People Say I'm Different: A Lord Charles Stewart Mystery

by John E. Conley

  “Did the murder of Mrs. Hall upset you?” Clifford asked.

  Margaret looked away and tilted her shoulder in a semi-shrug.

  “Not at first,” she said, returning her gaze to Clifford. “But then I began to see that if affected me in other ways.”

  “How so?”

  Her scrutiny of him hardened and she replied, “Are you married?”

  “No,” he said.

  “Then what I’m about to say may not make sense to an innocent young man like yourself,” she said.

  They were interrupted by the soft whistle of the tea pot. Margaret rose and walked to the stove, filling two cups and returning to the table to place them down. She offered cream and sugar and Clifford accepted both.

  When the drinks were prepared, she continued: “Marriage can be a difficult task at times, Mr. Rothwell. There’s give and take and the need to talk, even if you are not the talkative type. Then, after a few years, you should be able to recognize when your spouse is out of sorts.”

  After a pause, she said, “I feel that way about Edward now.”

  Clifford had not come to the house expecting to enter into such a conversation with Margaret Williams, but saw the benefits of pursuing a subject she seemed so eager to discuss with anyone…even a stranger.

  “When did it start?” he asked.

  “Oh, right after the murder, of course.”

  Clifford said, “How is he different, Mrs. Williams?”

  She quickly replied, “He’s nervous about something. His mind always seems to be somewhere else when we eat and talk. He rarely talks about his day at the shop like he used to. I could go on, Mr. Rothwell, but there are many ways a wife can tell when her husband is not…well.”

  Clifford nodded and took a sip of tea. He debated the wisdom of asking his next question, but chose to proceed.

  “Were Mr. Williams and Irene Hall close?”

  Margaret looked at him as if to acknowledge his courage in bringing up the subject. Perhaps it was gratitude.

  “Edward interacts regularly with Donald Hall simply because of my husband’s role as a businessman,” she said. “It is in Mr. Hall’s best interest that all the businesses in Alnmouth thrive. I suppose it is difficult to interact with Donald without having to deal with Irene, as well. She liked to know everything that was going on. She gave the impression of being especially interested in Edward and his shop.”

  “What was Edward’s impression of her, at least based on what he told you?”

  Margaret snickered and said, “Oh, he put up with her quite keenly, Mr. Rothwell. What man wouldn’t?”

  “Did Edward ever mention her life being in danger or threats she had received?” Clifford said.

  Margaret shook her head. “No, not specifically. Of course, everyone in Alnmouth knew she and Dorothy Dunne hated each other, but nobody took it seriously. Even the most pious of us dislike somebody we know.”

  The conversation presently turned more mundane and Clifford finished his tea, leaving Mrs. Williams with a word from the front porch on his way out, “If you’d like to talk again later, please let me know.”

  “I will, Mr. Rothwell.”

  Clifford was lost in thought as he walked back into the village, dodging children along the way. He was nearly in front of Edward Williams’ shop when a cheerful voice caused him to regain focus. John Clarke greeted him, with Anna a step behind looking up sheepishly at the reporter.

  Across the street, from the second floor of the hotel, Lord Charles Stewart looked down on the small group. Mary and Bingham were with Charles in the room, chatting with each other as Charles peered out the window in silence. He watched the short interaction between Clifford and Clarke. Soon, with a tip of the hat, Clarke and Anna continued on their way and Clifford stepped inside the shop.

  “I must tell each of you that something has been troubling me about our friend the headmaster,” Charles said without turning. “Rothwell’s sighting of him leaving the hotel that day just doesn’t sit well with me. While the package may or may not be of importance, the timing certainly is.”

  “Why is that, Charles?” Mary asked.

  “Perhaps I should have said the timing is important if you believe in the bribery or theft aspect of this case,” Charles explained, walking over to the table occupied by his friends. “The headmaster leaving the hotel with a package is meaningless in almost any other scenario. So, to me it is troubling and I intend to pursue it. However, that means pursuing it clear to Ireland, Mary. Are you up to a little trip while Bingham keeps an eye on things here?”

  “Where in Ireland?” she inquired.

  “He told us he worked in Armagh. I think we should go find out more about the man in the little round glasses.”

  “When do we leave?” Mary said with apparent glee in the prospect of new surroundings.

  “We both need to pack bags for a few days away. Then we’re off. Tomorrow?”

  “I can be ready,” Mary confirmed.

  While packing was easy, getting from Alnmouth to Armagh in the north of Ireland was more complicated. Bingham and Charles had a brief scrimmage over the route, with Bingham siding with a southern route by train to Newcastle and across to Carlisle before taking a freighter to Belfast. Charles ultimately won out with his northern route of Alnmouth to Edinburgh to Glasgow by train and a boat through the Firth of Clyde and North Channel to Belfast.

  With Charles and Mary safely aboard the train to Edinburgh, Bingham returned to the Brampton. As he arrived on the second floor and entered the hallway, he saw Betty entering Mary’s room. Bingham wasn’t much for small-talk, particularly with women. His role in the secret intelligence service during the war and even as butler to Lord Stewart instilled a no-nonsense attitude in him that was his preference. However, the engaging nature of Betty Taylor intrigued him. Perhaps there was a natural connection between them due to their occupations and similar ages. Either way, Bingham felt quite comfortable in moving to the entrance to Mary’s room and engaging in conversation with Betty.

  “Miss Hastings and Lord Stewart will be away for several days,” Bingham announced, causing the unsuspecting housekeeper to turn with a barely audible gasp.

  “Oh, Mr. Bingham. My word you caught me by surprise,” Betty said, patting her hair at the sight of the butler. “I will…that is…I will fix the room up this morning and await their return.”

  Bingham smiled and said, “That would be fine. It’s my pleasure to give you the news your job will be a bit easier for a while.”

  “And you? What do you do when your master is away?”

  Bingham entered the room and sat in a chair by the window.

  “I relax. Take in the scenery. Perhaps take an excursion to wherever the locals suggest. What do you suggest?”

  “There isn’t much to see around here,” Betty said, leaning against a dresser. “I’m told Amble is pretty, but somewhat like Alnmouth. Maybe bigger. There’s the castle in Alnwick, of course. Not much else, I’m afraid.”

  “How do you entertain yourself, Betty?” Bingham asked.

  “Entertainment isn’t a large part of my life, Mr. Bingham. I work. I eat. I sleep. I think that’s why you may think the residents here got overly excited about the discovery of Mrs. Hall’s body. Not that I’m calling that entertainment, you understand. But it certainly livened things up a bit, you might say.”

  Bingham smiled and said, “And you played a large role in that. What did you think when you found Irene’s body?”

  Betty moved over to the bed and sat on the edge, facing Bingham. She said, “I was surprised, of course. But then I saw her face and I stood and stared at it.”

  “Why?” Bingham asked.

  “The look on her face. The frightened look. It must have been horrible…at the end.”

  Bingham said, “You would make a very good investigator, Betty. Have you thought about why she would look frightened?”

  After a pause, Betty said, “Because she was surprised to find anybody else up
there?”

  “Perhaps. Or surprised to find a particular person up there.”

  “Yes,” Betty replied, leaning forward. “Maybe she was expecting somebody, but not the murderer, and she had a chance to see who it was before they stabbed her in the back.”

  “Who would want to kill Mrs. Hall, Betty?”

  “Nearly every woman in Alnmouth and half the men,” Betty replied. “The other half simply didn’t know her well enough. I watched her manipulate people the entire time she lived here, except for one year, but I’m sure it was all the same.”

  “Why not one year?”

  Betty leaned back and slouched a bit before saying, “I was ill for a year and had to take time off. Nothing serious. Just…I had to stay home.”

  “I’m glad you are well now,” Bingham told her. “So, you didn’t offer very many good choices for an excursion, but I’d like to take you for a ride in the car somewhere and spend some time together. Would you agree to that?”

  Betty’s eyes widened and she said with excitement, “In Lord Stewart’s big car? Really? I’d love that, Mr. Bingham. Is tomorrow…I mean, I don’t want to rush you, but…I’m off tomorrow. I can give you my address. I live just five miles south of Alnwick.”

  It was a plea more than a statement and Bingham had to withhold his laugh.

  “Tomorrow is fine, Betty. What time?”

  “Noon?”

  Bingham agreed and wrote down the housekeeper’s address and simple directions to Newton-on-the-Moor. Shortly before noon the next day, he was driving into the tiny hamlet, with its slate roof cottages and single story buildings on the undulating landscape of Northumberland. It seemed untouched by the modern world. Less than a half dozen residents witnessed the shiny, black automobile stop in front of Betty Taylor’s bungalow, but the nattily dressed butler felt their eyes on his back as he approached the front door.

  “So very prompt,” Betty said with a smile as she stepped out to greet him.

  Bingham had to look twice to recognize the housekeeper out of uniform. She wore a felt hat pulled tight over her hair and the brim partially covered her eyes. A sweater and pants replaced the light colored dress she worked in.

  “Lord Stewart demands promptness,” Bingham replied. “I’m used to it. Now, where do you wish me to take you?”

  Betty looked up with beseeching eyes and said, “Do you mind driving just some ways up the coast so we can walk the Elizabethan walls?”

  “Do you mean in Berwick-upon-Tweed?”

  “Yes. Do you mind?”

  “I would enjoy that,” Bingham answered as Betty shut the door and joined him in walking to the car. “I’ve never been.”

  “They’re quite extraordinary. At least, I thought so as a child. I’ve only been back once since then,” Betty said.

  Bingham held the door open as Betty got into the car. She was silent for a moment as she took in the opulence of the vehicle, staring intently at the dash with its unfamiliar gadgets and buttons. Soon, Bingham had the car up to speed on the way north to Alnwick and, eventually, along the coastal road toward Berwick. Stone walls parallel to the road sometimes blocked their view, but for long stretches they were able to look without hindrance at the fields and knolls.

  Betty described the joy she got as a child when her parents took her even short distances in the horse drawn buggy. A trip to Berwick was a multi-day holiday that they could ill afford on a regular basis, she explained to Bingham, who recognized a more relaxed tone in the woman’s voice now that they were away from the Brampton. He was glad she had accepted his invitation, although it would take some time before he got over the anxiety of being out with a woman for the first time in almost a year.

  Neither of them wanted to discuss occurrences in Alnmouth and time seemed to fly as they approached Berwick. They crossed the bridge over the Tweed and made their way down the cobbled High Street, the spiral clock tower of the Town Hall directly in front of them.

  “My, the streets are empty,” Betty said. “We almost have the place to ourselves.”

  “Much the better for walking,” Bingham replied.

  A quarter mile later they were within sight of the walls and Bingham parked the car. The wind blew gustily as he helped his passenger out. Betty pulled down on the brim of her hat and squinted up at Bingham.

  “We should stay within range of the car,” she said. “Looks like rain.”

  Bingham nodded and said, “We’ll see as much as we can. It’s just good to get away for a while.”

  They walked side by side to the beginning of the earth and stone embankment.

  “So, tell me about the walls, Betty. You’re the expert today.”

  Betty smiled and said, “Hardly an expert, but here’s what I can remember about them.”

  As they strolled, she said, “They were built in the fourteenth century and were two miles long and three feet thick. They were meant to protect the city, of course, and there was actually a castle at one end. Aren’t they beautiful, though, with the solid stone and how the earth curves around them?”

  If Bingham’s traveling companions had been Charles and Mary, he would have paid far more attention to the details of the walls. Instead, he listened to Betty’s voice and watched her eyes and how the wind blew the wisps of hair under her cap.

  Betty continued with the history, largely out of fear of not having anything to say if she stopped. It would have pleased her immensely to know that Bingham did not care. They walked for half an hour with the conversation eventually turning to their childhoods.

  Fortunately, the design of the walls never had them far from the car because a storm came in off the sea quicker than the couple could realize it. The first few drops of rain hit their faces amid the wind and Bingham said, “Gracious! We might get soaked if we don’t hurry. Are you up to it, Betty?”

  “I was quite the athlete at one time,” she said. “Let’s go.”

  They jogged the short distance together and Bingham was opening the passenger door just as the deluge began. Betty smiled as she watched him run at top speed around the front of the car and into his own seat.

  “Shall we spend some time in the dryness of a pub?” he asked her, once settled.

  “Sounds marvelous.”

  At that same moment, in Ireland, Mary and Charles were aboard a train from Belfast to Armagh via Lisburn and Lurgan. Sensing Mary’s weariness with another hour to go on the journey, Charles did his best to entertain her.

  “I’m sure you’ve heard of the tragic Armagh train disaster of 1888. Or was it 1889?” Charles said to his companion seated across from him.

  “I’m sure I haven’t, Charles. Tell me.”

  “It occurred during the summer. June, I believe, “Charles began.

  “It seems you’re quite unsure of the details,” Mary chided him. “Are you making this up for my benefit?”

  With his best look of derision, he replied, “I would kid not of such things, my dear, as you will soon find out. Now, it was a summer day when a train full of Sunday school excursionists attempted to climb the hills to the southeast of Armagh. This was no ordinary train, in that nine hundred passengers were aboard fifteen carriages.

  “Despite grumblings from the engineer, the train departs and ascends at a speed of about ten miles per hour. It gets within two hundred yards of the top of the steepest hill and stalls.”

  Mary’s face showed real concern and Charles continued.

  “Manual brakes were applied to keep the train from rolling back, of course. The decision was made, then, to divide the train into two parts and have the front portion travel a couple miles to the next station and then send the engine back for the remaining carriages.

  “When the engine and first few cars began to pull away, it fell backward slightly and bumped the carriages behind them. That started the rear portion of the train, now without an engine, rolling backward towards the Armagh station.”

  “Good heavens,” Mary declared. “Those poor people.”

/>   “Meanwhile, the next scheduled train had left Armagh and was slowly coming up the hill,” Charles said. “It was estimated that the runaway carriages were doing some thirty-five miles per hour when the trains collided. There were eighty killed and more than two hundred and fifty injured, about one third of them children.”

  “How awful,” Mary said. “Now I’m more ready than ever to be done with this trip. How much longer do you think we have?”

  “Not much at all,” Charles said, lifting a window shade to look out over the rolling terrain.

  In fact, the twin towers of St. Patrick’s Cathedral came into view and the train slowed for its arrival at the Armagh station. Mary stood up with a sigh of relief and straightened her skirt while Charles gathered his belongings.

  “You’ll be happy to hear we have arrived at an actual town, Mary. With actual shops. No, this is not Belfast or Dublin, but you’ll find it much busier than Alnmouth. So, enjoy,” Charles said as he took Mary by the arm.

  “Where did you choose for us to stay?” she asked.

  He waited until they skirted around the last of the lingering passengers and were on the platform before informing her they would be at The Heatherdowns, an establishment recommended by Bingham.

  A short wait for their bags was followed by an even shorter wait for a taxi.

  “The Heatherdowns on College Hill,” Lord Stewart informed the driver, and they were on their way.

  Armagh was an ecclesiastical and educational center and earned the title ‘city of saints and scholars.’ Saint Patrick was such an influence on the town that both the catholic and Anglican churches were named after him. The churches faced each other from hills at opposite ends of the town.

  The educational history centered around the Royal School, established in the early seventeenth century, and the Armagh Observatory, built in 1790.

  As the taxi sped down Railway Street towards the mall, Charles told Mary, “I first became aware of Armagh during the war. At the Battle of the Somme…a truly dreadful affair…three brothers from here were killed. A fourth brother was wounded. No one knows where the three dead brothers were buried, so they built a memorial in France called the Thiepval Memorial to honor the hundreds of men killed and without known graves. It’s quite impressive.”