A Medal For Murder: A Kate Shackleton Mystery

by Frances Brody

  ‘I need your help, Miss Fell.’

  We were strolling in the small park, Peeko sniffing at wallflowers. Miss Fell moved more and more slowly as though her legs and her brain refused to work.

  ‘I can’t take it in. It seems impossible to think Lucy would have offered to make the trip into Leeds to fetch my ring, and then for such a thing to happen.’

  Miss Fell had seemed so distressed at the thought of Lucy being dishonest that I had told her a little more about my investigations, and had quickly invented some plausible explanation that cast suspicion on that eavesdropping master of disguises, Dan Root.

  The afternoon was a warm, but she tightened the scarf at her throat. ‘Mr Root seems so upright, quite a religious fellow. Always off to some service on Sundays. Of course you can never tell with young men. Chapels are where they do their courting.’ At a cast-iron bench, Miss Fell came to a halt. ‘I usually sit here.’

  Peeko circled us expectantly, making small leaps at Miss Fell’s pocket. She peeled off her gloves and took out a ball, tossing it along the path. Peeko raced towards it. Miss Fell held her gloves carefully, gazing at her diamond ring. ‘I am sure you are wrong about Lucy being involved in this matter. It’s true that I gave her the pawn ticket, and she agreed to redeem the ring. As to her going missing, there must be some simple explanation.’

  ‘Then let us try and find that simple explanation,’ I said gently. Peeko brought me his wet ball. I threw it for him with a bit of a bowler’s spin, sending him racing across the grass. ‘All I want to do is get to the truth.’

  ‘Very well. What do you want me to do?’

  ‘I would like to see whether Dan Root has any jewellery hidden in his room. When you go back, and you take Peeko upstairs, find some task that you can ask him to help you with. Perhaps you have a gas mantle that needs changing?’

  Miss Fell’s eyes suddenly sparkled. ‘I’m assisting a detective aren’t I? I shall be helping prove Lucy innocent.’

  ‘I hope so.’

  ‘Now what can I ask Mr Root to do? My mantles are all in perfect order, unlike the captain’s. He has been threatening to put a new light in the hall for six months.’

  ‘Something on a high shelf, perhaps, that he could reach for you? As long as you keep him talking. Keep him out of the way for about fifteen minutes, if you can.’

  ‘I do have an obstinate jar of piccalilli that I can’t open. And two of my curtain rings have come off.’

  ‘Perfect.’

  ‘And there’s a case on top of the wardrobe he could lift down, while he’s about it, and when I have what I want he can lift it back.’

  ‘Excellent. And Miss Fell, there is one other thing, if you would be willing.’ I had not yet finished searching the captain’s attic. I wanted to take a careful look at his cigar box of documents and photographs. ‘After you have finished with Mr Root, I should like you to go downstairs, and keep Captain Wolfendale occupied.’

  She looked alarmed. ‘Oh dear. Are you risking returning to the lion’s den?’

  ‘Yes. And I should like to borrow that magnifying glass of yours.’

  After our walk, I loitered in the park, and then walked back slowly. I watched as Miss Fell knocked on Mr Root’s door. The two of them went up the front steps and into the house.

  Root had not troubled to lock his door. Why should he when he expected to be gone for only a few moments?

  I hurried into his flat.

  I searched under his worktable, the pantry, and the cupboards. Quickly I went to his chest of drawers. In the top drawer were a couple of old pocket watches, not from Moony’s list, along with a set of plain gold cufflinks. The other drawers held neatly folded shirts and socks. If he had robbed the pawnbroker, then he had found some other hiding place for the goods.

  Out of curiosity, I picked up the book he had moved to one side when I had visited him earlier, as if trying to keep it from view. It was a bible. Written on the flyleaf was the name Gideon Bindeman. At first glance, I thought the language Dutch. Then I realised that it must be Afrikaans.

  Chimneys sometimes provided a hiding place. Reluctantly, I searched the hearth. Covering my hand with a handkerchief, I felt into the cold chimney breast and then checked the ash pan. Nothing.

  Relying on Miss Fell’s talking powers to keep Root out of the way, I glanced at the speaking trumpet I had noticed on my earlier visit. The metal pipe that lay near it intrigued me. It was turned at a forty-five degree angle. The end of the speaking trumpet, when I tried them together, fitted perfectly. The trumpet was edged in soot. I put it into the hearth and raised it into the chimney breast.

  Silence. And then, the unmistakeable sound of the restless captain, blowing his nose. So I had been right about the eavesdropping.

  The house door slammed. Root would be here any second. Quickly, I dismantled the trumpet from the pipe, and hurried out of the flat. But he was already coming down the steps from the house. There was nothing for it but to stand by his door. I raised my left hand to knock, because that was free of soot.

  As I tapped on the door, I felt the warmth of his body right behind me.

  ‘Mrs Shackleton. To what do I owe the honour of another visit?’

  I stepped aside, to give him the freedom to open his own door. He did not, but waited.

  ‘I thought you might be able to help me,’ I said, making a fist of my sooty hand so that he would not see it. ‘Do you know where Lucy is?’

  ‘Always searching for someone,’ he said with a smile. ‘Yesterday Meriel Jamieson, today Lucy. I must put a new sign on my door, enquire within for missing persons.’

  His arrogance and the smile irritated me. ‘Lucy is missing, as I’m sure you know.’ I watched closely, waiting for some reaction.

  The look of concern seemed genuine. He could have feigned surprise but did not.

  ‘I haven’t got her hidden here, if that’s what you mean.’ He flung open the door. ‘See for yourself.’

  My withering look stopped him in his tracks.

  ‘Sorry,’ he said. ‘But you seem to be blaming me.’

  He was playing games with me. It was my guess he had heard every word that passed between me and the captain. Well, let him see the soot on my hands. Let him know his dirty little secret was out.

  ‘Do you mind if I wash my hands?’

  ‘Be my guest.’

  For a South African, his accent was perfect. Occasionally his words had a slightly chopped sound, but not enough to draw attention. What was it that Mr Moony had said? The man’s accent was neutral, not local. In height and looks Dan Root did not look the part of Mr Moony’s robber, but his voice certainly fitted. On stage he had acted his parts to perfection: stooped for the miser, with a disappearing neck for the revivalist, and a shuffling, defeated gait for the despairing manufacturer who hangs himself. Dan was indeed a master of disguise.

  He was acting now as he graciously passed me a clean hand towel, saying, ‘Lucy’s probably with a friend. I wonder if she has heard the news about Milner? I expect you have.’

  There was something in his voice that was almost triumphant. It frightened me. Why was he here, a Boer in the house of the enemy, listening in to what went on in the flat above?

  ‘Yes, I have heard.’

  ‘I was in town earlier. People are talking of nothing else. I expect the police will want to interview all of us who saw Milner last night.’

  The way he enunciated Milner’s name betrayed his dislike of the man. But it was less noticeable the second time he spoke the name than the first. Perhaps he was practising. Dan Root was such a good actor that he would do shocked horror to perfection, and play innocence with utter conviction.

  I handed back the towel. ‘Thank you.’

  ‘Not at all. And I shall keep an eye out for Lucy.’

  I left his flat and went back into the house. The captain had interrupted my search of his attic with such vehemence that I knew he had something to hide. Miss Fell, good as her word, was waiting at h
er door. She passed me her magnifying glass, and wished me luck. As I began to climb the stairs, she went down, to tap on the captain’s door, and keep him talking.

  When I left number 29 after my second sojourn into the attic, I desperately needed to think, to make sense of what I had seen. Wanting to walk, I set off for the railway station, taking my time, paying little attention to my surroundings as I made my way down the Leeds Road. I turned onto York Place, and then Station Road, beginning to get the hang of Harrogate, whilst still juggling pieces of an extraordinary puzzle.

  The double wooden doors of the red-brick railway station stood wide open, releasing a newly arrived torrent of visitors. An elderly porter pushed a trolley loaded with trunks, hatboxes and portmanteaux, wheels squeaking as he headed for the taxi rank.

  Sending for the fingerprint kit had seemed a good idea. It was now two o’clock. I hoped that Sykes would have put the kit on the train at about noon, and so it should be ready for me to collect. Then I might discover who else besides Lucy had handled the ransom note. My first guesses had been Dylan Ashton, Rodney Milner or Alison Hart. After speaking to Alison and Rodney, I felt sure they were not in Lucy’s confidence. That left Dylan, a young chap whom I should be able to crack between finger and thumb. But Dylan had proved surprisingly stubborn. Another distinct possibility now seemed to be Dan Root.

  So far, so uncertain. There was also the small matter of my lack of expertise in dealing with the loops and whorls of fingerprints. Jim Sykes had given me a demonstration. I had tried it myself – once, but my confidence took a dip as I entered the station.

  Through the barrier, I watched happy shoppers stepping off the York train. A young man beamed at the sight of his lady friend alighting from a first-class carriage. The porter hurried to help an old lady.

  Everyone had something to be pleased about: their visit to the Spa; coming home; a successful shopping trip; a reunion. Trust me to be there to meet a wooden box.

  Before I had time to check at the parcels office, someone from an inch behind my head said, ‘Mrs Shackleton!’

  I nearly jumped out of my skin. If he had said, ‘Hello, I am your local murderer,’ I could not have been more startled.

  ‘Mr Sykes! Where did you come from?’

  ‘Sorry to creep up on you. I saw you walking along but could not get near for the taxi cabs, and the crush.’

  ‘How did you get here?’

  ‘Drove across in your Jowett, Mrs Shackleton. You said I could make use of the motor while you were away. And I have visited all the gentlemen customers on Mr Moony’s list.’

  Sykes had only just learned to drive. With him at the wheel in the emergency that followed our last case, we had crawled home at the pace of an arthritic snail.

  He seemed terribly pleased with himself, practically bouncing as we threaded our way through the busy station.

  ‘After the telegram yesterday, and your telephone call to Mrs Sugden this morning, thought you might appreciate reinforcements.’

  Sykes’s presence made me feel better. I did not turn to detection in order to become expert at analysing fingerprints and was more than glad to leave that to him. All the same, it would not pay to let him think he had the better of me. ‘If this is a contest in handling the mysterious case of the pawnshop robbery, you will have a great deal of catching up to do.’

  He had parked the Jowett in James Street, perhaps on account of worrying about having to reverse if he drove to the station. As we crossed the square, I told him all about unmasking Miss Fell as Mrs deVries, the fact that the pawned ring was back on its owner’s finger, and that the person she had entrusted to redeem it, namely Lucy Wolfendale, had gone missing.

  He let out an astonished whistle. ‘You have been busy.’

  ‘That’s not half of it.’

  James Street bustled with shoppers. We paused to let a woman and her daughter totter in their heels to a motor whose chauffeur opened the door smartly. They were followed by a shop assistant, heavily laden with parcels and hat boxes.

  As we reached the Jowett, Sykes asked, ‘Why did our mysterious gentlewoman go all the way from Harrogate to Leeds, so as not to be known, and then go to the trouble of supplying a false name and address?’

  ‘She is embarrassed by her poverty,’ I said in a low voice. ‘I’m sure that Miss Fell has no connection with the robbery. As far as she was concerned, Lucy Wolfendale simply offered to do her the favour of redeeming her ring from Moony’s pawnshop.’

  When we were sitting in the car, this time with me back in the driving seat, he asked, ‘But who else was in on it? Who was the young man who throttled Mr Moony?’

  Not wishing to shout above the engine noise, I waited before starting the motor. ‘Good question. There is a Mr Root, Dan – originally from South Africa. I believe his real name is Bindeman. Either for his amusement or some other purpose, he listens in to what goes on in the captain’s flat. I hope I’ll have his fingerprints on a watchmender’s cup. Who knows? Perhaps he’ll be on police records.’

  I started the car and began to drive up the street, towards the Valley Gardens, and past the Royal Pump room. Once on Cornwall Road, in a quiet spot in sight of the Grand Hotel, I stopped the car.

  Sykes picked up where we had left off. ‘What sort of figure does this missing Lucy Wolfendale cut?’

  ‘I wouldn’t have thought she could be mistaken for a chap, though she is a budding actress, and a good one. Her height would be about right.’

  Sykes barely kept the envy from his voice. ‘No wonder I drew a blank in Leeds. This is a ladies and gentlemen of Harrogate job. Is this Lucy part of some criminal ring?’ He turned to me, with a please-tell-all look on his face.

  ‘I doubt it. Her ransom note to her grandfather had a distinctly amateurish look about it. I would not say we are looking for a mastermind.’

  He smiled. ‘Ransom note? Tell me you’re joshing.’

  ‘I wish I were. What does leave me feeling uneasy is that the man who doted on her was murdered.’

  The smile vanished. His look became suddenly serious. ‘The motor trade man?’

  ‘You know about it?’

  ‘Heard it from the beat bobby in Woodhouse this morning. I never dreamed there might be some connection with the robbery.’

  ‘We don’t know that there is, yet.’

  ‘But you suspect?’ He was staring hard at me. I could hear his brain ticking, and anticipated the next remark. ‘Have you told the police?’ he asked, in a sombre voice.

  ‘I’d better tell you everything from the beginning.’ In a methodical order that would suit Sykes’s tidy mind, I told him everything that had happened since I arrived in Harrogate. He listened with rapt attention, his mouth opening now and again, until I had to remind him that it was summer, and there were flies about.

  ‘Is that it?’ he said.

  ‘No. One more thing. Half an hour ago, I asked Miss Fell to go down and keep Lucy’s grandfather, Captain Wolfendale, talking while I searched his attic for a second time, looking for the jewellery, and checking on something else that had intrigued me. There was no stolen property – or at least not what we are looking for. But I did find something else. The captain has a cigar box, with photographs from the Boer War, and some documents. One of the photographs shows the captain and his batman. And what is very puzzling is that having seen a photograph of Wolfendale as a lad, and having got to know him as he is today, I am almost certain that the man calling himself Captain Wolfendale now is the sergeant in the photograph.’

  Sykes shook his head. ‘This is too much for me to take in. You’ve lost me.’

  ‘The young Wolfendale in a photograph with his aunt has the same shape face as you, longish, and he is recognisable in the photograph in uniform, taken twenty-odd years ago. The man beside him in that photograph, in sergeant’s uniform, has a round face.’

  ‘Perhaps they changed caps, for a lark or something.’

  ‘That’s possible, I suppose. But the man calling himsel
f Wolfendale now has that same round face, quite chubby. There is a death certificate for Henry Lampton, who died of suffocation whilst inebriated. There are discharge papers for the two men, Sergeant Lampton and Captain Wolfendale. I think that the person who died was Wolfendale, and that Lampton took his place.’

  The afternoon sun shone brightly, turning the motor into an oven. ‘Let’s walk for a while,’ I suggested.

  Sykes did not budge. ‘I don’t know how you do it.’

  ‘I can’t quite take it in myself. I almost picked up the cigar box and made off with it. But I don’t suppose Inspector Charles will be too delighted if having pointed the finger at Monsieur Geerts I now tell him that perhaps he has another suspect.’

  Sykes sighed. ‘And, of course, you could be mistaken. Perhaps the chap just put on weight. Men do when they get older, and aren’t living an active life any more.’

  In the bright sunshine of the afternoon, my interpretation of the photographs seemed less convincing to me. And I had certainly not convinced Sykes. He was impatient to be doing, not talking.

  ‘If it’s all the same to you, I’d just as soon get on with this fingerprinting. Because I feel I’ve contributed nothing, apart from being Mr Moony’s messenger boy to his customers.’

  I started the motor. As I did, my stomach rumbled.

  ‘Was that you or me?’ Sykes asked.

  ‘Me. I haven’t eaten a thing since my shared duck egg this morning. We can have a bite to eat, you check the fingerprints – see whether we can find out for sure who has been helping Lucy in her ransom efforts. Once I find her, I can get to the bottom of what is going on. Then I’ll go to the police, if needs be.’

  I stopped the car at the entrance to the Grand Hotel.

  The hotel doorman doffed his cap and got into the driving seat, ready to park the motor. He spoke to Sykes. ‘Need any attention to the motor, sir? We have a pit in the garage.’

  Sykes looked at me.

  ‘Just petrol. Thank you.’

  ‘Very good, madam,’ he said in a slightly offended voice.

  ‘Hold on,’ Sykes said, hurrying round to the rear of the car. ‘There’s something I need from the boot.’