Shades of Murder (41 page)

He picked up his magazine again. ‘On the other hand, perhaps Cora was a laudanum addict who, under the influence of her favoured drug, stumbled out of bed, brought down the lamp and burned herself to death. After all, in the end, that’s what a jury decided had happened. William was acquitted. You may think he should have hanged. It might have saved a lot of trouble in the long term if he had! But you wouldn’t want to send an innocent man to the gallows, would you, just to save a lot of trouble?’

‘No, I suppose not.’

‘Only suppose not?’ he asked with a grin.

‘You know what I mean.’ She tapped the lid of the box. ‘If nothing else, all this is worth reading because of the reporter’s notebooks. He was a chap called Stanley Huxtable.’ She smiled. ‘They contain a mystery of their own.’ At his raised eyebrows, she explained, ‘On one page he’s sketched a woman in full mourning and beneath it he’s written
If you live in Bamford I’ll find you
. How do you explain that? It doesn’t appear to have anything to do with the trial.’

‘Perhaps he fell in love?’ Markby suggested from behind his magazine. ‘People have fallen in love in stranger places than in a courtroom.
Emotions run high during trials. Perhaps Huxtable got carried away.’

She was silent for a while and then said, ‘Alan . . .’

He lowered the magazine and looked at her cautiously. She was sitting with the box of papers on her knees, cradling it. She looked uncharacteristically nervous.

She said, ‘I’ve been thinking and I’ve decided it will be best if I move back into my place in Station Road for a while.’

‘Oh,’ he said. ‘I see.’ His voice was bleak.

‘No,’ she told him quickly. ‘I’m not crying off the whole idea of us sharing a home. It’s just that it can’t be this one, which is your home, nor can it be Station Road, which is mine. I feel like a visitor here. You’d feel the same in my place. We’ve said we’ll look for a house together and we will. When we find it, we’ll move in and it’ll be
ours
– not yours or mine. We’ll start off with a clean slate. I’ll leave Station Road on the market in case I get a buyer. If I do, I may have to rethink – if we’ve not found a house in the meantime, that is.’

Markby said, ‘I thought you didn’t fancy returning to Station Road since it was vandalised.’

‘I didn’t. But now Minchin and Hayes have stayed in the place, I feel differently. They’ve formed a kind of buffer between me and what happened. I won’t ask if you mind because I can see you do. But I just don’t – I’m not at ease here.’

‘Not at ease here or not at ease here with me?’ She could hear anger now in his voice.

‘I don’t want to quarrel. We’ll just have to speed up the house-hunting.’

‘I’m getting bloody fed up with this!’ he said suddenly. ‘Why can’t we just get married?’

‘All right, when we find a house together, we’ll get married.’ The words were out before she realised it.

Alan leaned forward. ‘What was that? Say it again.’

Meredith cleared her throat. ‘When we find a house for us both to live in, I’ll marry you.’

‘Right!’ he said. ‘I’ll hold you to that!’

From the
Bamford Gazette
, 1890

There were scenes of near riot at the courthouse following the acquittal of William Price Oakley on a charge of murdering his wife. Oakley himself and the members of the jury which had declared his innocence had to be smuggled out by a side entrance to avoid the mob. The crowd had begun to gather early in anticipation of a Guilty verdict. On hearing they were not to get what they wanted, the mood turned ugly. When a cab with blinds drawn was observed departing the precincts of the courthouse, the cry went up that it contained William Oakley. Several rough fellows in the crowd began to pelt it with cobblestones snatched up from the road. Only when it proved to contain the chief witness for the prosecution, Mrs Martha Button, was it allowed to proceed on its way. A large force of constables then set about restoring order and some arrests took place. At last the mob was persuaded that William Oakley had been spirited away by court officials and it could not lay hands on him. It then dispersed. It is understood that charges of causing an affray are to follow in the case of certain persons
.

The court had reached its verdict at mid-morning. By early afternoon Stanley Huxtable was back in Bamford and had submitted his final piece of copy on the Oakley trial. He was now on his way home with the rare prospect of a free afternoon ahead of him.

The disturbance outside the courthouse had been a close shave as far as he was concerned. A missile had taken off his bowler hat and when he stooped to retrieve it, he saw that it’d been struck by half a brick. If that had been targeted an inch lower, he’d be in the infirmary now.

Still, such are the hazards of a reporter’s life. It might have laid him low, but it hadn’t. Stanley whistled to himself as he made his way down
the street, turning over in his mind what he should do with his unexpected free time. He’d just decided that whatever else, that evening he’d treat himself to a proper slap-up meal somewhere, when he stopped in mid-tune, pushed his hat to the back of his head and murmured, ‘Hello!’

A female form had emerged from a butcher’s shop ahead of him and was making her way at a brisk pace along the pavement. There was probably more than one woman in widow’s weeds and veil in Bamford, but not many with a figure as neat as that or with that rapid step. Stanley quickened his own pace.

It’s possible to sense when one is being followed. The girl in black went faster still. At a corner she paused and looked back. Stanley could only see the veil. Whether she saw him through it, he couldn’t tell, but he was pretty sure she had. She almost ran round the corner and Stanley, now in hot pursuit, darted after her.

There she was, scurrying along, the unwieldy wicker basket on her arm hampering her progress. Her haste almost cost her dear. Without due precaution she stepped off the pavement to cross the street, just as a delivery vanman whistled to his horse and started forward.

‘Hey!’ yelled Stanley. The girl stopped, realised her peril, made to step back, stumbled against the kerb in her long skirts and was forced to drop her basket to save herself.

As Stanley ran up to her, she was picking herself up, her fingers scrabbling at her veil to pull it back into place. Various parcels lay around her.

‘Allow me,’ offered Stanley, gathering them up and returning them to the basket which lay on its side. By the time he’d done this the girl had succeeded in repositioning the veil and was shaking dust from her skirts. He had missed seeing her face by a fraction.

‘Thank you,’ she said icily and stretched out her hand to take the basket now held by Stanley.

Stanley hung on to it. ‘I was afraid,’ he said, ‘you were going to be run down there.’

‘It wouldn’t have happened,’ she retorted, ‘if you hadn’t been following me.’

‘It wouldn’t have happened,’ said Stanley, ‘if you hadn’t got that veil over your face and could see where you were going properly.’

‘You are very impertinent, Mr Huxtable!’ Because he couldn’t see her, he had to judge her mood from her voice and attitude. Both were combative.

‘Remember me, then?’ said Stanley cheerfully.

‘Of course I remember you! You followed me and my friend in Oxford. You seem to make a habit of following me. I don’t know why.’

‘I don’t know why, really,’ said Stanley honestly. ‘Just curiosity, you know. I’m a reporter.’

‘So you told us. May I have my basket back?’

‘It’s heavy,’ said the solicitous Stanley, ‘and you’ve had a nasty fright. Let me carry it.’

‘We are not going the same way.’

‘How do you know? Anyway,’ added Stanley, ‘I’ve got the whole afternoon off and I can go anywhere I want.’

She was silent for a while and then said soberly, ‘The trial is over, then?’

‘It is. I looked for you, but you didn’t come again. Why did you come along that one time?’

‘Like you, I was curious. A neighbour wanted to go and asked me if I’d accompany her. Was he convicted?’

‘Oakley? No, he got off. I thought he would. I had a sort of bet on it.’

‘Then you won,’ she said in a voice of such concentrated fury that he stepped back and felt himself flush.

Embarrassment was a rare emotion for him. ‘Don’t get me wrong,’ he pleaded. ‘It wasn’t that sort of bet. It was just with a fellow journalist over whether or not the housekeeper would hold up under cross-questioning. All I won was a pint of ale.’

‘I hope you enjoyed it.’ She stretched out a gloved hand and gripped the handle of the basket. This time, Stanley relinquished it.

He thought she’d walk off straight away, but she remained standing where she was, apparently lost in thought. Then she said very quietly, to herself rather than to him, ‘Father will be upset.’

‘Your father being?’

‘Inspector Wood,’ she told him in an absent-minded way as if she no longer cared whether he stood there or not.

To Stanley’s mind, this was a step back, rather than forward, in their relationship. On the other hand, he’d acquired some startling information. ‘I know your father quite well,’ he said loudly.

‘Yes,’ she retorted, recalled to his presence. ‘You are the person my father refers to as “that wretch, Huxtable”. I can see why!’

He chuckled and she asked, sounding both puzzled and piqued, ‘You find that amusing?’

‘Well, I’ve been called worse – and by your father. Let me carry your basket, Miss Wood. See, here I am at a loose end, nothing to do.’

‘Except bother me? You will not get a story for your newspaper from me, Mr Huxtable.’

Stanley’s heart rose. He’d been sure he’d seen no wedding ring on her finger when he’d approached her and her companion in the restaurant. Now she’d not corrected the title he’d given her. She was neither married nor a widow, then. The veil was on some other account. Some old uncle had breathed his last, or . . . An idea struck Stanley. A wild idea, but perhaps not so wild when he recalled her past actions, sitting in the corner of the court with her face against the wall. Sitting in the restaurant in the same way.

‘I’m not looking for a story,’ he said. ‘There’s nothing more to write about Oakley. If he’d been found Guilty, I could’ve written a full page on him. But if I write about him now, he’ll set his lawyers on me. He’s an innocent man.’ He paused. ‘You’re in mourning?’

‘No,’ she said, after a moment.

He was sure she’d been debating whether to tell a lie but she was a person who set store by the truth.

She then wrong-footed him completely. ‘I understand the reason for your curiosity, Mr Huxtable. Many others share it. They, however, do not pursue me through the streets. My father has described you as persistent. I suspect you’ll continue to waylay me whenever I put my nose out of my own door until your curiosity is satisfied. Well, then.’

She set the basket on the ground and lifted her hand to her bonnet. ‘I shall satisfy it now and perhaps you’ll then leave me in peace!’ She turned back the veil.

Stanley had guessed what might lie behind the veil and had steeled himself. But in the event, it wasn’t as bad as he’d been prepared for. He, after all, had interviewed the mutilated victims of accidents, industrial and agricultural, and he’d certainly seen worse. It was confined to just one half of her face which was disfigured by stretched, shiny red skin and lack of eyelash or eyebrow. The other side of her face was enchanting.
She
was enchanting. The scar tissue didn’t matter a damn. He wanted to tell her so, but shrewdly guessed it would be poorly received.

So instead, he said placidly, ‘I thought it might be some such reason.’

His lack of reaction surprised her. She stared at him for a moment, then raised her hand to replace the veil.

‘No!’ Stanley said sharply.

She hesitated, puzzled by the vehemence in his voice, her eyes questioning. ‘Why not?’

‘Why should you?’ he countered.

‘People stare!’ It burst out, an angry accusation.

‘They’d stare at you, anyway, all dressed up like that with a veil.’ For a dreadful moment, he feared he’d gone too far and she was going to cry. But she was of tougher material.

‘That’s hardly your problem, Mr Huxtable. Good day to you.’ Now she was angry with him.

‘I tell you what,’ said Stanley, ignoring both her words and her anger, ‘I’ll walk with you to your home and then you won’t need to drape that curtain in front of your face.’

Now he saw panic in her eyes. ‘Oh no, I couldn’t do that! I couldn’t walk through Bamford—’

‘Yes, you can,’ insisted Stanley gently. ‘Because you’ll be with me. And if anyone stares, he’ll get a good glare back from me that will change his mind. Come on, now.’

He swept up the basket and offered his other arm to her. After a moment, she took it. They walked on in silence for some way.

She was the first to break it. ‘Your work is very interesting, I dare say.’

‘Sometimes it is and sometimes it isn’t. Nothing much happens in Bamford.’ Stanley sighed. ‘I end up reporting sheep-stealing or some vagrant pinching washing from back gardens.’

‘You wouldn’t wish to see Bamford a nest of criminals? My father works very hard to prevent it being so.’

‘Oh yes, your father’s doing a good job,’ he agreed. ‘But it doesn’t help me. No, of course I don’t want Bamford to turn into a sink of iniquity. Just the occasional interesting crime, you know.’

At that she laughed and he looked at her in amazement. One half of her face had lit up with her smile. The muscles of the other half appeared paralysed. He wondered what had happened to cause the disfigurement.

‘Do you know you have a dent in your hat?’ she asked.

‘Yes. There was a bit of a ruckus at the courthouse and my hat got knocked off.’

‘Oh dear, that sounds a dangerous situation.’

‘What is danger to a true journalist?’ asked Stanley rhetorically, hoping to impress.

It didn’t. ‘The same as danger to the rest of us, I dare say. Best avoided. My father who is, I assure you, a courageous man, always says, only a fool puts his head over the parapet if he knows he’s going to be shot at. Use your head, he says, to think with, not to make a target of.’