The Fourth Day

  It was breakfast time in the Bostock household. Brenda had already been up for an hour after her night of dread and disturbed sleep. She had dressed carefully and applied her make-up to try and hide the bruising. It wasn’t perfect, but she thought that in the dingy light inside the house, it would do. It didn’t do to ‘flaunt it’ (his words, not hers). The last thing she wanted was to provoke her husband anymore. Best to behave as if nothing had happened, as if the violence of the previous evening was ‘one of those things’, all part and parcel of being married.

  By the time she heard him stomping down the stairs, she had his porridge simmering on the stove and the kettle just coming to the boil.

  ‘Good morning, dear.’ She attempted a smile to match the cheerful, forgiving sound of her voice.

  He grunted back.

  She quickly placed a bowl of porridge in front him, next to the small bowl of jam which he liked to add to it. Next she produced a mug of strong tea and a small rectangular package wrapped in paper and string. That was his lunch of bread and cheese sandwiches.

  Another grunt, and a slight nodding of the head. That was the closest to an apology that she was going to get.

  She sat down with a mug of tea and sipped at it, wondering how much she dare say.

  He glanced up. ‘Are you not eating?’

  ‘I’ve already had something, thank you.’

  ‘I prefer it if we eat together.’ He had paused and was surveying her face.

  ‘I’m sorry. I was very hungry.’

  He took another mouthful of porridge. Silence, apart from the sound of him and his breakfast.

  ‘I was a bit alarmed last night.’

  He carried on as if her hadn’t heard her.

  ‘So late. And without any warning. He was a big man, and of course I had no idea who he was or whether I could trust him even though there was a rather nervous looking constable with him. And then he talked about there being a murder, but refused to tell me anything about it or even what his own name was.’

  He grunted again. She had the funny thought that if she was to shut her eyes and then opened them again, he would turn into a pig. She almost giggled.

  He ladled another spoonful of porridge into his mouth. ‘I see the thaw has set in,’ he said, changing the subject.

  ‘Indeed it has, my dear,’ she said with insincere sweetness. She watched in fascination as he ate. He really was like a pig at a trough. She waited until he had come up for a gulp of air and a slurp of his tea.

  ‘So what was his name?’

  ‘What does it matter? It’s police business, all of it.’

  ‘I am your wife, Henry, and I had to deal with a strange man turning up on my doorstep at nine o’clock at night. He might have…’ She paused for dramatic effect. ‘He might have murdered me, Henry. I think the least I can expect is for my husband to explain to me who on earth he is and for what reason he came round to my house and nearly scared the living daylights out of me!’ Her voice reached a crescendo by the end of this speech, but all it did was provoke.

  Henry Bostock scraped the last of the porridge out of his bowl and pushed it away from him. ‘Woman,’ he said, glowering at her, ‘I will tell you who he is and the details of the case as and when I choose – and not before! This is men’s business and I am dealing with it. Do you understand?’

  He stood up and pulled his braces up over his shoulders. ‘Well, do you understand or not?’ His voice was a low, ominous growl. ‘Sometimes you push me beyond all reasonable limits.’

  ‘Oh yes,’ she said, through pursed lips. ‘I understand fully.’

  He turned away and stomped out of the room and back up the stairs.

  Brenda was shaking slightly. She shouldn’t have pressed him. What was the point? She had known he wouldn’t tell her anything in his present mood. But she had felt the ridiculous wifely need to give him one last opportunity to share with her what was going on. And of course he had refused.

  Her mind was made up. She hurriedly cleared the table. The last thing she was going to do was leave a mess behind. It would be five minutes at least before he came down, and by the time those had elapsed she had donned coat, scarf, gloves and hat and slipped out of the front door, quietly clicking it shut behind her. There was no going back now.

  Agnes’ house was a good fifteen-minute walk from Brenda’s home, but she reached it in record time, striding out as if the devil himself was pursuing her, fuelled by both anger and fear. Anger with her husband and yet fear of him too, in case somehow he had divined her plans and was even now following her and would catch her up and stop her. None of her fears were realised, yet when she found herself on Agnes’ doorstep, she froze, suddenly consumed by anxiety. Suppose Agnes was out, suppose she couldn’t help, suppose she didn’t want to help. Oh dear God! She banged on the door before she could be overwhelmed by her thoughts.

  There was a delay, a considerable one in which the demons of doubt assailed her, and then the door swung open and there was Agnes. ‘Brenda, what on earth are you doing here? Is everything all right?’

  Brenda burst into tears, and half turned to go. But Agnes grabbed her elbow and steered her inside. Agnes was younger than her and poorer than her and yet they had already established a firm friendship. They had first met at Dot Bretherton’s house. There had been a dozen or so women there, who were all passionate about the role and rights of women. Down-trodden wives like herself mostly. On this occasion, there was a guest speaker, a Miss Maud Walker, and she had spoken at length about the campaign to establish votes for women. ‘We want women to vote for our members of parliament, and once we have done that we want women to get elected as members of parliament too. And when we have done that, one day I want to see a woman as prime minister.’ They had all roared their approval, and afterwards Brenda and Agnes had left together and by the time they had reached Agnes’ house, they had agreed that they should meet for tea the following Saturday afternoon.

  Agnes was in her mid-thirties with one teenage girl, Elsie. Her husband Tom had died at Arras. His twin brother Ralph had survived with barely a scratch and was now Agnes’ lodger. Brenda had only met him once and he had announced very early in their conversation that he had promised his twin brother that if anything happened to him, then he would look after Agnes and Elsie. Brenda had wondered what exactly ‘looking after them’ entailed, but didn’t ask. He seemed a nice enough man and as long as Agnes didn’t appear with a bruise on her face, she wasn’t going to intrude.

  ‘Brenda, I’ll ask you again. What is the matter?’

  ‘I need your help.’

  Agnes nodded. ‘Why don’t you take your things off?’ It was hot in the kitchen, and Brenda peeled her coat off and removed her hat.

  ‘What about the scarf?’

  Brenda hesitated. Agnes leaned forward and unwrapped it from around her neck. She frowned. ‘He’s been hitting you again, hasn’t he?’

  ‘That’s not why I am here.’

  ‘I see.’ Agnes sat back in her chair, as if this gave her a better perspective on her friend. ‘But you want my help?’

  ‘To get to Crowthorpe.’

  Agnes frowned. ‘Crowthorpe? But why?’

  ‘It’s where Maud Walker lives.’

  ‘Yes, I believe you’re right.’

  ‘Her father has been murdered.’

  ‘Really? Sir Wilfred?’ She sat up, alert and intrigued. ‘Is Maud all right?’

  ‘I don’t know. Maybe.’

  ‘When did this happen? I haven’t heard about it.’

  ‘Three days ago. It hasn’t got into the newspapers yet. All the snow and that.’

  ‘So,’ Agnes said with a deep frown on her face and scepticism in her voice, ‘you want to go all the way to Crowthorpe to see if she is all right?’

  ‘There’s been a second murder at Crowthorpe Manor.’

  ‘You don’t mean Maud?’ This time there was alarm in her voice.

  I don’t know who, but…’

  ‘I do hope not. She’s such a wonderful woman. But even so, isn’t this something that you need to let the police deal with? Two murders.’

  ‘My husband is being very evasive.’

  ‘Perhaps he doesn’t want to alarm you…’

  ‘I know my husband better than you do, Agnes. Trust me when I say that something is wrong and my husband is in the middle of it. Last night we had a very late unannounced visitor, and the man refused to tell me who he was, and this morning when I asked my husband he refused to tell me too. Yet I know he was Sir Wilfred’s chauffeur—’

  ‘How do you know?’

  ‘I thought I recognised him from somewhere. Then I overheard some of their conversation. Not all of it, but enough. And as I lay in bed last night, it came to me. I saw him a few weeks ago outside the White Hart near the cathedral. He was driving a very smart Rolls-Royce.’

  ‘Brenda, that’s as maybe. Now I am very fond of you, but I feel I must speak candidly. You do seem on edge and perhaps your hatred of your husband is affecting your judgement.’

  Brenda flinched. The word hatred was a strong one, but she couldn’t deny it. ‘I don’t know about my judgement,’ she said carefully. ‘You may be right, but I have no-one else to turn to for help. Only you.’

  Silence descended between the two friends. The only sound was the creaking floorboards above them – someone moving about upstairs. ‘Is that Elsie?’ Brenda said.

  ‘That’s Ralph,’ Agnes said very quickly. ‘Elsie is filling in at the bakery. It’s good for her, and an early start too.’

  Brenda said nothing for some moments, suddenly aware that her unexpected arrival had caught her friend unawares. She also became conscious of the small clock on the dresser, ticking away relentlessly, a reminder that time was passing and she hadn’t achieved anything yet. She leaned forward. ‘Agnes, I want you to drive me to Crowthorpe. This morning.’

  ‘You what?’

  ‘On your brother-in-law’s motorcycle. You drove it when the war was on, and I saw him driving it with you in the sidecar just before Christmas.’

  Agnes’ mouth hung open.

  ‘Well, yes or no?’ Brenda demanded. She had no time to waste, and no other options.

  ‘He’s not going to let me take it for a joyride.’

  ‘It’s not a joyride. It’s a very serious matter. Anyway, I am pretty sure that he’d do anything for you.’

  ‘Would he indeed!’ The voice was male and came from just behind Brenda. She turned to see Ralph standing in the doorway. ‘Good morning, Mrs Bostock. This is a surprise.’

  ‘Ralph, you are just the man I was wanting,’ Brenda said briskly. ‘I need to borrow your motorbike.’

  ‘Can you drive a motorbike?’ He gave her an amused smile.

  ‘I was asking Agnes if she would drive it, while I sit in the sidecar. That way you will know that it is in safe hands.’

  ‘I don’t lend my motorbike out to ladies who want a bit of fun.’

  Brenda stood up and advanced closer to him. ‘But if it was two men wanting a bit of fun, that would be all right would it?’ He was a head taller than her, but she stared at him fearlessly. ‘Anyway I need it for police business.’

  ‘As far as I can tell, you are not a policeman.’ He laughed, pleased at his own joke, still not taking her seriously. But this was like poking a hornet’s nest with stick and then standing still to see what happened.

  ‘Oh, I am only a woman, is that it? And even though I am married to the chief constable of Lincoln, I don’t count for anything. Is that what you think, Ralph Taylor?’ She paused, but so briefly he had no chance to respond. ‘I came here to see Agnes because she is my only hope. I came here to ask for an act of kindness. I came here to try and save the life of a very dear friend. And you have the nerve to laugh at me. To mock me. I look at Agnes and I look at you and I wonder how your brother would feel as he looks down from heaven and sees you…’

  ‘Please, Ralph!’ Agnes moved forward now, standing right next to Brenda, slipping her arm through hers. ‘I will drive very carefully. I promise you. And you know I always keep my promises.’

  He stood there, arms on his hips, silent, his mouth clenched, stubborn as an ox.

  ‘If my dear friend is brutally murdered because I fail to arrive in time,’ Brenda said, taking up the cudgel, ‘I shall make sure that everyone in Lincoln knows that it was because you refused my pleas for help.’

  He looked from the hard-edged glare of Brenda to the please-please soft-hearted appeal of Agnes, and he caved in. ‘Very well. It seems I have no choice.’

  Agnes threw herself forward and hugged him. ‘Thank you, Ralph. You won’t regret it.’

  For a briefest moment his own arms enveloped her, and then they both stepped back hurriedly, as if they had been struck by lightning.

  There was something between them. That was as clear as a bump on a log to Brenda, but she pretended not to notice the flushed face of her friend. ‘You are so kind, Ralph,’ Brenda said, suddenly purring like an overfed cat. ‘I will make sure you are fully recompensed for your fuel and your kindness. I will even put in a good word for you with the chief constable if you wish.’

  He nodded. Expecting him to say ‘Thank you’ was perhaps asking too much, but Brenda was content. She had got what she wanted.

  ‘And how far might you be going, Mrs Bostock? Conditions still aren’t good.’

  ‘Saxilby,’ Brenda said, jumping in before Agnes could. She was aware that if she said Crowthorpe, then he might have second thoughts about such a long trip.

  ‘In that case, as long as you are very careful—’

  ‘Of course we will be,’ Brenda replied. ‘With Agnes in charge, what could possibly go wrong?’

  Half an hour later, they were ready to leave. Ralph had left for work – but not before he had checked Agnes was able to start the bike, and given her several tips on how to control it. She had borne this with very good grace, something Brenda wasn’t sure she could have done had she been in her shoes.

  ‘He’s very protective,’ Brenda had said as they watched him stride off to work.

  ‘He’s caring,’ Agnes had replied.

  Silence.

  ‘Are you…?’ Brenda started, then stopped. More silence. The question hung unasked in the air, but begging for answer.

  ‘It’s hard, being on your own with a child.’

  ‘I can imagine.’ Brenda felt something clutch at her heart. She would have given anything to have been on her own with her child. She took a deep breath, pushing away her own lurch of grief.

  ‘Agnes, he is obviously very fond of you. So you’re in the driving seat, but only for now. As I have learnt to my cost, once people marry, things change. So this is the best opportunity you’ll ever have to tell him how you want things to be. You’ll regret it if you don’t.’

  ‘Maybe.’

  ‘There’s no “maybe” about it.’

  Agnes retreated upstairs to change, but reappeared a few minutes later to find Brenda making up bread and cheese sandwiches, and brewing tea for a flask.

  ‘Brenda, before we go, can I ask you something?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘What do you think you can achieve when we get to Crowthorpe. I know you don’t trust your husband, but surely the police know best. And if there is a killer loose there, what on earth can you do to catch him?’

  ‘Him? It might be a woman.’

  Agnes’ face tightened with irritation. ‘But what exactly is your plan? I mean why exactly are we going there?’

  ‘The last thing my husband said to this Tomkin fellow was not to tell anyone at the police station what they had discussed.’

  ‘Why would that be?’

  ‘But the one thing which alarmed me more than anything was when Tomkin said that the detective Kite was asking the family a lot of awkward questions.’

  ‘Isn’t that what he should be doing?’

  ‘Exactly. But my husband said – and these were his precise words – “don’t worry, I’m sure we can put a stop to that”. And they had both laughed.’

  ‘But you still haven’t told me what your plan is. Please tell me you have one.’

  ‘I want to check that Maud is safe. Whoever else is involved in two murders, I can’t believe she is. So she will be my ally. Then I think we need to warn Detective Kite.’

  ‘But once your husband is there, how can you do that?’

  Brenda smiled, then giggled.

  Agnes was surprised. ‘What?’

  ‘He may well be delayed.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘I am not sure his breakfast will agree with him today. Loose bowels can be such a problem sometimes.’

  The two women looked at each other. Smirks turned to wide grins and then to out-loud laughter.

  ‘Time to be going,’ Brenda said eventually.

  ‘Absolutely,’ Agnes replied.

  Chief Constable Bostock made it to the police station in Monks Road, but only just. The walk from his house was little more than a ten-minute stroll. Other people in his position might have insisted on transport, but he liked to be seen striding the streets of Lincoln, resplendent in his uniform, in charge and yet a man of the people. He thrived on the deferential nods and ‘Good mornings!’ of clerks and manual labourers, of shopkeepers and mothers with children. And when he was offered a pie warm from the oven or a freshly baked loaf by one of the local proprietors, then he accepted it with a nod of acknowledgment, as being his due recompense for keeping the city safe.

  But on this particular morning, which was cold and overhung with dank, featureless cloud, he found his pace quickening and his civility lessening the further he got from home. He even turned down an offer of some very desirable bananas as the discomfort in his bowels grew. Normally he would have paused to admire the cathedral, but not on this occasion. By the time he reached the White Hart, he had slowed down again. He wanted to hurry, but the fact was he needed to clench his buttocks tight to prevent a very nasty accident occurring. This conflict of need meant that an urgent walk turned into an embarrassing waddle. He gritted his teeth and carried on as quickly as he dared, head and eyes cast down so as to discourage anyone from striking up a casual conversation. The last thing he wanted was to be delayed by anyone. It was a case of avoid eye-contact and fight the urge to evacuate his bowels.

 

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