A Medal For Murder: A Kate Shackleton Mystery

by Frances Brody

  They reached the top of the tower.

  ‘Isn’t it glorious?’ She flung out her arms. ‘You can see for miles.’

  The moon lit the surrounding fields. To the east, the blur of a copse formed a dark backdrop. Stars glittered for attention. Hay-making had been going on in a distant field and the scent still hung in the air. Dylan said, ‘Whoever built this tower came up here to look at the stars.’

  ‘Or to dance with his true love.’ She held out her arms and began to sing. ‘If you were the only boy in the world, and I were the only girl, nothing else would matter in the world today . . . Come on! Dance with me!’

  ‘I’m dreaming,’ he said, reaching out, one arm around her waist, another on her shoulder. ‘I shall wake up soon.’

  ‘Go on dreaming, but sing.’

  ‘If you were the only girl in the world . . .’

  They danced around the roof of the tower.

  ‘When I’m an actress, you must come to any stage door in the world and ask to see me. I’ll never forget my friend in need, Dylan. I feel I’ve loved you, like Anna loved Willie. Something true and forever.’

  ‘Then . . .’

  ‘Shh.’ She put a finger to his lips. ‘I’ll remember you forever, wherever life takes me.’ She laughed. ‘We gave old Milner the slip all right. He was determined to give me a lift . . .’

  ‘That’s not all he was determined about,’ Dylan said.

  ‘And your face!’

  ‘Don’t talk about him.’

  ‘He’s odious. If I were a man and a character actor, I would study him. As it is . . .’ She made a sound of pretend vomiting. ‘Can you imagine that he and my granddad actually thought I would marry him?’

  ‘Yes, I can imagine.’

  ‘What century, what country in their mind are they living in?’

  ‘No one can force you to marry. People can say “I do not” as well as they say “I do”. Anyway, don’t think about that. It will give you nightmares.’

  ‘You should go now, Dylan.’

  ‘Let me stay and look after you. I’ll watch you as you sleep.’

  ‘You’ve done enough. You need to be fine and frisky for work tomorrow. The girls will be swarming to the window of Croker & Company to catch a glimpse of you.’

  ‘I doubt it.’ Reluctantly, he turned up his collar.

  She followed him down the stairs.

  He would not take the lantern. ‘The moon will be out again soon. Goodnight, Lucy.’

  ‘Goodnight.’ She turned the key in the lock, went back up the stairs and watched him cross the field. At the gate, he looked back and waved.

  For a moment she thought he would turn tail and hurry back to her.

  Yesterday Lucy had purloined her grandfather’s army groundsheet and khaki blankets. She had borrowed a bike and brought what she needed to the tower. Her chosen spot was by the wall on the top floor, the level below the parapet. Her tapestry shoulder bag formed a pillow.

  She had taken a big gamble, she knew that. What if, when Granddad opened the ransom note, he set aside the habit of a lifetime and went to the authorities? Well, they would not find her. No one would. This place had been abandoned years ago.

  Of course tomorrow was Saturday and he could not go to the bank. But she had thought of that. Let him sweat. Let him fester all day Saturday and all through Sunday. Let him run mad in his mind. He would be knocking on the door of the bank first thing Monday morning.

  She frowned. Of course it was always possible that he really did not have her legacy, that he had gambled it away, or spent it, that he had been leading her up the garden path all these years, saying there was something substantial for her in that dim distant future that had arrived with the break of dawn on the 6th of August this year, her twenty-first birthday.

  In that case, he had better know how to get some money, because she would have it. She would live her life, away from him and his weapons, uniforms, medals, his ancient nonsense.

  Something touched Lucy’s face in the darkness. Something scuttled by her hair, a stealthy creature pitter-pattering. She lay very still. The tower moved and breathed. Its nooks and crannies held the scent of long-ago harvests. She could taste dust and hay-making in the back of her throat. The grey stone walls reeked of eternity, and the wooden floor of pity and decay.

  ‘Fallen into disuse,’ was how Dylan said he would describe it if the tower found its way into the files of Croker & Company, House Agents.

  She had chosen the tower as her hiding place after elimination of other possibilities. Dylan would have risked his job if he hid her in his rooms above the house agent’s offices. Girl friends would not understand her determination and need for secrecy. They had mothers who would not keep her confidence.

  There was another reason that had nothing to do with logic or sense. All through her childhood, Lucy adored fairy tales. She felt the ring of truth that chimed with something in her own soul. A fairy tale girl, miller’s daughter or princess, would somehow find her true self, would be granted her deepest wish. But before that, a trial must be endured, a solitary struggle with no certainty of success.

  Without being able to put it into words, Lucy knew that if she could pass three nights in this tower, the future would fall into the palm of her hand. And it must be three nights, the magical number three. Tonight, Friday, her grandfather would sleep soundly, suspecting nothing. On Saturday morning, when the note dropped onto the doormat, he would begin to stew. All Saturday he would plot and plan how to get the money, the thousand pounds. He would take out his bank books and do calculations. The thought of parting with the smallest sum always gave him the runs. When a bill arrived, the lavatory flushed so often, the house rattled. How glad she was to be out of there, out of that mausoleum, and soon it would be forever. Granddad would lie awake all Saturday night. Sunday, he would stride the room. The only person he might possibly confide in would be Mr Milner, his partner in board games, his partner in the plan to ruin her life. If so, let them rustle up the money between them. On Monday morning, Granddad would go to the bank. Monday at noon would come her deliverance.

  Poor old Granddad. Part of her could not help but feel sorry for him. But he should not have been so tight-fisted. He had lived his life. Now she must live hers.

  She pulled the blanket tighter. To send herself back to sleep, she pictured all the fairy story towers that ever were.

  She dreamed of cobwebs. She dreamed of silken hair flowing into the sky and intertwining with stars. She dreamed of a dwarf grandfather who tore himself in two. She dreamed of being Anna in the play, inheriting a fortune and yet not knowing how to live. Now she boarded a train.

  The hoot of her dream train became an owl. She woke, paralysed.

  Someone was standing there, filling the space by the staircase. Lucy wanted to speak, to move, to stand up and demand to know, Who are you? But no sound came. She could not move so much as a finger.

  When she woke again, the figure had gone. She wondered was it one of those dreams, when you know for sure that you are awake and there is someone there, and yet you must be asleep or you would be able to move your hand. You would be able to speak.

  She sat up.

  ‘Is someone there? Dylan!’

  No one answered.

  She drew on shoes, and called again, ‘Is anyone there?’ half expecting a dwarf to lasso her with a length of silk, a witch to cackle curses.

  She climbed the rickety spiral staircase to the roof of the tower, and stepped out onto its battlements. Beyond the sulky moon a distant haystack made the shape of a witch’s house. The scent of clover floated in from another time, a distant century. Over by the wood, something moved – perhaps a fox going about its stealthy business, or a deer feeling safe in the hour before dawn.

  Soon, very soon, her life would begin, properly, for the very first time.

  It was a terrible way for a life to end, in a shop doorway on a rainy night. For what seemed an endless time, I waited for Meriel to come back
and say the police were on their way.

  I walked from the alley to the road where Mr Milner’s car was parked. A couple passed by on the other side of the street, she laughing at his joke. He glanced across, murmuring something to her. She looked at me, a woman alone, loitering. They hurried on their way. It was obvious what they thought.

  The night had turned cold. I returned to the alley, keeping my distance from the doorway. Future shoppers and shop workers might sometimes feel a chill as they crossed that threshold where the body lay. The doorway might hold a memory of the dreadful act, and of Mr Milner’s final moments.

  It was no use. I had to look again at the lifeless man. He seemed to move. I forced myself to check once more for a pulse. Not a murmur of life, not half a breath. He was cold now. All that remained was a well-dressed shell.

  The dagger had pierced his heart. It had entered so deep that only the hilt was visible. The dark bloody stain formed an almost symmetrical pattern. I turned away, and walked back down the alley. Why did no one come?

  Mr Milner’s top hat lay on the kerb, beside his car. The slashes to the tyres seemed incongruous. Was it not enough to murder a man without attacking the rubber on his wheels? It struck me as an act of rage, or madness.

  I began to shake, and to look all around. The murderer might still be here, in another doorway, out of sight. I should have hailed that passing couple. An odd thought struck me. The murderer was in the car, crouched and waiting, ready to pounce. A small cry startled me. The sound was my own. Someone come. Someone come soon. I had seen men die from their wounds in hospital, from fever, but not this. Not in a peaceful spa town, in a shop doorway.

  I dared to look into the car for the lurking murderer. There was no one. In the gutter, near the rear wheel, lay some small glinting item. I bobbed down. It was a cufflink. Evidence. What a marvel our minds are that we can feel and think in so many ways at once. The world threatened to spin away from me. I walked back up the alley. My and Meriel’s bags were still where she had dropped them. I sat on mine.

  I am not going to faint. Head between knees. What if he comes up behind me? I won’t faint. I don’t faint.

  After what seemed an age, Meriel and the doorman appeared. I called to them. ‘Stay clear of the doorway. The police will want to examine the scene.’

  The doorman peered at Milner’s body. Then the three of us walked to the road and waited.

  A uniformed sergeant and police constable arrived first, striding into view like two creatures from the underworld, everything black, including their jackets with the night buttons. The constable was the younger of the two, pale-faced, clean-shaven and gangly. The older man wore a small neat moustache, and walked with his feet turned out. The sergeant strode into the alley. As we were giving our names and addresses to the constable, I heard the sound of hooves. A pony and trap came into view and drew to a halt. A portly figure, in top hat and tail coat, stepped onto the pavement.

  ‘Evening, doctor.’ The constable produced a flashlight, and led the doctor into the alley. I felt a sudden moment of panic. What if Milner had not been dead? Perhaps I had made a mistake. Immediate attention might have saved him.

  Their slow, returning footsteps gave no sign of urgency.

  The medical man’s breath smelled of whisky. He took out a tiny notebook and pencil from an inside pocket. ‘Can you tell me what time you saw the deceased, madam?’

  I felt foolish at not having checked my watch. ‘We stopped to sort out an umbrella,’ I said lamely.

  ‘It was about half past eleven,’ Meriel supplied. ‘Mr Milner was still warm. You said so, didn’t you, Kate? Mrs Shackleton was a nurse. She checked for a pulse.’

  The doctor jotted down the time.

  Meriel let out a shuddering groan. ‘I can’t bear it. Poor man. I suppose the only consolation is that he saw a good play before he died.’

  ‘Do you think she’s in shock?’ the doctor asked quietly.

  I was grateful that he did not seem to notice I had begun to shake again. In as calm a voice as I could muster, I said, ‘Probably.’

  The sergeant commandeered the pony and trap, leaving the constable to guard the scene.

  ‘Are you taking us home?’ Meriel asked as he helped us into the trap.

  The sergeant spoke to the driver: ‘Raglan Street!’

  ‘I live on St Clement’s Road . . .’ Meriel began.

  ‘If it’s all the same to you, ladies,’ the sergeant said in a gentle voice, ‘I’d like to take you to the station and give you a cup of tea.’

  ‘Shocking business for you ladies.’ The elderly sergeant led us into a bleak room at the back of the police station. We sat on benches, at a table marked with cigarette burns and tea stains.

  ‘You are shivering.’ He placed an old army blanket around my shoulders.

  Meriel squeezed my hand. ‘Kate is the brave one. She stayed by the body.’

  I envied Meriel in that moment. She seemed to have detached herself from what had happened, as though finding the body had become one more made up scene, an epilogue to her production.

  The constable disappeared, returning with thick white cups of strong sweet tea. Shakily, I delved into my satchel for Gerald’s old hip flask. How I wished Gerald could be here now.

  I unscrewed the top of the flask. There was a decent amount of brandy – enough for a good splash in each of our cups. Here’s to you, Gerald, wherever you are. Lost in this world, or the next. Wouldn’t it be wonderful if, one day, you just walked back into my life?

  The constable stayed in the room with us, saying in a friendly voice, ‘Don’t mind me.’

  ‘We’re not under arrest are we?’ Meriel asked.

  ‘Oh no, miss. It’s just that statements will be required.’

  We sipped our drinks and waited, listening to the loud tick of the big round clock on the wall. With infinite slowness, the hands of the clock moved to midnight. Was that all? It seemed indecent to want to be out of there. But how much could there be to state in our ‘statements’? We would be unlikely to forget the horror of finding a body after just one night’s sleep, or wakefulness.

  Meriel leaned towards me, picking at a thread on her cape. ‘This is horrible. It’s like one of those German films where everything . . . oh you know.’

  That glimmer of fear I had noticed earlier returned, perhaps a fear of having been close to the dead. Straight away, she began to take deep breaths. After a moment, she said, more to herself than to me, ‘I made a good impression on Mr Wheatley.’

  ‘You did.’

  ‘He said to call him BW. Do you really think I made a good impression?’

  ‘Meriel, for heaven’s sake!’ I closed my eyes, momentarily not having the strength to find the right words, unable to tell whether this was crassness or insecurity. At least analysing Meriel took my thoughts from my own reaction. She escapes into the theatre, I told myself, in the way an inebriate drowns in the bottle.

  ‘Your face, Kate! I’m only trying to make conversation, to take our minds off things. Did I tell you he invited me to lunch tomorrow?’

  She had. ‘Yes.’

  ‘He plans to do an Ibsen and asked me which one. What do you think to that?’

  I was saved the need to answer by the sound of footsteps, and voices in the corridor.

  Our guarding sergeant snapped to attention as the door opened.‘Ladies.’ The man was dressed in a good, dark suit, spotless shirt and dark-green tie. There was something familiar about him, about the eyes, hazel flecked with green. His light-coloured hair held a neat side parting and was cut short. Late-night stubble covered his chin. He looked a little tired.

  ‘I’m Inspector Charles, of Scotland Yard.’ He stepped forward and shook each of our hands in turn as we offered our names.

  Everything about the moment felt unreal, as if it might dissolve and turn out to be as ephemeral as the drama played out on the stage only hours ago.

  Meriel held onto his hand. ‘Goodness, you must be the murder
squad. You can’t have appeared from London.’

  He paused for a moment before he answered, as if deciding how much to say. ‘I would have been on the night train to London now. It’s not often I’m called North, but this will be my third investigation in Yorkshire recently. I hope it won’t become a habit.’

  He looked at me when he said this, and I realised he was the same man who had appeared on the scene at Bridgestead when I was working on behalf of Tabitha Braithwaite. That was my first professional case, just a few months ago. I had investigated the mysterious disappearance of Joshua Braithwaite, a millionaire mill owner, and Tabitha’s much-loved father.

  As I remembered, Inspector Charles had wanted me out of the way. I wondered afterwards whether he held me responsible for the local bobby being less than meticulous in securing the scene of crime.

  The inspector nodded to the sergeant who hovered behind him. ‘Sergeant, take Miss Jamieson’s statement, please. Keep it short.’ He then turned to me. ‘Mrs Shackleton?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘If you’ll come with me, please.’

  I followed him into the corridor and to a room where a fire had been lit. He drew chairs near the fire. ‘I’m sorry you were kept waiting.’

  I felt too numb to respond. At this rate, the young, pale-faced constable who sat at a table by the wall, notebook at the ready, would have little to write.

  ‘I appreciate that you kept the scene clear once you found the body. And thank you for spotting the cufflink. I had a case a few weeks ago where the fool of a village bobby and some female photographer marched all over the house. It’s a miracle there was a scrap of evidence left.’

  Oh he remembered me all right. My hackles rose. ‘If you’re referring to Bridgestead—,’ I said, about to remind him of one or two points.

  ‘But that was then, and this is now,’ he said quickly. It made me wonder whether he had thrown out the challenge to rouse me from my half-stupid state.

  He picked up a small evidence bag and tipped a cufflink onto a sheet of paper. It was just over half an inch square, with a gold edge and a banded agate centre in white, black and brown. ‘In good condition, no scratches, but some wear on the back.’