The constable stepped outside and left Grainger alone with his uninvited guest.
Braithwaite made an unfavourable impression. Grainger’s first thought was that the man had a gale force hangover. He was cut and bruised, his hair dishevelled, had slept in his suit.
Grainger hid his feelings and offered the man a seat. Braithwaite seemed grateful, and ready to explain himself, but when he did the words did not make sense. Even in his confused state, Braithwaite had let it be known he was moneyed, influential, demanding to talk to his solicitor. He denied attempting suicide, denied drinking. He showed signs of paranoia. ‘They’ were out to get him. This life was over for him. He had to get out of here. In the next breath he claimed that he had not tried to drown himself. All that was stuff and nonsense born of spite.
It took all Grainger’s skill to persuade the man to agree to have a rest, and sort out the matter tomorrow when he was more himself. It helped that Constable Mitchell came in at that moment, shaking his head sadly and saying, ‘I’m afraid, Mr Braithwaite, the only alternative is the lockup.’
‘What about my wife?’
The constable shook his head.
Braithwaite cursed under his breath.
He was escorted to one of the second-floor rooms, with a view onto the moors. Perhaps that would calm him.
Short-term amnesia, Grainger might have said had he felt charitable. Or was it a case of a death wish the patient disguised from himself?
When the telephone call came, he felt unable to refuse to see Mrs Braithwaite, but did not look forward to the interview. He expected a matronly, tearful woman with high colour, no doubt wearing a print frock and summer hat. She would twist a hanky in her hand and plead her husband’s case. There’d be some clumsy offer of a contribution to hospital funds in return for a favourable report on her husband’s state of mind.
An orderly showed her in. She was tall, slender and wore a riding outfit. In her left hand she held her hat and whip. He pushed back his chair and rose to meet her.
Coming towards him, she extended a cool right hand.
‘So good of you to find time to see me, Doctor.’
‘Do take a seat, Mrs Braithwaite.’
She took possession of the oak carver, crossing her long legs.
Now he recognised her from the public meeting that had been held in the Mechanics’ Institute to announce the opening of the hospital. She was a woman who turned heads.
She looked round. ‘This was the Nelsons’ breakfast room. Mrs Nelson said it’s lovely in the mornings, catches the sun.’
‘Yes. This will be my consulting room.’ At least she wasn’t tearful and histrionic. She struck him as one of those people you could rely on to come to the point when she was ready. He refrained from asking the usual ‘What can I do for you?’ He hoped she would not ask him to do anything. Refusing her would be painful.
‘I’m sorry that you have the trouble of taking custody of my husband. I’m sure it’s not what you expected when you came to open up Milton House for the military.’
She so exactly guessed his thoughts. He murmured some non-committal reply, her sympathy taking him by surprise. Still, he felt sure she would make a damn good stab to influence him. She seemed to be assessing him, looking at him intently, her head tilted to one side. He recognised a pose of his own – a willingness to listen.
‘Where were you before, Doctor?’
‘I was in Harley Street, and St George’s, then in France. I was asked to open this extra facility in the north.’
‘I’m sure we’re all very glad to have you here.’
‘You must be anxious about your husband. I’ve spoken to him briefly. I plan to see him again when he has had the chance to recover somewhat.’
He would speak to Braithwaite when the man calmed down and found his manners.
‘I understand you’ll be making a report, on whether he truly did attempt suicide.’
‘That’s what I’ve been asked to do.’
‘Then I am sure you will do it.’
He remembered that the policeman had mentioned that the Braithwaites had lost a son. He had expected her to give some mitigation for her husband’s actions. She held the silence.
Something extraordinary seemed to be happening. She had the kind of magnetism that fills the room. He would never look at that chair again without imagining her sitting there, so calmly. In repose she was captivating, with wide cheekbones, glossy hair, bright, penetrating dark eyes, a chiselled nose and full lips, slightly parted. He remembered that at the public meeting she had a girl with her, her daughter perhaps. It may not be such a bad thing to be cast out into the wilds of Yorkshire after all.
He knew he would be able to ask her about her husband without having some emotional torrent pour onto his head. She was one of those rare women with great inner strength. He felt it.
‘I suppose I must ask you, if it’s not too painful … you must have an insight into your husband’s state of mind. Has he behaved oddly lately?’
‘I’m sorry. Please don’t ask me. I don’t wish to say anything that would influence you, or that might damage my husband.’
He waited for her to say more.
After a long time, she said, ‘I expected Joshua to be strong when our son was killed. He wasn’t.’
If she begins to cry, he thought, I may be able to touch her. If she stood and began to cry, I could take her by the shoulders and perhaps draw her to me. But she seemed to have such brittleness about her. She might splinter and break before she would cry.
She recrossed her legs and looked beyond him, out of the window.
‘Have you had much opportunity to explore your surroundings, Dr Grainger?’
‘No I’m afraid not.’
‘Avoid the army target practice and the supposedly banned grouse shooters and you’ll find some lovely rides across the moors. Do you ride?’
‘I have no horse.’
She stood. ‘I’m sorry to hear that. With your responsibilities, I’m sure you will be in need of recreation.’
‘This is the lull before the storm. I’m expecting more patients any day now.’
‘Then you must make the most of your time. Does Mrs Grainger ride?’
‘I’m a widower.’ He felt sure she would have known already. Women always did.
She nodded, expressing sympathy without words. ‘May I show you something?’ She walked to the window.
He followed and stood so close that he could feel the heat from her body, catch the scent of her hair.
They looked out at the glorious August day at a picture-book green land, a bevy of small white clouds casting shifting shadows on the distant hill.
‘Over there. Across Reevock Moor, there’s a lovely spot. You can see the whole valley. There’s a clump of elms, and something of a tarn, very deep and dark. They say it covers an ancient settlement.’
‘I shall make sure I visit there.’
She held out her hand. ‘I would be much obliged if you would keep me informed of the progress of my husband’s case.’
‘Of course.’
‘When you feel confident that it would not compromise you, perhaps we could ride one day.’
An hour later, the orderly tapped on the door. ‘There’s a fine bay mare in the stable, doctor. Brought by a boy who said you’d know all about it.’
‘Ah yes,’ Grainger said, as if he were perfectly calm. ‘Thank you.’
He knew that he would not easily be compromised. Had she meant to try to influence him, she could have done so earlier.
He folded the newspaper and handed it to the orderly. ‘Does the horse look fresh?’
‘Fresh as a daisy.’
‘Then I shall take a ride.’
At first, he saw only her mare, tethered to a low branch. He dismounted, opened his mouth to call for her, thought better of it and looked about. Perhaps it was not her horse after all.
A mallard caught his eye as it swooped low and dived. There was a splash
from further off, by a cluster of rocks. He saw someone swimming in the tarn, taking long strokes towards him. She emerged like Venus, only more lovely.
He averted his eyes, mouth dry. ‘Thank you for sending the horse.’
‘Will you come into the water, Gregory?’
‘You have the advantage of me.’
‘I hoped I would.’
‘I don’t know your Christian name.’
‘Evelyn.’
‘Isn’t the tarn very cold, Evelyn?’
‘Bitterly.’
Monday, 21 August 1916
Gregory Grainger couldn’t sleep for thinking about Evelyn Braithwaite, and their time together the day before. He was awake early enough to catch the first notes of the dawn chorus.
He had never known a woman like Evelyn, the way she glided from the water towards him, as if it were the most natural thing in the world, no rush or hurry about her. She had placed a picnic rug on the ground and stretched out on it to dry herself, drops of water from the tarn glistening on her pale body in the afternoon sunlight. She was slender. When she leaned forward, he noticed every sensational vertebra.
He’d said something clumsy and silly. ‘Are you a naturist?’ She seemed so at ease in her own skin.
She draped the towel around her shoulders and closed her eyes. ‘Yes. I’m a naturist. I believe myself to be completely alone. I’ve no idea that someone is watching me, and wondering …’ She hugged her knees.
Even then, fool that he was, he hesitated.
‘Your husband …’
‘This has nothing to do with him. I saw the way you looked at me in the Mechanics’ Institute, when you came to talk about the work of the hospital. There was an instant connection between us, a kind of magnetism. Don’t let it disappear in a smoke of words.’
He took a step towards her, and another.
She stretched out her hand and touched his thigh. ‘There will be only one rule.’
‘What’s that?’
‘Take off your bloody boots, man.’
He laughed then, and somehow knew it would be all right. Sitting down beside her, he tugged off his riding boots with difficulty, feeling awkward, like a boy. She moved her hand along his spine and, distractingly, hooked her thumb in the waist of his trousers. He placed his boots neatly, side by side, a little way off from the picnic blanket.
When he turned to look at her she lowered her eyes, just for a second, and the length of her lashes against her cheeks struck him as extraordinary.
She unbuttoned his shirt. ‘You and I will have a lot to learn from each other.’
He kissed her, tasting her mouth, then loosed his braces and took off his shirt. Her head rested against his chest so that he only had to lower his head to feel her hair against his cheek.
Her fingers touched the flies of his trousers, with an almost innocent lightness, as if she were checking the number of buttons. Even then, he could not stop the thoughts. How could she? With a son dead, and a husband about to be charged with attempted suicide.
‘Is this what’s meant by magnetism?’ she asked in a dreamy sort of voice.
‘That involves an electric charge, attraction and repulsion.’
Her fingers touched him again. ‘I think I can feel the electric charge.’
Moments later, they were naked, wrestling, struggling, in a hurry for their mouths to meet, for their bodies to be as close as it was possible to be.
She moaned as he penetrated her too quickly. And once was not enough. She made him lie beneath her, teasing him, coaxing him into submission until he could bear it no longer.
She kissed him gently, with a softness that did not seem meant for him.
When she broke free, she dressed quickly, with a shiver, telling him that he must give her a five-minute start so they would not be seen together.
He called after her as she galloped away, asking when he would see her again. The wind carried his words back to him. As he watched her ride to the horizon, he thought, she’s keeping emptiness at bay, just for a short while.
*
When he returned to Milton House, Grainger learned that Joshua Braithwaite had partaken of a small meal of soup and bread. He braced himself to see the man and tapped on his door. When no answer came, Grainger tapped again and called, ‘Mr Braithwaite! May I come in?’
Braithwaite was slumped in the chair, as if he had been dozing. He jerked into wakefulness.
‘Are you ready to talk yet, Mr Braithwaite?’ Grainger asked, feeling more kindly towards the man than he had earlier.
In the hospital uniform, Braithwaite appeared benign but when he spoke it was with controlled anger. ‘Aye, I’m ready to talk. Where’s my wife?’
At the very mention of Evelyn, a shudder ran through Grainger with such power that he half-expected Braithwaite to read his thoughts, to see the longing. ‘She did visit earlier …’
‘No she didn’t. I’ve seen no one but that daft copper and your dim orderlies.’
‘She called, but thought it best to leave you be.’
Braithwaite winced. ‘Did she now?’ His jaw tightened. ‘I might have known.’
Grainger had come further into the room. He wanted to sit on the end of the bed but that was not the right thing to do. If he was to have a consultation with Braithwaite, it should be done properly, and notes made.
‘I want to speak to my solicitor.’
‘I’ll speak to Constable Mitchell tomorrow. I’m sure contact can be arranged first thing in the morning.’
‘I want to speak to him now.’
‘It’s Sunday.’
Braithwaite did not know what day it was, but hid his surprise, saying, ‘Do you think I don’t know what day it is? You must have me down for a barm pot.’ He stood up. ‘Let me get to a telephone. I pay Murgatroyd enough that he’ll speak to me, Sunday or no Sunday.’
It seemed to Grainger to be a reasonable request. The man was first a suspected felon and only secondly a patient.
‘There’s a telephone in the hall.’
Without another word, Grainger led Braithwaite onto the landing and down the stairs. The telephone stood on a table, just near the consulting room door. Grainger went into his room, leaving the door ajar.
He listened as Braithwaite asked for a number, and waited, and waited. Braithwaite muttered a curse, clicked for a fresh line and asked for another number. This time, he was successful.
‘Put Miss Braithwaite on,’ he demanded. Then, ‘What do you mean, she’s not there? Where is she?’ After a pause, he said, ‘Yes. Yes. I forgot. If she comes, say her father needs to speak to her.’
He replaced the telephone.
Grainger came back into the hall, making it clear that he would escort Braithwaite upstairs.
‘If my daughter telephones …’
There was something almost plaintive in Braithwaite’s voice, and in the way he said ‘If my daughter telephones’, and not ‘when’, that Grainger simply nodded.
‘I’ll give instructions that you’re to be brought to the telephone straight away.’
‘I’d forgotten she’s off with the VAD. She sometimes gets home on Sundays. Such a mess,’ Braithwaite murmured to himself as he mounted the stairs, ‘such a damn mess and muddle.’
Grainger called after him. ‘Mr Braithwaite, you don’t have to talk to me today, but perhaps I could give you a physical examination – just to check that everything is all right.’
‘Everything’s not all right is it? Far from it. And you prodding and poking me won’t change that.’
*
That was Sunday. Now it was Monday morning. Grainger checked his clock. It was too early to call the servants. He went downstairs to the enormous kitchen. A scullery maid knelt by the range, setting chips of wood on rolled-up newspaper.
The orderly, Kellett, sat at the deal table drinking tea and smoking a cigarette. He stood up as Grainger entered.
‘Anything wrong, sir?’
‘I could murder a cup of tea.’
‘I’ll bring you one.’
‘I’ll have it here.’ Grainger sat down.
Kellett fetched a cup and poured. Grainger remembered that he had been on duty during the night.
‘Any disturbances?’
‘Peaceful as babes, doctor. Except for Mr Johnson having one of his bad dreams.’
Kellett was a man who did not need encouragement to talk. Grainger only half-listened, and then not at all. He was wondering how soon he could see Evelyn again, and how they would manage it.
He rang the Braithwaite house. A housekeeper or whoever answered the telephone put her on.
‘I wanted to thank you for yesterday, for sending the horse.’
It was important to be careful, he thought. You never knew what operator may be listening.
‘It was my pleasure,’ she said softly. ‘Did you enjoy the ride?’
‘Immensely.’
He should tell her that Braithwaite wanted to speak to her, but now he was conscious that the operator may be listening and if he started to speak about his charge in the same breath as a ‘thanks for the horse’, it could be misconstrued. As if she guessed his thoughts, she simply said, ‘I’m glad, Doctor. Thank you for telling me.’
In one more second, he would be cut off from her. All in a rush he said, ‘Would it be possible for you to call at Milton House today?’
‘Of course.’
‘Say, three?’
‘Three.’
Kellett came to him moments later, saying that Mr Braithwaite needed to use the telephone and was complaining about his door being locked.
‘Escort him to the telephone,’ Grainger said. ‘And unlock his door.’ He would telephone Constable Mitchell and tell him that Milton House was a hospital, not a prison. If Mitchell wanted Braithwaite locked up, let him do it. But before he had time to do that, Johnson tapped on his door, agitated and wanting to talk.
Captain Johnson had dreamed vividly from childhood. He had a memory of being made to stay alone in the nursery while the family prepared to set off on holiday.
Dying In The Wool: A Kate Shackleton Mystery Page 16
