A Mansion for Murder, page 25
I took my leave, wishing Mrs Creswell well, knowing that I would not see her again until Ronnie’s funeral.
Chapter Forty-Five
It is strange the way disparate events follow on from each other and ever afterwards feel connected. The third Friday of August was the day of Ronnie Creswell’s funeral at Hirst Wood Cemetery. The mill closed for the day.
Sykes and I travelled to Hirst Wood together. For someone who had become father to a sudden and surprise baby, I thought he may have stayed at home. Sykes assured me that non-attendance never occurred to him. He and I stood close by Mr and Mrs Whitaker and Pamela, as did Mr Whitaker’s secretary, Mrs Harrison. There was a police contingent, including Inspector Mitchell, a CID officer and PC Beale.
Mrs Sugden has very particular views on funeral attendance. Sykes and I must attend but she would regard herself as a hanger-on, there for the repast.
Alongside the Creswell family stood the Fairburns, Dorrie Fairburn between Ronnie’s brothers. Uncle Nick held Nancy’s hand. Nancy, wearing her bandages with pride, looked across at Pamela and might have waved. Pamela gave her a sad smile. They had made their connection. PC Tom Harrison was not with the police contingent, nor with his mother. He stood with the Creswell and Fairburn families, behind Dorrie.
As the funeral drew to a close, people made space for the family to leave. Those of us standing a little way back moved towards the path. Mr Creswell paused. He looked directly at me and said, ‘Come back with us?’
‘Yes.’ I answered for both of us since we had driven there together. ‘Did you catch that?’ I asked Sykes. ‘Mr Creswell wants us to go back to Saltaire, for the breakfast.’
‘That’s very good of him,’ Sykes said.
‘You’re all right to stay on a little longer?’
‘I’ll be glad to. I’ve been left in charge of rearranging our bedroom to accommodate a cot. I won’t tell you what else is on my list.’
Sykes drove us back to Saltaire. He parked on Victoria Road, outside the silent mill.
I thought back to what Pamela had told me about Ronnie and his father. They sit in the hut together and talk, she had said.
The funeral breakfast was in the mill dining room, a high-ceilinged room with a domed window above. At a table near the door there were a couple of spaces. Nancy must have been looking out for us. She came to speak to me. ‘We’re going to be moving away soon.’
‘Your mother told me. Are you pleased?’
‘I think so. It’s not so far away. I’ll go to a different school.’
‘You’ll make new friends.’
‘But I’ll come back to see Freddie and he’ll come to see me. It’s only a tram ride. Uncle Nick isn’t coming with us. He’s been accepted in the alms house.’
‘Is he happy about that?’
‘Yes. There’ll be no steps to climb, and he has friends there. Mam thought they wouldn’t want him because he doesn’t see well, doesn’t hear well and he’s not the easiest person in the world. But he is the only person who was here before the mill and before the village, living in his hut with his grandmother on Milner Field grounds.’
‘That makes him special.’
‘I knew that but other people didn’t.’
At the other end of the room, breakfast was being served. ‘Don’t miss your breakfast,’ I said.
‘Dad wants to talk to you. In the room beyond the kitchen, there’s a quiet space. When you see him move from the table, follow him.’
With that she was gone.
Sykes had heard. ‘He’ll want to say goodbye.’
‘That’s probably it.’
‘I’ll wait for you in the car.’
When Mr Creswell left the table, after much hand-shaking and accepting of condolences, I followed his instructions.
He had set out two chairs. Being the kind of man who said little or nothing, he was also a man who came straight to the point. ‘Mrs Shackleton, we who came back from what they’re calling the Great War don’t always tell the tale. I couldn’t if I’d wanted to because when I came back I couldn’t speak. I was of medical interest for a short time. I expected never to speak, but one day, my voice came back, when Ronnie asked me summat. He said, “Where’s my clogs?” I said, “Cleaned and on the windowsill.” I could talk again.’
‘Like a miracle,’ I said.
‘Ronnie wanted to know things. I told him nothing that would scare his wits. I told him names of people and places. I told him the name of our medical officer and how good he was. Captain Gerald Shackleton, from Leeds. According to Ronnie’s information, he was your husband. You was a nurse, alongside the daughter of a mill that’s not two miles from here.’
My mouth went dry. ‘Yes.’
‘Well, I can tell you how much Captain Shackleton loved to get your letters. He’d go to his tent straight off to read your letter as soon as one came. He was that happy.’
I felt an odd pain behind my eyes, and my body seemed not to be here, as if I’d floated off from it and in a minute the chair would be gone and so would I.
Mr Creswell went on talking. He had decided what to say, and he would say it.
‘We all thought a lot of your husband. He were a good man and a good doctor. That’s what our Ronnie said I must tell you. I said you would already know. Ronnie said, “But you were there, Dad. No one else will tell his wife about how pleased he was to get her letters.” He’d got a bit like that, after taking up with Pamela, more interested in people and in life.’
Ronnie had addressed his letter to Mrs Gerald Shackleton. I had braced myself for an old comrade’s story, and then forgot about it. Now I was unprepared.
Mr Creswell produced a big, clean hanky and gave it to me, saying, ‘I shouldn’t have told you here. I should have written.’
‘It’s better that you told me. Thank you.’
‘Well, now you know. There was a big explosion. It was sudden. He’d read your letter. Had it in his pocket.’
We shook hands. ‘Thank you, Mr Creswell, and especially for talking to me today of all days.’
‘I had to do it for Ronnie. I didn’t know he’d asked you to come. You see, I think that’s why he wrote to you. He would have sprung the surprise on me. I want you to think well of our Ronnie.’
‘Oh, I do. I’m grateful to Ronnie, and to you.’
So Mark had not told his dad what he knew to be Ronnie’s reason for writing to me. I hoped that Mark would not forever blame himself for passing on what he knew about Aldous Garner.
We went back into the main hall where Mr Creswell joined his family. They made ready to leave.
Uncle Nick followed me out onto the street, clearing his throat. ‘You’ll be very interested to hear what happened at the well.’
I already knew what happened at the well. I didn’t want to hear it again, but my resistance was low. I blew my nose, which Nick took as a sign to continue. I thought he was going to tell me about rescuing Nancy, but it was something else.
‘David Fairburn had himself lowered into the well. He is the leader of the mill’s fire brigade. He does not believe there is a curse, but he prefers that them that buy the mansion, and villagers, and workers at Milner Field deserve a fair chance at life and happiness.’
Nick had my reluctant interest. Having someone staring me in the eyes meant that I must hold myself together. Nick did not need encouragement. He said, ‘David brought up the bones, the remaining bones of the shepherdess. He took them to a vicar to bless.’
‘Then I hope the shepherdess will rest in peace.’
‘She will. She was buried with my old schoolteacher, Miss Mason. She who told us the shepherdess’s story.’
‘I should think your old teacher would have approved.’
‘You are right.’ He frowned. ‘I hope Miss Mason knows she has company. I think she must. Last night, in my dream, Miss Mason spoke to the shepherdess. She said, “The more the merrier.”’
I thought of young Mark Creswell’s comment about the undertaker. The world is going mad. Sometimes capitulation outranks resistance.
Sykes had been sitting in the car. Not that he is an impatient man, but he came back to find me, rescuing me from Nick, saying, ‘I take it we’re ready for the off, Mrs Shackleton?’
Nick then tapped the side of his nose. ‘Thank you for the perfect, beautifully made small, lined …’
‘Box,’ said Sykes. ‘It was my pleasure, Nick.’
We got into the car. ‘What was that about?’ I asked.
He started the car, and pretended not to have heard me.
That did not matter. I had thoughts of my own. I had not expected to hear about Gerald. After seeing the photograph of Billy, I thought it might be about the death of the boy who shared Ronnie’s likeness. And it was. More than that, it was a struggle for the soul of Saltaire. Who should take charge of managing the village houses, would it be Ronnie Creswell or Aldous Garner?
The plan was quietly dropped.
Sykes drove us to his home in Woodhouse so that I could see Rosie and the baby.
The downstairs room was crowded with infant paraphernalia.
There she was, the newest addition, a small bundle with eyes wide open, lying in a drawer. ‘The cot’s upstairs,’ Rosie said. ‘We can’t be carting it up and down.’
‘She prefers the drawer,’ Sykes said. ‘More people look at her when she’s down here.’
‘She’s beautiful,’ I said. And she was.
We sat down for cups of tea. Sykes poured. ‘Enough of births, deaths and funerals. We’ve set a date for the christening.’
‘We’d like you to be godmother,’ said Rosie.
Suddenly it seemed possible that though deaths and funerals might never be forgotten, they could be overlaid with new events, fresh possibilities. ‘What an honour. I would love to be godmother to young Miss Sykes.’ I went to talk to the baby. ‘If that’s agreeable to you, Baby Sykes.’ I thought she smiled, but it could have been wind.
‘Have you thought of a name?’ I asked.
‘We have,’ said Rosie. ‘She’s to be Catherine, named after you.’
The world, and I, felt suddenly so much better.
Chapter Forty-Six
Mr Whitaker settled our account promptly. He sent a letter of thanks and three suit lengths of excellent cloth. Mrs Sugden is still considering best use. I decided to go to Sykes’s tailor, taking my own patterns so as to avoid extreme designs. Paris and London fashions come and go. A good piece of Yorkshire weave will last a lifetime.
Just before the auction of Milner Field, Pamela Whitaker telephoned. She had given up on the plan of returning to her teacher-training course, and would tell me what she was doing when we met. We agreed to meet for breakfast at the Midland Hotel, Forster Square, on the morning of the auction.
On that bright clear morning, I caught the train to Bradford. A little after nine o’clock, I walked through the Midland Hotel’s marble hall. Pamela was waiting for me at the bottom of the stairs. She looked up-to-the-minute in a pale blue, calf-length V-neck dress with belted waist and turned-back cuffs. She gave a big smile. In the dining room, a waiter led us to a table in the corner.
We studied the menu. ‘I don’t know what to eat,’ said Pamela. ‘I need to sustain myself through the auction but not end up feeling sick with excitement during the bidding. There’s been a lot of interest, even though news of recent events has trickled out.’
We agreed that scrambled eggs and toast would be a good choice, and cups of strong tea.
‘Are you excited?’ I asked, after we had ordered.
‘I am, and I’ll tell you why. I’ve formally joined the business. I had a small share, but now, thanks to my grandmother’s legacy and a sprinkle of nepotism, I am on the board of directors.’
‘That’s such good news, Pamela. Congratulations!’
‘It was always going to happen, and then my interest waned and I thought it wasn’t for me. Now I know it is, and so does Dad. I’m determined to do this properly. I invested some of the funds left to me by Grandmother. If the worst comes to the worst and Milner Field doesn’t sell, we’ll keep going.’
‘You’ll be a ground-breaker!’
‘I will, just as you are. That’s why I want to talk to you. I have so many ideas and I know that the men on the board will find it hard to accept me.’
‘Tell me, how far along are you, what have you been doing?’
Pamela told me that she had spent time with her dad’s secretary, Mrs Harrison, and in each of the offices, finding out what was what. She had got to know the different departments and who was who among the staff. She and her dad had talked long into the night. He had taken her to Liverpool, to a wool auction. She had given him new ideas about what they might manufacture.
‘We’ll produce a cream and brown check and send samples to customers with a pattern for a ladies’ sports suit. We’ll produce a reasonably priced plain light wool in colourful shades so that girls who go out to work in offices won’t need to wear the colours of mice.’
‘That all sounds wonderful. What is the difficulty?’
‘Me. When I go in that boardroom, no one will take me seriously.’
‘Yes, they will. Go in looking as if you mean business. Take your own advice. Don’t go in wearing mouse colours. Be bold.’
‘I wish I could be. One of the teachers at school called me a bold hussy, but I’ve forgotten how to do it.’
‘You were training to be a teacher. Did you do any practical lessons, in a classroom?’
‘Yes, and I made a hash of it.’
‘Well, you won’t this time. Speak plainly in words the men on the board will understand, as if you are speaking to the child at the back of the room who can’t keep his eyes open. The men will interrupt you. Don’t allow it. Be polite. Have phrases ready for all occasions. “If I may finish my point”, that sort of thing. You are the chairman’s daughter. You have clout.’
‘You’re right. I’ve grown up in that business.’
‘Exactly!’
‘I’m not allowed entry to the Wool Exchange, but that’s a reprieve from being bored to death. Dad passes on whatever is useful.’
We finished breakfast. She looked at her watch. ‘I’m meeting Mam and Dad at the auction rooms.’
I walked with Pamela to the Victoria Hotel on Bridge Street, where the auction would be held. Mr and Mrs Whitaker were waiting for her. I wished them luck.
I would be meeting Mrs Sugden. We would look in every excellent shop. She would choose a new coat. I would buy a christening gift for baby Catherine Sykes.
On the way to Busby’s, I kept my fingers crossed for the successful sale of Milner Field.
Postscript
Milner Field failed to sell when put up for auction in 1922. In 1930, history repeated itself. The gates were shut, the mansion abandoned. What remained of this grand but unlucky house was finally demolished in about 1957.
In 1987, Salts Mill was rescued by Jonathan Silver, who created a cultural hub within its walls, with art galleries, a book shop, a home shop, other retailers, cafés and restaurants. In addition, many small and medium-sized businesses are tenants of the Silver family in its vast spaces. The 1853 Gallery displays paintings by Bradford-born artist David Hockney.
As you walk around the building, breathe in deeply. You may catch the lingering scent of lanolin from the wool. Listen. You may catch the words of weavers and millwrights, words that were only ever lip-read, against the clatter of machinery.
Author’s Note
On a visit to Saltaire village and Salts Mill, I walked with a friend through Roberts Park and along a pathway through woodland to the site of the nineteenth-century grand mansion Milner Field. Trees grow where this fine house once stood. There are traces of the conservatory’s mosaic floor, a fraction of wall, a glimpse into a cellar, blocks of stone, a few well-made bricks, and weeds growing amidst the rubble. An Elizabethan manor house was demolished to make way for the new Milner Field, and of that manor house there is no trace.
Milner Field mansion was the dream house of Titus Salt Junior, fifth and youngest son of Sir Titus Salt, wealthy textile manufacturer, who opened his new mill by the banks of the River Aire in 1853. Sir Titus commissioned a village to house his workers, also providing for their social, educational and health needs, naming the place Saltaire, after himself and the river.
What remains of Milner Field mansion are the stories of a house with a reputation as unlucky, a risky place to set down roots. Those stories and the scant remains of former grandeur inspired this thirteenth story of Kate Shackleton’s investigations, a work of fiction.
For the facts, I highly recommend Milner Field: The Lost Country House of Titus Salt Jnr by Richard Lee-Van den Daele and R. David Beale.
In December 2001, UNESCO designated Saltaire a World Heritage Site.
Acknowledgments
Many thanks to Maggie Smith, Trustee of Saltaire World Heritage Association, a registered charity that houses the Saltaire Collection and manages buildings of significance in Saltaire; Colin Coates, Saltaire Researcher and Historian; Saltaire History Club; Flinty Maguire, Editor, Saltaire Village website (saltairevillage.info); Gina Birdsall, Customer Support Assistant, Keighley Library.
Hannah Wann and the team at Piatkus provided unfailing support, as did agents Judith Murdoch and Rebecca Winfield. Emma Beswetherick gave encouraging and insightful comments on the draft manuscript. Alison Tulett copy edited with great care. Any mistakes are mine.
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