A Christmas Return Read online

  “We could try the stationmaster,” Peter said hopefully. “Since it was close to Christmas, and he knew Grandfather personally, he may remember that day. It was the last time they would have met.”

  “An excellent idea, if it is still the same man?” Mariah agreed.

  “It is,” Peter affirmed. “I will go and see him first thing tomorrow morning. Then perhaps I can go wherever Grandfather went.”

  “I shall come with you,” she said firmly.

  “It’s going to be cold and probably wet. And I don’t know how far it is,” he warned.

  She gave him a withering look at his even thinking of refusing her. She had no intention of being left behind, and he should have known that. If he had not when he spoke, he did now.

  “I’m sorry,” he murmured. “Of course. If he can tell us, I intend to go there straightaway.”

  “Another excellent idea,” she agreed.

  He merely smiled.

  Peter kept his word, and even before breakfast he walked to the stationmaster’s house. He returned home by the time Mariah was up, her case packed and ready to travel.

  “Well?” she asked as he came into the dining room.

  “Yes,” he said with a very slight smile. He sat down and poured himself a cup of tea. “Grandfather went to Brocklehurst, about fifty miles away. He came back the same day, on the last train. The stationmaster said he looked tired and very grim. He barely spoke, which was unusual for him. That’s why Mr. Phillips remembered it so well.”

  Mariah said nothing. She felt both relief, because they were clearly on the right track, and pain. Cullen must have been very distressed to be brief with an old friend.

  “I got us two tickets, but are you sure you still want to come? It’s possible we will have to stay overnight…”

  She gave him a look that froze the question before he finished it.

  “Very well,” he agreed. “We will take the gig, because of the cases. Will you be ready in time for the nine-thirty?”

  “I am ready now,” she replied. “But by all means, finish your tea.”

  He did not even attempt to hide his amusement, or the gleam of excitement in his eyes. At last they had something to do.

  It was a strange feeling sitting in the plush upholstered seats, Mariah next to the window. She looked out at the bleak midwinter scenery as the train whistle blew and the last doors slammed and they began to move out of the station. In minutes they were travelling through bare fields, ploughed into deep furrows. The copses of trees were leafless and dark, their beauty harsh against a wind-racked sky, clouds piling heavy along the horizon. Rain drifted against the windows, then cleared again.

  Mariah could not help but imagine Cullen on this same journey twenty years ago. He would have looked out on exactly these scenes, and he too would have found them beautiful. These fields might have changed their crops, but the long shallow rise and fall of the land would be exactly the same, the curve of the track, the constantly changing views. Most of the farms were hundreds of years old, the copses of trees even older. Here and there were stretches of the ancient woodland that must have been here in Saxon times, or even Roman.

  That would be what Cullen would have been thinking too. He loved the land in all its moods.

  The clouds broke a little and sent shafts of bright, cold sunlight through. In the distance, higher hills were capped with snow. If it grew any colder, they would have it everywhere by Christmas Day. Children would like that. They would play in it, build snowmen, take out sleds and career down the hillsides, shouting with excitement.

  She and Peter did not talk. Perhaps they had already said all there was to say on the subject of the journey, and nothing else seemed to matter now.

  What had Cullen been thinking? What had sent him on this winding, rattling journey? What had he learned that had cost him his life? Was that why Peter had tried again to dissuade her from coming? If he was right, and some life-threatening secret lay ahead, then better she be killed than he. He was only thirty, and at the beginning of his life. She had no wish to die, not yet, but she was old, and if necessary she expected to have the courage to stop Durward hurting Peter, whatever the cost to herself.

  She refused to think of it anymore. She was very far from ready to face whatever lay beyond death. She still had so much to undo! The only thing more frightening would be to fail in this.

  They reached Brocklehurst and alighted onto the platform, a little bigger than the one at Haslemere and considerably busier. Peter was carrying both her case and his own. He managed to put them both in one hand and took her arm. She objected, and he ignored her, but with a smile.

  “We don’t even know where we’re going!” she protested, using her umbrella as a walking stick. It too could be an effective weapon, should they require it.

  “I do,” he told her, taking even firmer hold of her arm. “We will begin with the local vicarage. That is surely where Grandfather would have begun.”

  They put the cases in the left-luggage office at the station and walked together along the road, past houses and shops toward the distant spire of the church, rising clearly above the rooftops. The wind was cold in their faces but at least, at the moment, it was not raining.

  Was this a fool’s errand? Cullen had discovered something twenty years ago, but would anyone remember now? Would they even be willing to spend their time talking to two strangers asking questions? There were several people in the street, shopping, talking to each other, carrying parcels ready to give as gifts. The inn was decorated with wreaths and garlands, and there was a happy noise issuing from the door as people came in and out.

  They passed the postman twice. He was whistling cheerfully but he moved so swiftly he merely called “ ’Appy Christmas!” and went on without hesitating.

  They found the church after only one misdirection, not having taken into account that the road was doglegged and they were obliged to retrace their steps and turn the opposite way.

  The vicarage was a sprawling, comfortable-looking house with dormer windows in the roof and a plume of smoke rising from the chimney. It too was decked with wreaths of holly and red ribbons at the door.

  “They aren’t going to like this,” Peter said, but he did not hesitate in his stride. He glanced at Mariah, drew in his breath as if to speak, then decided better of it. He lifted the brass knocker and let it fall, then stepped back.

  He was about to do it a second time when the door opened and a plump woman wearing a white apron appeared. Her hands were freshly washed but there was still flour up her arms and a smear of jam on one sleeve.

  “I’m sorry to disturb you,” Peter said immediately, smiling and looking at her directly. “I know you must be very busy, but we need help, and it cannot wait long. We have come some distance to have a word with the vicar.”

  The woman looked at him with a slight frown. “I’m not sure what I can do,” she said apologetically. She turned to Mariah, perhaps concerned that she was not well. Mariah was tired and pale, and no doubt looked all of her years. “You’d better come in,” the woman went on. “It’s a cruel wind, and that’s for certain.” She stepped back and pulled the door open wider.

  “Thank you.” Peter offered Mariah his arm and she accepted it.

  The woman led them to the kitchen, a large room with a high ceiling from which was suspended an airing rail on a pulley. Over the working bench hung several strings of onions and dried herbs. A Welsh dresser was stacked with dishes, and there were copper pans gleaming along the walls. The whole room was warm and scented with spices, as if someone was cooking rich and comfortable food. They passed a woman with a bucket and scrubbing brush, who nodded an acknowledgment to their hostess. Was the welcoming woman the vicar’s wife, the flour on her arms indicating that she was doing her own cooking?

  “You look perished.” The woman in the apron regarded Mariah with concern. She was possibly in her fifties, at least twenty-five years younger than Mariah. “Sit down and have a cup of tea,�
� she offered. “I was just about to make one. The vicar is out, but he won’t be very long. Everyone wants to speak to him about something this time of year. Christmas is a good time for families, and a bad one too. Old memories are not always easy.”

  She offered a hard-backed kitchen chair to Mariah and a stool to Peter. Then, without waiting to ask, she pulled the kettle off the side of the huge stove and set it on the hob to boil. She opened up the fire door and gave the embers a good poke.

  “Have you been in the village long, ma’am?” Peter asked.

  “About fifteen years,” she replied. Then she turned and looked at him more closely, studying his face. “It’s something serious, isn’t it?” she asked.

  “Yes, Mrs….?” He wanted the courtesy of calling her by name, but he had no idea what it was.

  “Mrs. Fraser,” she told him.

  “Peter Wesley. And this is my aunt Mariah, Mrs. Ellison.”

  “How do you do?” Mrs. Fraser said warmly. “Is it the matter of a spiritual problem that’s brought you here?”

  “Not entirely,” Peter answered before Mariah could say anything. “An old wrong that has resurfaced and is going to cause new grief, a great deal of it. My grandfather died exactly twenty years ago. He visited Brocklehurst the day before his death. We now think that he learned something while he was here that affected him very deeply—and affected someone else with such a fear that…that it will not be buried. For many people’s sakes, we must discover as much of the truth as possible.”

  “Twenty years ago.” She shook her head. “We were not here then. And I’m afraid the vicar before my husband passed away several years ago now. People come and go, you know. More than ever these days. Young people go to the cities. New ones come here.”

  “My grandfather spoke to someone here, and whatever was said changed his mind about defending a case,” Peter told her.

  “And he wouldn’t tell you?” Mrs. Fraser shook her head, pursing her lips a little. “You know, Mr. Wesley, there are things one learns, in the course of one’s calling, that one is not permitted to repeat. Sometimes that can be very hard. You say, ‘defend a case’? Was your grandfather a lawyer?”

  “Yes. And I daresay he could not have told anyone, but if it was common knowledge, not in any way a secret, then he could have…”

  She shook her head again. “Then if he would not tell anyone, it must have been a confidence of some sort. I’m sorry.”

  “He couldn’t tell anyone because he was murdered!” Mariah said quickly, her own voice almost choking her. Taking the same train journey as Cullen, through the same winter fields and woods, almost the same day of the year, it was as if they had traveled in time, and any moment he could come in through the door and join them. It was a trick of time and circumstance that they were here without him.

  Mrs. Fraser turned pale and sat down suddenly on the stool behind her.

  “Oh, my dear! How very dreadful. No wonder you are so distressed.”

  As if deliberately to interrupt her, the kettle on the hob began to whistle shrilly with increasing volume.

  Peter stood up and took it off the heat.

  Mrs. Fraser too rose to her feet. “Thank you. Oh, I’m so sorry. How terrible…” She moved to make a pot of tea, finding things in cupboards, picking up clean cups off the Welsh dresser stacked with china.

  “We need to know, because someone is trying to open the case again and cast blame on my grandmother,” Peter went on.

  Mrs. Fraser almost dropped a cup. “On your grandmother?”

  “Yes. It is for her sake that we need to know the truth. Who could we speak to that was here twenty years ago?”

  “You see,” Mariah interrupted, “Mr. Wesley’s grandfather learned something, almost certainly about a Dr. Durward—”

  This time Mrs. Fraser did drop the cup, but caught it again before it rolled off the dresser onto the floor.

  “Oh dear!” She took a deep breath. “Oh dear,” she said again. Then before Peter or Mariah could say anything, she went on, “You should speak to Bessie Collins. Constable Collins is the local policeman now, for the last eleven or twelve years anyway. Bessie’s his wife, and her father was constable before John Collins. Ask Bessie. She can tell you some of the things that happened years ago, even before the time your grandfather came to ask.”

  “Thank you,” Mariah said immediately. She was just getting nicely warmed and she would love a cup of tea, but this was real hope, at last. She was perfectly ready to abandon the comforts and leave immediately. “Thank you. Where do we find her? Will she see us, do you think?”

  “I’ll send her a note,” Mrs. Fraser said. “I know she’s busy, but I’m thinking this is an old injustice that needs mending. What’s Christmas about, if not hope and giving a hand where it’s needed? Setting things right, before the end of the old year. Just let me get this tea right, and a piece of shortbread or two, and then I’ll send Alice round to the constable’s house.”

  It would actually be time for high tea, about five o’clock, before Bessie Collins would be able to spare time to speak to Mariah and Peter without repeated interruption. Mariah waited impatiently as she and Peter took luncheon at the inn. They booked in for the night, as it would almost certainly be necessary, and he walked back to the station and fetched their cases. Then they spent the afternoon in the very pleasant lounge turning over and over the possibilities of what Bessie Collins might be able to tell them. What would they do if it amounted to nothing?

  “It won’t!” Mariah said, more to strengthen herself than Peter. “Cullen learned something…something so bad that he couldn’t ignore it. He had to tell Durward that he could not defend him. Surely that can only mean that he knew Durward was guilty?”

  “I hope so,” Peter said ruefully. “But there are other possibilities.”

  “Such as what?” Mariah demanded.

  “Such as a secret about someone else, I suppose.”

  “How would that stop him defending Durward? Are you saying that vile man is innocent? Then why kill Cullen? That makes no sense.”

  “Perhaps it implicated someone else?” he said miserably.

  “Like your grandmother? Nonsense! She may have been…unwise…but that is hardly on a par with kidnapping, raping and murdering Christina Abbott. No!” She closed her eyes. “I know something of people who have…appetites they dare not own, and cannot control. And I am sure in my own mind that whoever killed Christina is such a man.” She opened her eyes and stared at him, defying him to argue with her. “In fact if Durward was innocent, Cullen would have done everything necessary to prove it. He might have hated it, but he would not have shrunk from it. You know that as well as I do!”

  “I’m not sure I know anything as well as you do, Aunt Mariah, but I believe it. I am just afraid that there is something else involved that we don’t know about.”

  She did not ask him what he suspected. All sorts of vague ideas loomed in her mind, dark shadows at the edges of thought, but she dreaded looking at them. She would wait until at least some of them had softened, or taken a shape she could deal with. It was the unknown that paralyzed the will to fight.

  Time dragged by until, when she was not ready for it, Peter looked up from the newspaper he had been reading, smiled, and rose to his feet.

  “Let’s go and have high tea with the constable’s wife.” He offered Mariah his arm.

  She stood up, a little stiffly, but determined to do it without assistance. She took his arm lightly, although she would have liked to cling to him.

  Outside in the street it was dark already and the lamps were lit. The hard wind had driven away the clouds and there was a slick of frost on the pavement. She was glad now to have hold of his arm, in case she slipped. She noticed that he walked quite slowly, so she did not have to hurry more than was comfortable.

  In the past she had envied Rowena her happy marriage. She had learned over time not to let it eat away at her. Better to dream than to have the reality, only
to see the joy fade into mere acceptability. The worst of all would be to have it, and then lose it because of ill temper, carelessness, or simply a failure to treasure what mattered. She had observed that time and again also. There was little in life more bitter than disillusion.

  But she wished she had a grandson like Peter. Or perhaps a friend was just as good. There was no duty in such a friendship, only gentleness that was real, without obligation, just gratitude for its value.

  They were cold by the time they arrived at the constable’s house, next to the police station and easy to find once they were on the right street. The lights were all on, including the streetlamp just outside. Garlands of holly and ivy, decked with ribbons, hung on the door and the gate.

  They walked carefully up the paved path; the stones were distinctly icy now. Just as they reached the door, it opened ahead of them. Clearly, someone had been awaiting their arrival.

  A small girl of perhaps six smiled up at them. She was missing a couple of teeth, giving her a unique charm. Her hair was tied up with a large red ribbon, like those twined in the wreaths.

  “You’re here for tea,” she said, pleased with her knowledge. “Mama says please come in.” She held the door open.

  “Thank you,” Mariah accepted, feeling the warmth close around her, not only from the fires in the house, but from the child’s excitement at Christmas, still magic for her. “I like your ribbon,” she added. “It matches the wreaths.”

  The child smiled widely, her eyes shining. “Yes, it does!” She took a breath. “Thank you,” she added, then bit her lip. She had very nearly forgotten her manners. She looked shyly at Peter.

  He was not used to children, and he spoke to her as if she were an adult.