Dying in the Wool (37 page)

Good question, Mr Sykes. No surprise that Evelyn wanted the painting out of her sight or that she could not bring herself to destroy a work that showed her own children at play. I may have to rethink my plan of giving the painting to Tabitha after her marriage. She may not appreciate her father’s attachment to a woman as young, or younger, than herself and the existence of an unknown sibling set to inherit Edmund’s bucket and spade.

The second letter came from Mr Duffield at the newspaper library, forwarded by Mrs Sugden.

Dear Mrs Shackleton

When you last made enquiries of me, you asked me to tell you if I could recall any further information regarding the matter you were investigating. The reporter I mentioned to you, the late Harold Buckley – and reporters these days do not come up to his calibre by a long chalk – would sometimes give me a carbon copy of stories of his that were spiked. ‘For posterity, old chap. For posterity,’ he would say. I searched through my system because bells rang after you left. However, I cannot find what I know I once had. It evades me. It kept me awake two nights running, wondering whether some blighter tampered with my files. The gist of it was something like this. Harold talked to two or three of the boy scouts. They all had chapter and verse over what to say regarding finding Mr J.B., which made Harold suspicious. People, old or young, do not come up with the same story over a set of events. You only need to think about what is coming out over the Great War now to know that, and it is also true of road traffic accidents.

One of the scouts said something that made old Harold prick up his ears, but blow me down if I can remember what it was. The boy’s comments made him think that behind Braithwaite’s disappearance was the old, old story of a man Running Away, as we always say in the papers, with a woman. Does that help?

So the reporter had picked up on the idea that Braithwaite was off with another woman. At last, perhaps we were on the right track. Find the dark-haired beauty painted by Joshua Braithwaite, and we may find the man himself. Mr Duffield’s letter continued.

However, I did come across another matter from that time, one of Harold’s pieces that I enclose, only because I know the poor old chap would smile in his grave to think someone still read his copy. At the time, due to wartime censorship, only officially sanctioned information found its way onto our pages.

The
Cleckheaton and Spenborough Guardian
printed a piece in 1919, and I am only sorry we did not do it here, in honour of Harold. He wrote this piece with great caution, not mentioning that picric acid, utilised in the manufacture of dye stuffs, was being used to make explosives.

Of course Harold knew his piece would be spiked – but that was a point of honour with him: write the truth and shame the devil. Someday the truth would out.

Yours sincerely

E Duffield

I unfolded the newspaper article written by Mr Duffield’s favourite reporter. This would have been composed just after Braithwaite disappeared, the day of the explosion, the day I met Tabitha at St Mary’s Hospital and gave her a lift to the station so that she could find the widow of the shell-shocked man whose death we witnessed.

The black of the carbon copy smudged my fingers as I lay the flimsy Page of quarto on the table and smoothed out the creases.

LOW MOOR DISASTER

On Monday, 21 August, a series of violent and continuing explosions occurred at the Low Moor works, a subsidiary of the Bradford Dyers’ Association. An initial tremendous blast rocked places as far away as Leeds, York and Huddersfield. Those people at a distance from the scene thought
that Zeppelin bombs had been dropped.

Initial reports say that none of the women and girls employed in the factory was killed. Workers and residents from nearby properties fled to the safety of the woods and countryside. School teachers escorted their charges to safety.

Attempts to fight the ensuing violent conflagration were valiantly undertaken by the Low Moor Works Brigade. It is feared that these men, and members of the workforce who bravely attempted to halt or contain the continuing explosions, may have lost their lives. First to arrive on the scene were firemen from Odsal, soon to be reinforced by men from Central station. The force of the blasts was so great that within a short time, these heroic men were blown off their engine which was destroyed. The firemen who escaped death have been taken to the Infirmary. At present we have no death toll.

Scattered debris from the explosions damaged property within a radius of two miles. The shell of a gasometer was ruptured. Escaping gas ignited within seconds, converting the foul smell into an immense pillar of flame and thence into a plume of vile, choking black smoke whose heat quickly transformed the area to an unbearable furnace.

To see the people camped on the land four miles from their own homes is a piteous sight. Some do not know whether they have homes to return to. Others congregate at the Infirmary. With great dignity, they await news of the injured. On this fateful day, the war being fought on foreign shores by our brave men and boys has come home to challenge the courage of those they left behind.

Coincidence. It could be nothing more than coincidence that so much happened on that one day. So much happens
every day, only we do not know about it. There could be no connection between Braithwaite and the explosion at Low Moor, unless it was that he may have supplied the picric acid that went into the explosives.

The first explosion was just after 2.30 p.m. Joshua Braithwaite was seen by Gregory Grainger running across the fells at four o’clock. For there to be a connection with his disappearance, he would have had to deliberately run ten or more miles to seek out death in a living hell.

Yet why, when he had an arrangement with Paul Kellett to bring his motorbike to him, did he set off running?

I hurried upstairs, changed into divided skirt and jacket, and borrowed a cross-bar bicycle that had belonged to my cousin. Cross bars are such an encumbrance and entirely unnecessary. They make manoeuvring round tradesmen’s vans and taxi cabs terribly tricky. The London air was foul. I regretted not having a scarf to cover my mouth. Only when I came closer to Harley Street did it occur to me that Gregory Grainger may already have taken himself off to the country for the long weekend.

I rang the bell for Professor Podmore’s rooms. A porter showed me into a waiting room but I felt too agitated to take a seat.

Five minutes later, Gregory appeared, a look of concern on his face. ‘Is something wrong, Kate?’

‘No, nothing’s wrong. Just a question, following on from yesterday.’

‘Won’t you come upstairs?’

I declined, not wishing to make polite conversation with Professor Podmore or have the treat of a guided tour round the consulting rooms.

‘Gregory, how soon on that day, 21 August, did people in Bridgestead and at Milton House hear about the explosion at Low Moor?’

He frowned. ‘Let me think. The staff knew before I did. News travelled like wild fire.’

‘So Mr Braithwaite would have heard?’

He looked thoughtful. ‘It’s possible. I can’t really say.’

‘How did people find out?’

He raised an eyebrow and looked out of the window at my bicycle propped by the railings.

‘Seeing your bike brings it back. I believe the news reached the mill first. It was someone who’d delivered yarn, not on a bike of course. There was also this gangly boy scout used to turn up, offering to do good deeds for the officers – fetch tobacco, newspapers, that kind of thing. He could have brought the news, or one of the butcher’s or baker’s lads.’

‘Thanks, Gregory. Sorry to have called you from your work.’

‘Hang on a minute, Kate. Don’t rush off.’

It was late the following Tuesday evening when Sykes and I met to share information. He came to the house and we sat by the fire, Mrs Kellett’s cat on the hearth rug between us. If Sookie could have spoken, things might have been much easier. Not only did the cat not speak, she pretended not to listen as we tossed information and ideas to and fro.

We tried out explanations as to why Braithwaite had set off running. It could be that he saw an opportunity and took it. There may have been some arrangement with Kellett to meet with the motorbike at an agreed spot. But it made no sense that Braithwaite would have risked sparking off a search for himself without being able to get well away from the area.

Sometimes I wish I’d studied phrenology. Never too late. I could locate that part of my brain that thinks and tip-tap with my fingertips to spring it into action.

The nagging connection with Low Moor would not go away. ‘Do you think it was something to do with the Low Moor explosion?’

Sykes sat back in his chair, one leg draped over the other, his pendulum foot swinging. ‘Go on,’ he said, as if I had some well-developed theory rather than a tickle of a half-thought.

We were both feeling grumpy at hitting brick walls. Here we were with eighteen days to go to Tabitha’s wedding, and still no sign of the elusive Joshua Braithwaite.

I tried to turn what niggled me into something like a coherent idea. ‘Well … what have we got so far? We know Braithwaite supplied picric acid to Low Moor Chemical Works, being the good and patriotic war-profiteer. I don’t know how these things work, whether there was a volatile batch, or dampness … or, I don’t know … I’m not a chemist. Could there have been some reason for him to feel culpable?’

For a moment we sat in silence. Sykes had something in his notebook. I could tell by the way his fingers itched to open it and move on.

‘Let’s bear that in mind,’ Sykes said. ‘I’m no chemist either so we’re plodding in the dark.’

He opened his notebook. I wasn’t ready to let go of the possible Low Moor connection yet.

‘Speak for yourself, Mr Plod. I intend to switch on a light.’

He bristled at the plod soubriquet. ‘What light would that be then?’

‘The newspaper librarian, Mr Duffield? He’s the chap who sent me an account of the Low Moor explosion, written at the time.’

‘Yes, historically interesting, a tragic disaster. But I don’t see how it helps.’

Neither did I, but I persisted. ‘Mr Duffield said that the
Spenborough Guardian
printed an article about the explosion, in 1919. An article written three years on from the explosion is bound to give us more information than was
available at the time. I’d like you to go to Spenborough.’

He started to laugh, rocking back and forth, almost falling off the chair across his intertwined legs.

‘What’s so funny?’

‘You think there’s a place called Spenborough, like there’s a Knaresborough?’

‘And isn’t there?’

‘It’s a municipal borough. Takes in Gomersal, Cleckheaton and Liversedge, on the River Spen.’

‘It’s not that funny. So Gomersal, or Cleckheaton, or Liversedge. Wherever the newspaper has its office.’

He calmed himself and made a note. ‘I expect that’ll be Cleckheaton, since its full moniker is the
Cleckheaton and Spenborough Guardian
. Does Mr Duffield give a date for the article?’

‘No. Serves you right for laughing. I hope you have to read a year’s newspapers to find it.’

‘That’s my thanks is it? For turning up information about the postal order.’

He had my attention, just as he intended.

He flicked open his notebook but did not refer to it. With the solemnity of a witness in the dock, he said, ‘Mrs Kellett went to Bingley to buy a postal order each week. She’d go religiously after work on a Friday and though the post office was closed, the general store part of the shop was open and the owner, a Mr Ronald Dobson, would keep it for her under the counter. He always thought that she sent something to her sister or brother. Postmasters and mistresses come in two types in my book, the upright keepers of confidences and the nosy blighters. The post office was the Dobsons’ business and so were the doings of everyone who came through its doors. Mrs Dobson, while dusting the counter, happened to notice that Mrs Kellett would fill out the order in the name Horrocks. She couldn’t make out the post office name, but it began with the letter W.’

I nodded my appreciation.

Sykes consulted his notebook, as if he didn’t quite believe what he had written. ‘I thought Dobson was mistaken at first, about the ten shillings. That was a hefty whack, but he was adamant.’

‘Where did Mrs Kellett get that much money to spare?’ I asked.

He shook his head. ‘Search me. Happen fortune telling pays better than we think. Maybe the spirits look after their own – or did up to a week last Friday in poor Mrs Kellett’s case.’

I felt gloomy again. All this was fine and impressive, but a post office beginning with W could be anywhere from Wigan to Worcester. So where did we go from here?

‘I’ll take a photograph of the woman in the painting and see whether anyone in Bridgestead recognises her.’

Sykes nodded. ‘And if you’re right that there’s a Low Moor connection, I can think of two post offices within easy reach that begin with W. Wibsey and Wyke. I’ll take a look at the street directories and see if I can find a Horrocks.’