Dying in the Wool (29 page)

Tabitha gave up on her half slice of toast. She looked as if she might be sick as she watched Hector tuck into eggs, bacon, well-done sausages, black pudding and fried bread. With a dramatic glance around the table and a tremor in her voice, she asked, ‘Is there a curse on this place?’

Mrs Braithwaite attempted to look serene, but her eyelid twitched. She toyed with a kipper. ‘Nothing is connected, Tabitha, and yet everything is. Perhaps we live in a time of shadows. But the shadows will pass. We will see a better tomorrow. What else can we do but keep on going? You and Hector have your wedding to think of. Now you must decide on the honeymoon. It’s mad to have left it so late.’

Hector was caught with a mouthful and made a valiant attempt to chew it down in something of a hurry so as to help his future mother-in-law in her efforts to change the subject. ‘There’s some caverns opened up at Stump Cross.’

Tabitha turned a lighter shade of pale. ‘Caverns?’

Hector grimaced as Evelyn’s well-shod toes kicked his ankles.

‘Paris would be grand, if you don’t mind doing the talking, Tabby.’

‘My mind won’t work.’ Tabitha moved crumbs from the edge of her plate so they made a small island in its centre. ‘I can’t think.’

‘Nonsense, dear. It’s tragic, and obviously they were
our employees and we’ll have a responsibility to see things done properly, but we weren’t close to the Kelletts.’

Hector crunched his fried bread.

‘Eat something, Tabitha. Keep your strength up,’ Mrs Braithwaite ordered. ‘You too, Kate.’

We finished breakfast. Evelyn and Tabitha went upstairs. I managed to detain Hector with the excuse that I wanted him to draw me a map of the most direct route from Bridgestead back to Leeds. Pencil in hand, he drew a dot. ‘This is Bridgestead. You are here …’

‘Keep drawing, Hector. But tell me, what did Mr Braithwaite ask you to do for him that day?’

‘I can’t draw and talk.’

‘Then just scribble. I know the way.’

‘Do you? Then why …? Oh I see. Right.’ He pressed so hard on the pencil the point broke.

‘You saw Mr Braithwaite by the side gate of Milton House?’

‘Yes. He looked different, in that hospital uniform they used to put men in.’

‘Hospital blue,’ I prompted.

‘Yes, a bit like workmen’s overalls. Quite the wrong outfit for Mr Braithwaite. I’ll never forget his bruised face, and the cut on his lip. He knew who I was, and that I’d helped him with the motorbike. He asked would I do something for him, and there’d be a shilling in it when he had his wallet by him. I agreed straight away, just glad to help him in his troubles, and to do something for Tabitha Braithwaite’s father.’

He came to a full stop, and gazed at the useless pencil. I made a powerful effort to quell my rising impatience as he drew a small pen knife from his pocket and started to sharpen the pencil point.

‘He swore me to secrecy. Wanted me to find where his motorbike had got to. I said it was probably where he always kept it. He said it wasn’t or he wouldn’t be asking.
He said it was just the job for a boy scout – and to look in all the likely places till I found it, then come back and tell him, or tell Mr Kellett.’

‘And did you?’

‘Yes. It was in one of the outbuildings at the mill. He must have forgotten he’d left it there. I went back to tell him. He wasn’t by the side gate, so I just walked in through the front gate, trying to look as if I had some business there.’

The pencil point was well and truly sharp. Hector turned it round and began to sharpen the other end.

I wanted to reach out and stop him whittling the pencil any further. There’d be none of it left.

‘There weren’t many people about. One soldier sitting on a bench said good morning to me. Another was trying to walk straight. I felt bad. The last thing they would want was some stupid boy gawping. I nearly went up to one of them and asked should I join the army. Some lads my age did get away with it. I wish I had now. I wish I’d taken part. I’d be more of an equal with Tabby.’

‘I’m glad you’re telling me all this, Hector. It could be really helpful. Go on.’

‘Then I saw Mr Kellett. I knew him of course because he lived by the beck and I used to go there sometimes, fishing for tiddlers. I sauntered up to him and told him where the motorbike was. Poor chap. He was quite small, wasn’t he?’

‘And?’

‘He said, “Thanks, young Gawthorpe. Mum’s the word.” So you see, he wanted me to say nothing. I did as he asked. I never mentioned wiping Mr Braithwaite’s mouth, or the scrap of material, or looking for the motorbike. I was as good as my word. Until now.’

There is something about boys who are up to no good – a shiftiness, a lightness of step. These two were running along the Bingley road, carrying something. They turned,
about to disappear into a hedge.

I drove alongside, pipped the horn and brought the car to a stop.

‘What have you got there, boys?’

The elder held tightly to the top of a moving sack, his face set in a defiant glare. ‘Nowt!’

The younger ran dirty fingers through his basin-cut brown hair.

‘What is it?’ I asked again. ‘If you tell me, you can have a ride on the running board.’

They exchanged looks. The older flickered his eyes at the younger, unwilling to tell me himself but giving permission. Later he would be able to say,
You snitched, not me.

‘It’s a black cat.’

‘What do you intend to do with it?’

The older boy held the sack tightly, his knuckles turning white. ‘It can kill people.’

I stepped from the car cautiously. They could run and I would never catch them.

‘I can tell you for sure that cat was outside when the accident happened to Mrs Kellett.’

Bravely, the younger boy piped, ‘It’s a witch’s cat.’

‘Just a minute, please.’ They looked on with interest as I reached into the car for my bag and took out my purse. ‘I’ll give it a new home, away from the village. And I’m not a witch.’

The older boy grew bold. He looked directly at me. ‘You don’t look like a witch, miss.’

‘How much do you want for it?’

Being asked to name a price left them speechless, but only for a moment. The older boy held onto the bag with difficulty now as the cat struggled.

‘It’s evil,’ he warned.

‘No. Animals aren’t evil. It’s people who do bad things. Animals only want to live.’

We agreed on sixpence for the cat, and a further
sixpence if they would help me transfer it to a more comfortable place for its journey. I feared the cat would die of fright if it travelled in a sack. It might die of fright anyway.

I opened the larger of my canvas bags and took out my precious black box with its lid to keep it pristine. With only a few scratches to my hands and wrists, I managed to push the cat into the box, with the lid open a little so that it would not suffocate. The cat sat next to me in the front seat. The boys clambered onto the running board and held tight for the next half mile of my journey.

I toyed with the idea of treating the lads to a speech, pointing out the error of their ways, but it would have fallen on deaf ears. They were entirely absorbed in the novelty of a motor car ride as far as the crossroads.

Even after the boys jumped off, the mewling cat made it impossible for me to think. It miaowed persistently. I spoke soothingly. It stopped miaowing for a moment.

‘Are you still alive, cat?’

It was.

The mind is a terrible and a marvellous thing. Even when you are totally distracted and believe all thoughts have fled, some picture will suddenly insert itself and demand attention.

The pictures came thick and fast. Mrs Kellett lying dead. A footprint, an abandoned cricket bat. Another picture wasn’t mine at all but sprang directly from Hector’s memory into my brain: Joshua Braithwaite talking to him through the bars of the gate.

I talked to the cat, asking its name and telling it everything would be all right.

Naturally, being a cat, it disbelieved me.

When I arrived home, Mrs Sugden met me with a message from Sykes. ‘Mr Sykes says to tell you that the initials on the cricket bat were EB.’

EB. Edmund Braithwaite.

Mrs Sugden looked at the box in my arms that seemed to move of its own accord, and a screech came from it. She took a step back. ‘What the blue blazes is that? That box is alive.’

‘I thought we might like a cat.’

Scouring: Washing the fabric to remove grease, dirt and any other impurities picked up during processing.

Sookie, my newly acquired loquacious marmalade-eyed cat, leaped from the box and ran under the kitchen dresser.

‘I want you to keep her in for a few weeks, Mrs Sugden.’ I poured milk onto a saucer and placed it by the edge of the dresser. ‘Find her some scraps, eh?’

Mrs Sugden blew out her cheeks. ‘She won’t run off! A cat knows when it’s fallen on its feet.’

‘All the same, let’s keep her in for now. She’s had a bit of a shock.’

‘It’ll do its muckment under there. Be a right to-do having to shift that dresser to clean under it. I’ll butter its paws, that’ll make sure it won’t stray. I don’t suppose it’s ever had butter.’

‘Oh I should think it will have. It’s a country cat.’

‘Country folk are the worst. They’ve no sentiment over animals – it’ll have had to catch mice for a living there.’

‘She can do that here, once she’s settled.’

I felt a powerful obligation to keep the cat safe but did not have the energy to debate about it. ‘Just keep her in for a day or so.’

Being chum to Tabitha and playing house guest for Evelyn while poking in my beak, lying and tying loose ends, had proved a strain. My limbs ached, my head
throbbed. Having kept up some semblance of energy for the drive home I now felt near to exhaustion. The words “Wreck of the Hesperus” sprang to mind, strapped to the ship’s bow in the fearful storm.

Mrs Sugden turned her attention from the cat to me.

‘You look dreadful. What’s happened?’

‘An awful lot.’ How do you begin to recount two murders, the total failure of progress in searching for Braithwaite, and a series of events that made no sense? I shook my head. ‘Not now.’

‘You get yourself to bed. Rest. I’ll bring you something up.’

For once, I did not argue. To be in my own bed sounded like heaven. In no time, Mrs Sugden brought bed warmers and beef tea. One of the best things about going away from home is coming back. Gerald and I had chosen this house together. Small and sunny, with big bay windows, it had come with its own ancient black cat that died and was buried by Gerald in the garden. Now by tragic twists the black cat had returned.

I love my little house. For all the Braithwaites’ luxury, my tiredness was not only due to the emotional strain of the murders, and getting up in the middle of the night to break into the mill. I had stayed reasonably polite, on best behaviour with Evelyn, Tabitha and the evasive Hector for days.

I fell asleep, to the peering and disappearing faces of black cats, Lizzie Kellett, Paul Kellett and Joshua Braithwaite wearing his wedding-day smile. After that, I knew nothing until eleven o’clock the next morning.

I woke from a dream in which the gate clicked. In the dream I knew it was Gerald coming home.

I heard his voice.
I was only missing. I lost my memory. They didn’t know who I was. I didn’t know myself, but I’m back now.

I opened my eyes but there was no one.

A few minutes later, Mrs Sugden tapped on the door. ‘Are you awake?’

My answer was meant to be yes but came out as a great groaning yawn. I sat up in bed, perfecting my yawn, smoothing out my cheeks and running my fingers over what felt like bags, more like portmanteaus, under my eyes.
A wrinkle on the face is like a crinkle in a piece of tissue paper. You’ll easily smooth it out.
I don’t think so.

I reached out to grasp the cup of tea.

Mrs Sugden set down a slice of toast on the bedside table. ‘That Mr Sykes called. I told him to come back later.’

‘When?’

My drawing room looks out onto the garden. Through the bay window, I saw that in spite of the cool April, green buds had multiplied on my apple tree in the few days I had been away.

Between the door and the window stands a baby grand piano on which, when I have time, I like to thump out ragtime tunes. My old school friend, who is married to a New York banker, sends me sheet music. This interest in ragtime gives both of us the opportunity to be considered fashionably scandalous.

Though I am not a brilliant pianist, playing takes me into a different world. I placed the sheet music for
St Louis Blues
on the stand and began to pick out the tune. This delayed the moment when I had to try and make sense of the events of the past five days.

At four o’clock Sykes and I sat in wing chairs on opposite sides of the hearth. A small fire burned brightly in the grate.