“You mean Miss Whitfield?”
“Miss Whitfield, my arse! Bella is good enough for th' likes of her. She's nowt better than thee and me. I know her family. They're nowt but ordinary folks who live in a cottage in Grosmont. Tha'd think she'd be happy being adopted by Mrs Thornton, wouldn't tha? But no. All she does is mope about the house with a face like a slapped arse. So what did she say to you, the li'l tease? Bin mourning the death of Master Roger, has she? Crocodile tears in her eyes, were there?”
“What she said was confidential.”
“I bet she's happy he's dead. Felt hersen superior to him, she did. Her father's nowt but a common carpenter and she felt hersen superior to Master Roger! There's a rumour going round that Mrs Thornton is going to make Bella her heiress. Tha didn't know that, did tha?”
“No, I didn't.”
“Well, I’m one up on thee then.”
“Tell me about Gracie.”
“What dost tha want to know about yon?”
“What was she like?”
“She were lazy, that’s what she were. She were a lazy cow and I can't abide lazy people. I may have lost my temper with Gracie many times, but I never laid a finger on her. I never did that. I'm a foul-mouthed, bitter old besom, Detective Sergeant Billings, I'll admit it, but I'm a hard worker. From the age of five I was out on t’moors helping my father with the cows. Haven't stopped working since. And every penny I earn I put in a jar, and when my son comes to visit me once a year I give it to him. He's in Edinburgh, is my Gabriel, studying to become a doctor. Tha didn't know that, did tha? I have a son who's going to be a doctor. Me, who can only read the letters of my own name. I have a son in Edinburgh, studying to be a doctor!”
She laughed. A loud, hearty laugh. More like a cackle. She laughed with her mouth wide open, revealing five teeth in her mouth, two on the upper jaw and three on the lower.
“Gracie's duties were dusting t’house, cleaning and lighting fires, and doing laundry,” Martha continued. “‘Twere a lot, I’m not saying it weren’t – ‘tis a big house, this – but previous maids have managed it before her. Gracie, though, needed help with everything. Wilcox was forever dusting after her. I swear, sometimes you’d think she were blind, the amount of dust she’d leave untouched. Eventually he were also forced to take over the lighting of the fires, ‘cos she always made such a mess of the fireplaces and she’d end up smoking the whole room. One day she even set the curtains alight. That woman were a liability, I tell thee! She could’ve killed us all. What on earth possessed Mrs Thornton to employ her is beyond me. But anyway, it had fallen on me to help her out with the laundry.
‘Now, I'm a busy woman, Detective Sergeant. There might only have been six people to feed in the house at the time, but ‘twere a lot of work and I really didn't have time to waste on t’laundry. And Gracie were so painfully slow! It really brought out the devil in me. Them sheets need to be scrubbed and rinsed and hanging on the line by nine o’clock in t’winter if tha wants them to be dry by evening. But come ten o’clock, she’d still be out there, loitering in t’yard, with the laundry basket in her arms, daydreaming and mumbling to hersen.
“‘What’s tha doing now, woman!’ I’d shout at her from the kitchen window.
“She'd look at me absentmindedly then shuffle towards the washing line and start pegging the sheets on it, ever so slowly, all the time mumbling and giggling to hersen like a lunatic.
“'And will tha stop that infernal mumbling, woman!' I’d tell her.
“She’d give me a nasty look then mumble something harsh before shutting up.
“‘What was that?’ I’d ask angrily.
“‘Nowt.’
“'Aye, tha said something, I saw thee. Tha hadst better not have been cursing me, Gracie Brickenborough!'
“'I were talking to God.'
“'Oh, aye? And what’s tha talking to God about?'
“'I were telling him about my new life in the big house.'
“'God don't want to hear about thee, tha mad bint!'
“'Aye, he does. God listens to everyone.'
“'And what didst tha tell Him about me?'
“'I told Him that tha’rt mean to me.'
“'Mean to thee, am I? And what did God say about that?'
“'He said that tha should stop shouting and abusing me and that tha should show more respect.'
“'Respect? Why should I respect an old hag like thee?'
“'Cos I be of noble birth.'
“'Noble birth?'
“'My father be a lord or a duke or summat like that.'
“'What's tha talking about, tha halfwit! Tha father were Tom Brickenborough who got kicked in t'head by a hoss! I know 'cos we bought it from tha grieving mother.'
“'That weren't my real father. My real father were a noble young gentleman.'
“'Oh. Noble young gentleman, was it?'
“'Aye, with a lovely, friendly face like Master Roger's.'
“'And where's he now then, this noble young gentleman?'
“'Left the country to become King of Paris.'
“'King of Paris indeed! Tha lives in cloud cuckooland, tha does. Tha should stop dreaming and do the work Mrs Thornton is paying thee to do. And when tha’rt done with them sheets, I'll show thee summat about Master Roger. I'll show thee just what kind of noble young gentleman he is!' I told her.
“What did you mean by that?” Billings broke in.
“By what?”
“‘I’ll show thee just what kind of noble young gentleman he is’?”
An expression of great relish came over Martha’s face then.
“Oh, tha wants to hear about that, dost tha?”
“What?”
“All right, I’ll tell thee.”
She sat up, rolled down her sleeves and leaned closer to Billings.
“Gracie was besotted with Master Roger, see, and I knew things about him that she didn’t. Now, I have a mean streak in me a mile wide, so one evening after supper, knowing that Wilcox had retired into his parlour with Master Roger, I took her into the corridor, stood outside his room and peeked through the keyhole.” The cook burst out laughing again, that same vulgar cackle. “Oh, t’were a funny sight, it were. We saw everything. Absolutely everything!”
“What did you see?”
“Oh, I can’t tell thee that. No, I can’t.”
“You have to.”
“Hasn’t no bearing on the matter.”
“I’ll be the judge of that.”
“I can’t tell thee, Mr Billings. No indeed I can’t.”
“I insist that you do. What did you see?”
“Tha really wants to know, dost tha?”
“Yes.”
She hesitated briefly. “Very well then, I’ll tell thee… but don’t let Wilcox know.” She then leaned in closer to Billings and continued her narration.
“Master Roger had been ill for some days then and he weren’t one to be ill. He were an active lad normally and couldn’t bear being incapacitated. Mrs Thornton were no good nursing illnesses and Bella had no patience for him when he was weak, so Master Roger would come down to us servants for sympathy. Wilcox was like a father to him, see. A father, a friend, a nursemaid… and much more.” She cackled again.
“So there we were, Gracie and I, out in the corridor, peeping through t’keyhole, and we could see Master Roger pacing restlessly by the fire. Wilcox was with him, trying to calm him down by putting his hand on Master Roger's shoulder and rubbing his back, but the master shook him off and continued pacing.”
“'Oh, leave me alone, Wilcox!' he cried.
“'But you must rest, Master Roger.'
“'I can't lie down any longer. My whole body is aching. If I lie on my back my head hurts and if I lie on my side my ribs hurt. I don't know which way to turn.' Then he stopped pacing and threw himself into an armchair. 'And I can't walk around either!' he said, putting his head in his hands. 'I'm too weak for that. Oh, Wilcox, this damned illness. I don't know what
to do with myself.'
“Wilcox came towards him and started rubbing his neck and shoulders, just like a gent’s barber would do.
“'Perhaps I could do something to relieve your agitation,' he said, hesitant like.
“'What do you mean?' the master asked.
“'You know...' Wilcox hesitated again. 'We've done it before.'
“Master Roger instantly shook the old man’s hands off him with an expression of disgust.
“'Oh, no, Wilcox. Your face is too rough and you smell of tobacco. It's too hard for me to pretend.'
“'Please let me try, sir. I assure you, it will make you feel better.'
“Master Roger hesitated for a while, then finally gave in.
“'Oh, very well then,’ he said, ‘but use the scarf.'
“He pulled a silk scarf out of his coat pocket and gave it to Wilcox. I recognised it immediately. It were Miss Whitfield's silk scarf, the one with the pink roses.
“Wilcox looked at it, confused.
“'What shall I do with it?' he asked.
“'Put it on your head, man,’ Master Roger told him. ‘I don't want to smell you, I want to smell her.’
“Wilcox reluctantly proceeded to wrap the scarf around his head. He looked such a sight! That big, burly man, with a little pink and white scarf wrapped over his head. I had to put my hand to my mouth to stop mesen’ from laughing and betraying us, he looked so ridiculous. And I could even see Master Roger stifle a laugh when Wilcox turned around to face him.
“‘You are making fun of me, sir?’ he said, a little hurt.
“‘No, not at all, Wilcox. It is just… you do look rather comical.’
“‘I will take it off then.’
“Wilcox was about to yank the scarf off his head, but Master Roger stopped him.
“‘No, leave it on,’ he said as he started unbuttoning his trousers. ‘But do try not to breathe so loudly this time. I need to pretend you're not here.'
“'I'll endeavour not to, sir.'
“'And be quick about it. I want to get some sleep.’
“'Yes, sir.'
“‘And do be careful with your teeth…'
“‘Of course.’
“Wilcox kneeled down before Master Roger and... well, I don't think I need to tell thee what happened next, do I? The dirty old devil!”
Martha burst out laughing again. Loudly and uncontrollably, banging the table with her hand as she rocked with glee.
“I bet tha never expected that, did tha, Detective Sergeant Billings?” she roared. “Good old Mr Wilcox! The respectable butler!”
Billings was not amused.
“Why are you telling me this scurrilous story?”
He could feel the blood rushing to his face.
“Tha hast gone all red, tha has!” Martha cried, still cackling, pointing her finger at him.
“Is this true?”
“Aye, it is. That's what they were up to whenever Master Roger went to Wilcox's parlour. And what dost tha think Gracie did when she saw all this happening? Eh? What dost tha think she did? That old spinster. Tha'd think she'd be shocked, wouldn't tha? Tha'd think she'd run away in horror. But she didn't. She stayed there, watching! Transfixed! Completely transfixed!”
Billings continued to feel unwell. On top of the deep blushing, which was giving him a headache, there was now also a stirring in his guts. This kind of talk always had such an effect on him. The thought of that handsome young man in the portrait with the butler’s hands all over him made Billings’ heart beat faster and his tremors return. He needed another hit. It was only nine o’clock in the morning and he needed another hit.
“What’s the matter with thee, Mr Billings? Tha hast gone all pale.”
He got up from the table and headed for the door.
“Thank you, Mrs Pringle. You have been very helpful.”
“What, we’ve finished, have we?”
“Yes, I don't want to distract you from your chores any longer.”
“But I’ve not done yet! I’ve more to say...”
“I have a headache. Need to take a break.”
“It's 'cos tha hasn't had any breakfast.”
“I need some fresh air.”
“Tha hasn't eaten nowt since I brought thee that gruel yesterday.”
“I need to go out for a stroll.”
“Tha could walk to the old stable.”
“What?”
“The old stable by t'stream. That's where they found Master Roger. 'tis a nice walk.”
“Thank you. I will.”
As Billings left the kitchen he bumped into Wilcox in the corridor.
“Ah, Mr Billings. I was looking for you,” the butler announced. “Mrs Thornton wants to know whether you shall be leaving this afternoon as planned.”
“Planned?” Billings asked confused.
“You were to be here a couple of days, you said.”
“I won't be leaving until my enquiries are complete.”
“And when will that be? You must pardon my questioning you, but Mrs Thornton is very ill and is eager for peace in the household.”
“Well then, you can tell your mistress that the sooner she agrees to be interviewed, the sooner I will be able to leave. I am certainly not departing without speaking to her.”
Billings turned his back on Wilcox and continued to his room.
5. The Cold Lady
He threw himself down on the narrow bed. Why did the cook tell me that story? he thought. Was she mocking me? Did she know? How could she?
It had happened again. The same restlessness had returned. The yearning, the sorrow, the shame. There was no escaping. It followed him wherever he went. Like that good-looking navvy outside his window in Battersea, who worked stripped to the waist, forcing him to keep the curtains closed; or the young, naked men who frolicked in the sea last summer in Kent and prevented him from strolling along the beach as he had planned to do; or that fleeting look from the handsome dandy in the omnibus, which had forced Billings to walk to work every day afterwards lest he should bump into the gentleman again. And now here, on the bleak and desolate moors, in a house inhabited only by an old cock and three embittered hens, the portrait of a good-looking young man was unsettling Billings again.
He got up, walked towards the wardrobe and pulled out the painting. It was wrong, of course, to look at it a second time. He should have gone for that stroll. He should have visited the old stable by the stream. That would have made his blood flow freer and away from his loins, but wisdom always abandoned him when he was in a state like this and instead he placed the portrait on his bed, stood back and stared at it. Oh, glorious Roger Thornton, with his alabaster skin and piercing blue eyes. Poor, conceited, handsome boy. To think of that butler's age-spotted hands all over his flesh...
Love and sex, thought Billings. So many songs have been written about them. So many sonnets. And he could empathise with them all, though none applied to him.
He lifted his hands and wrapped them behind his head. It was all he could do to keep them from sinning while the blood continued to rush to his groin.
Suddenly the bedroom door swung open and a deep, stern voice shook him out of his reverie.
“Wilcox tells me you won't leave until you've spoken to me!”
A shocked Billings saw an elegant lady dressed in shiny black mourning clothes standing before him. It was Mrs Thornton. He stared at her, dumbfounded and horrified.
In that instant she caught sight of the object on the bed.
“What are you doing with my son's portrait?” she cried in alarm, then rushed towards it and picked it up.
“Mrs Thornton, I...”
“Who gave you permission to look at this?”
She picked up the portrait, turned it away from her and, doing her best not to look at it, placed it back behind the wardrobe.
“You are a guest in this house, Mr Billings, I urge you to remember that. And one who has quite outstayed his welcome! Now, please tell me whe
n you will leave.”
Billings had by now recovered from the shock of her unannounced arrival.
“I shall leave as soon as I have spoken to every member of the household,” he said in an authoritative tone which sounded fake to him, but which seemed to have the desired effect on others.
“You are a nuisance, Mr Billings!” Mrs Thornton continued. “We've already given our testimony to that policeman from York. I see absolutely no reason why you should come all the way from London to stir up bad memories again.”
“When the public reads that a young gentleman has been murdered by his housemaid, Mrs Thornton, naturally it causes an uproar.”
“My son was not murdered!”
“His death has caused a great deal of disquiet throughout the country. It's a very thin and delicate line which divides servants from their masters, and when that line is crossed...”
“Lies and sensation-mongering, that's all this is!”
“The case needs to be examined properly, Mrs Thornton. Not by the Yorkshire Constabulary, but by the Criminal Investigations Department of Scotland Yard. The sooner you speak to me, the sooner I'll be able to return there.”
She hesitated.
“Will you promise me you'll leave immediately if I talk to you? Will you promise me that?”
“I promise.”
“Very well, I shall talk to you at once in the morning room.”
*
Billings entered the room some ten minutes later and found Mrs Thornton by the fireplace, her back to the door, sitting pensive in a chair with her head resting on one hand.
“I'm sorry if I kept you waiting,” he said as he lingered in the doorway.
Mrs Thornton did not stir and stubbornly refused to look round at him.
“I had some trouble finding this room,” he continued.
“Well, you've found it now,” she replied, still looking away from him.
“May I sit down?”
“Do what you must.”
Billings sat down in the armchair opposite hers. He looked into the fire. It was a meek blaze. Just one poor flame struggling to remain alive on the cindered coals. He noticed that Mrs Thornton was shivering.
“You're cold,” he said, and reached out for the coal bucket but found it empty.
“I'm always cold.”
Death Takes a Lover Page 4
