The glamorous Mabel Nettleton sat at the table, ready to welcome visitors. She greeted us effusively.
‘Hello, darlings. Is the inquest over? What was the outcome?’
‘It has been adjourned, Miss Nettleton.’
‘How trying for the widow.’ Miss Nettleton has a most expressive face and showed powerful sadness and exasperation on the family’s behalf.
An odd thought struck me. That was just the kind of expression that a doctor’s patients, particularly those tending towards hypochondria, might appreciate.
Some entrepreneurial persons, including Miss Nettleton, had arranged for postcards to be printed from their photographs. These were spread on the table, with a tin nearby for the money. Miss Nettleton’s photographs of a gipsy encampment and some of its inhabitants, singly and in groups, were very good indeed.
Mr Wigglesworth and I walked about the exhibition, looking again at his smoke and my portraits, and Miss Nettleton’s Romany gipsies. Hers were the best in the exhibition, but of course she knew that.
It gave me a small shock to see Lucian’s pictures, five in all. They were a tribute to his aunt. There she was in her late thirties. Lucian must have been aged about ten when he took this photograph. She was a little off-centre, but this added to the photograph’s charm. She wore the divided skirt that I had borrowed and stood ready to mount a bicycle, looking serious, unsmiling as though anticipating a terrible collision. In the next photograph, she sat on a rock, legs outstretched, Catrigg Force in the background. The toes of her stout boots pointed to the sky. She smiled into the camera, a picnic basket by her side and a drink in her hand. One photograph was taken in the garden on the familiar bench. She held a bunch of flowers. The caption said that it was her forty-fifth birthday. On her fiftieth birthday, she was framed in the front doorway, seated in a chair, her head slightly to one side with an expression that suggested she wanted this photography business over and done so that the party might commence.
The camera liked Freda. In the most recent photograph, she stood with her back to the garden wall, near a trellis that supported wisteria.
Mr Wigglesworth smiled. ‘She was sixty and said this would be the last photograph she allowed anyone to take. We laughed. I accused her of vanity and said she was only waiting for me to say she was as lovely as ever.’
‘And did you?’
‘Certainly not!’ He laughed. ‘She would have told me not to be so daft.’
Mr Wigglesworth and I gazed at her for a long time.
Finally, he turned away. ‘There are others Lucian brought in. He photographed her every year, except 1916 and 1917, when he asked me to do it. When she took poorly, he said he would not take any more because she did not wish it and he could not bear to see her disintegrate.’
‘Disintegrate?’
‘I think that was his word. Lucian thought the world of his aunt, you know, when he was a boy. He hated to see her suffer.’ He did not look at me. ‘We both loved her.’
‘Yes.’
‘I could have made her comfortable. She might have, should have, lived a few more months, and wanted to. She wanted to hear the carol singers on Christmas morning, and the bells chime in 1926. I thought she might live until April. She said she could put up with a certain amount of pain, you see, though she didn’t refuse morphia, was glad of it, up to a point.’
He walked on and took one more look at his own pictures, at the smoke and steam rising from the train as it entered the viaduct.
There was a bench by the wall, placed where visitors might sit and admire Miss Nettleton’s photographs.
We sat down.
He gave that laugh of his. ‘I have old customers, people who have come to me for a long time. Occasionally one of them, one of the men, will say about his wife, “Mr Wigglesworth, I don’t like the look of her.” He will ask me if there is something could be done. I say, “She is not the girl you married.” He will agree. She has changed and he definitely does not like the look of her. It’s hard to see someone once so loved change before a person’s eyes. Freda never changed for me, she was always Freda. When Lucian came back from the war, she had grown old, or at least he thought so.’
‘I think you told me that you began to photograph smoke and steam after Freda became ill?’
He cleared his throat. ‘Yes, yes I did. Starting that day that I visited her, and Lucian let me in and then he had to be off. The disease progressed. A nurse came, Dr McKinley visited. And of course she had Lucian. Everything was done. Everything. Perhaps too much.’
‘Photographing smoke and steam is an interesting choice, something that is hard to see through, like fog.’
‘Oh I wouldn’t try to photograph fog. Technically that would present a difficulty.’
‘You suspect something don’t you?’
‘I thought she would live longer.’
‘Mr Wiggles worth, I need to know. Lucian wants to marry me.’
‘Yes, yes he does.’
‘You think he did something because he didn’t like to see Freda suffer.’
‘I’m not entirely saying he did.’
‘But if you did say that?’
‘There is a fine balance between not enough morphia and too much.’
We sat in silence for several moments.
‘Did she ask him to, do you think?’
‘Definitely not. She was protective of him, would not have put that burden on his shoulders. I am the one she would have asked. We had discussed it. I did not have to face that difficult choice. But she wanted to live. She wanted to hear the carol singers.’
‘That is a serious allegation to make against a doctor.’
‘Yes.’
‘You truly think that?’
‘I know it. I saw it in his eyes. She wanted to live for as long as possible.’
‘To hear the carol singers and enter the New Year.’
‘And the snowdrops, the daffodils, and you. She wanted to meet you, because of Joseph Flaherty.’
‘Why have you told me this? Do you think he may do it again?’
‘Of course not. He did it because he loved her.’
Twenty nine
It was late afternoon when I arrived back at Lilac Cottage. I had walked from Settle, glad of the time alone to think about everything that had happened; the postponement of the inquest, my talk with Mr Wigglesworth at the photography exhibition and his revelation of Lucian’s actions.
Mrs Sugden was sitting in the back garden with a freshly made pot of tea. I took a cup and joined her.
‘Where’s Harriet?’
‘She’s with Susannah at the big house, being let in on some lessons with the governess, French of all things.’
‘And what about Martin?’
‘Young Martin said to say goodbye.’
‘He’s gone? That was quick.’
‘When Dr Simonson brought the lad back and said Mr Trevelyan had given the all clear to go see this blacksmith chap, the kid was keen to be off, asking could he borrow a bicycle. Dr Simonson took pity on him and has taken him back to Pendleton. He said it was the least he could do when Martin had been plucky enough to give his statement at the inquest. He said he won’t be more than a few hours, just wanted to be sure Martin was made welcome.’
‘That was good of him.’
‘Well he’s a good man, isn’t he, and very fond of you. It’s just Mr Sykes he’s taken against.’
A couple of blackbirds came into the garden and pecked at the earth. It was peaceful in the garden, with only the sound of birdsong to break the silence.
Mrs Sugden looked content. ‘I like it here. A person might become used to it. Not Mr Sykes of course, he never would.’
‘No I’m sure he wouldn’t. Where is he, by the way?’
‘Gone fishing.’
‘Fishing? You mean for actual fish, or he’s onto something?’
‘I was doing a bit of clearing up, and I found fishing tackle in the cellar. He took himself off to the river saying
he might catch something for tea. I’m not counting on it, mind you. Knowing Mr Sykes, there’ll be some ulterior motive.’
‘And knowing you, you’ve guessed what that motive is.’
‘He told that local constable he is a keen angler. Going off with his rod and line will give Mr Sykes something to chat about, and then he can lead the constable on to other matters.’
‘That sounds right for our Mr Sykes. And did Martin have time to say goodbye to Harriet and Susannah?’
‘Yes, and gave them his little carvings.’ She chuckled. ‘Martin was apologetic about not having made a carving for me. He said there’d be one ready when we visit him in Pendleton.’
‘What a nice boy.’
She took something from her apron pocket. ‘This is yours, with his compliments.’
It was an owl. Although far from perfect in the symmetry of its feathers, he had spaced the eyes well. They seemed to look directly at me. ‘How clever.’
‘Aye, he’s handy with a knife.’ She poured us each another cup of tea. ‘By the way, I found someone to take Miss Simonson’s clothes.’
‘Oh good.’
‘It was the postmistress who advised. They usually know everything.’ She stirred her tea. ‘She even knew that the inquest had been adjourned till next week.’
‘Yes. I believe the police are carrying out more investigations, centring on Abner Gouthwaite.’
‘Are they by Jove?’
Mrs Sugden picked up my owl. ‘How Martin knew what to give you, I don’t know. There must be a bit of magician in the lad. Mind you, Pendleton is the land of witches.’
‘Well I’m going to do something now that probably isn’t very wise.’
‘What’s that?’
‘Use up some petrol by going up onto the tops, to one of the farms.’
‘The widow?’
‘No, not Catrigg Farm, Raistrick Farm. I’m going to call on Selina Gouthwaite.’
‘Don’t waste time on her.’
‘If you’d seen her, Mrs Sugden, you might pity her.’
‘Aye and I might not. Folk make their beds and lie in them.’
‘All the same, that’s what I’m going to do.’
‘Do you want me to come with you?’
‘No. I won’t be long.’
‘Where have I heard that before?’
‘Stay here, in case Harriet comes back while I’m gone.’
The ashes of the burned barn showed no smoulder. In places, rain had turned the ash to mush. A crow lighted on a burned piece of wood, looked about and flew away.
The farmhouse was empty. There were signs that the rooms had been clumsily searched, with drawers pulled out and cupboard doors left open. The fire in the grate had died.
No Selina. Had she been taken for questioning?
I went back outside, towards the barn where I had first seen her delivering a calf. A hush hung about the place. Only the smell of animals remained, and broken tools and trampled hay. And then I saw them.
In the stall where the cow had calved, Selina stood with a shotgun in her hand. She was pointing it at Bradley Wigglesworth who stood in the corner. As I came nearer, I saw that he looked bemused, and fearful.
‘Go away,’ Selina said to me, ‘or I’ll shoot him. I’ll shoot you both.’
‘Why?’ I spoke calmly, though I did not feel in the least calm.
‘Where is he? What have they done with Abner? He should have come back by now. He’s hurt. His leg is hurt.’
‘He’s quite safe and in good hands.’
‘Whose hands?’
‘He’s helping Sergeant Dobson. There were some things not understood about how Mr Murgatroyd died.’ I risked moving a little closer to her. ‘Selina, you look exhausted, worn out. Let Mr Wigglesworth go. He is a good man. We can help you.’
She gave a short laugh. ‘He’s here to thieve. They took my tablets. Then this nosy parker.’ She jabbed the shotgun into Mr Wigglesworth’s neck. ‘What are you looking for?’
He tried to smile but it was a grimace. ‘Just looking. I want to see you have everything you need.’
‘Liar!’
‘And I brought you a tonic, one of my own.’ He took a dark bottle from his inside pocket. ‘Special ingredients, a grand restorative.’
‘Mr Wigglesworth is the apothecary, Selina.’
‘I know who he is.’
‘He could bring you the tablets you need.’
‘When is Abner coming back?’
‘I’ll take you to see him if you like.’
‘Why have they kept him?’
I decided to risk telling her the truth. If she was afraid of Abner, this would be her chance to break free. ‘The police believe Abner poisoned Mr Murgatroyd’s drink, or the sandwich he made for him.’
She stared at me in surprise, letting the gun drop a little. ‘Abner, make a sandwich? Are you mad? Abner, slice a loaf, mash a pot of tea, stir his own sugar? You’re crackers, you are.’
‘Then was it you made the sandwich for Mr Murgatroyd?’
‘Me? Me? I do everything, everything.’
Wigglesworth moved quickly, knocking the gun from her hand, moving to step from the stall. She was as quick, reaching for something behind them. A second later, she had a knife in her hand, its point at Wigglesworth’s throat.
She had taken the knife from a belt that hung behind Wigglesworth, on a hook in the wall. So that was why he was here. When he queried me about the Gouthwaites coming from Eggleswick, he had made the connection. He must have known that Rufus Holroyd came from there, and deduced as I had that Abner Gouthwaite had killed to keep his secret. Selina had spotted him prowling about.
A dot of blood appeared on his throat. He glanced at the knife, even in his fear wanting to see whether the handle bore the mark that would identify it as once belonging to the slaughterman whose weapon killed Rufus Holroyd.
Selina’s fist covered the handle.
Yet Wigglesworth’s eyes glowed with certainty and a fierce determination. He spoke quietly to me. ‘Go, Mrs Shackleton. Go now. She can’t kill two of us. Tell them what I’ve found, for poor Flaherty’s sake, and Freda’s.’
‘I’m not leaving you. Selina, don’t make things worse. It’s all over.’
‘Over?’
‘Yes. You’ve done this before, haven’t you? You once took a knife and went into Langcliffe one Saturday night.’ I wanted to distract her sufficiently to make her shift her position, move the knife. ‘Was it you who wore Abner’s long coat and stabbed Rufus Holroyd? He wouldn’t have told on you, he would have kept your secret, and so will Mr Wigglesworth.’ I stared at Wigglesworth, willing him not to be foolish, and to coax her. The woman was at her wits’ end.
He could not bring himself to go along with me, but seemed to put great faith in his gift of a bottle of tonic, that he waved at her as the blade of the rusty knife drew a drop more blood. ‘You’ve had my tonic before, do you remember? I brought it to you when you lost your baby. No one knew. I told no one about that baby, and neither did the midwife. We felt for you, it was so very sad.’
I came closer. ‘Give me the knife, Selina. Think what Abner will say if he comes back and finds you’ve done something terrible.’
‘He’ll laugh, and then he’ll hit me.’
I was not getting through to her, and then I thought of Eggleswick, that most unlikely name, just the name, and how we all have a place we invest with a kind of magic. ‘Perhaps you might want to visit Eggleswick, just once more. Would you like that?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘Give me the knife, Selina.’
She shook her head, but she lowered the knife and put it in her pocket.
‘I have my car here. I’ll take you wherever you want to go. Away from here, somewhere you can rest.’
‘Eggleswick.’
‘Yes.’
Wigglesworth did not move. She stepped away from him.
I walked towards her, kicking the shotgun out of her way.
‘Yes.’ I touched her elbow and led her towards the door.
‘You came before, when I cried about the calf.’
‘Yes.’
I turned back and looked at Wigglesworth, giving him the slightest signal — a warning to stay quiet. He nodded, rubbed at his throat and indicated that he would be all right.
In the yard, Selina clambered into the car, the driver’s seat. I edged her along and started the motor, hoping the diversion of the ride would quieten her. It did, until I had to stop and open a gate by the spot that led to Catrigg Falls.
She jumped out. ‘I know where we are. I have to wash myself here, wash myself white as the sheep.’
From what I had seen of the sheep round here, that would be a fine sludge grey. Before I was able to dissuade her, she was hurrying towards the falls.
Slithering and sliding, she made her way to where the water formed a basin. Fearing she might do away with herself, I followed.
The rushing sound of water increased as I drew nearer, stepping down the stones. At first I could not see her. The overwhelming power of the falls took my attention and only slowly did other parts of the scene come into focus.
She was in the water, the great natural basin, splashing, singing something tuneless, a dirge. She sat down, laughing, and then she was holding something in her hand. The knife.
Slowly, I made my way towards her, ripping my stockings, expecting to fall and break my bones. How could she have slithered down there so easily? Practice. It was too late to kick off my shoes. I was in too deep. The water was bitterly cold, turning my legs to ice as I walked towards her.
‘Selina!’
She swung round, wild-eyed, the knife in her hand. ‘Leave me, leave me be.’
She was not threatening me. I could go back to the car, drive to Settle, seek help, but what might she do in the meantime? ‘Come on, Selina.’ I held out my hand. ‘This water’s so cold. I have a house with a big bath where hot water just comes out of the tap. You’ll like it. And you can have something to eat, and a new dress.’
A Death in the Dales Page 28
