The Cuckoo's Child (27 page)

‘I won't trouble you further, Mr Thwaite, But before I go, weigh me a quarter of mint imperials, will you?'

Laura, despite having cravenly asked Tom Illingworth for support before facing Una and Gideon, had suddenly taken the bull by the horns, and without giving herself time to reconsider, told them of what was, to her, their amazing new-found relationship. There had been none of the painful scene she had expected. In fact, she was almost certain they had been prepared for something of the sort. After the contents of the will had been revealed, they had evidently half-guessed that something of that nature must have been the reason behind the legacy. More surprisingly, neither of them seemed unduly put out. The truth was clearly more acceptable than what they had probably suspected, that she had been an illegitimate child of their grandfather. They had not been old enough to remember their father – much less the nursery maid who had been Laura's mother. Ainsley had been the only father they had ever known, they had loved him, and it was evidently a relief that his integrity remained intact.

After this, Laura did not think it wise to mention what had caused their grandfather to send her away from Wainthorpe as a child; it was enough for them to know that she had been Theo's child; there was no point in underlining the bitterness Amelia must have felt at her husband's betrayal, and perhaps it would never be necessary for them to know of that incident in her past.

But how were they going to take to the fact that she was their half-sister? Would they regard her as a cuckoo in the nest, as her mother had been in that family? She felt that her continued presence here could do nothing to improve the situation, and she said, ‘I shall be leaving Farr Clough just as soon as the police tell me I can do so. And by the way, I shall not be keeping that money for myself. It will go to the Settlement house where I worked in the East End.'

Gideon shrugged and said he supposed Grandpa had done what he saw as right, and the money was obviously Laura's to do with as she wished, but he looked at her more warmly. As far as Una was concerned, it was apparent that Laura could have said nothing better. She smiled for the first time since Laura's return. ‘You couldn't do better with it than that,' she said.

Preparations were going ahead for the funeral, ready for when the police could ‘release' the body, as they said. Amelia was shocked that the master of Cross Ings was not to have a big, impressive farewell. A big send off – plumed black horses, carriages, a funeral procession a hundred yards long, Bethesdsa chapel packed, and a ham tea to follow was the least a man of such importance as Ainsley Beaumont was entitled to. It was what everybody would be expecting. They'd cry shame on this disregard of tradition. But Gideon was adamant. He stuck to his decision that in the circumstances it must be a private affair, for family, close friends and old business acquaintances. Una supported him, and neither were to be moved. Their mother was much affronted.

And then she astonished Laura by coming into the library for the first time ever since she had begun work there and stood looking at the now tidy shelves for some time before she said, though still very tight-lipped, ‘You've done a good job, I must say.'

Laura could not be sure, but she thought Amelia actually smiled. A mere shadow of the smile she had occasionally seen bestowed upon one or other of her children – but never having been at the receiving end before it unnerved Laura.

Nor did Amelia's capacity for engendering amazement stop there. Tentatively, she put out a hand and actually touched Laura's sleeve, though she quickly withdrew it and stood with her hands clasped tightly in front of her, as if afraid she might do it again. She said abruptly, ‘You're a bonny lass, just like . . .' Then her lips closed firmly. ‘Don't let it go to your head, that's all.'

Was she referring to Lucie – to Laura's mother? Of course she was, she could have meant nothing else.

All the same, Laura was so taken aback, quite unable to account for this about-face of Mrs Beaumont's towards her – unless it was that she was finally convinced Laura had indeed come here in all innocence – that she could think of no way to further the conversation; and in any case, she was certain Amelia had gone as far in conciliation as she was likely to go.

They stood there, equally embarrassed.

It was Amelia who suddenly put an end to it. ‘Forgive me, Laura, I am not myself. I haven't been myself for a long time now.' She gave her one last look from those dark, unfathomable eyes, and then she was gone.

It was the first time she had ever used Laura's Christian name.

‘I'm afraid Mr Hirst's putting the wages up. He can't be disturbed,' Porteous told Womersley and Rawlinson when they arrived with a request to see the manager.

Rawlinson paid no attention, but banged on the connecting door between the two offices. ‘It's the police, Mr Hirst,' he shouted, ‘We've something important to say to you.'

After a moment, the sound of a key was heard turning in the lock, the door opened a crack and Hirst's lugubrious face showed itself. ‘I'm busy.'

‘We shan't keep you long.'

For a moment, it seemed as though he might be about to shut the door again but as Rawlinson's foot moved towards it, he sighed. ‘All right come in, then, but I can't spare more than a few minutes.' He kept the door open just wide enough for them to get through, and when they were inside, locked it behind them.

‘You have to be careful,' he said, gesturing to the table, where banknotes and piles of coins were neatly set out, ranging from half-crowns and florins, through to coppers and silver coins of lesser denominations. A trifle more conciliatory, he offered a handshake to each of them, passing on the metallic taint of money.

On a wheeled trolley by the table were stacked a pile of large tin wage trays, very like the tins Tilly had used when she made buns, except in scale, Rawlinson thought. They would be heavy when Hirst had transferred to each numbered tin the due amount of money, calculated from the time sheet on the table before him, ready to be doled out into waiting hands. An old custom, as like as not, but he found himself repelled. These were the meagre wages for long hours of hard work at the machines. This way of giving it seemed uncomfortably akin to doling out charity.

Hirst sat down heavily. He looked greyer, older, slightly weary, the sad bloodhound look of his face intensified. ‘What do you want, then?'

‘To go back to the morning Mr Beaumont died,' Womersley began. ‘I believe you went across to the bank.'

‘Yes, I walked over to pay in some cheques. Why do you ask?'

‘How long were you absent from the office?'

‘Nearly three quarters of an hour. Longer than I should have been, but they happened to be very busy.'

‘Did you come home via the park?'

‘The
park
? Melsom Park? Of course I didn't. It's at the other end of the town.'

‘We've been told that you were seen there – with Mr Beaumont.'

Hirst had not allowed himself to be idle while they were talking, counting more money from the blue paper money bags into neat piles, his long fingers stacking them. Now he put down a five shilling stack and stared. ‘Who said that?'

‘Never mind.'

‘No need,' he replied after a moment. ‘I know who this came from. It was Porteous, wasn't it?' Womersley said nothing. ‘Well, of course it's a lie.'

‘What has he got to gain by lying about a thing like that?'

‘Purely to create aggravation for me.' He finally put aside the money. ‘A year or two back, Edwin Porteous was suspected of dipping his fingers in the till – not a large sum, just some petty cash that was kept in the front office. Nothing could be proved, but there happened to be an office lad who'd left a bit sudden just about the same time, so Ainsley gave Porteous the benefit of the doubt and let him stay on, which I wouldn't have done, and I said as much. Before that, he'd always gone to the bank with me for the wages – as a safety measure, in case anybody got ideas about helping theirselves to the money on the way back, you understand, but after that one of the woolsorters was assigned to go with me, and still does. Now I put the wages up myself, without assistance from Porteous. He's never forgiven me.'

Womersley had no doubt all this was true enough, and suspected this latest wasn't the only aggravation Hirst received from the clerk. He was prepared to believe Porteous – as far as it went. Maybe he
had
spotted Ainsley in the park with someone. And although he couldn't seriously have expected that pointing the finger at Whiteley Hirst would be believed, he might have hoped it would give him some uncomfortable moments. There was evidently no love lost between them, though he was surprised Porteous hadn't given more thought to the stupidity of upsetting Hirst, who had no reason to see he was kept on now that Ainsley Beaumont had gone. That there were people like that, prepared to tell outrageous lies simply to create mischief, Womersley didn't doubt. It wasn't the first time he'd come across this sort of thing: someone with a grudge, not really expecting their accusations to be taken seriously; it was simply done out of spite, to cause an annoyance or embarrassment – or to cast aspersions in a ‘no smoke without fire' sort of way, which could be damaging enough in itself. Everyone would remember that Whiteley Hirst and Ainsley Beaumont had been forever at it, sniping at each other, arguing. The fact that they always made it up without evident resentment didn't alter that. This time it might have gone too far.

Baseless as they may turn out to be, these were points that, as police, they couldn't disregard. Checks had already been made – at the bank and with the time office, which Hirst had to pass on his way back to Cross Ings. The times he had given tallied with what he'd said, but it still left some leeway. How long would it take to creep up behind a deaf man and kill him, then double back?

‘Mr Beaumont has left you a substantial amount of money in his will, I understand,' Womersley said suddenly.

Hirst reddened. ‘Aye, well, that's no surprise. He told me he'd see me right, after he'd gone. We go back a long way. I've been here, man and boy, for near as long as he had, after all, and I'd like to think he appreciated what I'd done.'

Rawlinson, perched on the edge of what had been Ainsley Beaumont's desk, had his fountain pen out and his notebook open, but he was fidgeting about in his restless way with the inkwell, the pen tray and the paperweight. Womersley frowned.

‘Have you any idea why Mr Beaumont should have been in the park that morning, Mr Hirst?'

‘If he was.' He almost laughed, as if the idea was totally bizarre.

Rawlinson made a sudden exclamation of annoyance and the others looked at him. ‘Sorry, don't mind me. I made a blot – rotten fountain pen.'

Hirst impatiently indicated the blotting paper on the desk and said to Womersley, ‘I thought you said Ainsley was killed about breakfast time?'

‘Given what we had to go on then, yes, I did. We might have to readjust that.'

‘What would you say if I told you Porteous used to be an amateur boxer?' Hirst asked deliberately, not above using a hint of malice himself.

‘Was he, by Jove? Hard to imagine him that fit, now.'

‘Fit enough to hit a man over the head with a stone – and to tip him over the wall into the dam.'

But Porteous had no reason to be anything but grateful to his employer, if what Hirst had just said was true. Any problems the clerk had were with Whiteley Hirst, hence the rather pointless attempts to pay him back with petty annoyances.

Hirst was beginning to look restless, evidently keen to get back to his money-counting, and for the moment, Womersley had nothing more to ask. He stood up, ending the interview. ‘Thank you for your time, Mr Hirst. We'll be in touch.'

Outside, he said severely, ‘And what was all that about your pen, Sergeant, when you were supposed to be taking notes? It's beginning to get on my nerves, all that twizzling about. Or was there something in there you weren't saying?'

Rawlinson looked crestfallen. ‘I didn't think it was so obvious.' Then he grinned and dived into his pocket, bringing out the pink blotting paper he'd used and neglected to return to the desk top. A six inch square piece which had been folded over once, and while one side had been well used, the other had only two or three words blotted on to it. ‘Lead me to a mirror. Might be nothing, but Beaumont was working late the night before he died, wasn't he? And nobody's thrown away the blotting paper on his desk.'

‘Sometimes I wonder about you, lad,' Womersley said, shaking his head. ‘This isn't one of your Sherlock Holmes tales, you know.'

Rawlinson looked stubborn. ‘We'll see.'

And back at the police station, with the aid of a mirror Mrs Binns in the adjoining police house produced, they did. Just a name, looking as if it might have been the superscription on an envelope. A name Sergeant Binns immediately recognized.

Nineteen

It was Tom who offered the facility of his new car to those who were attending the suffrage meeting in Halifax. Second-hand though it might be, he was able to claim with justification that it was more reliable than Gideon's, and even Gideon couldn't argue with that. Though Emmie Broomhead had been his only reason for offering to act as driver in the first place, Gideon decided he would go with them anyway, declaring the women would need protection, should any of the violence occur which only too often broke out at such meetings – and besides, he added with a grin, Tom might need a mechanic.

Jessie Thwaite had been persuaded to go along, taking Emmie's place in the rear seat with the other two girls, though it would be a squash, all wrapped around in heavy coats as they needed to be. Jessie was hesitant about leaving her father alone, but he insisted.