The Cuckoo's Child (33 page)

And there, totally unexpectedly at that time in the morning, he had come across Ainsley, who had accosted him once more with the subject of Alice Quarmby.

‘The lass nearly lost her life,' he had accused when he had first come to Widdop with it, one morning in his surgery, after Widdop thought it had been forgotten. ‘What do you know about that business, Nathan? Come on, it's no use you blustering. She's not the first, is she? I've kept my eyes and ears open . . . and I have it all down in black and white.' He'd patted his pocket, which Widdop had taken literally to mean the evidence was kept there, only to realize later that was not always the case. ‘And I mean to use it. Call yourself a doctor? You're a scourge to the community.'

Widdop's motives had never been so clear cut as Ainsley, a man who saw things always in black and white, right or wrong, believed. So implacable, so sure he was right. What did he know of the despair that takes hold of women at such times? Women who threw themselves into the river, put their heads in the gas oven? The woman who had thrown herself off Linbridge viaduct into the heavy traffic on the road below?

‘No, I don't think you will use your “evidence”, Ainsley,' Widdop had heard himself say, ‘and I'll tell you why.'

To Womersley, he said now, ‘I was sure, you see, that I'd found the one way to hold him off for a while, at least until I'd had time to think what to do. I let him believe I was prepared to make public what I knew about that fire at Farr Clough, about Amelia's part in it.'

After a moment, Womersley said, ‘Let's get this clear. Do I understand you to mean Mrs Beaumont was responsible for the fire?'

‘Only by accident. But for twenty years she's been labouring under the delusion that people will think she killed her children by neglect. Ainsley knew that to make the truth general knowledge would have finished her. He pitied her for it and I was confident that, for her sake and for her children's, he would have done anything to keep it quiet. But he ought to have known from the first my threat was an idle one. Amelia Beaumont is my patient, and I do not breach patient confidentiality – in any case, I would never have done such a despicable thing, even had she not been my patient. But it took him some time to realize and accept that.'

The coals in the grate settled themselves and a flurry of sparks flew up the chimney.

‘I can see you find all this hard to believe, Inspector . . . let me explain. That night, when Amelia went into their own part of the house to make the sandwiches, she ran upstairs first, intending to check on the children, and found Theo and that nursery maid together. Imagine the shock, to anyone, never mind someone as highly strung as Amelia! She rushed blindly downstairs, completely hysterical, crashing into a table and knocking it over, then straight out of the door, leaving it wide open. What she did in the next fifteen, maybe twenty minutes, she says she doesn't remember, but when they went looking for her, fearing she might be trapped inside the house, they found her wandering around outside in a frenzy, tearing her hair. By then the fire was raging. It hadn't taken long to get hold . . . the table she'd knocked over had a lamp on it, there were floor length curtains, and the wind had funnelled the flames. Technically, I suppose, it was her fault, but it isn't that which has troubled her ever since. Though she could hardly have imagined the house was going to catch fire behind her when she rushed out, she remains convinced, still, that if people learn what part she had in it, it will be said she started it deliberately, intending to kill her husband and the girl he was with, forgetting all about her children. And the truth is that she
hadn't
given a thought to them, what she'd seen had temporarily wiped everything else from her mind. She has lived with that guilt ever since.'

‘My God,' Rawlinson said, ‘people wouldn't, after twenty years?'

‘Have you ever lived in a small town like Wainthorpe, Sergeant?'

‘No. I was brought up in a village.'

‘Then you should realize even more that people have long memories in such small communities. And there are, I'm sorry to say, those who would be glad to believe anything of Amelia Beaumont. Poor Amelia, so conscious of her humble origins. And so mortified, so shamed by her husband – a
Tyas
– having fathered an illegitimate child.'

‘So how long did Mr Beaumont go on believing you'd carry out this threat of yours?'

‘Until he'd had time to think it through, and called my bluff.'

Which had been on that fateful morning, when they had met by the dam. ‘I knew he could ruin me if he so chose, but I'd had a hard night and was desperately tired, and in no mood for ethical arguments. He refused to admit I was simply doing what any doctor should do – trying to alleviate suffering. But I would not allow him to browbeat me into promising I would not do the same thing again, should the necessity arise. In the end, he simply turned away, the discussion, as far as he was concerned, was at an end. He would report me, and that was that.

‘You know, I think it was the
contempt
with which he turned away from me that drove me to do what I did. Afterwards, I was ashamed. Not ashamed that I killed him – if I was to continue with my work, what else was I to do? And as I told you before, he had very little to look forward to.' He sighed and took an elegant sip of his whisky. ‘I was ashamed because it was such an
amateurish
thing to do, for someone like me. After all, there are other methods I could have used to kill him – had the thought of it, or the wish, ever crossed my mind even for a moment, that is. But that way out had never occurred to me. I have never been a violent man, but at that point,' he said, ‘simply, a sudden rage took hold of me. For one moment I would have liked to swing him round, punch him in the face, knock that righteousness out of him. But, ill as he was, his age . . . I could not have looked him in the eyes and struck him. And yet, seeing him walk away, a primitive urge took over . . . I saw a big stone standing proud of the dirt path . . .' The doctor closed his eyes. ‘He had been my friend for thirty years and it was the only thing that had ever stood between us.'

‘And after all that, you didn't find this book. What made you tip him into the water?'

‘By then, he was nothing but a body. I am no stranger to dead bodies but . . . I didn't want to have to look at him. Besides, putting him in the dam gave me time to get away before anyone else came along.'

Rawlinson said, ‘Brushing your hand against the nettles on the path. Nettle rash, not worry or tension.'

A pause. ‘As you say. Nettle rash. I should have been more careful. But don't dismiss the worry, or the tension.' The cat suddenly jumped off his knee and he fastidiously brushed his trousers down. ‘I didn't think I had it in me, you know. But we are all capable of irrational, incomprehensible actions. Even if we believe we have justification, we do things we know to be wrong.'

As he came to a halt, he looked sadly round the room. ‘I am very tired, Inspector. I've had enough. I shall have to go with you, I suppose?'

Womersley was surprised at the easy capitulation, because he thought Widdop a vain man, vain of his reputation. Perhaps he had always known that retribution waited, somewhere along the line. He had been walking a tightrope for so long, maybe he had subconsciously been preparing himself for it. ‘Not yet, I'm afraid. There's the little matter of Walter Thwaite. Why did you visit him on the evening he died?'

Widdop sighed, and sat back. ‘Oh, Walter, yes. The last time I had seen him I hadn't liked the look of him. But he was always reluctant to call me out, or to come and see me, even, so I thought I'd pop in and see him.'

‘As a good doctor should. But I think the truth is that you went to see him because he'd seen you coming from the dam footpath after you'd killed Mr Beaumont.'

Widdop smiled very slightly. ‘I can see what's on your mind, Inspector, but no, I didn't go there with the intention of slipping anything into his tea! It was a matter of assessment – what he was likely to do about what he'd seen, whether it was possible I could get away with it. I see now my chances of that were never very great – not after you discovered . . . that.' He waved his hand towards the innocent looking object of his downfall, nothing more than a penny notebook, bearing a dozen or so names.

‘When I came out on to Syke Beck Lane after . . . after it was over, Walter called out a good morning to me, but I didn't stop. I had no inclination to chat – and more than that, I had blood on my shirt. My housekeeper wouldn't remark on it, she's used to it, and I had just spent several bloody hours with a patient. But Walter had noticed it – and would certainly remember. When I went to see him, he made us both a cup of tea, and after a while, he told me there was something he wanted to say. He seemed very agitated, and then he suddenly began to have one of his breathless attacks. I did what I could, and tucked a rug around him, built up the fire. He reached out his hand for his Bible and I passed it to him. There was nothing else I or anyone else could do. I knew, and he knew, he was going. He died quite peacefully, just like that. How we would all like to go, I suspect. I cleared away the tea things and went.'

‘Leaving his daughter to find him.'

‘I could not afford to do otherwise, in the circumstances,' he said coldly. ‘A neighbour saw me, I suppose?'

‘No, but the best cups are always used when the doctor visits, aren't they? Before we came here, we spoke with Jessie Thwaite. You put them away in the wrong cupboard.'

He waved a hand. Then abruptly, he said, ‘What's to become of Whiteley Hirst, then?'

Hirst had told them everything when they'd confronted him before coming here. He said when Ainsley Beaumont found out about the debt, an almighty thunderstorm of a row had blown up. After it was over, the air cleared, Ainsley declared he had no intention of letting Cross Ings and the name of Beaumont be dragged through the muck. He would pay off the debt himself. Hirst was, however, to pay him back, so much a week taken from his wages. Which had looked to Hirst as though he would be in debt to him until the millennium. He was chastened, and finding it hard to believe that Ainsley had still remembered him in his will.

It isn't vouchsafed to many of us to know when our end will come, Womersley mused. In that way Ainsley Beaumont had been fortunate. He had been able to spend his last weeks making amends, endeavouring to leave the world a better place than the one he had inhabited.

Which, if they were being charitable, perhaps Nathan Widdop, after all, had also tried to do.

Epilogue

‘It's very small,' said Philip, inspecting the upstairs room which was to be their sitting room.

Two armchairs, a bookcase, a rather dingy William Morris wallpaper.

‘Never mind that, it'll do nicely,' announced his sister Eva, who never had doubts. ‘If we paint it white it'll look so much bigger. Una agrees, and we're the ones who'll be living here, after all.'

‘The piano takes up such a lot of room,' Una said doubtfully.

‘But it's something we mustn't be without. Or rather you must not, Una, or so your brother insists.' Eva Carfax was a small, dark person who had taken to wearing a collar and tie and severely tailored costumes recently, and it gave her a schoolmarmish air which went with her decisive way of speaking. ‘You're just being lawyerly and pointing out the faults, Philip. What do you think, Laura?'

Laura, sitting on the rather lumpy armchair, agreed with both opinions. The room was actually quite nice, if you disregarded the wallpaper. It
was
small, especially with four of them in it, but it had good proportions and it overlooked the park, and a magnificent beech tree stood in the garden beneath and reached up to just above the window sill. At this time in the afternoon, the autumn sunshine flooded in and the beech leaves were turning a glorious golden brown. In the fireplace stood the bunch of yellow and bronze chrysanthemums (and a handsome copper vase to put them in) that Philip had brought as a house-warming present, making a further splash of colour and giving off a sharp, bitter-sweet autumn smell which filled the whole room.

But there was no denying the piano did take up a lot of space. It was another present, from Gideon this time. He had told Laura decisively it was the only way Una would ever get over the loss of the talented musician who had taught her and with whom she had been in love; a man who'd died young, leaving her bereft and with a stubborn disinclination to touch the piano. ‘But she'll never get over him properly if she doesn't play again.' Then he laughed. ‘Besides, my sister is nicer when she's making music, nicer to herself and to other people. Encourage her, if you can, Laura. Music might even soften Miss Carfax up a bit, in time.'

‘It would be good for her.' They smiled. ‘Will your mother stay at Farr Clough?'

‘She won't marry Whiteley Hirst, as Una believes. She'd rather have him as a faithful admirer – one she keeps an eye on, after . . . you know, the money and Grandpa and all that. No, I'll look after her and she'll look after me until I marry, and then . . . who knows? Meanwhile, she's all right.' He added, ‘I think you should visit her, Laura. It would help her to forgive herself.'

‘I will,' Laura had said after a moment. ‘I will.'

And maybe I'll look around for a bachelor girl establishment like this, she thought now. But alone, a place of my own, where I can be myself.

Eva Carfax and Una had achieved their own independence after much opposition from Mr Carfax senior, and slightly less from Gideon. He had accepted Una's decision to live in London and be at the centre of things, if she mistakenly but so passionately wished it, but he was not sure about this Miss Carfax. From all he heard of her, he wrote to Laura – after the one time he had met her when he had accompanied Una on her journey to London – he was very much afraid she was going to draw Una into the militant contingent of the suffragette movement. Una wouldn't take much persuading – and Miss Carfax was very persuasive . . . bossy, sometimes, as even her dearest friend Laura must admit. She was the sort that swallowed one up.