Treated as Murder

by Noreen Wainwright

  Well, if there was any truth in the saying. Phyllis was definitely bad. She started causing problems right from the start. There was an older patient who worked at her own pace—slow. Phyllis threw garments and linen at her, rushing her, until the poor older woman had hysterics while Frances, who was out of earshot and sight at the time, tutted and wondered why old Agnes should break down like this.

  She found everyone’s weak spot—that was it. It was only a matter of time until she started on her.

  “You never have any visitors, why is that? You poor thing, put away in here and forgotten, a nice young lady like yourself.”

  “Lots of people in here don’t have visitors. It means nothing. The public is afraid to visit. Do you have visitors?”

  Phyllis smiled a thin smile of malice rather than mirth. “Every visitors’ day, my dear mama and sister, Kate. They come religiously, and they have promised to come for as long as I’m here, which I am told will not be long …just until this bit of depression gets better and those out there who caused it learn their lesson and repent. Then I will be out of here. A matter of weeks, a month or so at the most. What about you? They tell me you have been in here a long time. Shame. A nice, well-brought up young lady like you.”

  The fury rose in her at Phyllis’s words, at the pitying, spiteful tone. Though the words might sound complimentary, she knew they weren’t. They were about exploiting her weakness.

  She shouldn’t have answered her back. Why hadn’t she stuck to her own rule about keeping her head down and keeping out of trouble? Because Phyllis did not like anyone to challenge her, and because she was bad, more than mad or sad, she marked her card, and there was no longer a chance of keeping her head down.

  * * *

  Cathy arrived home from work a bit early. She’d almost overslept this morning and taken her bike. Normally, she walked, but she had not wanted to be late, not the way things were at the shop. The day had dragged again. This whole different atmosphere in the shop had changed her life completely, so much more than she would have ever believed possible. Nobody was unpleasant to her but you could cut the atmosphere with a knife and it was so quiet.

  Looking back, there had been a lot of chitchat. No gossip as such allowed, but there had been small talk, a bit of teasing. Occasionally the sisters would tell her things about their own childhood—about farming in the local area, when the whole of the dale revolved around the agricultural year, a little about the war and the men going off.

  But, actually not all that much about the war. There seemed to be a bit of reserve about that. She sensed it might have something to do with her father, and, if that was the case, she didn’t want to know. Now, though, there was no one to talk to apart from the customers. Surely, they too must have noticed something was wrong between the sisters.

  “John! What are you doing out here?” Stupid question. It was obvious what he was doing, with his old bicycle upended against the wall of the lean-to. But there was something in his demeanour—as though his mind was not on what he was doing.

  Old man’s ‘ome,” he said. Cathy’s stomach clenched.

  “Is he in a mood, or summat?” she said.

  John had a fierce look on his face, all of a sudden—a look Cathy had never seen before and she felt uneasy. “He’s always in a mood, starting on me mam, on about money. It’s all he ever thinks of, beer money and making us lives a misery. Pity he didn’t stay wherever he was.”

  “Oh, John, what’s the point in thinking that? This is his home and we are his family.”

  There was a silence. The words were spoken to calm her brother down. They were half-hearted and she didn’t believe them herself. “I suppose losing the job at Mrs. Butler’s hasn’t helped. You know he only has a couple of days a week at the Arbuthnot’s, and the casual labour on the farms, well, the farmers too are all badly off for money, it says in the paper. Farming depression, or something, cheap food brought in from abroad.”

  John leaned back on his heels and twisted his cap around on his head, giving him a rakish look. His dark mood disappeared and he grinned. “You’re always trying to learn me, our Cath,” he said, “But I think you’re wasting your time on me, according to my dad, I’m thick in the ‘ead.”

  “Teach you, not learn you,” Cathy replied.

  * * *

  “That cook woman’s back in the village,” Brown said next morning. He knew exactly what the inspector was going to say and he wasn’t wrong.”

  “So, what are you still doing ‘ere then lad, scratchin’’ yer ‘ead. Get up to Farm Cottages and interview her. Cooks work in kitchens. Kitchens are the hub of the home. Bet nothing got past her. Look sharp, lad and get yer skates on.”

  Brown was smiling to himself as he left the station. One thing you could say about Greene—he always lived up to expectations, he was highly predictable.

  Farm Cottages had once belonged to the Arbuthnot estate, but they had been sold off some ten years ago. They were a lot better than some in the area. Brown had been to cottages that looked nice from the distance, but were cramped and dark inside. He had also been to some where bad management, poverty, or a combination of both made them miserable. Where the furniture was cheap and rickety and the smell of unwashed clothes and bodies was enough to make the breath catch in the back of your throat.

  Mrs. Whitchurch didn’t live like that. Her cottage was clean and homely from the pots of geraniums to the smell of baking.

  “You’ll have come to ask me about Mrs. Butler?” the woman asked as she led him into the kitchen. “You’ll ‘ave a cup of tea?” she asked.

  Brown nodded, remembered his manners, and thanked her. She wasn’t like the popular image of a cook, not a dumpling on legs with a big apron and hair in a bun. Like her house, she was neat and her hair was in one of them Marcel perms his mother had been raving about. He had no idea what age she was as all women between about thirty-five and sixty-five looked basically the same to him—they all reminded him of his mother and his mother’s friends.

  “How long did you work at Mrs. Butler’s?” he asked.

  “Are you going to write all this down, officer, in your notebook, like? I won’t be called as a witness or anything, will I? I don’t think my Frank would like that, at all.”

  “Unlikely that it’ll come to that ma’am. But, these are set questions that I need to ask then I’ll get out of your hair.”

  “Eeh, no need to be like that, lad. I knew ye when ye were knee ‘igh to a grasshopper. Your mam’s Hilda Brown, isn’t she?”

  Brown nodded, his heart sinking. At this rate, he’d be here all day. This woman seemed a right chatterbox. If he didn’t take some sort of charge, they’d get nowhere.

  “I worked for her since they came to live in Yorkshire, ‘er and the old gentleman Ralph Butler, that was—‘er ‘usband.”

  This was good. If he could stop her shooting off in all directions, this woman should prove to be a useful source of information. “So, the stepchildren would have lived there as well, at that time?”

  She pulled a bit of a face. “Some of the time, both at boarding school, but home for the long holidays, often bringing friends with them, wanting this, that, and the other.”

  “And Mr. Butler, I mean as an employer, did you find him all right to work for.”

  “Perfectly nice man, not that he had a lot to do with the staff, that was Mrs. Butler’s department.”

  “You stayed on after his death?”

  “Of course, eeh lad, jobs on yer doorstep like that aren’t all that easy to find, for all that I’m reckoned to be a good cook. Not sure what I’m going to do now…I’m not bad off for money, like, but I’m not one to stay at home with my knitting and the wireless. How does yer ma keep these days? I ‘aven’t laid eyes on her for ages, months anyway.”

  “She’s fine, thanks, been visiting her sister in Devon ‘elping her out over the summer.”

  “That’s right, married to a farmer isn’t she, your auntie Maud?”

&nbs
p; Brown nodded. He had that horrible panicky feeling like when he had one of those nightmares where, no matter how hard you run, you cannot get where you want to go. He could hear Greene’s voice in his head telling him to get a grip on the interview, remember why he was here. Mind you, it was a lot easier when the interviewee hadn’t known you when you’d been running around with your shirttail hanging out of your trousers.

  “The other staff in the house, can you tell me a bit about them?”

  “Well, there’s Stella, great girl, then there was that besom, Kirk, Esther, odd creature, though no real harm in her. Can’t ‘elp being a bit strange with her upbringing. Belonged to one of them sects her parents did. A bit extreme, you know. Everything a sin. She still goes along to their prayer meetings, which I canna see any harm in as far as it goes. Still you ‘ave to ‘ave a bit of fun, don’t you, whether it is a drop of summat on a Saturday night, or a game of whist. Does yer mam still go to bingo?”

  Brown felt that loss of control again, a bit like what he imagined drowning to be like. “Yes. Who else worked there? Braithwaite, I believe outside, handyman, driver and so forth?”

  She smiled and she gave him a look, her eyes twinkling. “That’s reet. Bit of a one for a laugh, Josh Braithwaite.”

  Flaming ‘eck, there’s a turn up for the books. No one else had a good word to say for the man. Either they had all got him wrong, or else he’d turned his charms on the cook. “So, you all got on well, in the house, the staff, like?”

  “Ee lad, it is peculiar, like you asking me questions like this, young lad like you.”

  Brown sighed and tried to look both older and more serious. It would have been far better for the boss to take this one. However, she talked on, when she stopped tutting about how grown-up he had become.

  “Yes, we all got on grand, except Esther as I said, not that she caused us any trouble as such, but put a bit of a dampener on the atmosphere at times. I don’t mind admitting that much as I felt so sorry for the poor lady dying sudden, like. I was also very disappointed for myself, like I say, jobs such as that don’t come along every day.”

  “You were left a bit of a legacy?” No point in beating around the bush, with this woman.

  Mrs. Whitchurch shifted in her chair, seemed to draw her whole body up an inch and tighten her shoulders. “Yes, and I won’t pretend it won’t make a big difference.”

  There was a pause; he could almost see the cogs in her brain turning.

  “Well, lad, you may as well be the first to know. I’m giving some serious thought to going in with my sister. It’s my thing after all, cooking. Her bed and breakfast business in on the edge of th’ Peak District—they’re getting more people than ever come on walking holidays, since that Kinder Scout Trespass. It’d be a big move certainly, but well, our Frank won’t be around forever, with him courting. You know I’m a widow woman, so I’ve no real ties. I’m not ready to ‘ang up my apron yet awhile.”

  With instructions to give various messages to his mother, Mrs. Whitchurch finally let him go. It had been a curious interview and he wasn’t too sure what to make of the news she was moving. Surely, to goodness that wouldn’t be a motive to give the old lady crushed up heart tablets. Then, maybe there was more to Mrs. Whitchurch than met the eye. The business with Braithwaite, for instance. What he knew of the man and what he had heard, from Greene along with everyone else was that he was a sly good-for-nothing. Maybe he had revealed another, better side of himself to the cook.

  * * *

  Archie visited as promised. It was a bit better, Edith supposed. He seemed less keen to get a reaction from her, say something that seemed designed to upset her—at least for most of the visit.

  “I suppose they’re sending you home again next weekend?” he began. At least, he was facing up to it. “Yes, but don’t worry, Aunt Alicia was quite keen for me to go to her again next time, and I don’t mind. In fact, you may have been right, Archie. It was quiet and peaceful there and she honestly seemed to appreciate the company.

  “People will think it’s odd if you go there again, instead of home, I mean.”

  She laughed. “Archie, that’s the least of my worries. Don’t be ridiculous. I’m going to be the talk of the place anyway. Where I stay at the weekend is neither here nor there.”

  “You’ve recovered your sense of humour. That’s a good sign. Fair enough, if you’ve talked about it with Aunt Alicia and she wants you to go to her next time. But, after that, you’d better come back home, Edith. Try to re-assemble some sort of normality. To be honest, Edie, the place isn’t the same without you. Talk about not missing the well…I never realised you did so much in the practice. My paperwork is falling badly behind,”

  She could take that in all sorts of ways He is missing her help and he’s worried about what people are saying. That was definitely how she would have seen it a couple of weeks ago. But now, she could see it and decide to take it at face value. Archie was doing his best to get back to normal, clumsy as some of the things he said may sound. It was all a step in the right direction.

  “Talking about things at home,” he said. “There’s definitely something amiss with Mrs. Braithwaite. She has changed. Well, she must have for me to have noticed. She seems hardly there, off in her own world. She was always a sensible woman, now I can hardly get a word out of her, apart from the absolute basics.”

  “Well, she’s never been a big gossip, which is just as well…for us, I mean.” She hasn’t got a good life at home. He’s a bit of a swine, I believe.”

  “Where did he suddenly come from anyway, all these years after the war? I always thought he must have gone off with another woman or something. Then he appears out of the blue? I mean, why did she take him back? She was doing all right with the two children, wasn’t she? After all, she brought them up single-handedly.”

  Edith felt much more relaxed, now they had started to talk about something less intimate and personal as her, her illness, and all that went with it. “I’m not so sure he did go off with another woman. I’ve a feeling that he might have been in prison. But, don’t ever repeat that, for God’s sake. I could be wrong. It was just something she let slip once about him coming back, she said something like when he gets out, then changed it quickly to back. I might not even have heard it right, but it did make me wonder.”

  “Mmm, if you thought it, it was probably true. You are very strong in the instinct department.”

  “Archie, that is actually a compliment. I think. It’s just a pity that my instincts are not quite so strong when it comes to my own life though.”

  * * *

  Phyllis kept on and on—her voice like a hissing snake at times, direct and aggravating in her ear. At other times, it was like a wasp, sending her mad.

  “Leave me alone,” she shouted one day. Frances looked startled and told them to calm down. Though disagreements, even the odd fight, broke out sometimes, she was the quiet and calm one. The one, after all, who was working hard to become an old timer, a trusted patient who would eventually, by keeping her head down, would be sent to the sewing room.

  “I bet you had a boyfriend. You look the type. The quiet, ladylike ones, the prim ones who are all fire and moaning when the lights are off. Were you like that? Maybe he left you with a baby. Ah! Bet that was it…”

  But she didn’t let Phyllis get any further because she picked up the heavy iron and hit her in the face with it. She had to shut the evil bitch up.

  Chapter 12

  Cathy heard her parents argue during the night. She couldn’t hear the words, but it was obvious from the tone they were not exchanging small talk. Though they didn’t really get on, it was not normally like this. Usually they had little to say to each other.

  Her mother did everything to make all their lives comfortable and she got no thanks—well, not from him anyway. What had she seen in her dad? He must have been a different person altogether before the war. Now, he treated her mother like a servant and never spoke a civil word to her.<
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  And, the thing that drove Cathy mad was her mother just took it. If that was what being married meant, then she was never, ever going to do it herself. What she would like to do was travel, get a good job, and live on her own with a dog. But, all that seemed completely out of reach.

  “Stay on at school, Cathy. Miss Hopkins thinks you could be a pupil teacher,” her mother had urged. But, her dad had laughed at the idea. Not come out against it, but made it seem like a stupid idea. Something in Cathy had compelled her to turn down the opportunity. It seemed impossible to remember now exactly what that was, but it was all tied up with earning money. How she was regretting it.

  In the morning, her father had already left for work. He’d gotten a few days helping with the autumn work on a dales farm. That was what he liked best, no commitment to anything. He often talked about being “his own man” whatever that was supposed to mean.

  Cathy looked at her mother as she eventually stopped working and sat down at the opposite side of the table. She looked dreadful. Cathy had heard a woman in the shop once refer to her mother as a fine-looking woman and had been surprised and pleased too, but mostly surprised. She’d looked at her with fresh eyes that evening when she had got home and she could see exactly what the woman in the shop had meant. Her mother had perfect even features and clear blue eyes.

  But, she had given up on trying to look her best years ago, probably while dad had been away. Her mother was clean and tidy, but that was as much as you could say. No finery, no make-up, nor permanent waves. You got the impression Hannah Braithwaite was finding life far too hard and serious to think of such trivialities.

  Now, though, it was difficult to see her mother’s good looks. She looked pale, sort of sallow. She had deep shadows under her eyes and a permanent frown. Cathy could also tell that she’d been crying. “What’s the matter, mam?” she asked now. Her heartbeat fast, the truth was she wasn’t at all sure she wanted an answer.