Dying in the Wool (10 page)

Like every other mystery in the world, I thought, once it’s been explained, it’s so obvious.

Constable Mitchell probed the ‘ocean’ gently with a small tool. ‘You have to make sure it’s thoroughly dry.’ He sniffed at the bottle.

Satisfied, he dipped a brush in glue. He stroked glue onto the base of the tiny hull and bowsprit, not more than six inches in length. With a tweezer-like tool and a steady
hand, he inserted the base of the ship onto its indentation.

He replaced the lid on the glue and put his tools away.

‘Don’t stop for me.’ I wanted to see what he would do next.

‘It has to dry. Putting a ship in a bottle takes patience. Now what can I do for you, madam? I’m sure you didn’t come to Bridgestead to learn how to put a ship in a bottle.’

Why did I have the feeling he knew exactly what brought me to Bridgestead? The telephone on the wall seemed to me to smirk. I suspected my father had already put in a call. What Constable Mitchell said next confirmed my suspicions.

Gently setting his precious bottle at the back of the desk, he turned to me. ‘That’s my tea-time break over. It wouldn’t do for me to appear a slacker in your presence, Mrs Shackleton. Who knows what levels that might be reported back to?’

‘I guessed as much.’ I forced a smile. ‘You have no need to worry on that account, Mr Mitchell. My father thinks highly of you.’

‘I was surprised he even remembered me.’

‘Are there any objections to my looking into Mr Braithwaite’s disappearance?’

He shook his head. ‘When a person remains missing, the case is still open, but after all this time nothing new has come to light.’

He passed me a scrapbook, opened at cuttings relating to the Braithwaite case. Some of them I had read in the newspaper offices, but not the ones from the local paper. The editor of the weekly
Bingley Bugle
maintained a cautious tone. In the first article the name of the Bridgestead man ‘found in the beck’ was withheld. It was not until two weeks later that a photograph of Joshua Braithwaite appeared, giving an account of his disappearance.

Constable Mitchell waited until I had finished reading the cuttings.

‘It was one of the worst days of my life, having to arrest Joshua Braithwaite for attempted suicide. And the man was in no fit state.’

‘Tell me about it.’

‘I’ll do better than that. I can give you my report from the time.’ He opened a desk drawer and lifted out several notebooks, looking at the covers for dates. ‘It didn’t help that he was found in a spot where a suicide had happened three years earlier.’

The image made me shudder. ‘How awful. By the waterfall?’ This was what Mrs Kellett had said, although Tabitha had pointed out the shallow area near the stepping stones.

‘Yes, by the waterfall. If Braithwaite hadn’t been pulled out when he was, he would have drowned, like the weaver and her children.’

‘That’s terrible. Poor woman.’

He found the notebook he was looking for and returned the others to the drawer. ‘It was a sad case. A poor soul at the end of her tether. It was said she wouldn’t give up her children to be farmed out from the workhouse.’

I would never look at the idyllic spot again without imagining the despair of that woman. It took an effort to make myself concentrate on Joshua Braithwaite.

‘I can imagine that a woman might seek to end her life in that way, if she is truly despairing. Perhaps it’s my prejudice, but it seems to me a more female method of dying. Would Mr Braithwaite have chosen that way out?’

‘Men are just as likely to drown themselves. Mills are all built by the water. Canals and becks have made a last resting place for many a poor labourer.’

He found the Page in his notebook. ‘My writing’s not very legible. I’ll read it to you.’

‘Thank you. Do you mind if I jot down one or two points?’

‘Feel free.’

I took out my own notebook and listened. Policemen have a flat, unemotional way of talking when reading from their notes. Mr Mitchell was no exception.

‘Here goes. “Saturday 20 August 1916, six pm. Summoned to an incident reported as suicide attempt at beck, beyond old bridge. Mr J Braithwaite on the bank, soaked to skin, in recovery position, supervised by Mr Wardle, scoutmaster, who claimed Mr Braithwaite was found drowning, but reluctant to allow self to be dragged from beck. Mr B not coherent. Cut lip, bruising, lost a shoe. Makeshift stretcher … Mr B fetched to police house. Wardle urging charge of attempted suicide. W says concerned about impressionable lads witnessing event. Sent for Dr Grainger from Milton House. Dr G pronounced no immediate danger. Watch kept in night by self and wife.” That’s the first entry.’

‘So he stayed here the night? One of the papers mentioned he was at the village doctor’s house.’

‘We’d had no doctor in the village since 1915. Dr Grainger’s the army medic, at Milton House.’

He turned a Page in his notebook. ‘Now we come to the following day. “After satisfactory night, Mr B somewhat recovered. Denied attempted suicide but no explanation as to how he got into beck. Said he remembered running and tripping – that was his explanation for cuts and bruises. A teetotaller, Mr B insisted had not touched a drop of drink. Mr B transferred to the temporary Milton House Hospital, pending further investigations.’

He closed the notebook.

‘Couldn’t he have been taken home, Mr Mitchell?’

‘Good question.’ He put the notebook on the desk.

Even after all these years, I could see that the memory of that night still rankled. ‘It’s a pity Wardle found him
and went round shouting suicide. If it had been up to me, he could have been home and in his bed within the hour, no more said.’

‘Couldn’t you have overruled Wardle? You represent the law here.’

‘I was in a difficult position. Wardle had a troop of boy scouts ready to swear to the fact that they’d found a potential suicide. And Wardle’s brother’s a magistrate in Keighley.’

‘What did Mrs Braithwaite have to say?’

Constable Mitchell seemed reluctant to continue. ‘You’re staying with them?’

‘Yes.’

‘Perhaps you should ask Mrs Braithwaite yourself.’

‘It’s Miss Braithwaite who’s keen to find her father.’

He seemed to be weighing up how frank he should be.

Eventually he said, ‘I telephoned Mrs Braithwaite, asking her to come. She said no. If anyone could have ridden roughshod over Wardle, she could. She could have pooh-poohed the whole business. As it was, reporters from Bradford and Leeds were here within the hour. They came on motorbikes.’

‘Did you believe the story of how Mr Braithwaite came by the cuts and bruises?’

‘His Humpty Dumpty tumble? It’s possible. But I did wonder … this is a little delicate …’

‘Mr Mitchell, I was in the WAPC at the start of the war. There was nothing delicate about my work there, or later when I drove an ambulance in France.’

‘Yes but this is a little close to home.’

‘I have heard he was something of a ladies’ man.’

‘Then I can say it. I wondered whether some irate husband had just cause to give him a walloping.’

The story began to sound like a Thomas Hardy tragedy. The fall of a local notable whose fault was not in his stars but in himself.

Constable Mitchell sighed and continued. ‘I don’t need the notebook to tell you what happened next. My wife sat with him for a short while, to give me time to cycle up to the Braithwaites’, since Mrs Braithwaite wouldn’t come into the village. There was no note in his study, no indication of anything at all out of the ordinary. And she hadn’t changed her mind about not wanting him home.’

‘What about in his office at the mill? Was there a note there?’

He shook his head.

‘Mrs Braithwaite mentioned a note.’

My guess was that she remembered correctly, and had decided not to make it known at the time.

The constable raised his eyebrows. ‘Did she now? Well, all I can say is that I went to the mill the next morning. In the country, it’s not like the towns where you can despatch another constable. There was just myself. Besides, I was reluctant to disturb Mr Stoddard. His wife was dying. So I went to the mill early the next day – no note, nothing.’

‘Mr Stoddard?’

‘Mr Neville Stoddard. He’s Mr Braithwaite’s cousin. I’m afraid all the work of keeping the mill running fell on his shoulders. I daresay you’ll meet him shortly.’

‘Yes, I expect so. You didn’t charge Mr Braithwaite with attempted suicide?’

‘No. It might have been better for him if I had. If I’d been less scrupulous about trying to get at the truth, I would have done what the scoutmaster wanted, had him charged and committed to prison. Instead, I came up with the idea of asking Dr Grainger to keep him under observation. I telephoned my sergeant at HQ. He spoke to the inspector and got his agreement. Dr Grainger, he grasped my predicament. The transfer took place on Sunday morning. Mr Braithwaite was supposed to be under observation and isolated.’

‘Why wasn’t he brought before a magistrate on Monday morning?’

‘The magistrates were fully scheduled for that day – conscientious objector cases. He’d been timetabled for Tuesday morning, by which time he’d skedaddled.’

‘What happened?’

‘When I interviewed staff at the hospital, it was like yapping with the three wise monkeys. They’d seen nowt, heard nowt and would say nowt.’

‘Do you have a theory?’

He shook his head. ‘I was hopping mad with Dr Grainger. Of course, when I got to know him better I could see how he let it happen. His head’s in the clouds most of the time. He goes in for talking cures. Well, a talking cure only works if you’ve kept the feller there to talk to.’

‘Mr Mitchell, what do you believe? Is Mr Joshua Braithwaite alive, or dead?’

‘I have to keep an open mind.’

‘But which side would you come down on, if you had to?’

‘Sometimes, I think someone wanted him done in, and they succeeded. Other times, I remember what a wily old bird he was and I wonder whether he’s living the life of Riley with a femme fatale in Brighton.’

‘If someone did want him dead, who would it be?’

He turned the tables. ‘You’re very good at asking questions, Mrs Shackleton. It’s a pity the force doesn’t make better use of females. Who do you think, from your investigations so far?’

‘Too early to say. Business rival? Former employee with a grudge? Wronged husband? It’s sometimes the spouse, especially if that spouse feels betrayed and aggrieved.’

He raised his eyebrows and gave a cautious, tentative, ‘Yes.’

‘But there has to be method as well as motive. Mrs Braithwaite couldn’t have duffed up her husband and thrown him in the beck.’ I didn’t say
in spite of her having brought height into the family.

We looked at each other without speaking. Constable Mitchell tugged at his shirt collar. Neither of us said,
She could have paid or persuaded someone else to send him on his way – to death or oblivion
.

Mrs Mitchell came in carrying a tray of tea. She smiled at me, but quickly looked at the ship in the bottle, checking on its progress for her father’s eightieth birthday.

Constable Mitchell introduced us.

‘Mrs Shackleton and I were talking about Mr Braithwaite,’ he said.

‘Poor man.’ She set the tray down carefully. ‘If he did go off, then good luck to him and leave him be, but I don’t think he’s to be found this side of the grave.’

‘Kate Shackleton!’ a fair-haired, red-cheeked young man with pale-blue eyes bounced across the Braithwaite drawing room, smiling a greeting. ‘Tabby told me to look out for you. She’s upstairs with my mother going over some important matter to do with a veil. I’m Hector Gawthorpe, the fiancé.’

We shook hands and agreed how pleased we were to meet.

Hector cocked his head to one side, listening. When no noise came from the stairs, he said, ‘They’ll be ages yet. I’m glad we’ve caught each other. I hope you’ll be coming to dine with us in a couple of days’ time – it’s a meeting of the families … pre-nuptials and all that.’

‘I think perhaps I’d better not, if it’s family.’

‘Tabby insists, and mother will be pressing an invitation on you the moment she comes down. I’m afraid there’ll be no getting out of it, if you’ll still be here.’

I smiled. ‘In that case, I give in.’

‘Tabby told me you two know each other from ages ago.’

‘Yes.’

‘From the war?’

‘We were both in the VAD.’

He sighed and seemed to deflate. ‘All of you who came through that, it’s as if you’re a different species somehow. You saw so much. You have a way of being with each other that’s … I don’t know. Those of us who weren’t there …’

‘Really, I try not to think about it too much. And I’m sure Tabitha is glad to have it all behind her. We’ve hardly talked about it at all.’

I didn’t say that that was because we hadn’t yet had the time. I’d no doubt that candles would burn late into the night, and we would go over those days.

He rubbed at a spot on his cuff. ‘I know why you’re really here. She hasn’t told me, but I’m not entirely dense.’