“Why, what’s happened to her mistress?” Alicia asked and Edith cursed herself for a fool. The news hadn’t spread as far as her aunt’s house.
Vera Bishop looked from one to the other of them, her eyes panicked.
“I’m sorry. I didn’t think…”
Edith stepped in.
“Aunt Alicia, the woman Elsie went to work for has died. I’ll tell you all about it later.”
Aunt Alicia’s glance darted from one to the other of them, like a startled bird. All the more reason she shouldn’t be on her own at night, any more. She must be sure that this wasn’t swaying her though. They couldn’t afford to make another mistake with her aunt’s domestic help.
“Would it be possible for my aunt to contact your previous employers, Vera?”
Vera nodded, emphatically.
“Of course, I have the telephone number with me and I also have two letters from Mrs. Davenport; that’s my last employer and from the lady before, though to be honest I was more of a mother’s help there.”
“I like her and I think it would be the right choice to take her on, dear.”
Vera Bishop had scarcely gone through the door before Aunt Alicia’s pronouncement.
Edith smiled. Her gut instinct was that Vera would be a good choice. The girl had a secret heartbreak–that was obvious. Perhaps her return to Yorkshire was also in the hopes of marrying her sweetheart. It had gone wrong and the girl–woman really- was getting older, maybe panicking at having lost her last chance. Edith recognised that feeling. The thing was–it passed though if anyone had told her that several years ago, she wouldn’t have believed it.
“I suppose we should just check on the references but I agree, she does seem a sensible and pleasant person and the fact that she wants to live in as well is a bonus.”
“Do you really think that I might be suited this time, dear? I do so hope that she comes.”
Edith looked at her aunt, at the face so familiar, now looking slightly flushed at the thought of having company again.
Then, Edith told her aunt about what had happened to Daphne Sheridan, editing out the connection with Giles Etherington but emphasising that the woman’s death was connected with her personal life, which, she felt was pretty certain, however the police enquiries eventually went.
As she drove away she thought about the enormity of it all though. How vulnerable was her aunt, really living out here, with now, no-one else in the house? If you thought about it too much you would drive yourself mad with what might go wrong.
Then she saw Vera Bishop, now pushing her bike Surely, she must be worried about her good suit and the wheels of the bike and the chain and the possibility of grease and oil.
“I think it would fit into the boot, you know, Vera, if you’d like a lift?”
She’s given a light toot on her horn not to startle the girl too much when she pulled up alongside her.
Vera looked worried and distracted.
“Are you sure, Miss Horton? I don’t want to cause any mess in your nice car.”
Edith was sure and what’s more she really wanted the chance to talk to Vera on her own. All the time they’d been talking at her aunt’s house, she’d been trying to figure out a way of talking to Vera. This was her chance.
“So you finished with your young man?”
Edith winced at the bluntness of her question, but they’d talked about life in London and the state of farming in the dales and there seemed no way to ease into this topic.”
It was easier talking like this though in a motor car, side by side rather than face-to-face.
“I saw a side to him I didn’t like.”
Her voice shook and the hairs on the back of Edith’s neck stood up.
“I’ve known him for years. His name is Michael Ross. He was a friend of my brother, Davy’s they went off to France together and they came back together–Michael as right as rain, my brother…less so.”
Edith let a short silence elapse.
The young woman began to speak again.
“We were young when we met and he was very handsome. He still is very handsome, I suppose. But my mam says that handsome is as handsome does. I used to laugh at her sayings, but maybe there’s wisdom in some of them.”
There was something Edith was missing, something on the edge of her mind. She wouldn’t have this chance again and she couldn’t continue asking Vera questions about the failed romance without seeming prurient.
But, Vera said in a rush…
“He picked me up and dropped me and when I was in London I thought it was this great romance. It was a bit like at the flicks, Miss Horton, star-crossed lovers that sort of thing…”
Her words came at a breathless rush and Edith was doing some rapid reckoning in her head. How many years had this girl wasted on the man?
“There was one or other obstacle in the way of us getting married. His mother, she was difficult, very difficult, still is. I suppose I didn’t question it…but, you know Miss Horton…when it came down to it, I think is was nowt but a lot of excuses.
Her tone was one of amazement, at her own gullibility.
Edith had heard other stories here in the countryside about couples who had been courting for years–a decade or more sometimes but never tied the knot.
“Miss Horton, I’m so sorry. You won’t be wanting to hear all this lot. I can’t talk it over with anyone at home. They have no time at all for Michael…well apart from Davy that is. They all think I’m stupid and that I have wasted my life and Miss Horton, you know I think they’re probably right.”
Edith didn’t know what to say, aware of the pain when Vera realised that they had all been right, that this Michael had been stringing her along.
“He served with your brother in the war?”
“Yes, a bunch of them, not all came back of course–all from the dale, served under Mr. Etherington…”
Edith’s scalp prickled, an unpleasant sensation.
“They still meet up, the lads. Meet in some pub or other, have a game of dominoes in winter, sometimes cricket in summer, reminisce…”
Edith cleared her throat.
“Your brother goes too?”
“Yes, though my mother worries about that. Like, she wants him to have as normal a life as possible, but he comes home from these outings and me mam says he’s on edge and angry often as not.”
They were getting near to Vera’s parents’ house according to her directions and Edith was anxious about their reaching their destination. There was more she needed to ask the young woman and this was her golden chance.
“Your younger sister…Elsie, she must be a good bit younger than you?”
“Yes, mam and dad say she were a bit of an accident so was spoilt not only by them but also by the rest of us. Some might say she’s showing all the signs now, of being spoilt, like. Something went on between her and Michael, they both denied it, but I knew different.”
Edith wasn’t sure she’d heard right for a few seconds and her scalp was pricking again; she felt the pressure to keep Vera talking. She slowed her driving down, but nevertheless she was going to be stopping the car soon. Something of her agitation must have communicated itself to Vera because she said, “Come in for a cuppa tea if you like, Miss Horton.”
Edith’s heartbeat quickened; amazing how easy it had been. There was a connection between this house and Giles Etherington–and Daphne Sheridan.
The woman who came to the door of the kitchen looked worn. Stoicism and years of hard work told in the determined set of her chin and the lines that creased the still handsome face. She wore a dark dress and a crossover apron and her greying hair was caught back in a bun. She had the bone structure and the even features, to carry off such a severe look.
“Oh, Miss Horton, it’s right good of you to bring our Vera back,” she said after Vera had introduced them.
“I brought her in for a cup of tea, mam.”
“That’s right…come in, come in.” Edith recognis
ed her as one of those bustling women who probably got more done before breakfast than others accomplished in a day.
The kitchen was not large and the ceiling was low. It was lovely though, Edith thought, touches of homeliness everywhere, in the geranium pots and the checked curtains and the knitted tea cosy.
“The parlour, mam…” Vera seemed anxious.
Edith said, quickly, “No, not at all, here is lovely; it’s fine, if that’s all right, Mrs. Bishop?”
“Sit you down. Stick th’kettle on th’hob, Davy.”
Edith started and hoped the slight movement of her shoulders hadn’t been obvious.
She hadn’t seen the man as her eyes hadn’t adjusted from the brightness outside.
Now, he got up slowly from a low-seated armchair in the corner. He was tall and ungainly and Edith noticed his limp as he walked across to the kitchen sink.
“This is Miss Horton, Davy,” his mother said, the tone of anxiety apparent in her voice.
He put the kettle on the hob and turned and nodded his head.
He was very handsome, more than that. . He was what some women referred to as being like a film star. He was tall and dark, though his hair was greying and his features were clean cut and even, like his mother’s.
There were a few awkward seconds and then Mrs. Bishop went to the cream painted wood dresser and took out willow-patterned cups and saucer. Edith thought they normally probably drank from thicker pottery cups and hoped she wasn’t causing this woman too much extra work or worry. She had more than enough to contend with.
The man sat back down again and she saw that he was sewing something with an enormous needle. It looked like a leather satchel.
Mrs. Bishop clearly saw the direction of Edith’s glance and with a little laugh said.
“That’s our Davey, Miss Horton, never happy unless he’s doing. Are you Davey?”
But there was no answer.
Mrs. Bishop put a cushion on one of the blue painted wooden chairs and gestured to Edith to sit down.
Edith did and wondered what on earth she was doing here. There was absolutely nothing wrong in coming into the house with Vera. She knew in the countryside one of the greatest pleasures in lives which could be restricted–as well as hardworking - was having a bit of company and she didn’t grudge spending a bit of time with Vera’s family. But, she knew she’d be angry with herself if she left without making some reference to the connection with the Sheridan’s –it was just that it seemed a very big leap.
“I know a friend of your daughter’s,” she began. Then, Davey, spoke making her heart leap into her throat. His not speaking had become the norm, so much so that his voice came as a shock.
“You were a nurse?” he stated.
“Yes, first at a rest station in France, near Boulogne. Maybe you even knew it?”
His voice had become more animated, too animated perhaps.
“Yes, of course I do, Miss. We was there in 1915. When were you nursing there? I was in the clearing station there myself. July just after Fromelles. Thought I’d got mesel a Blighty one, but no, soon back to it.”
Suddenly he got out of the chair and started walking about the room. He jerked at the back of his collar with his right arm that he held at an awkward angle.
“Settle you down, Davey. Miss Horton won’t want to be hearing all that, will she?”
“That Colonel Etherington, he were a hard man Miss–too hard and I know he ‘ad a job to do an’ that. But they were only lads, Miss…only lads.”
His words fell with a deadly resonance into the homely kitchen and Edith was in a nightmare. None of this made sense. If Giles had had such a bad impact on the lives of the men, or some of them, anyway, under his command, why was it now, after all these years that it was coming to a head?
But, now Mrs. Bishop was taking control. Her son had ignored her plea to be quiet, but she said now, in a slightly louder tone.
“Davey, we don’t want to hear any more of this now. Colonel Etherington is hardly cold in his grave and I believe Miss Horton is a friend of the family.”
“I am friends with his wife, Julia,” Edith said.
Davey smiled at the mention of Julia and he subsided. He sat back down in the chair and picked up his satchel and needle. Edith wondered if Mrs. Bishop could always quieten him. It must be a heavy burden indeed for the whole Bishop family.
“Your aunt, Miss Horton; I heard about the poor lady who used to be her companion. Well, to be honest the whole dale was talking about it; a tragic affair.”
She suddenly put her hand to her mouth and looked horrified.
“Goodness me, I must seem the most terrible gossip. We all have our burdens to bear.”
She didn’t need to glance across to where her son was sitting bent over his satchel.
“That’s all right, Mrs. Bishop. Well, my aunt has had a series of live-in help since then, as I was telling Vera.”
Vera had said little since introducing her. She’d helped her mother by bringing cake to the table and Edith noticed that she looked very frequently across at her brother. She seemed more anxious about him than their mother was but then, she’d been away and it probably all seemed more worrying to her now that she was back in the house.
“Has your aunt lived back here for long, Miss Horton?” Now, it actually was Vera who was speaking.
“She retired here about twelve years ago. She was a head teacher in a girl’s school down South, in Gloucestershire–an independent woman, ahead of her time, you might say.” As she spoke, Edith thought, not for the first time, how much this aunt had inspired her.
“But, the fact is that she’s getting older and staying alone at night isn’t really an option in the future. She’s not ready to give up her independence by coming to live with my brother and me. So, that’s the reason for wanting to employ a companion. I know she was impressed with you, Vera, and I hope it’ll work out happily for both of you.”
After that as soon as she could politely leave, Edith did. She needed to talk to Henry again. Could there be any possibility that Davey Bishop had been the person who’d shot Giles? There could, she decided; not Daphne though–that was a leap of the imagination too far. It would be an amazing coincidence that Daphne’s murder had nothing to do with what had happened to Giles, but Edith supposed, amazing coincidences do sometimes happen. She drove back to Ellbeck almost in a trance, unaware of the journey. The thing was that Giles had been an unpopular officer, at least he had been unpopular with some of his men, some of the time. It was just possible that now, all these years later, something had happened to reawaken old enmities.
Chapter 35
“This is a delicate situation and I want you to leave the talking to me.”
Bill Brown found his face was hurting from clenching his teeth. As if there was even a remote chance that he’d stick his oar in and start asking questions anyway in the presence of his highness. Why did the Inspector persist in stating the blindingly obvious? Of course he was going to keep his mouth shut. Of course he knew he’d been brought along just to make up the numbers.
The Peters lived, as the Major had said, four miles outside Ellbeck. Bill Brown knew the family vaguely as they were Methodists and occasionally attended the same chapel as his mother. He’d never heard about the tragedy in their lives though–maybe not surprising–it smacked of a story that would be well buried. The thought of it, the injustice of it made his guts twist and tears of rage prickle the back of his throat. However, he was well aware that he’d have to keep all these feelings to himself. His job was to accompany the Inspector and presumably to keep his eyes and ears open.
If he hadn’t heard the story, Brown would have thought that the Peters family lived in the ideal spot out here. He knew the exact word to describe it as he was good with words–when he could get one in. The word was pastoral. Even in August, when the ground was tired and plants and grass dying, it still was green, up here, with trees and high hedges–the road that took them to Outer
Ellbeck was narrow and you could barely see for the profusion of growth on either side of the road. The house was unpretentious–the normal stone-built cottage, but there was space and privacy and you wouldn’t have anyone bothering you.
There was a woman tying up flowers to stakes and they could hear somebody working in a lean-to shed. The woman straightened up and wiped her hands on a hessian sack she’d attached around herself in place of an apron. She looked well into her sixties and was unsmiling. A man came out of the shed as the two policemen got out of the car. Both looked suspiciously at the car and Brown guessed that visitors might be a fairly rare occurrence up here.
If anyone had told Brown that Inspector Greene was capable of showing the amount of tact that he did in the next few minutes, Brown would have argued that it was impossible–out of character.
“Mrs. Peters?”
“Yes, that’s right. Can I help you?” She looked at Brown’s uniform.
“Or have you come with bad news for us?” Brown thought that the woman was unnaturally calm even though her words showed fear.
“No, not what you’d call, bad news, ma’am but we’d like to talk to you and it’s a delicate matter. Would it be possible to come inside for a minute?”
He glanced at the husband who hadn’t uttered a word, but who led the way into the house.
Green briefly told the couple who they were and the woman put the kettle on, without referring to them.
She indicated a couple of armchairs that looked as if they’d been around a while, well-worn and sagging uncomfortably low. Instinctively, both men gravitated towards the table and pulled out a couple of kitchen chairs.
“It’ll be about our Jack.”
It was the man who spoke and the words fell into the kitchen with terrible resonance. It was the first words the old man had spoken, although when Brown looked at him, he could see that he wasn’t so much an old man as a careworn man.
“Now, his wife spoke, her tone scornful.
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