Shades of Murder Page 30

  To Stanley's mind, this was a step back, rather than forward, in their relationship. On the other hand, he'd acquired some startling information. T know your father quite well,' he said loudly.

  'Yes,' she retorted, recalled to his presence. 'You are the person my father refers to as "that wretch, Huxtable". I can see why!'

  He chuckled and she asked, sounding both puzzled and piqued, 'You find that amusing?'

  'Well, I've been called worse - and by your father. Let me carry your basket, Miss Wood. See, here I am at a loose end, nothing to do.'

  SHADES OF MURDER

  'Except bother me? You will not get a story for your newspaper from me, Mr Huxtable.'

  Stanley's heart rose. He'd been sure he'd seen no wedding ring on her finger when he'd approached her and her companion in the restaurant. Now she'd not corrected the title he'd given her. She was neither married nor a widow, then. The veil was on some other account. Some old uncle had breathed his last, or ... An idea struck Stanley. A wild idea, but perhaps not so wild when he recalled her past actions, sitting in the corner of the court with her face against the wall. Sitting in the restaurant in the same way.

  'I'm not looking for a story,' he said. 'There's nothing more to write about Oakley. If he'd been found Guilty, I could've written a full page on him. But if I write about him now, he'll set his lawyers on me. He's an innocent man.' He paused. 'You're in mourning?'

  'No,' she said, after a moment.

  He was sure she'd been debating whether to tell a lie but she was a person who set store by the truth.

  She then wrong-footed him completely. T understand the reason for your curiosity, Mr Huxtable. Many others share it. They, however, do not pursue me through the streets. My father has described you as persistent. I suspect you'll continue to waylay me whenever I put my nose out of my own door until your curiosity is satisfied. Well, then.'

  She set the basket on the ground and lifted her hand to her bonnet. 'I shall satisfy it now and perhaps you'll then leave me in peace!' She turned back the veil.

  Stanley had guessed what might lie behind the veil and had steeled himself. But in the event, it wasn't as bad as he'd been prepared for. He, after all, had interviewed the mutilated victims of accidents, industrial and agricultural, and he'd certainly seen worse. It was confined to just one half of her face which was disfigured by stretched, shiny red skin and lack of eyelash or eyebrow. The other side of her face was enchanting. She was enchanting. The scar tissue didn't matter a damn. He wanted to tell her so, but shrewdly guessed it would be poorly received.

  So instead, he said placidly, T thought it might be some such reason.'

  His lack of reaction surprised her. She stared at him for a moment, then raised her hand to replace the veil.

  'No!' Stanley said sharply.

  She hesitated, puzzled by the vehemence in his voice, her eyes questioning. 'Why not?'

  'Why should you?' he countered.

  ANN GRANGER

  'People stare!' It burst out. an angry accusation.

  'They'd stare at you, anyway, all dressed up like that with a veil.' For a dreadful moment, he feared he'd gone too far and she was going to cry. But she was of tougher material.

  'That's hardly your problem. Mr Huxtable. Good day to you.' Now she was angry with him.

  'I tell you what,' said Stanley, ignoring both her words and her anger, Til walk with you to your home and then you won't need to drape that curtain in front of your face.'

  Now he saw panic in her eyes. 'Oh no, I couldn't do that! I couldn't walk through Bamford—'

  'Yes, you can,' insisted Stanley gently. 'Because you'll be with me. And if anyone stares, he'll get a good glare back from me that will change his mind. Come on, now.'

  He swept up the basket and offered his other arm to her. After a moment, she took it. They walked on in silence for some way.

  She was the first to break it. 'Your work is very interesting, I dare say.'

  'Sometimes it is and sometimes it isn't. Nothing much happens in Bamford.' Stanley sighed. T end up reporting sheep-stealing or some vagrant pinching washing from back gardens.'

  'You wouldn't wish to see Bamford a nest of criminals? My father works very hard to prevent it being so.'

  'Oh yes, your father's doing a good job,' he agreed. 'But it doesn't help me. No, of course I don't want Bamford to turn into a sink of iniquity. Just the occasional interesting crime, you know.'

  At that she laughed and he looked at her in amazement. One half of her face had lit up with her smile. The muscles of the other half appeared paralysed. He wondered what had happened to cause the disfigurement.

  'Do you know you have a dent in your hat?' she asked.

  'Yes. There was a bit of a ruckus at the courthouse and my hat got knocked off.'

  'Oh dear, that sounds a dangerous situation.'

  'What is danger to a true journalist?' asked Stanley rhetorically, hoping to impress.

  It didn't. 'The same as danger to the rest of us, I dare say. Best avoided. My father who is, I assure you, a courageous man, always says, only a fool puts his head over the parapet if he knows he's going to be shot at. Use your head, he says, to think with, not to make a target of.'

  SHADES OF MURDER

  Stanley nodded. 'One's parents always give that sort of advice. It makes for a very dull life.'

  They'd reached Station Road and stopped before a modest end-of-terrace cottage.

  'This is where I live, Mr Huxtable. Thank you for your company and for carrying my shopping.' She held out her gloved hand.

  Stanley shook it formally. 'Without wishing to sound forward, Miss Wood . . .'

  'Yes?' She raised her eyebrows, a gentle note of mockery in her voice.

  'You wouldn't care to go for a walk on Sunday afternoon?'

  She shook her head. 'Thank you, but no. I think you are a nice man, Mr Huxtable, but my father definitely doesn't approve of you and I - I am not as brave as you fancy me. Because you do mean me to walk unveiled, don't you?'

  'Of course I do. Will you be brave enough one day, do you think?'

  She considered the question. T don't know. Father would like me to go out and face the world. But it's so easy for both of you to say and so difficult for me to do.'

  T realise you can't be rushed,' Stanley told her. 'Fair enough. If you change your mind, you can leave a note for me at the offices of the Gazette.'

  T see Father was right. You really are very determined, Mr Huxtable.'

  'Yes,' he agreed. T never give up.'

  Emily took her basket to the kitchen and put it on the table. Then she sat down herself and pulled her gloves from hands which trembled uncontrollably. She'd always believed herself honest. She hadn't lied either to her father or to Huxtable. But to hide the truth, was that a form of lying? Was it any less despicable? Was the burden of guilt she carried eased because of some semantic difference? Yet what had she hidden? Only a snatch of conversation, a few words overheard and spoken by a man clearly in drink.

  It had happened some weeks before Cora Oakley's death. There had been an evening meeting at the Methodist Hall to hear a returned missionary describe his adventures. Emily had been tempted out by the idea of hearing about a world far removed from her quiet existence. Originally her father had agreed to accompany her, though generally he was disrespectful of missionaries. But at the last moment he had been called away professionally and Emily had set out alone.

  The meeting had been crowded and when the speaker agreed to answer

  ANN GRANGER

  questions, he was peppered with them from the audience. Tea followed and Emily was asked to lend a hand. All in all, by the time everyone had left, the debris was cleared away and the washed cups stacked in the tiny kitchen, the light had faded. At the corner of the street she parted from her last companion and set off home alone.

  From behind windows, gaslight gleamed and here and there flickering candlelight, because not everyone in Bamford had the new-fangled gas. The l
amplighter had not reached this part of town on his rounds and there was no street-lighting to combat the dusk. Generally Emily welcomed the dark, because it meant no one paid any heed to her. But she was nervous of passing the various public houses. However, nothing untoward happened until she reached The Crown which was both a hotel and the place where gentlemen drank if they were inclined to do so away from home. It was said that in a discreet back room there, those same gentlemen played cards for high stakes, something viewed with disfavour in the Methodist community.

  Emily had almost reached The Crown when suddenly, a side door was thrown open releasing a beam of bright yellow light. Two figures stumbled out, one older, one younger. The younger one held his hat in his hand and she saw his face, a handsome, rakish, moustached face she was sure she'd never forget. Automatically she had darted into a convenient doorway and now the two men began to walk unsteadily towards her. She cowered back into the shadows.

  'Take my advice, old man,' urged the elder of the two. 'Make it up to her. Take her on a little trip abroad, eh? Whisk her off to Paris where she can buy herself some new dresses. Or the Alps, good for the lungs.'

  'If it were that damned easy, don't you think I'd do it?' came the angry reply. 'She won't listen to anything I say any more. She's talking of separation, says she has evidence . . . Then what should I damn well do?'

  "Got to get a grip on the situation, old man.' This was followed by a drunken hiccup.

  'Believe me, I intend to.'

  They'd stumbled off into the gloom. Emily had emerged, shaken, and hurried home. She hadn't mentioned it to her father, who was probably home himself by now, and already worried at her being out so late. But when Oakley had come to trial, she knew she had to see him, see for herself if it was the same man.

  It had been the same one, standing defiantly in the dock. But she still hadn't mentioned the conversation she'd overheard to her father. Suppose.

  SHADES OF MURDER

  horror of horrors, she'd ended up having to take the witness stand? Though what could she have said? It had been dark. Defence counsel would say she was mistaken in identifying him. Anyway, a man in drink might babble any old nonsense. She didn't know he was talking of his wife.

  So she'd held her peace, telling herself that Justice would find its way to the truth. But it lay upon her conscience together with the knowledge that now she could never tell Father. It was the first and only thing she'd ever hidden from him. No, it had been the only thing. Now there was her encounter with Huxtable. That had to be hidden, too. Father had little time for the newspaperman.

  'That's what happens when you leave this house, Emily my girl!' she told herself aloud. 'Life gets complicated.'

  Undeniably, it also got more interesting.

  Wood made his own way home later that evening, a copy of the Gazette in his hand. So, they'd failed. He'd failed. The Home Office had failed. Taylor had failed. Who cared who had failed? The point was, William Oakley walked free. Was the acquittal a surprise? No, Wood had had a bad feeling from the beginning. On the other hand, he had to confess to a spark of obstinate optimism, nestling in the depths of his being.

  Emily opened the door. She had been watching from the window for his return and forestalled his greeting with, 'You are upset about the Oakley business, but you mustn't be. You did all you could.'

  'Where did you hear the verdict?' he asked in surprise, since she clearly knew it.

  'Oh,' she looked a little confused. T met someone as I was walking home from the butcher's. Someone who'd heard Mr Oakley had been found Not Guilty, and told me.'

  'Well, I'm not going to let it get me down,' Wood told her with a cheeriness he was far from feeling. 'So don't worry about me, my dear. Win some, lose some, eh? What are we to have tonight?' He sniffed the air.

  'Boiled hock of bacon with leeks and carrots,' he was told.

  'Boiled bacon!' Wood beamed at her. 'My favourite.'