The Cuckoo's Child (26 page)

Womersley considered. ‘Get yourself to the bank, Jack, and see if you can get them to confirm what time Hirst reached and left there. When you've finished, go and have a word with Binns. We're going to need his constables to make some concentrated enquiries at the bottom end of the town to see if we can stir up anybody's memories – about Beaumont, or any stranger that might fit the bill. And while you're at it, it might be as well to try and get hold of Dr Pike again, to see if it's possible he'd only been dead a couple of hours.'

‘Owt else?' Rawlinson asked.

‘That'll do for now. I'm going to have a word with Walter Thwaite.'

He retraced his tracks, heading for the newsagent's shop. Presently, the dam came in sight. It was a raw, dark morning with a sneaky wind that ruffled the leaden surface of the murky water. It looked viscous and evil. As he approached he saw a woman standing beside the dam wall, staring out over the expanse of water; a small woman, hunched into a heavy coat. She had turned to walk away but when she saw him she stopped. He raised his hat, gave her good morning and was about to pass when she spoke to him. ‘Excuse me, but aren't you one of the policemen?'

She was Sarah Illingworth, who lived in the house attached to the mill, a few yards away. ‘Won't you come inside for a cup of tea?'

He hesitated only momentarily. Despite his turned up coat collar and the knitted muffler Kate had insisted he wore that day, he felt chilled, and he was never averse to tea. Talking to Walter Thwaite could come later. ‘I will, thanks. I've been wanting a word with you, Mrs Illingworth.'

He followed her into the house and the bright, warm kitchen, where she invited him to take off his coat, made a strong brew of tea and poured it into sensibly large-sized white mugs. Pushing the sugar towards him, she said, ‘Are you sure, then, that it was murder?'

‘Pretty certain. Why do you ask?'

For a while she said nothing, looking into the heart of the leaping fire and nursing her tea with hands that were work-worn, strong and capable, but well-shaped. It was very peaceful, the humming of machinery an almost mesmeric background. She had not put on the light, despite the darkness of the morning, but the flames from the fire made a little oasis of brightness around them. He liked the look of Mrs Illingworth. A quiet woman, with soft dark eyes that just now were sad. ‘It might be – well, nearly wicked, you know – to say such a thing, but in some ways it's a relief to hear you say that. Not that I'm glad he died the way he did, of course – how could I be? You know, he was in a right funny mood last time I saw him, and when they said it was suicide, I tell you I was shocked, of course. But I wasn't exactly surprised.'

‘When
did
you last see him?'

‘The morning he died.'

‘Oh? What time would that have been?'

She widened her eyes at the urgency in his voice. ‘Around half past eight, I think. Yes, it was, breakfast time, the engine had just switched off. He just popped in – he used to do that a lot, you know. We were friends from a long way back and he liked to stop and have a chat.' She smiled slightly. ‘He even used to ask me for a bit of advice now and then! I thought he looked really poorly and I made him sit down and have some tea. Then he said he had something to tell me.' She coloured a little. ‘He said he was very glad I'd had a happy life and then he said no matter what, I'd be all right after he'd gone, and so would Tom – my son. It was the last thing I expected to hear, but before I could answer him, he was taking some pills out of his pocket. He emptied the box and swallowed the lot. He said he had a headache and . . . I'm sorry for it now, but that made me speak to him right sharp. I looked him in the eye and told him what I'd been thinking for a long time – that anybody with a bit of gumption could see it was more than any headache and that it was high time he got himself seen to, he'd been looking like death warmed up for weeks.'

‘And what did he say to that?'

Her eyes filled with tears but she blinked them away. ‘He didn't deny it. He just laughed it off and tried to make a joke out of it, and said he wasn't ready to go just yet. And anyway he had things to do before he died.'

Almost the same words he had used to Widdop, Womersley recalled. Things to do. Reparation to his granddaughter, Laura Harcourt, but what else? Womersley thought of that money he had drawn out. A debt to pay, or
had
it been blackmail money as Rawlinson had suggested?

‘And then,' Mrs Illingworth went on, gazing into the fire, ‘a few hours later, he was dead, poor Ainsley. I hear tell he had a tumour, and I wouldn't have blamed him if . . . All the same, I'm glad he didn't do it himself,' she finished sadly.

‘One of the things he did before he died, Mrs Illingworth, was to make provision in his will for his granddaughter, Laura Harcourt.'

Her eyes took on a watchful quality. ‘Yes, I know. That was like him. Whatever else, he was always fair.'

Womersley wasn't altogether sure whether it had been fair to Laura to keep her in the dark all her life about her true parentage, but that aspect of it hardly concerned him.

‘You looked after her when she was a baby, I believe?'

‘Her poor mother died soon after she was born, not much more than a child herself, and Laura stayed with us for eighteen months.'

The hot tea was doing its usual job of temporarily easing the ever-present burn in his chest, the warmth of the room made him feel relaxed and comfortable, and Womersley didn't feel like moving, but he could not legitimately stay much longer. ‘How long did Mr Beaumont stay with you?'

‘Over an hour, I suppose, altogether. I told him not to move until he felt better, but he kept looking at the clock and in the end he said he'd have to go, he had to meet somebody at ten o'clock. And he did look a bit better by then,' she added defensively.

‘He didn't say who it was he was meeting?'

‘No, a business meeting, I suppose it was.'

He thanked Mrs Illingworth for the tea, shrugged on his coat and made his way towards the shop on Syke Beck Lane.

Eighteen

Ainsley Beaumont hadn't enlightened Mrs Illingworth as to who he was due to meet, but Womersley thought there was just a chance he might have mentioned it to the shopkeeper, Walter Thwaite. In view of the fact that he had owned the deeds to the shop, it was possible they were on friendly terms. All these people were of the same generation, they had grown up living their lives in this same tight community and, after all, Beaumont could not have known he was going to meet a possible murderer – the meeting might have had an innocuous purpose – although a rendezvous in the park, of all places, suggested some attempt at secrecy, or at least a wish not to make it too public.

The newsagent's shop was a temporary-looking building, not much more than a wood hut built on a brick base. Postcards and notices in the window advertised, amongst other things, the town brass band's first outdoor concert next month (weather permitting), Nellie Shaw's home-made cream buns and Fartown's next fixture. As he entered, a paraffin heater assailed Womersley with a powerful odour, compounded by the smells of strong tobacco, newsprint from the papers lined up on the counter and bundles of firewood and malodorous firelighters stacked on the floor. Behind the counter were colourful boiled sweets in bottles ranged along shelves, bags of sherbet and liquorice bootlaces.

Also behind the counter was Walter Thwaite himself. Hearing the shop bell, he rose from the stool he was sitting on, replaced his reading glasses with another pair from his waistcoat pocket and carefully marked his place in the book he was reading before putting it aside. Womersley saw it was a New Testament and recalled that Thwaite was, or had been, a local preacher on the Wesleyan Methodist circuit. A spruce little man, he was wearing a sleeved waistcoat and his shirt collar was stiff and white, his tie neat, his white hair brushed.

‘How long have you been running the shop here, Mr Thwaite?' Womersley asked after a few words on the purpose of his visit.

‘Since I had to give up working, on account of my chest.'

‘Nice little business . . . must've been a godsend to you.'

‘I'll not say it hasn't.' Thwaite was a mild mannered, quietly spoken sort of chap, but his light eyes behind his glasses were sharp. ‘I reckon you'll have discovered by now who it belongs to?' Womersley nodded. ‘I thought so. Aye well, Ainsley Beaumont had it built and set me up, and I paid him rent for it. That's what he called in for that day, his rent. He usually came when it was quiet so nobody would get nosey. He didn't want it known he was the landlord, and I'd like to ask you to keep it like that, if you can.'

‘When somebody's murdered, nobody has secrets, Mr Thwaite.'

‘I know that well enough, but that business was between me and him, even our Jessie thinks I was set up by our chapel fund and I'd like it to stay that way. She'll find out soon enough when I'm gone.'

‘As far as I'm concerned, there's no reason why anybody else should be told – as things stand at the moment, that is. I can't guarantee more than that.'

Thwaite seemed satisfied. ‘What can I do for you, then?'

‘Just checking. I believe it was Constable Bradley who came to ask you about the time Mr Beaumont came in, and when he left?'

‘Aye, young Cyril. As I told him, Ainsley stopped in for a paper, and I paid him his rent. I'd just mashed a pot of tea and he had a drop with me. We talked about this and that for about ten minutes and then he left.' Thwaite paused for a rattling cough that racked his thin frame and when Womersley waved him to sit down again, he seemed glad to do so. ‘I've known him since we were lads, you know,' he went on when he could, leaning his elbows on the counter, revealing the protective celluloid cuffs he wore over the ones on his shirt. ‘My father worked for his father, and I worked for Ainsley. Never any side to him, though. I'd like to think we were friends. It's a sorry do, this.'

‘Were you one of those who played cards with him?' Womersley asked before the expression on Thwaite's face told him he had made a mistake. He'd forgotten the chap was a strait-laced Bible puncher, a working man who'd no doubt educated himself – enough at any rate to become a lay-preacher. Thwaite surprised Womersley with a wheezy laugh, however.

‘Give over, Inspector! The likes of me aspiring to have friends in high places?' Sobering, he added, ‘Any road, I don't hold with card-playing. Innocent enough if you don't gamble, but all too often that's what it leads to.'

‘The doctor was one of his regular partners. And Whiteley Hirst.'

‘I don't doubt that,' Thwaite said dryly. He seemed about to say more, but at that moment, the shop door was pushed open by a little girl of about ten in a clean, starched pinafore and polished clogs. She had a lame leg, and the clogs must have been heavy, but she skipped forward nimbly enough and held out the parcel she carried. ‘Brought your medicine, Mr Thwaite.'

‘Thank you, Annie. Here's the doctor's cigarettes.' The parcel was exchanged for another from under the counter. ‘Mind you don't squash ‘em in your pocket or he'll be looking to dock your wages! They're special cigarettes, cost a lot of money.'

‘I'll be careful, Mr Thwaite,' she promised. ‘And five Woodbines for me dad, please.' She handed over a penny in exchange for one of the flimsy green and orange paper packets that seemed to constitute the greater part of the shop's stock of cigarettes.

‘And don't squash
them
, either. Why aren't you at school?'

‘Our Billy's had German measles. He's getting better but I have to look after him and get the little ‘uns their dinner ‘cos me Mam can't have no more time off.'

‘Well, watch how you go, love, and here you are.' He reached behind him for a jar of bull's eyes, opened it and let her choose.

She thanked him with a wide, bright smile, popped the sweet into her mouth and limped out, her cheek bulging. Thwaite watched her go. ‘There's a grand little lass. Doctor gives her a tanner to bring my medicine, so's I don't have to go down for it. Very thoughtful.'

‘Bit of a saint round here in fact, Dr Widdop, isn't he?'

‘I wouldn't go so far as that! He has his faults, same as everybody else, but Wainthorpe would be a poorer place without him, that's for sure.' Womersley waited to hear what they were but Widdop's shortcomings weren't to be revealed that day. ‘Well, like I was saying, it's a slack time around half past eight, folks already at work. I reckon I would have noticed anybody unusual going along that path.'

Trade could never be all that brisk and time must pass slowly. The notices on the window were strategically placed so that from behind his counter, he had a good view of the outside world. A real miss-nowt corner. He wondered how much Thwaite actually made from the shop. It could hardly be the proverbial little gold mine.

‘Right, then, that was half past eightish. What about later in the morning, up to a couple of hours later? No strangers?'

‘Later on?' Thwaite repeated, making a business of realigning the run of
Wainthorpe Couriers
on the counter. ‘One or two women, and kids off school, and only them as I would have expected to see, like.'

‘And the other way, coming back up the path, Mr Thwaite?'

‘Nobody,' he said, bending to pick something up off the floor. As he straightened up, he was seized with another fit of coughing, leaving him bent over the counter without breath to speak. He was the poorest liar Womersley had met in a long time. No doubt his religion forbade it. But as he sat up, his breathing still laboured, there was a stubborn set to his mouth. He wouldn't – perhaps couldn't – say any more.