I suppressed a groan.
‘My daughter has over-democratic sympathies. But really, Kate, a title will get us far better treatment in the spa, believe me.’
‘Mother, I need to talk to Inspector Charles now. Please tell Dad I will come if I can. Otherwise I will call and see him next weekend.’
‘And what about . . .?’
‘I’ll see you this evening. Promise.’
Inspector Charles took in the situation at great speed. He motioned to one of his men who was beside us in an instant. ‘McDonald here will escort you back to your hotel, Lady Virginia.’
‘Thank you but I have a car waiting.’
‘Then would you oblige me by letting me give you and your daughter supper this evening, at your hotel?’
Mother looked from him to me and back again. ‘That would be delightful. Would nine o’clock suit?’
‘Yes.’
‘I look forward to it.’ She leaned towards me, for a kiss on the cheek, and then was gone.
The inspector lowered himself onto the sofa beside me. ‘You have news for me?’
‘Lucy Wolfendale is at home now. She has a swollen ankle, but apart from that is all right, and could be interviewed.’
‘Thank you.’
‘And one other thing. Dan Root – he lives in the flat below the Wolfendales, and played three roles in Anna of the Five Towns . . .’
‘Versatile chap.’
‘Yes, an exceedingly good amateur actor. He’s with one of your officers now, confessing to the murder of Lawrence Milner.’
‘What?! But my men saw him earlier.’ He shook his head and gazed at me in amazement. ‘You’ve cracked it again. Do you have some kind of sixth sense?’
He looked almost elated. I felt entirely miserable. ‘This doesn’t make any kind of sense to me.’
The inspector practically rocked on his toes in his eagerness to get to Dan. ‘Do you mind waiting a little longer, Mrs Shackleton? I should like to hear how you reeled this chap in.’
I watched the inspector disappear upstairs, wondering just who had done the reeling in, Dan or me. I plumped for Dan.
For twenty minutes, I stuck limpet-like to my sofa in the lobby of the Prince of Wales Hotel, pretending to read the Sunday paper, alert to the comings and goings from the first floor.
As the inspector came down the stairs, he caught my eye. I folded the newspaper carefully as he crossed the lobby. The man in the chair nearest to me put down his book, pricked up his ears, and stared. Police activity had aroused a good deal of interest.
The inspector gave nothing away by his look or a word. ‘Shall we go?’ he said pleasantly. As we left the hotel, he shot me a quick, concerned look. ‘I’d very much like you to be with me on this next interview. If you feel up to it.’
My whole body felt somehow dried out. My eyes itched, my mouth felt dry, there was a prickling on my skin and a faint feeling of nausea. The day did not feel real; it was a carousel of uncertainty. ‘You have a car, I think,’ he said.
‘Yes.’
‘I still want to talk to Lucy Wolfendale,’ he said quietly. ‘Do you feel up to driving? It may be kind not to arrive at 29 St Clement’s Road in a police car.’
We walked to my car. He climbed into the passenger seat without a murmur about Dan Root’s confession.
‘Are you all right?’ he said, when I did not start the car.
‘No. I have just spent the morning with a man whom I then drove to your rooms to let him confess to murder. And you haven’t said a dickybird. I have to know.’
He sighed. ‘Dan Root had a good deal of information about the killing, tells a persuasive tale, and has the impeccable motive of coming between a lecher and a young lady he is fond of.’
‘But?’
‘He didn’t do it. I got the impression that he wished he had. One motive is usually enough, but he had two. Says he cared for Lucy and warned Milner to keep away from her, then stabbed him. Says Milner was a soldier in the Boer camp where his mother died, and he bore a grudge.’
‘Isn’t that good enough?’
‘Root fought in the Great War. He’s as British as I am, though he might not like it. He’s wasted an hour of my men’s time.’
‘How can you be sure?’
‘He claimed to have used a kitchen knife, knew nothing about the parked car, or the damage to it. I’ve told the sergeant to let him stew for another half hour and then send him on his way. I’ll deal with him later. My interest at the moment is in talking to Miss Lucy Wolfendale.’
‘You suspect her?’
‘I want to talk to her, that’s all.’
I started the car, suddenly not fully trusting myself to drive. A pressure in my head made me feel my brain would burst. I took a few deep breaths, and drew away from the kerb.
We drove in silence, thoughts spinning in my head. If Dan Root were not guilty, and he was protecting Lucy, then what they must have been talking about in the tower was her having killed Milner. And Dan could have been offering some understanding, saying that he himself had once intended to kill. Engrossed in my thoughts, I almost passed the end of St Clement’s Road. I would have liked to have driven on, and away, and out of all this mess. I signalled right, and turned.
By now I was heartily sick of this road, and the sight of shabby number 29. If I never saw it again, that would be too soon.
The main door was open. I tapped and entered the Wolfendale flat. Miss Fell was seated in the captain’s chair. She held a finger to her lips and came towards us.
‘Lucy’s sleeping. The captain has gone out. He said he may be some time.’
‘Miss Fell, this is Inspector Charles of Scotland Yard. He needs to speak to Lucy. I know it’s a shame to wake her . . .’
‘Scotland Yard?’ Miss Fell’s eyes widened.
‘Perhaps you and I could have a brief word, Miss Fell, while Mrs Shackleton rouses Miss Wolfendale.’
He led Miss Fell into the hall.
As the inspector and Miss Fell left the room, I sat down in the chair opposite Lucy. She lay like Sleeping Beauty, waiting to be awoken by a prince. Still wearing Friday night’s dress, she had a faintly earthy whiff about her from having slept in her clothes all weekend. She had managed to keep her ankle raised. On the low table beside her was an unappetising jam sandwich.
The clock on the mantelpiece ticked loudly. It struck half past two.
She opened her eyes. ‘You can eat that blackberry jam sandwich if you like. I’m not asleep. Auntie Ada fusses so much I had to shut her out.’
‘What’s that you have?’
A fat envelope lay on her solar plexus
‘Granddad gave it to me. It’s a mass of money. Haven’t counted it. If he’d done this on my twenty-first as I asked, I could have saved myself an awful lot of trouble.’
‘Where did he get it? How much?’
‘It’s lots. Nice big fivers. He said it came from Mr Milner. But how could it, when Milner’s dead?’ She pushed it behind the cushion. ‘Why does the policeman want to talk to me?’
‘Why do you think?’
‘About Mr Milner I suppose. Does he think I stabbed him?’
I was saved the trouble of answering.
The inspector walked in, introducing himself.
Lucy’s manner changed. She stiffened and sat up. ‘I didn’t do it,’ she said straight away. ‘He was a nasty man and I hated him, but I didn’t kill him. Why should I? I want to go to drama school. I have a plan and it did not include marrying or murdering anyone.’ She swung her legs to the floor and faced him, wincing in pain.
He motioned me to stay in Wolfendale’s big leather chair, and brought a carver across, placing it between me and Lucy.
‘What happened to your ankle, Miss Wolfendale?’
‘I fell.’ She nodded towards me. ‘Oh I expect she’s told you about my little escapade. I know I shouldn’t have done it.’
The inspector’s attention remained on Lucy. ‘What escapade is that?�
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She looked at me in surprise, and gratitude. ‘You didn’t tell?’
‘No. Perhaps you should do that. And while you’re about it, put your leg back on that footstool.’
There was something about Lucy that brought out a protective instinct in me. Now, of course, the inspector would wonder what else I had not told him.
He showed great patience as he drew Lucy’s story from her. He asked her about the play, and the final performance on Friday evening. ‘Don’t plays usually run to a Saturday?’ he asked disarmingly.
‘They do. But the Opera House is a professional theatre and although they have a space for amateur groups to perform, they had a variety show touring in for the Saturday, and so we had to get out on Friday night, gather up all our props and costumes and so on.’
‘What props did you have to carry?’
‘I’d borrowed Auntie Ada’s sewing box. My character, Anna, she went without needle and thread to a sewing evening, and her friend provides her with what she needs. Alison Hart played my friend. Well, Alison’s mother said she wasn’t parting with her sewing box for love or money, and so I had to take one.’
‘Tell me about that Friday night, after the performance.’
As she spoke, she painted a picture of the party that I recognised – the admiration of the cast for Meriel, how she and the other young people formed a clique, the shy way in which Dylan stuck by her, how relieved she was when I kept Mr Milner talking, and when Madam Geerts drew him away.
She left the theatre at about 11.15 p.m. with Madam Geerts and Alison, and walked back with them to Madam Geerts’s house. Rodney and his friend were with them. She went into the house for a few moments, left her props there, and then pretended that she would catch up with Rodney and his friend. Instead, she went to the backyard of Croker & Company, where she had arranged to meet Dylan. When she heard another voice, and recognised it as Monsieur Geerts, she hid in the outside lavatory until he had gone. Then Dylan got out his bike and cycled her to the tower.
Just as the inspector was about to ask another question, we were interrupted by a loud knocking on the outside door.
I stood up. ‘I’ll go.’
It was a short, stocky plain-clothes policeman, a little out of breath. ‘Inspector Charles here? I need to speak to him, urgently.’
The inspector had heard, and came out into the hall. I left him and the constable to talk, and went back to Lucy.
‘He’s nice,’ she said. ‘And I don’t think he thinks I killed Mr Milner.’
‘No.’ I had no idea what was going on in the inspector’s mind.
‘He likes you,’ she said confidently, trying to scratch her ankle under the bandage. ‘The inspector likes you, Mrs Shackleton. I can always tell.’ She dropped her voice to a whisper as he came back into the room. ‘You like him too.’
The inspector looked suddenly grey-faced and grim. He did not sit down but gripped the back of the chair. ‘I’ve sent the constable upstairs to tell Miss Fell something, but it’s something very bad, Lucy, and you must know it first.’
Lucy ran her tongue around her lips. ‘Is it Dylan? Has he died? He was only trying to help me . . .’
‘Not Dylan. Your grandfather. There is no easy way to say this. He is dead.’
‘No. He was here, he . . .’ Her eyes widened. She clenched her fists.
‘He just came to our headquarters in the Prince of Wales. He made a confession to having killed Mr Milner . . .’
She stared at him, her mouth open, as if she suspected this might be some horrible trick.
Inspector Charles continued, ‘From what your grandfather said, the details he gave, we have every reason to believe that he did murder Mr Milner.’
Her head dropped forward. She began to shake convulsively. I feared she was about to have a fit. In movements that seemed like slow motion, I went across to her, sat on the arm of the chair and took hold of her.
After a few moments, she stopped shaking. With tears on her cheeks, she looked up. ‘But you said grandfather is dead. And now you say he is a killer.’
His look was full of compassion, his voice gentle. ‘He brought with him a revolver. When he had signed the confession, he turned the revolver on himself.’
Lucy’s voice was little more than a whisper. ‘He wouldn’t. He . . .’
‘Death was instant. He shot himself through the temple. I’m sorry, Miss Wolfendale.’
I shut my eyes, willing myself not to be sick. When I opened them, I looked at the photograph of Lucy that the captain had placed on the occasional table. There was the clearest thumb mark where he had held it while admiring my photographic skill and Lucy’s translucent beauty.
It shook me to the core to think that when I had come in here late that evening after the theatre, after sitting in the police station giving my story, the captain had blood on his hands. Coolly, he had handed me the telegram from Sykes about Mrs deVries and her address. Unblinking, he had, the next morning, sought my help in finding Lucy. All the while I had been dealing with a cold-blooded murderer.
Miss Fell came bustling in. ‘My poor Lucy.’ She rushed to Lucy and folded her in her arms. Lucy began to sob.
‘Will you be all right?’ the inspector asked me.
‘Yes.’
‘I have to get back to the Prince of Wales.’
‘Of course.’
I followed him into the hall. The front door stood open. The two men were about to leave.
‘Wait!’ They turned back to look at me. Now was not the time, but I had to know. Because something did not ring true. I remembered the expression on the old man’s face earlier, when he looked at Lucy and realised that she knew how Milner had died. ‘Did he really do it, or was this another false confession?’
The inspector looked at me in great surprise. One false confession would be unusual. Two would be extraordinary. He nodded to his subordinate. ‘We can trust Mrs Shackleton.’
The plain-clothes man cleared his throat. ‘Captain Wolfendale had all the details correct, the time, the weapon, the slashed tyres. He even said he had lost a cufflink and disposed of its match down a drain.’
That should have convinced me. My nagging doubts were based on flimsy thoughts that would sound ridiculous if I put them into words. The old man was not capable of changing a gas mantle in his own hall. Could he be so thorough as to almost get away with murder? And why confess?
The inspector was impatient to be off.
I wanted to stop him, to say that there was something wrong. ‘One more question. What was his motive?’
The plain-clothes man relaxed a little now. It made me wonder if he, too, thought the captain’s account of the murder had been too tidy.
‘He was being blackmailed by the victim. It had gone on for years. On Friday, Mr Milner had come round in the afternoon and asked him to sign over the house. That was the last straw.’
I did not believe that. Milner wanted Lucy, not a dilapidated house with a sitting tenant.
Inspector Charles asked the next question for me. ‘What was the captain being blackmailed about?’
‘Something that happened during the Boer War, sir. Apparently, the captain was decorated for his bravery. He took credit for another man’s courage, and after the war, he killed a man. Killed his own batman. It reads very convincing in his statement, sir.’
It would have been more convincing, I thought, if he had confessed to being the batman who had killed his captain. But then, Lucy would be left homeless. There would be no provision in law for this house to be inherited by Miss Wolfendale’s nephew’s illegitimate daughter. That would be a Dickensian suite in chancery.
The three of us stood in silence for a moment. The detective constable put on his hat and left. Inspector Charles looked at me with respect and admiration. ‘You said it this morning. You said we should take a closer look at Captain Wolfendale. You were right.’
With that, he left.
I returned to the room. Lucy and the ancient
Miss Fell were locked in a tragic embrace.
I barely trusted myself to speak. But there was one question I needed to ask.
‘Lucy, when Dan was in the tower with you, was he confessing to murder?’
She looked up. Tears smudged her cheeks. ‘No. Why would he?’
‘I overheard him.’
She stared at me for a moment, then a flicker of recollection came to her. ‘Oh that. No. He was saying that he wanted to kill someone he really and truly hated, and so he knew how I felt.’
‘About what? How you felt about what?’
She burst into a fresh bout of weeping. ‘About killing Mr Milner. I told him I murdered Mr Milner.’
My mouth felt so dry I could barely get the words out. My top lip stuck to my teeth. ‘And did you kill Mr Milner?’
‘No!’
‘Then why did you say you did?’
‘Oh I don’t know. I wanted Dan to help me. I wanted him to look after me, and collect the money from the hollow tree on Monday.’
Suddenly it made sense why Dan had confessed to murder. I had felt protective towards Lucy, he felt the same, and in spades. ‘So you really told him that you killed Mr Milner?’
‘Yes. I thought if Dan was on my side, everything would be all right.’
What I did next was not like me at all. I bore down on her, kicked the footstool from under her sprained ankle so that her leg dropped and she let out a cry. I grabbed her and shook her. ‘And your grandfather. Did you tell him the same thing? That you killed Milner?’
‘No!’
‘Are you sure?’ I kept on shaking her. Her head flopped back and forth like a rag doll’s. She was wailing.
‘Of course I’m sure, I swear it.’
Miss Fell pulled at my arm. ‘Stop it! Leave the child be. Don’t you see how upset she is?’
‘Did you kill him, Lucy? You had good reason to stick a knife in Milner’s heart.’
Miss Fell began to pull at my clothes, trying to drag me off. Lucy became a dead weight. I had stopped shaking her and held her by the arms, to keep her from falling. I let her drop back into the chair. She looked up at me, dislike and resentment in every feature.
A Medal For Murder: A Kate Shackleton Mystery Page 29