A Death in the Dales

by Frances Brody

  Seven

  I had spread Aunt Freda’s map on the kitchen table and traced the route to Raistrick Farm with my finger, trying to commit it to memory. Harriet’s new friend, Beth, seemed a sharp, clever girl but her eyes glazed over as she looked at the map.

  Harriet wrapped cheese sandwiches in a teacloth. ‘Where is this farm then?’

  ‘Here.’ I pointed to Raistrick Farm. ‘We’ll drive through the village of Stainforth and then follow this lane. It’s not the first farm, but the second.’

  Harriet put the sandwiches in the wicker picnic basket. She pulled a face. ‘What kind of name is that? Goat Lane!’

  ‘Probably named because it’s steep and would take a goat to climb it. First it’s Goat Lane, then Silverdale Lane.’

  Beth put one forefinger on the farm and the other on the village. ‘Here, to here. How do you know it’s steep?’

  ‘These wavy lines tell you the height above sea level.’

  ‘But we can do it?’

  ‘I hope so.’

  Harriet came to look. ‘Auntie, it’s miles away. How could they take Martin so far from Beth? That’s cruel!’

  ‘No, look at the scale. It’s about four miles, that’s all.’

  Harriet lost interest in the map, corked the bottle of cold tea and put it in the basket.

  Beth traced a line. ‘What are Shake Holes?’

  ‘Nothing terrible. Just dips in the ground.’ I pretended greater confidence than I felt. This trek up a narrow lane with the possibility of rolling boulders, holes in the ground and stray cattle was not what I’d had in mind at all. My plan had been for a gentle stroll up to the caves just above Langcliffe. That would have to wait for another day.

  Harriet added slices of currant cake to the picnic basket. She fastened the straps.

  ‘Everybody ready?’ I picked up my motoring coat. ‘Ready for our big adventure?’

  Beth put on her bonnet, tying the bow carefully. Harriet preferred a silk square fastened under her chin. She took some persuading to put on her coat. I found a chunky Fair Isle jumper of Aunt Freda’s for Beth. ‘It’ll be cold when we climb the hills.’

  Because it was Beth’s first time in a motorcar, Harriet insisted that she sit in the front beside me, while Harriet took the dickey seat and held onto the picnic basket. I always enjoy taking someone out for a ride for a first time. As we set off, Beth became absolutely quiet, looking about her, sitting up straight, storing up memories.

  The way to Stainforth was quite straightforward, the road running parallel to the railway line. When we heard a train, both girls turned to look. Although the trees and bushes between us and the line must have prevented any passengers from seeing them, the girls waved energetically until the train overtook us.

  Having got the knack of navigating, Harriet called out when she saw the turn-off to Stainforth. We entered the village, which like Langcliffe was built of the local stone. At the sound of the motor, people came to their windows to look. We passed the Craven Heifer where, according to Lucian, the landlord pulled a good pint.

  Hills edged closer. Lucian had told me how he used to climb as a lad, Penn-y-ghent, Ingleborough and Whernside, sketching flowers and rocks, and wondering whether he might become an explorer.

  As we left Stainforth behind, the lane became narrower and bumpy. The dry stone walls were perfectly done, like elaborate puzzles with each stone in place. I marvelled at the prodigious amount of time, effort and skill that had gone into the building of these walls. Without mortar to hold the stones, they withstood winds, rain and snow, built by men who had long since found their resting place in the earth. Their descendants had replaced stones that fell and kept the walls in good repair.

  Beyond the walls, sheep grazed in the meadows, a few black sheep and lambs among the white. Lambs turned to look at us. One was black and white and would make a wonderful photograph. I would like to have stopped and encouraged Harriet to take her first picture, but it would be best to press on, find the boy, and put Beth’s mind at rest.

  Beth called out when she saw a farmhouse and barns.

  ‘That’s not the one, Beth. Raistrick is further on. We just keep going.’

  ‘Well I wish it was this one. He’d be nearer and I could walk to see him.’

  As we left the first farm behind, the walls became a little more dilapidated. Stones had fallen and not been replaced. There was a gap in the wall. Sheep had wandered through onto the lane, reluctant to move, and I had to edge my way among them, inching forward.

  The wind rose. On our left was a tall structure, a little like the remains of a windmill.

  ‘What’s that?’ Harriet shouted to be heard above the wind and the sound of the motor.

  Beth answered. ‘It’s a lime kiln. There are big lime kilns near the mill but before they were built there were all sorts of little ones round about. That’s what the foreman said. He was trying to scare us, saying how dangerous everything is — the potholes and caves, the old quarries and disused mines. I think he says it so we’ll stay near the mill and not use up our energy walking about the moorland.’

  A half-open broken gate hung off its hinges. A small herd of bullocks crowded together beyond the gate. The solitary bull, tormented by flies, flicked its tail in irritation. For one anxious moment I thought the monster-sized creature might pick a fight with the car, but it merely tossed its head and pawed the ground as if rehearsing a coming engagement with a matador.

  I drove into the farmyard across deep ruts. My poor Jowett would need a good wash after this journey. ‘Will you two wait here, while I go and enquire?’

  Too late. Beth was already out of the motor, her clogs squelching into mud.

  ‘We’ll come with you, Auntie,’ Harriet said, quite unnecessarily because they were already leading the way to the farmhouse door.

  I picked my way carefully but not very successfully around the puddles.

  I knocked on the door.

  No one answered.

  I knocked again.

  ‘Who’s knocking?’ It was a gruff male voice.

  ‘A visitor, Mrs Shackleton.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Shackleton.’

  ‘What?’

  I pushed open the door a little way, to be greeted by a smell of bacon and stale tobacco. I peered in. The kitchen table was piled with dishes. A horsehair sofa stood sideways-on to the range where a fire blazed. On it was a man in his fifties. Everything about him was, like the broken gate, undone. He was unshaven, shirt unbuttoned, and topped by a moth-eaten woolly waistcoat. He wore old tweed trousers. One trouser leg had been slit top to bottom. His leg was bandaged.

  ‘May I come in?’ I took a few more steps into the room.

  He glared. ‘Thah’s in already, and uninvited.’ He sat very straight for such a slovenly man and I realised that a padded splint had been applied to his leg, reaching from his buttock to the heel.

  Not wanting to appear to stare, I glanced away. On one side of the hearth was a smashed teapot, tea leaves spread out from it. On the other side was a basket where a tiny lamb slept on a blanket. The entire kitchen was in a state of disarray, not just untidiness, but squalor.

  ‘Excuse me. I’m sorry to disturb you. Mr Gouthwaite?’

  ‘Who are you?’

  ‘My name is Mrs Shackleton. I’m staying in the village.’

  ‘Have you come to buy milk, eggs, piece of beef?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Then sod off. I don’t give directions to trespassers.’

  Charming! Mrs Trevelyan had said he was not hospitable. The man was downright rude.

  I was close enough now to see that the bandaging on his leg had been skilfully applied, with triangular bandages above and below the knee.

  A pair of crutches lay within his reach, one along the back of the horsehair sofa and the other propped against the sofa’s arm. Reassuring. He wouldn’t be able to fight back if I hit him on the head with his crutch.

  Sweetly reasonable, that woul
d be my response. ‘I’m a friend of the Young family, in the area for a short stay. I wonder if Martin is nearby to say hello.’

  ‘No he’s not.’

  ‘Do you know where he is?’

  ‘I do not.’

  ‘But he does work for you.’

  ‘Not any more he doesn’t.’

  ‘I should like to see him.’

  ‘Aye and so would I.’ He reached for the nearest crutch, and waved it as if challenging me to a duel.

  ‘Is Martin on the farm somewhere?’

  ‘I’ve no knowing where he be. I can tell you he did me this damage.’ He pointed to his leg. ‘He’s a vicious lad. If I never see him again it’ll be too soon.’

  ‘What happened?’

  ‘What happened? What happened is that he set about me, tried to kill me, turned violent.’

  I was suddenly aware of someone behind me. Beth had been listening. In a flash, she stepped forward, her cheeks flaming. ‘Martin wouldn’t hurt no one. What have you done to him?’

  He stared in disbelief. ‘Is she yours?’

  ‘Beth, leave this to me.’

  She was shaking.

  The man growled. ‘I did nowt. I could bring a charge against him. If it hadn’t been for my farmhand Gabriel who fixed this leg, I’d be in hospital mithering doctors and running up bills that Master Martin Young would spend his life paying off.’

  ‘He wouldn’t cause trouble. He never causes trouble.’

  ‘Beth!’ I should have made them stay in the car.

  The man’s nose twitched in anger. ‘Are you calling me a liar? He tried to do me in. Put me out of action at lambing time.’

  Beth stiffened with rage. She rushed towards him. ‘What have you done to my brother?’

  ‘Beth, leave this to me.’ I put my arm around her, as much to keep her under control as to comfort her. ‘Mr Gouthwaite, Martin’s sister is naturally upset. If Martin isn’t on the farm, where is he?’

  ‘I don’t know and I care less.’

  ‘He was in your care, and he is a minor.’

  ‘Then let him descend into a pit and stay there. I won’t have him back.’

  ‘When did this happen, this altercation between you and Martin?’

  Gouthwaite stared at me and then at Beth. He put a hand on his injured knee, as if to protect it. ‘Yesterday. He was after the easy life, wanting to run off to the village when we’re up to us elbows in newborns.’

  Beth was ready to start again, to explode. He realised it and reached for the crutch that was balanced on the back of the sofa. It fell to the floor.

  We were getting nowhere. ‘Very well, I’ll make enquiries elsewhere.’

  ‘You can enquire till you’re blue in’t face.’

  I took out my card and offered it to him. He did not take it.

  ‘I’m staying in Langcliffe, in the house that belonged to Miss Simonson. If you hear news…’

  ‘I don’t want no news of him.’

  ‘The boy is thirteen and a newcomer. I shall notify Mr Trevelyan and the local constabulary. I regard his going missing as a matter of urgency.’

  ‘You can regard it as what you like.’ He leaned forward.

  I moved towards the door, having no wish to try and pick him up if he fell. ‘You must send word if you hear anything.’

  ‘Send you word? You send me word. I’ll have the law on him for assault and battery.’

  I stared at his injured leg. ‘Be careful, Mr Gouthwaite. If you fall again you might do further damage to your knee.’

  ‘I’ve all’t advice I need about that from Gabriel Cherry who was a stretcher bearer in’t war so you can keep your sneck out.’

  I took Beth’s hand. ‘Come on, Beth. We’ll find Martin, don’t you worry.’

  As we left the house, he called after me, ‘Don’t go pestering Selina or the men.’

  Harriet had been listening from the doorway. Her face was white, her fists clenched. ‘I’m glad he has a broken leg. What a horrible man.’

  ‘Harriet, take Beth back to the car. I’ll find someone else to ask.’ I glanced about at the outbuildings. There were a couple of barns, a pigsty, a hen hutch. There must be someone else about who might be keeping Martin out of sight until the fuss died down. ‘I’ll find Mrs Gouthwaite. She’ll be more reasonable.’

  Harriet’s look was full of doubt and concern. I had done the wrong thing in bringing the girls here. This convalescing holiday was taking an unexpected and unwelcome turn.

  ‘Do as I say, go back to the car. I’ll be with you shortly.’

  Harriet took Beth’s arm. ‘Come on, Beth. Let Auntie Kate sort them out. She’ll get to the bottom of it.’

  The first barn contained bales of hay and farm machinery. A ladder led up to a storage area.

  ‘Martin! If you’re hiding, it’s safe to come out. Beth is here.’

  There was no reply. I listened for a movement, in case someone came from the upper area of the barn, to peer down. Nothing. No one.

  Noises from the second barn that I approached were both animal and human, a cow’s moo and a woman’s moan of effort.

  This outbuilding was more ramshackle than the last, the kind of place that could not make up its mind whether it was to store broken bits of farm equipment or to house animals. There were bales of hay and two stalls. A broken-down cart stood between me and the stalls so that I had to walk past it to see where the sounds came from.

  In one of the stalls a cow was in labour. A big, sturdy woman, leaning in towards it, seemed almost part of the animal, somehow entangled with it. She had her hand inside the creature and was moving, talking, murmuring to it. This must be Selina Gouthwaite, whom I had been warned not to pester. As I watched, a calf’s head appeared, bloody from the womb, and then the rest of it, wobbling out, swaying unsteadily, dizzily, onto its feet.

  The woman leaned back. She was crouching. She too began to sway as if in time with the movement of the calf. Pins had fallen from her hair and long grey, greasy strands of hair lay over her shoulder. It was such an intimate moment that I felt embarrassed to be there and wanted to turn and go but, rooted the spot, I kept on watching. She brought her sleeve to her nose and wiped it, speaking gently to the cow. ‘I’m weary as you, old girl.’

  Perhaps I made some sound, but she suddenly became aware of my presence and turned, looking at me, making me feel that one of us was not quite real, an apparition, and that might be me. Only the woman, the cow and the calf were real: bloody, snotty, each complaining in their own way.

  Finally she spoke, not to ask me who I was or why I was nosing about. She wiped her hands on an old cloth. ‘Well that’s done. Another life in’t world.’

  Selina Gouthwaite was overworked and tired. It was for her that politicians made rousing speeches about overcoming burdens and difficult days. But I doubted Mrs Gouthwaite ever read the words of Austen Chamberlain.

  ‘I’m very sorry to disturb you, Mrs Gouthwaite. You have your hands full.’

  It was a ridiculous thing to say. Her hands rested on her thighs. She leaned back against the wall of the stall, exhausted, not speaking.

  I stepped closer. ‘I’m here about Martin.’

  The cow began to lick its calf. Mrs Gouthwaite rose to her feet, keeping her back to the wall. ‘Martin.’

  ‘Yes, your farm lad, Martin Young. I’m looking for him.’

  She sighed, lifted her pinafore and wiped her eyes. ‘Who might you be?’

  ‘A friend of his family. Kate Shackleton’s my name. I’m concerned about Martin, and sorry your husband was injured.’ I added this for good measure, hoping to have her on my side in the matter.

  ‘What did Abner tell you?’

  ‘It seems they came to blows, and Martin ran off.’

  ‘Aye that’s it. The lad got the wrong end of the stick.’

  The word stick came out harshly. I thought of a walking stick and that the boy must have been fighting back, warding off a beating.

  ‘When you say the
wrong end of the stick, do you mean Martin misunderstood something, or that your husband was chastising him and he resisted?’

  ‘Don’t be questioning me. I’m weary. Whatever Abner says is right.’

  ‘Do you know where Martin may have gone?’

  She turned back to the cow and its calf and gave the cow a pat, speaking softly. The calf was suckling.

  She stepped out from the stall and came towards me, a tall, big-boned woman, her shoulders stooped, yet she could not be much more than thirty-five. Her cheeks were weathered, and lined with tiny veins. ‘Martin ran off. For all he knew, he’d left Abner for dead, lying in the mud.’

  ‘What happened?’

  ‘I wasn’t here. The lad wanted to be away. He had it in his head that May Day’s a holiday. There’s no holiday when you’ve animals to care for.’

  ‘When was this?’

  ‘Well yesterday, May Day, when do you think?’

  ‘He hasn’t been seen in the village.’

  She shrugged. ‘He’s a big lad.’

  ‘He’s a child.’

  ‘Big enough to send Abner sprawling. Happen he’s gone back where he came from. All he’d have to do is follow the Ribble and he’ll be back where he belongs, in Lancashire. They can keep him.’

  ‘He may be afraid, because of having hurt Abner.’

  ‘So he should be.’

  ‘Is there anywhere he might be hiding?’

  ‘Why would I know? Lads run off. That’s what they do.’

  ‘Might any of your other workers know where he may have gone?’

  She shrugged.

  I persisted. ‘What about Gabriel, who bandaged your husband’s leg?’

  She looked defiant, as if being criticised for home doctoring. ‘Gabriel was a stretcher-bearer in’t war. There’s not much he dunt know about injury.’

  ‘Might I speak to him? Perhaps he has some idea where Martin may have gone.’

  ‘You don’t need my permission. He’s out working’t sheep. Seek him out.’

  ‘And is there anywhere you can think of where Martin might go, a den, a favourite spot?’

  ‘He wasn’t here long enough for favourite spots. Folk hide best in full view. Try Catrigg Farm. They could use a lad, they was after having him. They’ve more land, better pasture. If we had that, we’d thrive as well as them Murgatroyds. Happen he’s got his feet under their table, and is scoffing them out of house and home.’