A Medal For Murder: A Kate Shackleton Mystery

by Frances Brody

  ‘Lucy’s father.’

  ‘Apple of my eye. Didn’t realise he’d intended to follow in my footsteps. Unlike me, took his wife with him. She died in the Transvaal of fever, shortly after Lucy was born. I think it made my son careless of his life, with terrible consequences. I resigned my commission, to bring Lucy home. People said put her in an orphanage, but I couldn’t do that.’

  His telling of his life did not ring true somehow. It combined uncertainty, almost if he were unsure he had ever had a wife, and the glibness of an oft-repeated tale.

  I opened the drawers of the dressing table, and the tallboy, disturbing underwear, handkerchiefs and stockings. In the drawer at the bottom of the wardrobe lay neatly folded cardigans and a stole.

  The captain stood in the doorway, watching.

  ‘Does she have a desk?’ I asked.

  ‘No, no desk.’

  ‘Where does she keep her writing case, papers and books, the script for the play, that sort of thing?’

  ‘Her books are out here, in the hall, on the top shelf. We share the bookcase.’

  ‘I’ll look in a moment.’ I stayed in the bedroom, bobbed down and pulled a box from under the bed. The captain turned away. ‘I’ll leave you to it. Don’t want to pry.’

  On top of the box was a birthday dates book, an address book, and an autograph book dating back to her school days and including the signatures of some of the professional actors who had played in Harrogate.

  A fashion magazine caught my eye. I flicked through to see whether it contained any notes.

  Paper slipped from the magazine, but it was where the pages had been cut. Words and letters had been snipped. The ransom note had been cut and pasted from this fashion magazine.

  I returned to the drawing room and showed the captain the magazine, with its missing letters.

  ‘Good Lord! What does this mean?’ His hand trembled as he held the magazine.

  I felt sorry for the poor old man. ‘It may mean that she composed the note herself. But we shouldn’t jump to conclusions.’

  He gulped. His voice came out in a whisper. ‘She wouldn’t do such a thing to me. Some blighter’s put her up to it. Some blaggard has her under a spell. By God I’ll have him.’ He set the magazine down on the table, next to Lucy’s photograph. Then he dropped heavily into his chair. His look was piteous, like a little boy lost. ‘What do you suggest?’

  ‘I could speak to one or two of the other players who left the theatre at the same time as Lucy and Alison.’

  That would include Rodney Milner. Difficult. I did not know him well enough to call and offer condolences, and to begin questioning him about Lucy would be insensitive to say the least. Since Alison had also disappeared, that left only Dylan, the house agent’s clerk who had played Willie Price. But my words satisfied the captain.

  He nodded, then closed his eyes and bit his lip. ‘I have an inkling what this is about. Lucy was twenty-one on the sixth of this month. She expected to come into an inheritance, just like that confounded creature in the play.’

  ‘Are you suggesting that she was copying the heroine of a story? If she were to do that, she would have asked for fifty thousand pounds!’

  For the first time since I had met him, the captain laughed.

  It was hard to imagine that Lucy could play the scrupulously conscientious Anna Tellwright, and hours later put her grandfather on the rack.

  He sighed. ‘It’s my own fault. When she was growing up, I thought it would give her confidence to think that she had expectations.’ He shut his eyes and heaved a sigh.

  I prompted. ‘Does Lucy have expectations? A trust fund, or something of that sort?’

  He had recovered slightly. He picked up his pipe from the mantelpiece, poked at the bowl with a pipe cleaner and tapped it against the fireback. He opened a tobacco jar and tore off a strip which he began to stuff into the bowl of his pipe. His state of panic had subsided but his eyes gave him away. He looked puzzled, and lost. ‘By Jove, she’s shocked me. We’ll never recover from this.’ He turned to me. ‘It must be a prank, don’t you think?’

  ‘I don’t know. It’s best to keep an open mind.’

  ‘Except, except . . .’ He raised a finger in the air as though testing the direction of wind. ‘Could that confounded magazine have been given to her to bring home, and make it look like a prank?’

  ‘It’s possible.’

  I took out my notebook and pencil and put on my most businesslike voice. ‘It will be useful to know some background information. You see Lucy, or whoever composed that note, does seem to think that you have money. If, as you say, you are not a man of means . . .’

  ‘It doesn’t do in this day and age to let people know if you have to tighten the old belt a notch. By Jove, it doesn’t, especially round here. People judge you on what you have, not on what you are. Oh yes, they do that all right. Doesn’t matter if a chap distinguishes himself in the service of his country twenty times over, it’s his debit and credit balance that counts. How much does he have in the bank? That’s what they want to know.’

  As gently as I could, I said, ‘So you put on a good front as it were?’

  ‘In confidence?’

  I slapped the notebook on the chair arm. Who on earth did he think I would blab his finances to? ‘Yes, in confidence.’

  ‘I do indeed put on a fine front as you call it. All I have is my pension, such as it is, and the rents from my tenants in this house. Mentioning no names no pack drill, not all of them are up to date.’

  ‘Would Lucy believe that you could come up with such a large amount of money?’

  He struck a match, lit his pipe and drew deeply. ‘You see, the thing is, because of what I told her as she was growing up, she expected an inheritance, from her parents, when she reached maturity. On her twenty-first birthday, I believe she anticipated some kind of handing over and signatures and all that sort of palaver, as happened in that dratted play. If I’d known the text of that play . . .’

  ‘But if she’s twenty-one, then she’s of age.’

  ‘I always told her she’d come into her inheritance at maturity, not majority. A man might be mature at twenty-one, a woman perhaps not until she’s thirty.’

  ‘Captain, does she or does she not have something to come from her parents, or anyone else, at any age? I assume you’re her trustee?’ He looked at me blankly. I prompted, ‘For instance, sometimes if a woman marries she can claim what she might otherwise have to wait for.’

  ‘By Jove, you’re right. She could have run off with someone in the belief that if she married she could make some claim.’

  ‘But we don’t think she has run off and married. Not going by the note.’

  ‘I knew no good would come of play-acting. Painting her face. Prancing about in front of all those people . . .’

  ‘No one in their right mind would accuse Lucy of prancing. She took her part well.’

  ‘I should have put my foot down.’

  I snapped the notebook shut. ‘Does Lucy have an inheritance to come, or not?’ He was a man who could beat about the bush until it screamed for mercy. ‘Have you been stringing her along?’

  He sucked on his pipe. After a long moment he met my gaze. ‘That’s a private matter. Of course she has expectations . . . of a sort.’

  ‘Is there an inheritance?’

  ‘Not exactly. No.’

  ‘Was there?’

  ‘I say, this is pushing things a bit far.’

  ‘Have you used up your granddaughter’s inheritance?’

  ‘There was no inheritance! I invented it, to make her feel secure.’

  At last he had come out with it. I did not know whether to believe him. But at least his words gave a motive for Lucy’s disappearance.

  ‘She thinks money grows on that tree out there.’ He walked across to the window, and tapped the suit of armour on its chest. ‘When she was small, she asked me to get into this suit of armour, which of course is dashed difficult as a solo ta
sk. Then I had to clank about the room and she ran about screaming. I practically broke my neck getting out of it, only to find she was enjoying herself. She liked being scared. She liked being pursued across the flat by a suit of armour.’

  ‘It might have been better to be frank with Lucy.’

  ‘Please be discreet. Lucy’s reputation and all that . . .’

  ‘I think perhaps we had better find her first, and let Lucy herself take care of her reputation.’

  He bit thoughtfully on the pipe stem. ‘Lucy is taking her revenge because she thinks I am withholding something from her. There’s not a brass farthing, and that’s the truth. I wanted her to feel secure. Is that so terrible?’

  ‘If you’d told her, she would have known how to plan her future. Girls can find jobs these days, can train for various occupations.’

  ‘The prospect of a good marriage to a wealthy man is something, I think.’

  I stopped myself from asking whether this wealthy man had been one that she loathed. One who had been knifed in the heart in a shop doorway.

  ‘I’ll do my best to find her, Captain Wolfendale.’

  For her sake, not yours, you old fraud.

  I retrieved Lucy’s script from the bookshelf. Alongside the cast list, she had written the names and addresses of the actors.

  I showed the names to the captain. ‘Who besides Alison might she confide in?’

  The captain ran his finger down the names. He stopped at Dan Root, miser, revivalist and ill-fated Mr Price who did away with himself. ‘They walked home together sometimes.’ The captain told me what I already knew. ‘Mr Root lives in the front flat below. But you can rule him out of any shenanigans. Polite young chap. Always on time with his rent. Watch mender. As far as the theatricals, he’s a pressed man, not a volunteer. Miss Jamieson roped him in to play half the male parts.’

  ‘What do you know about the other cast members?’

  ‘You’d be better asking the Adventuress about them. Sorry, slipped out. My private nickname for Miss Jamieson.’

  ‘I shall ask Miss Jamieson. But what do you think? The wealthy man . . . Lucy’s marriage prospect, I daresay he’s not in the cast, but will I find his name in the theatre programme?’

  I was goading him into admitting that the prospective suitor was Lawrence Milner. Mr Milner’s advertisement had helped Meriel with the costs of mounting the production. She had said he paid a premium for his full page announcement that Milner & Sons could supply all your motoring needs.

  The captain was no longer looking me in the eye. He glared at the toe of his well-polished boot. ‘I know who I don’t want her to take up with. Did you see the way she looked at that young house agent’s clerk when they parted company in that confounded play?’

  ‘But captain, they were acting their parts. It wasn’t real.’

  ‘It looked real enough to me, and to . . .’

  ‘To . . .?’ Had he been at the point of mentioning Milner by name?

  ‘To everybody else in the theatre I should think.’

  He was right there. The theatre man, Mr Wheatley, had spotted it too.

  The letter box rattled. For a moment neither of us moved.

  ‘Second post,’ the captain said. He froze on his chair, knuckles tightening.

  ‘I’ll go.’

  He nodded.

  I walked into the hall. A solitary letter lay on the mat. The envelope was in the same neat block print as the earlier one.

  CAPTAIN R. O. WOLFENDALE VC

  29 ST CLEMENT’S ROAD

  HARROGATE

  The only difference was that this time, Captain and VC were underlined. Was this significant? A taunt? The envelope bore a penny stamp and was postmarked Harrogate, 6.25 a.m. I placed it on the open leaf of the bureau. The captain handed me his paper knife. The letter read.

  ONE THOUSAND POUNDS TO HAVE LUCY

  BACK ALIVE

  LEAVE CASH NOON MONDAY IN HOLLOW

  OF OLD OAK TREE TOP OF VALLEY

  GARDENS THEN GO HOME

  CALL POLICE, SHE WILL DIE.

  There was a lock of silky dark hair, braided into a slender plait and tied with thread at both ends.

  ‘It’s Lucy’s hair all right,’ said the captain.

  ‘On the envelope, your title and your decoration are underlined this time. What is the significance in that would you say?’

  His extraordinary Adam’s apple leaped into life as he gulped and swallowed. ‘Don’t know,’ he said in a flat voice tinged with anxiety, or was it fear?

  ‘Does Lucy have contact with anyone who served with you in the army? Or perhaps someone who resents what you represent?’ I tried to make some connection. As a schoolgirl, I had heard about Emily Hobhouse and her campaign against the concentration camps in which we British held Boer women and children after their homes and farms had been destroyed. ‘Captain, remind me. There was an insulting term for people who did not support the war in South Africa, now what was it?’

  ‘We patriots called them Screamers, and Boer lovers.’

  ‘Could there be a connection?’ I asked.

  ‘There can’t be a connection,’ he said, too vehemently. ‘All that was a lifetime ago.’

  ‘Mr Milner served in the Boer War. He was a corporal I believe.’

  ‘What does any of this have to do with Lucy going missing?’ he asked.

  ‘I don’t know. Call it instinct. I could be wrong, but I have a feeling there is some kind of link.’

  I was feeling my way, guessing. Guessing that the captain had run through Lucy’s inheritance from her parents, and that Mr Milner knew. Milner had planned to ride to Lucy’s financial rescue, make her an offer she was meant to be grateful for. Did the captain fear he would lose face if Milner revealed what he knew?

  I now regretted my promise not to go to the police before the end of the day.

  ‘It’s now that matters,’ the captain said with a gulp, ‘not the past. What matters is sorting this business out before it goes any further. You said you’d help.’

  ‘Very well. I’ll talk to one or two of the other actors.’

  I would begin with Dylan Ashton, the house agent’s clerk who played the besotted doomed youth.

  The captain walked me to the door.

  In the hall, I turned back. ‘The wealthy man who wanted to marry Lucy, were you discussing his proposal yesterday afternoon over a game of Called to Arms?’

  He stared, uncomprehending. ‘What . . .?’

  ‘I saw the game on your table just now, and you were playing yesterday afternoon. A man with reddish-blond hair, and a ruddy neck. Saw you through the window.’

  I had him. Every muscle in his face tightened. He was weather-beaten and dark from his years serving in the Empire, but his face darkened still more. It was answer enough. Yesterday afternoon, Captain Wolfendale and Mr Lawrence Milner, formerly Corporal Milner, had sat by the fireplace and played Called to Arms.

  ‘Well, Captain?’

  ‘Yes,’ he said in almost a whisper. ‘Milner was here yesterday. He sometimes calls by, brings me a bottle of whisky and a twist of tobacco. Knows I don’t get out much.’

  South Africa, September, 1900

  Special duties took Captain Wolfendale across country that spring, Kimberley behind him, Ladysmith ahead. The fertile horseshoe of land within the Wittenbergen range was well guarded, in British possession. Now it must be safeguarded. These Boers had a way of living to fight another day. Surrender on Tuesday, re-form on Wednesday, attack on Thursday. But only if they could be fed and watered in the meantime.

  In the bright sunshine, watching a lizard sun itself on a boulder as he rode by, he could almost forget that Brother Boer nearly did for him. His shoulder still gave him gyp. His leg went into cramp at a whim.

  He sat easy in the saddle, the grey pony trotting patiently, keeping its foothold. His batman, Sergeant Lampton, followed behind, then the small troop of infantry. Thank God so many black Africans had joined the good fight. They could fin
d the way when the captain came to a bend in the river and did not know how to cross. When the game was over, the Kaffirs would expect their reward. You could see it in the energy of their movements, hear it in their voices. At night, they made music, caressing concertinas, singing to the stars. Once he had asked what they sang about, but he couldn’t fathom the answer.

  The captain waved the line to pause. He took out his field glasses and looked down at the peaceful valley. The farm nestled like a sleeping cat. He could see why Brother Boer would fight to keep this land, fight for what he saw as his birthright. Psalm-singing Brother Boer thought God was on his side. Well, he would soon learn that when push came to shove, the Almighty signed up for the British Empire.

  Captain Wolfendale looked back at Sergeant Lampton. ‘We take everything we can carry.’

  He halted the column further on, letting the horses drink at the river that ran through the valley, ordering the native drivers to unhook the oxen and let them rest and graze. It had been a long trek. The business could wait till morning.

  The woman who opened the farmhouse door was about fifty years of age, big and buxom, with a broad Dutch face and a wary smile. She knew better than to argue, looking beyond him to the troop of men, indicating in her guttural voice and with waves of her arm that the men could sleep in the barn. He told her they would pitch their own tents. Don’t trust them an inch. Sleep in our barn. We’ll put a match to the straw while you sleep. Opening the door a little wider, she asked the captain and the sergeant inside. A boy of about ten fetched two mugs. These people never had just one child. There’d be sons, off on commando with their father. There’d be a girl, out of sight. The woman poured milk from a jug into mugs, handing them to the captain and sergeant, waving them to sit at the table.

  She spooned stew with dumplings into dishes. They were strange people. He could not tell whether she was hospitable or trying to ingratiate herself. Yet she showed no fear. If he were to believe her gestures, she was complaining that there was little food, little to give or to be commandeered.

  The captain looked round the room. It was a typical farmhouse with a sturdy dresser, gleaming pottery, a piano, and what he took to be religious texts framed and hung either side of the door.