A Mansion for Murder, page 10
‘That doesn’t sound a good place. People come and go.’
‘People who come and go don’t stop to look.’ He knew this because he had watched, still worrying because his grandmother had told him to bury the bone near where he found it. He said, ‘I buried the shepherdess’s bone there a long time ago, before my grandma died.’
Miss Mason did not seem very interested in what was buried before. ‘When shall I come?’
‘The builders don’t work on Sunday. Come at eight o’clock. The watchman goes inside to have his breakfast by the stove.’
‘I shall come on my way to church. Afterwards, I will take you to church with me.’
‘I don’t go to your church, and my hands will be dirty.’
‘I’ll bring a damp cloth. Polish your shoes.’
‘I don’t have shoes.’
‘Your clogs, then.’
Nick prepared the ground, using a workman’s shovel from the hut. He dug carefully so as not to damage the bone and this time he dug deeper. He had with him two daffodil bulbs borrowed from the park. He said to the bone, ‘You will have something like a baby for company.’ The day was so quiet he could hear the silence hum.
Miss Mason came along in her Sunday clothes carrying a basket. She took a white cloth from the basket. Under that cloth was a leather bag with a white satin ribbon on the handle, tied in a bow.
It would have been odd for the teacher to carry an empty basket into church. Miss Mason placed her basket out of sight behind the bilberry bush and would collect it on her way back.
For Whitsuntide, Miss Mason bought Nick a pair of boots and two pairs of socks.
Chapter Sixteen
I arrived in Saltaire as Nancy was coming out of the tall house on Victoria Road. She held the hand of an elderly man, tall, slightly stooped and with a walking stick. Both turned to look at the car as I drew up.
I climbed out of the car. ‘Hello, Nancy!’
Nancy beamed. She tugged the old man’s hand, saying, ‘Uncle Nick, it’s her. The lady who drove me home.’
I introduced myself.
He scratched his cheek and peered at me. ‘Pleased to meet you.’
I took the pie from the car and gave it to Nancy. ‘Pamela’s grandmother baked a pie for your mother. She sends her condolences.’
Nancy took the pie. ‘Thank you. I won’t be a minute, Uncle Nick.’
I blew her a kiss. ‘Pamela sent you a kiss.’
Nancy blew a kiss into the air. ‘That’s to go all the way to Shipley.’
As Nancy disappeared with the pie, I turned to Uncle Nick. ‘I was very sorry to hear about Ronnie’s death. Such a blow for your family.’
He nodded so slightly that I wondered if he had heard. He simply said, ‘You’re moving into Milner Field.’
‘I’m to keep an eye on the place for Mr Whitaker. I would say that it’s until Mrs Creswell comes back, but I don’t believe she will.’
‘She’d sooner starve.’
I was unsure how to respond to that. When he did not speak again, I asked, ‘Is there anything in particular I should know about the history of the place? I believe you lived there before the mansion was built.’
‘I’m saving my breath for walking.’
‘May I give you a lift?’
‘Not alongside the canal you can’t, unless your motor drives on water.’
Nancy reappeared. Uncle Nick took her hand. He turned to me. ‘If you’re after hearing bits of old history, talk to Miss Lee, the teacher. The kids broke up. She’s the infant schoolteacher but I saw her going into the factory schools.’
Without another word, he set off walking down the hill.
Nancy hung back for a moment. ‘He’s in a funny mood today. It’s his old teacher’s ninetieth birthday. We’re going to see her. There will be cake.’
At the factory school, a caretaker directed me to a classroom. A slender young woman, her fair hair scraped into a bun, was taking down a map from the wall.
I tapped on the open door. ‘Miss Lee?’
She turned, looking friendly enough, but surprised.
‘Sorry to disturb you. My name’s Kate Shackleton. Might I have a word?’
‘Have two. Come and sit down.’ She scooped up drawing pins and dropped them in a box.
There were rows of pupils’ desks, a teacher’s desk and one long, low table. Miss Lee sat on one end and waved for me to sit on the other, saying, ‘I teach infants and juniors, just here to help. You may want to speak to one of the other teachers if it’s about the factory schools.’
‘Oh, I’m not here about the schools. The Creswell’s Uncle Nick told me you are the person to speak to about local history, particularly Milner Field in years gone by. I’ll be moving in there with my housekeeper, to take care of the place, until the auction. I was there on Saturday when the family heard the bad news about Ronnie.’
She listened, and sighed. ‘It’s so sad, and I do hope Salts manage to sell the mansion. It’s such a shame for it to stand empty. I went there once and thought of so many different uses for that building. You could put on concerts. It could be a residential college or an orphanage or a hotel.’
‘You wouldn’t be put off by stories of a curse?’
‘Don’t attribute this to me, but if I were either selling that place or resident in it, I would do things.’
‘What things?’
‘Clergymen; I would have all denominations go around in turns and send the demons packing. Better still, I would sell the place at a reasonable price to an order of nuns or monks who would cultivate the gardens, grow grapes and apples, make wine and cider and walk about saying their matins, bringing an entirely different atmosphere to the place. If something bad happened to The Holy Ones, they could then believe it would take time off their spell in purgatory.’
‘You’re Catholic.’
‘I’ve said enough. If you breathe a word of this, I’ll be out on my ear.’
‘I wouldn’t dream of it.’
‘At the end of term, I go slightly mad. What is it you want?’
‘Tell me the story of the curse.’
‘There are several.’
‘Oh.’
‘But there’s one in particular that rings true for me. It was told to me by the previous teacher and has been passed on over the years since the school opened and probably before that, when people were dotted about scraping a living where and when they could. There is also a written version, in a book in the library at Milner Field, printed in the early years of the last century. It’s an old tale and difficult to date. It may be from medieval times, or perhaps during the harrowing of the north, or when John of Gaunt was said to have slain the last wild boar. It tells of a royal hunt and a king coming across a tearful young shepherdess who had been grazing her sheep on the moors. Supposedly she had lost a sheep down a well.’
‘That sounds unlikely.’
‘Totally. Reading between the lines, it’s entirely obvious this royal personage did his worst to the poor girl and then dumped her down there. The story goes that the king dismounted to tell her not to worry about a lost sheep. The jovial royal personage, “soothed her”. After that the foolish shepherdess fell down the well, so the story goes.’
‘It’s not much of a tale.’
‘The story has been passed on in different ways at different times. You won’t want to know what I think.’
‘Tell me.’
We heard footsteps in the corridor. Miss Lee waited until the footsteps passed. ‘It might shock you that I say this, but I think that like lots of stories the shepherdess tale has the grain of truth, wrapped in pastoral shades to make it as sugary as Little Bo Peep losing her sheep. I think the shepherdess was running away from the hunting party, hiding from them. She was caught and was what they used to call “ravished” by the royal personage and then thrown down the well and forgotten. I’ve read what I can, tried to piece the story together.’
‘I can see why such a story would be passed down, as a warning, as a remembrance.’ I thought of Mrs Sugden, and her dire warnings that I might meet a mad axeman in the wood. Had someone warned the young shepherdess against strangers, huntsmen and royal personages on white horses? ‘And is the well still there, Miss Lee?’ I asked.
‘Yes, but not in use. It was the main source of water for the Elizabethan house that was demolished to make way for the present building. When the mansion was built, water from the well was diverted along with water from another spring.’
‘So the curse is thought to come from the rape and murder of the shepherdess?’
‘Yes, and because her bones cry out for Christian burial.’
I felt a slight chill. ‘And do you think the very ground is cursed?’
‘Sometimes yes, sometimes no. I regard myself as a rational human being. Other times, I think that the catalogue of misfortunes experienced by every family that has occupied Milner Field can have no other explanation. The curse is on the land, and the mansion is built on that land. Simple as ABC.’
She slid from the table. ‘Sorry. You came to be told everything would be all right. I’ve shocked you.’
‘I’m not easily shocked.’
What Miss Lee told me chimed with the story from Mr Duffield, and with Mrs Duffield’s belief that the girl’s mother cursed the place.
But Miss Lee had shocked me, not by the revelations of a story that may or may not be apocryphal, but because her account of the shepherdess tale had the ring of truth.
I thanked Miss Lee for her time. As I was about to step into the corridor, I turned back. ‘And have you heard of another story: a child having an accident during the building of the place?’
She picked up a pile of books and bent to put them in a cupboard. ‘Yes, a schoolboy. I don’t know the details. It must still be within living memory, but only just. You could try talking to the old people in the almshouse, or to the Creswells’ Uncle Nick.’
‘Thank you.’
‘But to be honest, I don’t think you’ll get much out of them. It’s one of those incidents people seem to have erased from their memory.’
I would approach Uncle Nick again, when he might be in a more talkative mood. It intrigued me that the story of the boy, still in living memory, had not been repeated to Miss Lee. Yet the shepherdess’s story, from centuries ago, had become a folk tale.
Leaving behind the smell of chalk and children, I stepped out of the cool classroom into the sunshine of the schoolyard. As I did so, I saw a familiar motor. Sykes was parking his Jowett near the entrance to the mill. He had seen me, and in turning round for a moment he let me know that. That was the extent of our greeting. He was here for his meeting with Mr Whitaker to investigate industrial espionage and had assumed his guise of secret agent.
Chapter Seventeen
In the high-ceilinged office, Mr Whitaker was seated with his back to the tall window which had a neat row of well-tended plants on the sill. He rose and came round the old oak desk that looked as if it belonged to the middle of the last century.
The two men shook hands. ‘I’m glad to see you, Mr Sykes.’
‘Glad to be here. What a fine building. Your founder was a remarkable man.’
‘He was indeed; and following on from the Salt family, we have a lot to live up to.’
‘From what I’ve seen, you’re doing a grand job.’
Whitaker sighed. ‘So far, that’s true. Now we’re at one of those turning points when I’m not sure what the next step will be.’
‘Well, let’s find that step and take it,’ Sykes said, with an encouraging smile. He immediately thought he sounded like a motor salesman urging a timid customer to take a test drive.
Whitaker walked to the open door of the adjoining office. ‘Come and meet my secretary. She’s the only person I’ve confided in. I don’t want to alarm the board, and given what’s happened, I don’t know who to trust.’
The secretary, a solid woman with neat hair and a crisp white blouse, looked up from her typing.
‘Mrs Harrison, meet Mr Sykes.’
‘How do you do, Mrs Harrison?’ Sykes reached over the desk to shake her hand, noting the surprise on her face as he did so. There were more plants on the shelf alongside dictionaries, ring binders and trade journals.
‘Pleased to meet you, Mr Sykes. If there is anything you need, or want to know, just tell me.’
‘Thank you.’
She picked up the phone. ‘I’ll have a pot of tea sent up.’
Sykes followed Whitaker back into his office. They sat opposite each other at the desk. Sykes took out his notebook.
Whitaker produced a letter from the drawer of his desk. ‘This was the bombshell.’ He handed it to Sykes. ‘It’s from the chief buyer, inviting us to tender for the contract which was previously renewed automatically.’
Sykes read the letter. ‘There’s no hint that your bid won’t be successful.’
‘No, but simply to have that invitation, rather than renewing on the same terms, is a warning.’
‘Did you speak to the buyer?’
‘I put in a telephone call to the purchase manager. That’s how I know we have someone up against us.’ He sighed. ‘He’s ex-army, higher echelons, learned civil-service speak. There’s no direct “You have a rival”, but I understood the code. They’re looking at the same quality but at a lower price. They can’t beat our quality.’
‘What makes you so sure?’
‘I took a leaf from Sir James Roberts’ book. He travelled, learned Russian in his search for the finest raw materials. I retraced his footsteps. Followed his practice of having raw materials finished and spun on the Continent and brought here through Hull, to hide the specific and the regional origins. Anyone who matched our combination of yarns must have inside information, but that’s impossible.’
‘Why impossible?’
‘It’s a trade secret. My board of directors understand the need for confidentiality. Only Mrs Harrison and I know the details of our suppliers and finishers. We make payments through a Swiss bank.’
‘You trust your secretary, Mrs Harrison?’
‘Absolutely. She worked here as a girl, came back after she was widowed.’
‘Where do you keep your paperwork?’
‘In a locked filing cabinet in my secretary’s office, and some confidential papers in this safe.’ He indicated a sturdy safe.
‘Could whoever else is likely to tender for the contract have come up with similar yarns?’
‘It’s highly unlikely.’
‘Would another manufacturer, a member of the Wool Exchange, be able to look at your yarns and make a guess at the source?’
‘I’ve thought of that. This may seem idealistic, but I don’t believe that would happen. There’s a code of honour among members. We support each other through good times and bad.’
‘But …?’
‘We have some very clever men in the industry. Your theory can’t be ruled out.’
‘Where do you store the yarn?’
‘We use a combination of yarns. The yarn that gives our material its sheen is the key one. Come on, I’ll show you.’ He went to his secretary’s door. ‘I’m taking Mr Sykes to the top room.’
‘The tea’s on its way.’
‘We’ll be quick.’
Sykes followed Whitaker along the corridor. He noticed that the whole place smelled of lanolin. Over the decades, the smell from the wool had seeped into the fabric of the building. A large lift hiccupped its way to the top floor where Whitaker led Sykes into a long room whose windowed ceiling let in the light. Workers were examining fabric.
Whitaker walked Sykes the length of the room. As he did so, he nodded, smiled and greeted the workers. They responded warmly, in a way they didn’t have to and that told Sykes here was a boss they had regard for.
At the far end of the room were entrances to other areas, an archway and some closed doors. Whitaker took out a key and unlocked a door. He flicked on a light switch. ‘Here’s where we keep the yarn now. Since the letter from Burton’s, I’ve taken extra precautions, though if there has been industrial espionage I’m closing the stable door after the horse has bolted.’
The bales of yarn had been placed against the wall. They were carefully wrapped, fastened and sealed with a die-stamped coin.
‘If it’s an inside job, there would have been other ways of taking a sample than meddling with a bale,’ Sykes said.
‘That’s true.’ They left the room. Whitaker locked the door behind him. ‘Anything else you want to see?’
‘Not unless there’s something you particularly want to show me.’
‘Then let’s go back to the office and have that cup of tea before it goes cold.’
It was a puzzle, Sykes decided, as they sat at the desk, a teapot and a plate of biscuits between them.
Whitaker did not hurry Sykes to come up with suggestions or ideas. He talked of Ronnie Creswell and the shock of his death. ‘We’re like one big family, or that’s how I see it. And I had such high hopes for Ronnie. I told your Mrs Shackleton. I have no son. Ronnie was a little rough around the edges, but he had great promise. He was hard-working and ambitious.’
Sykes did not want to ask the question, but it was necessary. ‘Ronnie was a maintenance man, with access to the whole building?’
‘He was, but if you’re thinking he had anything to do with undermining me and the company, you’re wrong. I wouldn’t have stood in his way if he and Pamela still felt the same about each other in another year or so. I thought my wife might come round to the idea by then.’
‘Did you tell him that?’
‘I let him know that I regarded him highly and that he had a future here. Saying something outright would have been awkward, with my wife being set against him.’
‘Would Ronnie have come to you if he had suspicions about underhand dealings?’
‘I’m sure he would. He could be a firebrand, wanting a shorter working day and a shorter week for the workforce, but I think he understood why that might take time when we have mills closing left, right and centre.’
