking what on earth has brought me to this point in my life and what am I going to tell the children? I wish Inspector Greene would come back, put me out of this misery.”

  The door opened and he stood there, probably, Brown thought, just about catching what she’d said.

  “I’m not arresting you, Mrs. Etherington,” he said. As if, Brown thought, he was doing her a big favour. “We’ll be back and we will have more questions for you. I don’t want you to leave the house, tonight.”

  “I don’t want to leave the house,” she said, “I want to stay here with my children.” Browne thought she looked like she had more to say, but Greene continued as if she hadn’t spoken.

  “Your friend, Miss Horton has agreed to spend the night here. I know she’s had her ups and downs but I believe she is quite trustworthy, on the whole.”

  The woman laughed, a loud joyless sound and Brown jumped. It was so unexpected, so wrong. He looked at her and her face creased and the laugh turned into a sob. She put her hands over her eyes and said. “I’m sorry. I’m being hysterical…it’s just what you said about Edith… Her voice shook again, between a laugh and a sob. He heard her take deep, jagged breaths. He was helpless, wanting to do something, offer her water or something; fetch the other woman, the doctor even. But, Greene glared at him and held his hand out, palm down, in a gesture that told Brown to remain quiet.

  They left, shortly afterwards, Greene even more taciturn than usual and drove back to the station in almost silence, broken only when Greene said, “Don’t be so gullible, all your life, Brown. Good-looking women can do murderous deeds. People can act as if they are grief-stricken, do their best to make you feel guilty, as if you’re hounding them. If you can’t get that into your head, you’re in the wrong job.”

  “Yes, sir,” Brown replied and all the way to the station he wondered about that. Was he in the wrong job and did he really want to end up like his boss; automatically believing the worst of everybody?

  He’s felt wrong all day today, out of sorts, his mother would call it, whatever that actually meant.

  His mother had actually had to come into his bedroom this morning to shake him awake, so deeply asleep had he been. What was worse, the inspector was sitting at the kitchen table when he came downstairs, tousle-headed and half-asleep.

  “I came round as I didn’t want to give you a heart-attack, Mrs. Brown, telephoning you at this hour of the morning. It was only then, Bill looked at the case clock in the corner of the kitchen and saw that it was not quite a quarter past six.

  His mother had the kettle on, but Brown had a feeling there would be no time for tea.

  “A dead woman on the grounds of Etherington’s house,” the Inspector said and Browne saw his mother’s back stiffen and she stood completely still for a moment.

  They stood in front of the body, carefully looking, not touching. Brown was trying to take a photograph in his minds’ mind’s eye. He knew this was an aspect of his job he actually was quite good at. The first time he had encountered death as part of his policeman’s job, the victim had been gored by a bull; ironically, according to his hysterical wife, a bull, the man had reared and known from its birth. It had been a bloody scene, but Bill Brown had been calm and for the first time, Inspector Greene had looked at him differently. Bill saw the glance and the surprise in it. For, Bill, who’d accompanied his mother to wakes as a child, once the soul and spirit had left the body, there was nothing to frighten anyone. The person could no longer feel pain or fear so in a way that brought a certain peace. The remains should be treated with respect and in police work, with care to the investigation but apart from acknowledging that, Bill was calm.

  The woman lay in an awkward position as if she’d fallen sideways. There wasn’t a huge amount of blood, but what there was proved a stark and almost shocking contrast to the pale-blue suit she wore. The jacket was fitted and the ensemble looked expensive, to Brown’s eyes. His mother’s magazine would have called the blue, a powder blue and the grey of the edging would have been called, dove grey. The edging perfectly matched the shoes, which weren’t completely off her feet but had dislodged in the fall and were partially off. The stockings were sheer and silk and Brown saw a ladder in the right calf. He
swallowed when he saw that, it was the small things that got to you. A handbag in grey leather with a black clasp lay, still closed on the ground.

  “Not Mrs. Etherington?” he asked.

  “No, not Mrs. Etherington.

  Inspector Green had dispatched young Constable Turner to telephone for the county pathologist and they settled down to await him.

  Greene, controlled and, it seemed to Brown, in his element, examined the surroundings. He had checked that life was extinct, though there really was no doubt. Brown wondered when it had happened. Just like, Giles Etherington’s death, there had been a shower of rain after the murder. It was that kind of late summer, this year, alternating between oppressive rain and sharp showers.

  “We’re literally yards away from where the other body was found,” Greene said and Brown nodded. It was a smallish wooded area, several hundreds of yards away from the house. Brown looked up, thinking he could actually hear the sound of a grouse.

  “Knocks my idea of a political motive into a thin hat, eh, Brown?”

  “Not necessarily,” Brown answered, automatically. But he didn’t mean it. This was the woman, Etherington had been having the affair with and that changed everything. It was the personal life. Clearly.

  “The funeral is at 12 o’ clock today and I think we need to allow that to go ahead. Then we need to see the widow woman and what she has to say for herself.”

  He gave a sharp, calculating look at Brown.

  “Eh, Sergeant?

  “Yes, sir,” Brown answered.

  He looked up at the sky again and saw that another shower was on the way.

  The police doctor, Hedges was brisk, Bill Brown thought he considered himself a cut above, but to be fair, that might well stem from his own feelings of being inferior, usually hidden, but always ready to come to the fore when he felt he was being disregarded.

  “Either the perpetrator knew what he was about here, or it was a lucky strike, if you’ll excuse the expression, Inspector. Straight in between the ribs, and in the region of the heart. I think we’ll find that a lot of the bleeding was internal. The knife, as you can see, of course, was removed from the scene. We’ll have her removed to the mortuary in Harrogate for formal examination and post-mortem. You know the identity?”