The houses were set back from the road, with long gardens that would give the postman something of a trek.
Meriel had said that half the young women in the theatre audience fell for Rodney Milner. He was handsome in the style of a leading young man in a drawing-room comedy, with a strong jaw, thick reddish-blond hair and steady grey eyes. Though a little stilted, his manner on stage suited the character he played: Henry Mynors, self-made businessman. Only occasionally was his ease of manner ruffled. That was when Mr Milner, sitting on the front row, eating humbugs, smoking, made facetious comments at his son’s expense.
With some trepidation, I lifted the knocker, a leering gargoyle with the weight and thud of a blacksmith’s hammer. Moments later, a matronly woman wearing a large pinafore opened the door. Her mouth was set in a grim line. She blinked red-rimmed eyes. That someone might be crying because of Lawrence Milner’s death astonished me into silence. She spoke impatiently.
‘Yes?’
‘I’m Mrs Shackleton. Is Mr Rodney Milner at home?’ I did not want her to think I had come looking for a dead man.
‘He’s at the showroom.’
‘Really?’ The surprise must have shown.
‘You’ve heard?’ she said. ‘About the master.’
In a suitably sombre voice, I said, ‘I was the one who found Mr Milner and called the police.’
Her manner changed. ‘You knew him then?’
‘Only recently, through the play. But because of the circumstances I thought I would call and see Rodney, and offer my condolences.’
‘As I say, he’s at the showroom. It’s closed up for the day of course but the police wanted to look around there, and Master Rodney has the key. He felt he should be there.’
‘Will he mind if I call, do you think?’
A tear squeezed from the corner of her eye. She dabbed her apron at it. ‘The poor lad’s not in any fit way to mind or not mind.’
So the tears were not for Lawrence, but for Rodney.
‘You must be getting tired of answering the door this morning.’
She sighed. ‘You expect it. Chap from the Chamber of Commerce was here first thing. Don’t know how he knew. Miss Jamieson, the theatrical lady, she called, and Captain Wolfendale.’
That was kind of Meriel, I thought. Good for her. She had a heart after all.
‘Wait a minute!’ The housekeeper narrowed her eyes warily. I might be spinning her a yarn. ‘Miss Jamieson said she found Mr Milner.’
‘We were together,’ I said. ‘Well, I’m sorry to have disturbed you. I’ll go to the showroom.’
As I walked back to the Milners’ gate, I wondered was the captain really and truly there to pay condolences, or did he believe that Rodney might lead him to Lucy? If Wolfendale was so close to Rodney as to come round straight away, it puzzled me that he had been reticent about admitting that Lawrence Milner was his friend. Perhaps some snobbery was involved. After all, a captain does not usually become great friends with a corporal. There was some connection between them. Milner had said that an “old comrade” had helped him when he was down on his luck, and that then he had come to Harrogate and started his business. Curiouser and curiouser. If Wolfendale had stumped up some money, it was odd that he should be penniless when Milner prospered. All in all, I was beginning to wish I had not agreed to help the captain. After all, if he were fit and well enough to come trotting round to see Rodney, he could have searched for Lucy himself. I had only agreed because the old man had looked on the point of collapse.
You have a case of your own to attend to, Kate Shackleton, I said to myself. Missing jewellery from Moony the pawnbroker. Having reminded myself of that obligation, I decided that this afternoon I would call on another of Mr Moony’s customers.
Milner & Son’s car showroom colonised the corner of Summerfield Avenue and Leeds Road. It was a bold, triangular futuristic building that looked as though it might sally forth and crush all before it. Bricks faced with white porcelain formed a fascia above the plate-glass windows. Above that, on the first floor, were smaller iron-framed windows. Two brand-new Wolseleys vied for attention, displayed at angles to each other. At the back of the showroom stood a couple of older cars, one very much like mine, only more highly polished.
The building was so avant-garde that I could not see the way in at first. On the other side of the window, a tired-looking old man in a brown overall stooped as he wielded a broom, sweeping slowly and methodically. He looked up and pointed to the doorway on my left.
The sweeper-up moved to the other side of the door, indicating to a sign that said, Closed due to bereavement. By dumb show and exaggerated lip movements, I let him know that I had come to speak to Rodney.
He opened the door.
Inside the showroom, I caught the whiff of polish and leather. The man held his brush close, as though without it he might fall, and stood so near to me that I could hear his short, wheezy breathing and catch the smell of a body pickled in nicotine. ‘Afternoon, miss,’ he said politely, in a soft Irish accent. ‘Mister Rodney’s in the office, only he won’t want disturbing.’
‘It’s all right. I know him.’ Still, he stood there, the brush tilted at an angle, ready to present arms.
‘I’m here to express condolences. I’m the person who found Mr Milner.’
While he was taking in this piece of information, I sidestepped him and made my way to the office, which I could see on the left.
I tapped on the door and opened it. ‘Rodney. May I come in?’
Rodney looked every inch the man-about-town. He wore a dark mohair suit, trousers crease so sharp it would slice a finger.
He stood up. As if forgetting his situation for a moment, he switched on a brief semi-professional smile. The smile oozed the assurance that comes from imagining you have the best of everything under life’s bonnet. The confident manner said, “I’m in this salesroom by choice, not necessity.”
But the practised smile did not reach his eyes, and he let it slip as he offered his hand. ‘The police told me you found Dad.’
‘I wanted to say how sorry I am, Rodney.’
‘Thank you. It must have been a shock for you to see him in that doorway.’
‘I should be saying that to you, a shock for you to learn of his death.’
‘Won’t you sit down? It’s strange to be here with that sign on the door. Saturday mornings are sometimes so busy. Today it’s like . . . I was going to say like a graveyard . . . I can’t take it in.’
‘Excuse me, Mister Rodney.’ The man in the overall put his head round the door.
‘Yes, Owen?’
‘Will I fetch you both a cuppa tea?’
Rodney looked at me. I nodded.
‘Yes, thank you, Owen.’
‘Oh and, sir, will I be in next week?’
‘Well, yes,’ Rodney said in surprise. ‘Not Monday of course. We will be closed as a mark of respect for my father, and then on the day of the funeral, but I don’t know when that will be. But I should like you to come in first thing Monday, so that you can ensure the note is on the door. I’ve spoken to the works manager, but you could be here in case any of the mechanics don’t get the message and turn up for work.’
‘Thank you, sir.’ Owen nodded gravely, but it seemed to me there was something like pleasure or relief in his voice.
At the risk of being nosy, I gave Rodney a questioning look.
‘My father sacked him. Said he was too slow. Today was to have been his last day, working out a week’s notice. But I shall keep him on. What does it matter if it takes twenty minutes or thirty-five to sweep a showroom or clean a motor?’
It occurred to me that the business might improve, with Milner dead. Unless Mr Milner senior was the one with the business head, and then Rodney may turn into one of those agreeable young men who let an inheritance slip through their fingers.
Weeks ago, when I had taken Rodney’s publicity photograph for the play, he had radiated confidence, but almost too vividly
, as though it might be a sham – something he put on as he fastened his necktie each morning. It struck me that he was very much at home, sitting in the leather chair, pictures of motor cars on the wall behind him.
‘Is this your own office?’ I asked.
‘It is now. Dad and I shared. When we were here together, mostly I’d sit where you are, or go out into the showroom, or the works, and make myself useful.’
‘You enjoy it?’
‘Very much. But I didn’t kill Dad to take over.’
‘Rodney!’
‘That’s what Inspector Charles seems to think.’
‘I’m sure not.’
He waved an arm at an empty shelf on the wall. ‘He’s had a man take our ledgers away, and bank statements, to check whether Dad owed money, or had made enemies.’
‘And had he?’
‘Not that I’m aware of. There’s a difference in not being liked and having enemies. Dad wasn’t liked. But why would anyone kill him?’
Rodney was quiet for a moment. I thought back to the performance of the night before, sitting on the front row of the stalls when the curtain rose. When Mr Milner came in late, noisily, excusing himself, waving a cigar, brushing ash from his trousers, he had settled himself, and suppressed a fit of coughing. On stage, Rodney began to stumble over his lines. ‘My son,’ Milner had whispered loudly as he puffed out a cloud of smoke. ‘He’ll say I’m late on purpose.’
As if he read my thoughts, Rodney said, ‘He put people’s backs up. That was his way. It didn’t mean to say he had enemies.’
I racked my brains for something kind to say. ‘He’s built a superb business. There must be people who envy him that.’
‘No other motor business for miles around comes near what we’ve achieved, but there’s no ill-feeling from other traders as far as I know. I can’t imagine who would want to kill Dad. They say he wasn’t robbed, that his wallet was still in his pocket. If he had been robbed, that at least would be an explanation.’
‘Do you have relatives, friends who’ll stand by you? It’s going to be hard over the coming weeks and months.’
He picked up a pencil and began to fidget with it. ‘Mrs Gould, she’s our housekeeper . . . She . . . when my mother died, Dad left a lot of the arrangements to her.’
‘When did your mother die, Rodney?’
He gulped. ‘Two years ago.’
Owen brought in a tray with a teapot, milk jug and sugar and two cups. He set it on the desk. ‘Will I go out for biscuits, or to the off licence? Something a little stronger for you, Mr Milner?’
Rodney looked at me.
I shook my head. ‘Not for me.’
‘No thank you, Owen.’
Now I was glad that I had come. Poor Rodney seemed so very solitary.
I stirred the tea in the pot, and then poured milk into the cups. ‘Your mother’s death is quite recent. That’s so sad for you.’
Rodney concentrated on watching the tea as it came from the pot. When the cups were filled, he said, ‘You pour tea just like my mother did. As if you can’t trust the spout.’
‘Well, you can’t always,’ I said, ‘especially if it’s an unknown spout.’
‘Can I tell you something?’
‘I wish you would. I know what it’s like to lose someone close to you.’
‘Dad drove Mother to her grave. He treated her badly.’
The stuffing went out of Rodney when he said that. He shrank on his chair. I was sorry to hear it, but not surprised. ‘In what way?’ I asked.
‘Oh . . . bullying . . . he can wear you down. And . . . well, other women. So I feel . . .’
‘You were too young to help her?’
‘I didn’t know how.’
‘And now you could, had she lived.’
‘If she were still alive now, I’d take the very best care of her. I hated him for it. But I didn’t kill him.’
I wished he didn’t have to keep on denying he’d killed his father. But I could understand his guilt at having the ‘wrong’ response. Having hardly known Mr Milner, but disliking him in spite of that, I could not feel sorrow about the man’s death, only the shocking manner of it. Not wanting to break the mood, I pushed the sugar basin towards Rodney, and waited. He spooned in two heaped teaspoons and stirred, very slowly.
‘I couldn’t sleep last night. I woke remembering that once Mother had another chap who cared for her, but she threw him over for Dad.’
‘Did she tell you that?’
‘No. Mrs Gould, our housekeeper, she told me, after Mother died.’
‘I think Mrs Gould answered the door to me earlier.’ So her tears had been for Rodney and his mother.
‘Last night – well, early hours of this morning, after the police had called – I was turning everything over and over in my thoughts. I even wondered if this old flame had reappeared, heard how badly Dad treated Mother, and took his revenge. Is that far-fetched?’
‘Our minds explore all sorts of possibilities, whether we want them to or not.’
I knew that well enough. That was why I liked being a detective. It gave my mind something real to ponder, rather than will-o’-the-wisps and might-have-beens. The trouble with having received a wartime telegram to say my husband was missing presumed dead, is that straight away the imagination turns that around. Missing presumed alive.
We concentrated on drinking our tea in silence.
‘Did your mother help start this business?’ I asked.
He looked surprised. ‘Don’t think so. Why?’
‘I was just wondering. Mr Milner was a corporal in the army, and still quite young when he came out. Something like this must have taken a lot of capital.’
‘It’s funny you should say that.’ Rodney lit a cigarette. ‘Someone else asked me about that recently.’
‘Oh? May I ask who?’
He blushed. ‘It was Alison. She has a very quick mind, you know. Trained at the secretarial school and did accounts and everything. She works for a solicitor.’
Now I was the one lost for words. What a fool Alison had been not to tell Rodney of her pregnancy, and to confide instead in Olivia Geerts who went trotting off to Rodney’s father with the news. I could just imagine the two of them putting their heads together over it.
Keeping as neutral a tone as possible, I asked, ‘And what did you tell Alison?’
‘Why, that I didn’t rightly know. Except Mother once said Dad won money from Captain Wolfendale, and that probably we should be grateful to him. She used to invite the captain, Miss Fell and Lucy to Sunday dinner.’
So I was right. There was a financial link between the captain and Milner. And one that the captain might have reason to resent. I wondered had Mr Charles made that connection?
‘Are you very close, you and Lucy?’
He looked at me sharply, picking up straight away on the meaning behind my words. ‘Not in that way. We’re good pals.’
I was here to ask about Lucy, and here was the perfect moment to do so. But he did not know she was missing, I felt sure of that.
‘You must be the only young man in Harrogate not in love with Lucy Wolfendale.’
It was a relief to see him forget himself for a moment, and laugh. ‘That’s exactly what I said to Alison. It is because I know Lucy too well. When you asked me earlier who might stand by me over the next weeks and months, well, Lucy will. And Alison. She and I are very close as you put it. We’ve talked of becoming engaged.’
‘I’m glad. I hope you’ll both be very happy.’
‘Neither of the girls must have heard yet, or they would have come to see me. They were staying with Madam Geerts last night.’
So much for thinking I would get a new lead on Lucy’s whereabouts.
‘Your housekeeper said that the captain called this morning.’
‘Yes. They’d known each other for years. He and Dad served in the Boer War together, though they never agreed about it. Lucy and I got so bored when that came up over the roast beef,
and the salt and pepper pots moved around the table, replaying battles.’
‘How did they disagree?’
‘Oh, you say it, they disagreed. The captain said the war was necessary for the good of the Empire. Dad said it was all about gold. Mother used to get upset. She said our soldiers burned down the farmhouses and destroyed the animals and crops, so that the Boers would have to surrender. She said they put the women and children in camps, horrible places called concentration camps.’
South Africa, 1900
Captain Wolfendale cursed his luck. He had given the order to blow up a cartload of Free State ammunition that they did not have the capacity to carry. Some fool of a private had been too hasty with the charge and killed himself. The blast threw Wolfendale into evil red rocks. It knocked his shoulder out. When he regained consciousness, the pain stopped him in his tracks. That he escaped that damned hospital without catching typhoid was a miracle. His new posting made him wish for the battlefield, or for typhoid.
Tailed by Sergeant Lampton and two privates, the captain gazed on the rows of white bell tents with half closed eyes. If he looked slantwise, he could fool himself that it was a stop-over, a temporary camp on the dusty veld. The putrid stench of latrines gave a lie to that pretence. No soldiers’ camp ever stank to high heaven as this did. He waved a hand at his batman. Sergeant Lampton produced a handkerchief. The captain held it to his nose and mouth.
‘Dammit, we should number these rows. And why don’t they raise their tent flaps in this heat?’ He stopped at a tent with an open flap, thinking this must be the right place. The woman might be a traitor to her country, but an Englishwoman would have the sense to want fresh air.
Three adults sat listlessly, gazing at nothing. One nursed a child. Another child lay motionless on a mat, flies buzzing around its face.
It was not the right tent. They kept going.
Further on, the sergeant stopped. The captain opened the flap with his stick. Flies buzzed inside the tent. Three women looked up. At the back of the tent, two young children lay on a blanket. A fly landed on one of the children’s eyelids. The younger of the women waved a scrap of material across the children’s faces, as if to cool them.
A Medal For Murder: A Kate Shackleton Mystery Page 15