Murder on a Summer's Day (22 page)

I went outside to smoke, and to think. The dog came outside for a piddle, and went back in.

Eventually, Jenny opened her eyes. She looked a little better than earlier.

‘Jenny, I have a question for you.’

‘I’m too tired.’

‘Was it Mr Deakin gave you a lift on his cart this morning?’

‘Yes.’

‘Did he say anything?’

‘That I shouldn’t be out. That I should have stopped at home.’

‘Did he say anything about the business of the last few days, the things that have happened?’

‘He said he saw an Indian on Friday afternoon on Bark Lane, but he was blowed if he would lose a day’s work to speak about it in public.’

So Deakin
had
seen an Indian, a stranger. Now that the inquest was over, he felt safe in retelling his story. There was more going on than had yet been uncovered. After everything that had passed, I was determined to get to the heart of the matter, and learn the identity of this mysterious stranger.

The afternoon held calm and fine as I drove back towards the hotel from the Hannons’ cottage, with blue sky, puffy white clouds and an obliging sun. Yet above the noise of the car’s engine, strange sounds penetrated. I slowed down. Where were the noises coming from? Cymbals clashed. Drums rolled. And then I saw that a little further on, the road was lined with villagers. I drew onto the verge, and got out of the car. As I began to walk to where the villagers stood, a gunshot rang out, and another, and another, until I had counted nineteen. I found a spot by the memorial fountain among the spectators. It was their gasp I heard before I saw the start of the procession.

The tread of feet heralded an approaching army.

In a whirlwind of pomp, sound and colour, the procession came into view, led by two richly caparisoned elephants whose keeper twirled a golden rod. Bearers carried a stretcher that bore the late maharajah, covered in jewels that glinted and sparkled in the afternoon sun.

Dressed in ceremonial robes came Maharajah Shivram Halkwaer and Prince Jaya, and the little boy, Rajendra, with a red mark on his forehead. The Duke of Devonshire walked with them. I had never heard a bad word about him, and thought what a terrible thing that this had happened on his estate. A Sikh military escort marched behind, looking neither right nor left. A slew of maharajahs, old and young, bore themselves proudly, followed by more Indian soldiers carrying lighted torches, and by the men I took to be aides-de-camp, now dressed in white garments and scarlet sashes.

James pretended not to see me as he led a group including Sergeant, Upton and men from the estate. They were followed by the band of the North Riding police.

Behind them strode various musicians, beating drums, clashing cymbals.

When they had passed, we spectators lingered, marvelling at the scene that had just passed, the like of which we would never see again.

I walked back to the hotel with Rachel. She wanted news of Osbert’s inquest. She took it calmly enough when I told her about Jenny’s baby.

‘I hated her, but now I pity her.’

As we passed the stable, I asked whether anyone had seen Joel, but she told me that no one had. ‘They say things come in threes. I hope he isn’t shot or drowned.’

On reaching the hotel, I made for my familiar bench at the rear of the hotel and sat down, mesmerised by the sky; waiting, trying not to imagine what would soon be enacted in the Valley of Desolation.

Down by the river, the flash of a fishing line flying through the air told me that Sykes was not far off. I would take a walk.

I strolled to the river, not making a beeline for my fisherman friend in case someone was watching from the hotel, though our secrecy hardly seemed to matter any more.

He waved as he saw me approach.

‘I’ve kept a Wensleydale cheese sandwich for you. Made by Mrs Sergeant’s fair hand. Thought you’d never get here. Did the inquest last this long?’

‘No. Something else came up.’ Briefly, I told him about Jenny and the baby, and the inquest verdict.

‘You’ll be hungry then. The sandwich is in the basket… oh, wait a minute, you won’t want to see the bait, it’ll put you off your cheese.’ He reeled in his line.

From the basket, he produced a sandwich wrapped in a white tea cloth, a bottle of ginger beer and a glass.

It looked inviting and I realised I was hungry after all.

When he took a penknife from his pocket and released the bottle opener attachment, I saw that his knuckles were grazed.

‘How did you do that?’

‘Oh, a fish jumped out of my hand.’

‘A fish called Thurston Presthope?’

‘Looked more like a brown trout to me. But he won’t be bothering you again.’

‘I wish you wouldn’t.’

‘Well, when you don’t get a bite, you have to do something.’ He poured the ginger beer.

‘I don’t care about Presthope, but it would do my business no good to have you charged with assault.’

‘No fear of that.’

I bit into the sandwich. Cheese and pickle. Can’t beat it. ‘Deakin, the coal merchant, he told Osbert’s widow that he saw an Indian on Bark Lane.’

‘I’m not surprised. He probably did. The man wants a quiet life, not to be questioned by the boys in blue and called to give evidence at an inquest, losing a day’s work because of it.’

A couple of ducks came paddling up, waddling from the water to investigate my sandwich. ‘Go away. The sixpenny visitors ruin you. You’ve had more to eat than I have today.’

‘‘Do you want to know where Joel is?’

‘You’ve heard something?’

‘Seen, more like. I was up before daybreak and saw smoke rising on the horizon. An hour later, the sky in that spot was clear, so I knew it hadn’t come from a cottage or a farmhouse chimney. I did a little exploring. He’s living rough in the woods. Made himself a bender, as they call it, shaping branches like gipsies do. He has a blanket, and a tucked away little pot.’

‘Did he see you?’

‘No. Maybe he was off shooting a hare. I kept out of sight until he came back, with summat in a bag slung over his shoulder. I didn’t let on.’

‘I wonder why none of the estate workers found him and persuaded him to come back to work.’

‘They’ll know where he is right enough. They’re turning a blind eye until it’s all over. They suspect he may have shot the prince.’ He looked at me steadily. ‘Did he, do you think?’

‘I don’t know. But perhaps it’s time to find out. Where is this bender? Joel must be lonely, and in need of a visitor.’

‘Be careful, Mrs Shackleton. You wouldn’t weigh his brain against a calf’s, but if he had a hand in the prince’s death he could be dangerous.’

‘I helped his dad. That will count for something with him.’

Sykes began to pack up his fishing gear. ‘Let’s go together. I can show you.’

‘No. I don’t want to scare him.’

‘If that’s what you want.’

‘It is. Where will I find him?’

‘Drive beyond the remains of an old tower, Barden Tower. The wood is a little way on from there. On the map it’s called Nelly Park Wood. Walk through the wood, across a bridge, and by a waterfall. You’ll come to a ford, he’s camped out a little ahead of that off to the left, away from the path. It’s about four miles from here. If you walk, you get to the ruined tower beyond the Strid.’

It was not the four miles to the wood that decided me to drive, but the four miles back. Checking that I had walking boots in the motor, I set off along the road that took me by Bolton Hall and up into the country. The only difficulty about coming this way was that in summer landmarks can hide behind branches, and one wood looks very much like another. People who know the names of their woods do not feel the need to erect signposts or nameplates for the convenience of strangers. Eventually, I spotted the tower. I stopped, consulted the map, and then continued to what I took to be the edge of Nelly Park Wood. There, I changed into my boots and slipped on a long cardigan.

Waterfalls and rushing water may never again hold the same appeal for me. How to do this, I wondered. Pretend to be on a country walk. Stumble across Joel. Say, Excuse me young man, have you shot anyone lately?

Brambles and ferns had grown over a path. Sykes must have been a secret boy scout to have located this spot. Just as I began to think I had taken a wrong turn, there was the bender. A blanket lay over the bent branches, as if to be aired.

I drew closer. ‘Joel!’

No answer.

Perhaps he was asleep.

I peered inside. He had spread bracken on the ground, giving the hollowed out space the appearance of a child’s den. A cooking pot stood just inside the bender, along with spoon and fork. He certainly showed signs of being able to take care of himself.

Now I regretted bringing the motor. If he was out and about, he might see it on the road and avoid coming back here.

Undecided whether to find my way back to the bridge and wait, or to sit here, I leaned against an oak tree.

From the corner of my eye, I caught a rapid movement. Expecting to see a bird or squirrel, I turned to look. It was the toe of a swinging boot. A boot, a trouser leg, a Joel, sitting on a branch high in the next tree. This was how the Cheshire cat materialised for Alice.

‘Joel, what are you doing up there?’

‘I been sitting here. Heard someone coming. Didn’t know who it was.’

So much for pretending that I happened to be walking through the woods.

‘People are worried about you.’

‘Who?’

‘I am. I wondered where you’d got to when you didn’t come to work.’

‘It was my fault. They know it was my fault.’

‘What was your fault?’

‘What happened was my fault.’

I wanted to hold up my hand and say, Stop! Would this be a confession of murder? I would be obliged to report it. No wonder his neighbours and workmates had let him disappear quietly.

He kicked his heels against the tree trunk. ‘She was my pet, my little doe.’

He wanted to talk. I must let him speak.

Silence.

Now that he had begun, he must continue. I prompted. ‘You were sad about the white doe, your pet.’

‘Yes.’

Silence.

I glanced up at him. ‘You saw the Indian prince in the barn, and you were angry.’

He was holding on to the branch with both hands. ‘No. Didn’t see him there, except in my dream. Didn’t see no one. Just my doe.’

‘But you were in the barn. I saw you. Yesterday.’

‘I saw his ghost but not him. I only seed him in the wood, dead. Didn’t see no prince till in the wood. Told you. You was there, with my dad.’

‘Then why are you hiding? You haven’t done anything wrong.’

The branch creaked a little under his weight. ‘My dad is badly. I made my dad poorly.’

‘Is that it? Is that why are you hiding? Because if so, you are wrong. What happened to your dad comes from inside, not from anything outside that another person does.’

‘Because I told him. I made him poorly. I upset him inside.’

‘How did you upset him?’

‘He didn’t tell me. No one told me. Only Osbert told me.’

‘What did Osbert tell you?’

‘When he jumped the Strid on Saturday morning, he said it couldn’t be helped. He said he couldn’t have stopped the Indian shooting her. I didn’t know because my dad didn’t tell me. Nobody did, ’cept Osbert. He telled me.’

‘What happened when he told you?’

Joel rocked back and forth on the branch. It shook and groaned. ‘I wouldn’t let Osbert pass. He said I must let him pass. I wouldn’t let him pass. He pushed me. I pushed him back. He fell. I tried to get him out the water. He floated away, bumping along, under and over, under and over.’

I sat down on the ground. It looked dry but a damp coldness seeped through my skirt and stockings. Above me, Joel’s feet swung back and forth, back and forth, like the feet of a corpse hanging from the scaffold.

Joel Withers had killed Osbert Hannon.

Still his feet swung back and forth.

‘My doe is gone. Osbert is drowned. My dad is poorly. I should have taken better care of my doe.’

Joel Withers killed Osbert Hannon out of love for a doe.

‘Come down out of the tree.’

‘Why should I?’

‘Looking up at you is making my neck hurt.’

‘I like to be up tree. I can climb higher, and you can come up here.’

‘No thank you.’

I lifted his blanket from the bender, folded it and sat with my back to the tree trunk. If he came down clumsily, he would land on my head. That might be a relief. I would have a very good excuse for retiring from the case.

I have to go home now due to a headache – or a crushed skull – caused by a gormless lad who inadvertently drowned his friend because of a wild animal’s death, and then fell on my head.

After a long time, Joel said, ‘I don’t know who to tell.’

‘You have told me.’

‘It is my fault. People with great fault go to hell.’

The wood was quite silent. Not a leaf stirred, not a bird called.

‘Did you mean to push him in the river?’

‘No. He can’t swim. I can’t swim.’

‘If you didn’t mean to do it, it was an accident.’

Manslaughter, a court might say.

‘I went to tell her, to tell Jenny and Mrs Hannon. I dare not knock on the door.’

‘Do you think you must tell them?’

‘My dad said no. He said tell no one. But it mun come out of me.’

Was it too late for him to tell the Hannons, or too soon? ‘Jenny is very tired today. She had a baby boy. She and the baby may be sleeping.’

‘I’ll tell ’em while they sleep. And I’ll tell ’em when they wake. This morning there was no one there, not Jenny, not Mrs Hannon.’

‘They were in Skipton. They are back now.’

He slid from the tree.

I stood.

He picked up his blanket and his pot.

‘Wait, Joel. Let me come with you. We’ll go together.’

When Mrs Hannon saw Joel, she was glad that he had come. She gave us both tea, and him bread, and asked him to chop wood and draw water from the well.

He did.