Dying in the Wool (21 page)

Already the dismantling process was underway. Removal men carried boxes along the hall.

We flattened ourselves against a wall as two men carried a bedstead down the stairs.

In the lobby, Grainger stopped. ‘Take a look at this painting.’

Light filtered in through the stained glass above the porch door. Then the door was opened by the removal men. We stood by an oil painting, full of light and shade – a stream, trees, an old stone bridge.

‘Do you recognise the spot?’ he asked.

It was a local scene, the beck and humpback bridge, and two children playing by the stepping stones. ‘Is it where
… where Mr Braithwaite was found?’

‘Yes. And it’s his painting. Mrs Braithwaite donated it to the hospital. She didn’t want it in the house, naturally enough, and couldn’t destroy it.’

No one had told me that Braithwaite was such a talented artist. It gave an extra reason why he may have wanted to run away from the mill. If I had such a talent, I would want to pursue my art. He had caught the dappled light on the beck, the texture of the stepping stones, the movement of Edmund with his fishing rod, and Tabitha, clutching at her skirt with one hand and poking at the reeds with a stick, as if searching.

‘What will happen to it now?’

‘I’m not sure. I can’t decide whether I should return it.’ He rubbed his chin thoughtfully.

‘They’re his children, Tabitha and Edmund. I’m sure she’d want it, Tabitha I mean. Shall I take it with me?’

He looked suddenly relieved. ‘I wish you would.’

‘Let’s put it in the boot of my car.’

I had risked driving up the dirt track.

He lifted the painting from the wall, along with the cobwebs that had accumulated behind it. When the removal men weren’t looking, I snaffled one of their covers and draped it over the painting. I would not give it to Tabitha until after she married. It could be too unsettling.

Dr Grainger carried the painting outside. There was relief in his voice when he said, ‘Thank you for taking this. I need no reminders of my time at Milton House, or of Mr Braithwaite.’

Sunday, 20 August 1916

GRAINGER

Talk about irony. Talk about bad timing. Yesterday, Grainger read a journal article about the decrease in suicides during wartime. Today, here he was lumbered with a potential suicide. Just his luck to fetch up in the one place in England in the week where a local worthy got himself dragged from a beck by boy scouts.

‘Exceptional circumstances, Doctor Grainger,’ the village constable had said.

At present, he could give his full attention to the few officers who formed the advance party of his patients in this new facility. The captain had developed a stammer, a twitch and a fearfulness that overwhelmed him. The lieutenant had been buried twice, once for twenty-four hours. His shuffling gait improved with the exercises prescribed by the physical training instructor. Grainger felt less sure of his own ability to help the man mend his mind.

It was a bloody nuisance, being asked to take in a civilian, a local bigwig at that. With a full complement of patients, he might have been able to refuse admission to Joshua Braithwaite. Not that Grainger lacked compassion, but suicidal mill owners were not part of his remit. Why does this get my ire up, he asked himself as he strolled the grounds, indulging in a little self-analysis. The insight he
uncovered was not welcome. As long as he took care of officers back from the front, he could imagine himself to be still in the thick of things, pretend not to have been banished from London to the wilds of Yorkshire. For banishment it was. Grainger was a capital man, a London man from the roots of his hair to the tips of his neatly clipped toenails. He liked company, dinner parties, visits to the theatre and opera, to be in the throbbing centre of the country, the heart of the Empire, where events were decided and history made.

Having to probe the mind of a morose provincial held no charms. Grainger nodded to the gardener. The man tipped his cap as he approached a bed of cabbages, an ugly-looking knife in his hand.

Grainger tried to put a different interpretation on the task that lay ahead. Having to probe the despair of a manufacturing magnate might have possibilities. The man had lost a son after all. Such things mattered deeply in a culture where a business was handed down over the generations. With this in his thoughts, Grainger tried to quash his prejudices, telling himself that the mill owner may prove an interesting case. Presumably the man would need to be half-way intelligent to run a mill. Of course, possibly he would not be articulate, if his conversations ran to buying wool and turning it into cloth. This was not an occupation calling for introspection.

At nine o’clock on Sunday morning, Constable Mitchell escorted a protesting Braithwaite into the consulting room. Grainger was inclined to give the man the benefit of the doubt, and a reasonable amount of attention. After all, it could not be so cut and dried a case or the constable would have released him, or had him taken to prison.

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.