‘And Mary, did she write? Did you write to her?’
‘She got our Ruby to write for her. Mary never quite got the hang of it, you know. She could read a bit, write enough to fill in her name when she had to but …’
‘I see.’ Henry nodded. ‘And you kept these letters? From Walter and from Ruby and Mary?’
‘Of course I did.’
‘I’d like to see them.’
‘None of your damned business.’
‘Someone killed your wife and child. It looks as though Walter tried to intervene so they killed him too. That makes everything in your life and everything that happened in theirs my business, Mr Fields.’
George Fields stared at him and for a moment Henry thought he was spoiling for another fight. ‘You’ll come off worst,’ he said. ‘And I won’t be as generous before the magistrate as Constable Parkin was this morning.’
George Fields slumped in his chair. ‘I’ll want them back,’ he said.
‘Of course you will, and I’ll give you a receipt. I’ll catch who did this, Mr Fields.’
‘If I don’t get to them first.’
‘If you do I’ll see you hang for it.’
‘You think I care? You think I’d let you take me? No, this time I’d give myself to the water, Inspector. I wouldn’t hesitate.’
George plunged a hand into a deep pocket inside his coat. A poacher’s pocket, Henry thought, and brought out a bundle wrapped in oilskin. He laid it almost reverently on the table between them and laid his hand on top. ‘I know every one of these by heart,’ he said. ‘I’ll know if any go missing. Don’t make an enemy of me, Inspector. I’ve got nothing to lose now.’
Henry made no comment. He wrote a receipt for the letters and handed it over, taking the bundle and packing it into his own pocket. George Fields left then and Henry finished his tea before following.
He returned to his lodgings to collect his luggage and to speak to Mickey Hitchens. He found his sergeant poring over fingerprints.
‘Anything useful?’
‘Nothing you’d call conclusive. But if I eventually have anyone to compare them to I’ve five clear dabs that didn’t belong to the family. You?’
‘Letters written between the Fields and between George Fields and his cousin. I’ll read them on the train. Don’t take any crap from Carrington or anyone else. I’ll be back late tomorrow or maybe the day after.’
Mickey nodded. It was an inconvenience when a court date broke into an investigation but it was also an inevitability at times. ‘Any names that come up in the letters, send me a telegram or telephone the station and leave a message. I’ll keep checking in.’
Henry nodded. ‘Meantime, keep the pressure on the neighbours. They know more than they think they do. Apparently she saw clients on Tuesdays and Thursdays and had just expanded her business to take Fridays too.’
‘And you think the husband is in the clear?’
‘I’m not so sure, Mickey. Obviously he didn’t do the deed but that doesn’t mean he didn’t arrange for it to be done. I think he’s genuinely distressed but that doesn’t mean he’s an innocent man. And he says he intends to track down the killer; could be misdirection but, if he’s innocent, I believe he means what he says.’
‘Men often say as much.’
‘And a few mean it. If he’s guilty then, as I say, it might either be misdirection or he might be minded to get the one person who could betray him – whoever did the actual murders – out of the picture. If he’s innocent then he may know more about the men who paid for his wife than he wants to admit. Either way, he needs watching.’
Mickey nodded. ‘I’ll see you in a couple of days,’ he said.
NINETEEN
The day had passed almost without incident. Frank had been sent with the wagon and team of draft horses to get in the last of the hay from the Glebe fields a couple of miles distant. A crew had been working the past two days to get this in ahead of the change in the weather that Dar Samuels had predicted. Dar Samuels’ skill at reading the signs was almost as accurate as his skill in treating the beasts. He’d been right the week before, though then, as now, the skies had been clear and polished and as blue as Derby-glazed china. The field had been cut and was almost dried. Dar had warned of rain: Elijah Hanson would have taken note of it, but both he and Ted were away and Robert refused to take heed. Rain had soaked through the newly mown hay and they had all but lost hope of it drying out again before the rot set in.
Elijah was not minded to lose the field now; five days of sun and turning it had taken to repair the damage and even now he was worried it would come in frowsty and be ruined for use as winter feed.
Frank, trusted almost as much as Elijah trusted Dar, had been sent to supervise.
The day had been spent shuttling wagon loads back and forth from the Glebe field and, as Frank brought the last load into the yard, the first of the rain began to fall – leaden summer rain, dripping heavy from a seeming clear sky, though by the time they had all set to and dragged a tarpaulin to cover this final load the clouds had gathered, moiling and writhing, blotting the sun and bringing an early dark.
‘That’s the last of it?’ Elijah Hanson asked, sheltering with Frank under the eaves of the barn.
‘The last load and just in time,’ Frank told him. ‘It’s not come in too bad considering the soaking it had.’
Elijah nodded. ‘It’ll keep like that till morning,’ he said. ‘Though see it’s shifted first thing. And be sure it’s turned daily until you’re sure there’s no mouldering.’ He paused and took the watch from the pocket of his tightly stretched waistcoat. ‘Get yourself off home,’ he instructed. ‘It’s almost your time.’
Frank nodded his thanks and watched as Elijah made a dash for the kitchens. Across the yard he could see Ethan setting the draft horses to rights and hanging the harness on the pegs to dry. He’d be a while, Frank guessed. Ethan was far too conscientious – and too worried about losing work – to leave the harness uncleaned or the beasts uncared for. His resolve to have it out with Ethan that evening now somewhat dampened by the prospect of waiting in the rain, Frank almost decided to head for home and face another evening of his mother’s nagging.
But no, the decision had been made and Frank would not go another day before seeing it through.
Grabbing an old sack from the barn and using it to keep the worst of the rain off his neck and shoulders, Frank set off down the rutted track, its hills and hollows already torrents and waterfalls. He took shelter beneath the ancient beech tree, just out of sight of the Hanson house, and settled down to wait.
The wait was perhaps only a quarter hour but it felt like forever. The sky was almost black with the rain and Frank was soaked through. The tree afforded shelter from the worst of it but rain dripped through the gaps in the canopy and saturated leaves unburdened themselves upon Frank’s neck and head and shoulders. The sacking, soaked and useless now, he dropped on to the ground, reminding himself that he must collect it and return it to the barn the next day. He leaned back against the bowl of the tree and waited with as much patience as he could muster, peering through rain that fell so fast and straight he could barely make out more than a few yards distant. His one compensation was the thought that the rain would put paid to any plans Ethan and Helen might have of meeting up tonight.
So heavy was the rain that Ethan took him almost by surprise, the man emerging from the murk and dark. He walked fast, his head down, jacket pulled tight and held closed by a tightly clenched fist.
Frank took a deep but not particularly calming breath.
‘Ethan.’ Satisfied, he saw Ethan start in surprise.
‘Frank! What the hell you doing standing here? You’ll catch your death.’
‘Like you’d care about that. Ethan, we need to talk. Now.’
‘Jesus, lad, but you choose your time, don’t you? Can’t this wait?’
Ethan was shivering. The rain had carried an unseasonal chill as it often did in these part
s and the wind had risen, whipping the rain so it lashed at Ethan’s face.
‘No,’ Frank told him. ‘It can’t wait. Seems to me I’ve hesitated long enough before I spoke.’
Ethan nodded. He released his tight hold on the jacket and stepped under the shelter of the tree. ‘You’re entitled to say your piece,’ he said. ‘In your place I’d have done more than that and sooner than this.’
Frank opened his mouth then closed it again, suddenly at a loss as to what to say.
Ethan waited. ‘We never meant to hurt no one, Frank. But I love her and I’m not planning on giving her up.’
‘Love her!’ Frank finally found his voice. ‘You love her! Ethan, what the hell do you think I feel for her? It’s been understood – most of our lives it’s been understood that she’d be mine. I’ve cared for her, cherished her, been willing to wait till our kin reckoned the time was right before I asked her to set the date and then you come along and knock all our plans flat. Ethan, I don’t know what life you’ve led since you went away but you’re back here now and round here we don’t take another’s woman without so much as a by your leave. How do I know – any of us know – that you won’t play with her feelings, destroy everything we’ve planned for and then clear off again just when the mood takes you. It’s Helen I’m thinking of, not just me. Helen and our kin.’
‘If I left here, Frank, she’d be going with me.’
‘So you’d take her from her people. From all she knows and then what? Leave her while you clear off back to sea? What does Helen know about the rest of the world? Her family are here, her life is here, all she knows is here. I’m here …’
‘And you just presumed it would all be right between you? That a lass like Helen might not want more than what the old folk decided?’
‘And I suppose you can offer her so much more,’ Frank retorted angrily. ‘The great Ethan Samuels, who hasn’t even got a proper position! What you going to do, Ethan, drag her to the hiring fairs next spring? You think Master Hanson will want a man working on his land that upset the rest of the village?’ Frank, in fact, had no notion what Elijah Hanson would make of all this or if he’d even care, but he saw a moment of confusion in Ethan’s eyes. He pushed his advantage home.
‘You’ll pull her down with you, Ethan Samuels. You’ll see her starve, will you, dragged about the country looking for work? No place to belong, no kin.’ Even as he said the words it occurred to him that this was, in fact, just the way their families had lived for generations gone by. The way some, like Mother Jo, still lived, following the harvest and the horse fairs. Truth was Dar Samuels himself had dealt in horseflesh in better times. He told himself that didn’t matter. Ethan had nothing to give.
‘You think I’d do aught to harm her?’
Frank stepped close. ‘Seems to me you already have. Seems to me you give no thought you might be ruining the girl you’re supposed to love.’
‘Ruin her!’ Ethan’s fist was raised and drawn back. ‘You accusing me of what, Frank Church?’
‘People talk,’ Frank began but he knew the time for words was over. He ducked under the first of Ethan’s blows and came up, fists raised, ready for the fight. Ethan struck again, through Frank’s guard and catching him on the jaw. Frank sprawled his length into the mud.
‘Stay down and we’ll call it quits,’ Ethan said. ‘I’ll make believe you never said what you did.’
But Frank, though slow to anger, was riled now, as much with himself for providing Ethan such an easy target as with Ethan himself. He struggled to his feet, slipping in the mud as he charged forward, fists flailing. He made contact with something soft but his anger carried him on and he did no damage. He wheeled; Ethan stood beneath the tree, both fists raised and a look on his face that told Frank that Ethan would give no further quarter. Frank gritted his teeth and lowered his head, bringing his guard up properly this time. He thought of Helen Lee and asked himself what was he really fighting for? Did he really want this woman who no longer wanted him? Had she ever truly wanted him?
Frank didn’t know. He put the thought aside. The truth was he was hurting and it wasn’t just his bruised jaw or his equally damaged pride. It was the knowledge, dawning just that little bit too late, that, lazy and tardy as he’d been in telling her so, he knew what Ethan felt for Helen because he felt it too.
Frank charged. Ethan was ready for him but Frank was determined he wasn’t going to have this all his own way. The ground, slick with mud, slid away from them. They circled, struggling to keep their footing on the shifting ground. Blows landed, balance was lost and Ethan bled from a cut above his eye. It seemed to glow with an almost unnatural redness against the mud that coated the rest of his face.
Frank’s jaw pained him. Lightning bolts of hurt where Ethan’s fist had made contact for a second time. Frank lunged, Ethan sidestepped and a tree root brought him down. Frank piled on top, all thought of dignity or fair fight now gone. They brawled like school kids upon the sodden ground, pinching and grasping and punching, Ethan thought, like girls in a cat fight in the schoolyard.
Then a strong hand grasped him by the collar and lifted him back on to reluctant feet.
‘What in God’s name do the pair of you think you’re doing?’
Dar Samuels had stayed late to check on Robert’s wounded horse. He bent again to drag a sorry-looking Frank upright.
‘Look at the pair of you. Like your mam don’t have enough work without you ripping and miring your clothes. You too, Frank. You should be ashamed, both of you. I don’t suppose I need to ask what this was over?’
The two younger men eyed one another resentfully. Both slimed with mud and oozing blood from knuckles, faces and, in Frank’s case, the lobe of his right ear, they looked a sorry sight.
Frank mumbled what might have been an embarrassed good night and strode away as rapidly as his aching limbs would allow him. Ethan was left to face his father.
‘He said things,’ he mumbled. ‘About me and Helen. About how folk thought … Dad, he said I’d be the ruin of her.’
‘And have you thought he might be right?’ Dar Samuels shook his head. ‘Enough of this,’ he said. ‘It’s going to be sorted. Tonight. We’re sick of the lot of you, truth be told. No more sense than …’ He turned and strode away. Ethan limped after him, more than a little ashamed and conscious, also, that Frank’s technique had improved somewhat since the last time they’d come to blows.
TWENTY
Mickey had spent the early part of Thursday afternoon searching the crime scene once again. It had occurred to him that if letters had been sent one way then there must be corresponding letters going in the opposite direction. George Fields had evidently written to his wife, even if she couldn’t read his correspondence very well.
But a search of cupboards and drawers and even beneath loose floorboards turned up very little – certainly no letters. There were postcards from someone called Kathleen who had been visiting York and sent a picture of the Minster and the Shambles and a Valentine’s card, clumsily written from Mary to her husband. There were school reports for little Ruby and a photograph of the family taken on a beach promenade. On the reverse was the name of a photographer in Cleethorpes and a date for July of 1926. Mickey was familiar with such photographers, springing out on the unwary and taking a snap then handing out their card in the hope that you’d come along and buy it. Truth be told, Mickey had succumbed on occasion when he’d been at Margate or Southend with his mother and sister.
He studied the small picture. George looked tidier than he had after his night in a police cell but was eminently recognizable. Mary was a pretty woman with soft, fair hair looped up beneath a summer hat and Ruby’s curls dropped on to her shoulders. She was smiling at the camera. George was surprised to find the picture in a drawer and not in a frame and out on display, but then there was very little on display in the house. Only the vase he had noticed in the kitchen, a couple of cheap ornaments that might well have been won at a travelling fair and
an antimacassar on the back of the chair in the front parlour.
This house, he thought, was a joyless place.
He checked his watch, found that he had an hour before the first of his afternoon appointments and went over to where Walter Fields had lodged a few streets away just north of Kidgate. The landlady let him in.
‘He was a nice, polite boy,’ she said as she guided him up the stairs. Never came home stinking of the booze like some I could mention. And he cared for that little girl. It was always Ruby this, Ruby that …’
She opened a door at the top of the stairs. ‘I’ve not touched anything but I did want to know. I’ll need to be letting his room again. I can’t afford to let it sit empty, not for long. You do understand.’
‘I understand,’ Mickey told her. ‘We’re trying to contact the family. I don’t suppose …’
‘Not an address, no. I don’t know much about him, if I’m truthful. His dad were on the barges, like that cousin of his, George Fields.’ She sniffed as though George had earned her disapproval. ‘Little better than the gypsies if you ask me but the boy was a hard worker, I’ll give him that.’
She stood aside. ‘I’ll let you get on, then. And if you can tell me when I can pack his things away and let the room again I’d be grateful. I’ve got my advert ready, I put a card in the shop window and—’
‘Thank you again,’ Mickey said. He entered the room and closed the door.
It wasn’t much of a room, Mickey thought, though he’d stayed in worse in his younger days and slept in much worse in the war. The room was sparsely furnished. A single bed under the window, a chest of drawers with peeling paint and an old wardrobe lacking a door. Mickey checked his watch again. Forty-five minutes to go – plenty of time for the search of a room like this. Mickey doubted there’d be very much to find.
A half hour later Mickey was on his way to see Mrs Fry’s son, the solicitor, though it was interesting to note that the solicitor handling his mother’s estate, the one who had dissuaded the family from contesting the will, was a partner in the same firm. I’ll bet that leads to some interesting conversations, Mickey thought.
The Murder Book Page 10
