Shades of Murder (42 page)

Stanley nodded. ‘One’s parents always give that sort of advice. It makes for a very dull life.’

They’d reached Station Road and stopped before a modest end-of-terrace cottage.

‘This is where I live, Mr Huxtable. Thank you for your company and for carrying my shopping.’ She held out her gloved hand.

Stanley shook it formally. ‘Without wishing to sound forward, Miss Wood . . .’

‘Yes?’ She raised her eyebrows, a gentle note of mockery in her voice.

‘You wouldn’t care to go for a walk on Sunday afternoon?’

She shook her head. ‘Thank you, but no. I think you are a nice man, Mr Huxtable, but my father definitely doesn’t approve of you and I – I am not as brave as you fancy me. Because you do mean me to walk unveiled, don’t you?’

‘Of course I do. Will you be brave enough one day, do you think?’

She considered the question. ‘I don’t know. Father would like me to go out and face the world. But it’s so easy for both of you to say and so difficult for me to do.’

‘I realise you can’t be rushed,’ Stanley told her. ‘Fair enough. If you change your mind, you can leave a note for me at the offices of the
Gazette.’

‘I see Father was right. You really are very determined, Mr Huxtable.’

‘Yes,’ he agreed. ‘I never give up.’

Emily took her basket to the kitchen and put it on the table. Then she sat down herself and pulled her gloves from hands which trembled uncontrollably. She’d always believed herself honest. She hadn’t lied either to her father or to Huxtable. But to hide the truth, was that a form of lying? Was it any less despicable? Was the burden of guilt she carried eased because of some semantic difference? Yet what had she hidden? Only a snatch of conversation, a few words overheard and spoken by a man clearly in drink.

It had happened some weeks before Cora Oakley’s death. There had been an evening meeting at the Methodist Hall to hear a returned missionary describe his adventures. Emily had been tempted out by the idea of hearing about a world far removed from her quiet existence. Originally her father had agreed to accompany her, though generally he was disrespectful of missionaries. But at the last moment he had been called away professionally and Emily had set out alone.

The meeting had been crowded and when the speaker agreed to answer
questions, he was peppered with them from the audience. Tea followed and Emily was asked to lend a hand. All in all, by the time everyone had left, the debris was cleared away and the washed cups stacked in the tiny kitchen, the light had faded. At the corner of the street she parted from her last companion and set off home alone.

From behind windows, gaslight gleamed and here and there flickering candlelight, because not everyone in Bamford had the new-fangled gas. The lamplighter had not reached this part of town on his rounds and there was no street-lighting to combat the dusk. Generally Emily welcomed the dark, because it meant no one paid any heed to her. But she was nervous of passing the various public houses. However, nothing untoward happened until she reached The Crown which was both a hotel and the place where gentlemen drank if they were inclined to do so away from home. It was said that in a discreet back room there, those same gentlemen played cards for high stakes, something viewed with disfavour in the Methodist community.

Emily had almost reached The Crown when suddenly, a side door was thrown open releasing a beam of bright yellow light. Two figures stumbled out, one older, one younger. The younger one held his hat in his hand and she saw his face, a handsome, rakish, moustached face she was sure she’d never forget. Automatically she had darted into a convenient doorway and now the two men began to walk unsteadily towards her. She cowered back into the shadows.

‘Take my advice, old man,’ urged the elder of the two. ‘Make it up to her. Take her on a little trip abroad, eh? Whisk her off to Paris where she can buy herself some new dresses. Or the Alps, good for the lungs.’

‘If it were that damned easy, don’t you think I’d do it?’ came the angry reply. ‘She won’t listen to anything I say any more. She’s talking of separation, says she has evidence . . . Then what should I damn well do?’

‘Got to get a grip on the situation, old man.’ This was followed by a drunken hiccup.

‘Believe me, I intend to.’

They’d stumbled off into the gloom. Emily had emerged, shaken, and hurried home. She hadn’t mentioned it to her father, who was probably home himself by now, and already worried at her being out so late. But when Oakley had come to trial, she knew she had to see him, see for herself if it was the same man.

It had been the same one, standing defiantly in the dock. But she still hadn’t mentioned the conversation she’d overheard to her father. Suppose,
horror of horrors, she’d ended up having to take the witness stand? Though what could she have said? It had been dark. Defence counsel would say she was mistaken in identifying him. Anyway, a man in drink might babble any old nonsense. She didn’t know he was talking of his wife.

So she’d held her peace, telling herself that Justice would find its way to the truth. But it lay upon her conscience together with the knowledge that now she could never tell Father. It was the first and only thing she’d ever hidden from him. No, it
had
been the only thing. Now there was her encounter with Huxtable. That had to be hidden, too. Father had little time for the newspaperman.

‘That’s what happens when you leave this house, Emily my girl!’ she told herself aloud. ‘Life gets complicated.’

Undeniably, it also got more interesting.

Wood made his own way home later that evening, a copy of the
Gazette
in his hand. So, they’d failed. He’d failed. The Home Office had failed. Taylor had failed. Who cared who had failed? The point was, William Oakley walked free. Was the acquittal a surprise? No, Wood had had a bad feeling from the beginning. On the other hand, he had to confess to a spark of obstinate optimism, nestling in the depths of his being.

Emily opened the door. She had been watching from the window for his return and forestalled his greeting with, ‘You are upset about the Oakley business, but you mustn’t be. You did all you could.’

‘Where did you hear the verdict?’ he asked in surprise, since she clearly knew it.

‘Oh,’ she looked a little confused. ‘I met someone as I was walking home from the butcher’s. Someone who’d heard Mr Oakley had been found Not Guilty, and told me.’

‘Well, I’m not going to let it get me down,’ Wood told her with a cheeriness he was far from feeling. ‘So don’t worry about me, my dear. Win some, lose some, eh? What are we to have tonight?’ He sniffed the air.

‘Boiled hock of bacon with leeks and carrots,’ he was told.

‘Boiled bacon!’ Wood beamed at her. ‘My favourite.’