‘I didn’t kill him. Granddad asked me had I done it. He said to not be afraid to say. But I didn’t. I told him, it wasn’t me. Ask Alison. She was with me the whole time. We went to the dressing room together, so that he wouldn’t get me on my own.’
She was telling the truth. She looked too exhausted to lie. I turned and left the room. Now I was the one who had begun to shake.
I shut the front door quietly and walked down the steps, not sorry to be leaving 29 St Clement’s Road behind.
In my mind’s eye, I saw what might have happened on Friday night: the captain, hailing Milner as he walked towards his motor on Cheltenham Parade. What words had he uttered as he plunged the knife into Milner’s heart? In a slow dance, had he guided Milner up the alley to the doorway and let him slide into oblivion?
My hands began to shake as I made to open the car door. I leaned slightly, supporting myself as my legs turned weak.
‘Mrs Shackleton!’ Firm hands gripped my upper arms.
I turned to see Dan Root.
He released me. ‘Sorry, saw you through my window. Thought you were going to faint.’
I shook him off. ‘I’m not the fainting type, Mr Root.’
‘All the same, won’t you come in for a moment?’
‘No. Thank you.’
‘I’ve something to tell you.’
‘You had something to tell me before. It was a pack of lies.’
‘Only the part about killing Milner was untrue.’
‘Only!’ Everything in my body screamed at him to keep his nonsense to himself. ‘I don’t want to hear any more from you.’ But that was not true. Given his habit of eavesdropping, there might be something he could tell me that would help make some sense of the captain’s confession.
‘Let me at least offer you a glass of water, and an apology. Come in and sit down, just for a moment, until you feel ready to drive.’
I did not have the energy to refuse, but told myself this was work. In his confession, the captain had given an account of what passed between him and Milner on Friday afternoon. Eavesdropper Dan would be able to confirm or deny that. If what the captain said was true, about Milner wanting the house, then perhaps the rest of his statement was also true. There was the advantage that Dan could not have heard my conversation in the hall with the two policemen.
His bench and work in progress was covered with a darned white sheet. Otherwise the room was just the same as when he had given me a demonstration on how to use an eyeglass, and as it had been when I returned to search hastily, looking for some clue to Lucy’s whereabouts, and finding his telltale South African bible.
The old speaking trumpet and pipe were connected and lying on the hearth. ‘So you have heard the news about the captain’s confession and suicide?’
He had the grace to blush. ‘Sit here.’
It was the only chair – a metal-frame contraption with large flat cushions that would extend to a narrow bed. He turned on the tap, and filled a glass with water.
‘And did you hear me just now, trying to shake the truth from Lucy?’
He handed me the glass of water. ‘No,’ he lied. ‘I’ve been seeing to my stew.’
Something was cooking in a pot.
He lowered the flame on a gas ring. ‘I bought myself this contraption. It comes with a gas canister. I go to Mr Preston, the butcher in Lowther Arcade. Neck of mutton makes a good stew, with onion, pearl barley, a carrot and a potato, salt and pepper.’
He could stick his lying head in the stew for all I cared. With a good deal of effort, I kept my voice steady. ‘I’m not interested in recipes. Why did you confess to a crime you didn’t commit?’
He picked up a ladle. ‘Will you have some stew?’
‘If I ate, I’d be sick. Just tell me. Why did you make a false confession?’
‘Can’t you guess?’ He lay down the ladle reluctantly. ‘All these months I’ve been too cowardly to act. I came here to avenge my mother. The man I wanted to kill, the real Captain Wolfendale, had been dead for two decades. You can’t imagine how that felt. Like walking into a brick wall. When I heard Milner was dead, I wished I’d killed him. And when Lucy said she’d done it . . .’
I had slid back in the chair.
‘Please. You look pretty done in. A bite to eat will do you good.’
‘Offer it to Lucy and Miss Fell. Just tell me. Why would you go to the gallows for Lucy? I know you believed her when she said she killed Milner.’
He pulled out a straight chair and sat down, tilting it, balancing on the chair’s back legs, drawing up his knees against the edge of the table. ‘Because . . . because it was a miracle to me to find Lucinda, after twenty years. She was born on the ship that brought me to England. Her mother was the schoolteacher who adopted me, Miss Marshall. Miss Marshall would have kept Lucinda, and me, if she could. But I was apprenticed to a watch mender, and she despatched to her father, so that Miss Marshall could marry her upright clergyman, the only man who would have her.
‘I did not expect Wolfendale would have taken care of Lucinda, of Lucy. I thought she might have died, like my little sisters died in the camp, or been put into an orphanage. So when I saw her, the first moment I saw her, when I enquired about a room here, I loved her. I don’t mean in the way Dylan dotes on her, or the way Milner wanted to have her. I just loved her. And I stupidly believed her when she said she’d murdered Milner.’
He brought the chair to an upright position. The table was set with a single spoon and dish. It struck me that he had an air of loneliness all around him, like a cloak.
‘You were listening, Dan, when Lucy talked to her grandfather. Did she tell him she had killed Milner, as she told you?’
‘No.’
Perhaps she had not needed to, I thought. Perhaps the captain made that assumption because Lucy had known Milner was stabbed.
Dan picked up the spoon and twiddled it in his fingers. ‘Will you tell me something?’
‘What?’
‘How did the police know I was lying in my confession?’
‘You missed out some details, such as the type of knife.’
‘Ah,’ he said. ‘Of course,’ as though suddenly realising what type of knife he should have described. ‘What other details?’
‘The damage to Milner’s motor.’
‘And the captain.’ He jerked his head in the direction of the flat above. ‘He got all his details correct?’ he said, almost with a slight touch of resentment.
‘So it would seem.’
‘And by shooting himself did not allow for cross-questioning.’
‘Are you suggesting that he did not do it?’
Root shrugged. ‘He must have. I did not hear him go out that night, after I had walked Miss Fell home.’
‘Did you hear me and Meriel return?’
‘No. Perhaps I sleep better than I think.’
I stood up. ‘Thanks for the glass of water.’
He walked me to the door, and out to my motor. I turned to him. ‘What did the captain and Milner talk about on Friday afternoon?’
He shook his head. ‘Not much that day. About the play, about tobacco.’ He gave a rueful smile. ‘It wasn’t worth listening to.’
‘I know what I think Milner’s hold was over the captain. But will you tell me what you think?’
He looked up to the room where Lucy was nursing her sprained ankle and her great ambitions. ‘You won’t tell Lucinda? It would destroy her.’
‘This isn’t for her to know. It’s for me.’
‘Promise?’
‘I can’t promise, but if I can keep it to myself, I will.’ He remained silent. ‘All right, Dan. Let me tell you what I have worked out. The real Rowland Oliver Wolfendale, VC died, either of natural causes or, more probably, foul play, twenty years ago. His batman, Sergeant Henry Lampton, took his place, inherited this house, and brought up Wolfendale’s daughter as his own granddaughter. Am I correct so far?’
Dan looked at me steadily. ‘There is nothing I would
contradict.’
‘And Milner, who had served with both men, came up to Harrogate with an eye to sharing in his old comrade’s good fortune.’
‘That’s one way of putting it.’
And now all three of them were dead, and here was Dan who had come for revenge. Instead he had taught himself to make stew, and an efficient listening device. I had been angry with him earlier. Now I felt pity.
‘Go up and see her, Dan. Throw that damn speaking trumpet in the ash pit. Talk to her. You are the only link now between Lucy and her mother. Some day she might be glad of that, and so might her mother. She must wonder every day what happened to her daughter, and to you.’
‘Do you think so?’
‘I know so.’
Lively strains of music floated to meet me as I walked into the lobby of the Grand Hotel. The orchestra played the tune my mother always requested, “Have you seen me dance the polka? Have you seen my coat tails fly?”
I glanced into the Palm Court room where afternoon tea took its stately course, the chime of cups and genteel chatter underscoring the music.
My mother was seated under a huge potted palm, at a small round table, with two other matrons. She caught my eye, waved and beckoned. I knew exactly what she would have been saying to her companions. My daughter, Kate, a war widow . . . I should so like to see her settled.
Unable to face small talk, I waved in a jolly manner, pointed upstairs, and did an about turn.
At the foot of the staircase, a page approached. ‘Mrs Shackleton?’
‘Yes.’
‘Lady Virginia has arranged for you to move into a suite. May I show you?’
I thanked him, and we climbed the stairs. Sliding my hand along the solid polished banister, I attempted to turn myself from detective into not-so-dutiful daughter.
Just like mother to wangle improved accommodation. My father had always insisted that we live on his police superintendent’s salary. His job came with the requirement that he rent a designated constabulary house, which was where I had been happily brought up. It followed that whenever mother felt herself let loose, she would waste no time in throwing her own inherited money at the nearest luxuries.
The accommodation was suitably grand. We had a sitting room, with a bedroom on either side. I kicked off my shoes and went to see which of the bedrooms had been allocated to me. Mother had the biggest of course. Her fox fur, a stole and the day dress I had seen earlier lay discarded on the bed. Afternoon tea had naturally required a change of outfit.
Mother was probably glad I had not ventured into the Palm Court room wearing the crumpled costume I had dressed in since first thing this morning. I looked out of the window across the Valley Gardens. Human dots moved slowly around the grounds of the Royal Bath Hospital and Convalescent Home.
Her voice startled me. ‘Poor things,’ my mother said blithely. ‘We have a view of two convalescent premises and the home for incurables. It makes one appreciate life in all its glory. If ever I become incurable, you must bring me here.’ She sat down on the chintz-covered sofa and tapped the spot beside her.
I sat down. ‘How did you wangle this suite at the height of the season?’
‘Oh, old chum of mine. She and her husband came for the golf. I know there are other courses about, but they decided in view of the floods to take themselves to Lossiemouth. But never mind that. Your father told me before he left that this dreadful murder has been solved.’
‘There was a confession, followed by a suicide.’
Mother shuddered. ‘How appalling! No wonder you look so washed out. Now this is my plan. I shall order tea to be brought up. You look too exhausted to go downstairs. After tea, you must have a bath, and then a sleep.’ She patted my hand.
‘No tea for me. A glass of gin would go down nicely.’
‘No sooner said than done. What will you have as a mixer?’
Ten minutes later, I lay in a tepid bath, feeling exhausted enough to slide under the water. Concentrating very hard on the bath tub’s enamel surface and the glint of the brass taps, I tried to push everything out of mind. It worked for several seconds at a time.
Lucy had not killed Milner. She was not a mastermind by any means but she would have known to behave normally, and go home – not spark suspicion by disappearing into her tower and proceeding with her ransom demand.
It was perfectly plausible that ‘the captain’, Lucy’s ‘grandfather’, had finally snapped. Blackmail ends in one of three ways: prosecution, continued payments or death. The dilemma was whether I should tell Inspector Charles what I knew about the background of Milner, the real Wolfendale, and his impersonator, Lampton. The man I had thought of as the captain had somewhat redeemed himself in my eyes by taking care of another man’s child, and doing his best for her. If I revealed what I knew, and there were investigations, army records opened up, then Lucy and Miss Fell would forfeit their home. Rodney Milner would remember his father not just as an unpleasant bully, but as a blackmailer. If all this came out, Rodney and Alison’s life in Harrogate might prove intolerable.
By the time my bath water turned cold and I pulled the plug, I knew I would not tell.
When I got back to the room and climbed into bed, I discovered hot-water bottles.
My mother smiled. ‘I know it’s August, but you’ve had a shock.’ She had also sent for hot water and poured a tot of gin and hot water in equal measure. ‘Drink that down.’
‘You’ve hung up my clothes. Thank you.’
My evening dress was hooked onto the wardrobe door. I had popped the Delphos robe in my suitcase, because it packs so well. Made in Paris, it is a pleated silk tunic, in fabulous colours, turquoise, purple and orange. My aunt gave it to me when I admired it.
Trying not to sound critical, my mother said, ‘Berta bought that gown in Paris in 1908. That makes it fourteen years old.’
‘No one will know that, will they? I always feel happy in it. It makes me feel that I’m in Paris.’
She tucked me in, as she used to when I was a little girl. ‘But tonight you will be in Harrogate, having supper with our charming police inspector, and that will be so much more satisfactory than looking back to some long-lost time in Paris.’
She closed the curtains, and went quietly from the room.
I appreciated her thoughtfulness, having expected the usual grilling, and plans to take me shopping. She would have thought ahead to Lawrence Milner’s funeral, what I would wear and whether there would be some eligible mourner for me to latch on to. That made me smile. There would doubtless be compulsory shopping trips between taking the waters and sampling the delights of an Electrothermic or Chromopathic bath. I tried to imagine how much Mother would pack in to the next few days.
The door opened again. ‘Before you drop off, I’ve arranged to have Emmatt & Son bring some gowns and daywear to the suite, at about ten-thirty tomorrow.’
She shut the door gently.
In spite of my mother’s interventions, Lawrence Milner’s dead face floated before my eyes in the moments before sleep, followed by the captain’s as I had seen him last, his ruddy cheeks pale, his eyes haunted, and his forehead creased with a frown. He was trying to tell me something.
I wished I could be as confident as the inspector and the constable that the captain had, indeed, murdered Milner. Perhaps I would grow used to the idea.
After a sleep, I felt refreshed, hungry, and ready for company. I was in my trusty Delphos robe, but my mother had refused to dress. ‘Give Mr Charles my apologies. This has been a long day for me and if we’re to be up before seven in the morning to take the waters, I must have my rest.’ Since she was already in her satin nightgown and robe, there was no arguing with her. ‘Have a lovely evening, dear. I won’t wait up.’
At five minutes to nine, a hotel page knocked on the door of our suite to tell me that Mr Charles waited on Mrs Hood and Mrs Shackleton’s convenience in the hotel lounge.
What I love about my Delphos tunic is that it seems to let m
e float in a touch of magic, caressing and propelling as I walked down the stairs to the ground floor.
The inspector stood as I entered the lounge, and for a moment gazed at me wide-eyed. ‘Mrs Shackleton, you look wonderful.’
‘Thank you, Mr Charles. My mother sends her apologies. She has a headache and decided to have an early night.’
If he guessed that it was a diplomatic headache, he gave no sign. ‘Some other time, perhaps?’ His look was suitably, but not too, regretful. ‘Shall we go in to supper, or would you like an aperitif?’
‘Let’s go in.’
Our table was by the window, at some distance from the string quartet and shielded by a potted palm. The waiter gave us menus. I glanced at Mr Charles while he ordered wine. Wearing an evening suit emphasised a quality in him I had half noticed when we first met. There was something about him that made me intensely aware of him, aware of the movements of his body under his clothes, the sense of something powerful being contained, not just physically but in other ways too, mental, emotional. It was a rare quality.
We both chose lobster bisque. I went for the venison, he for jugged hare. The wine waiter hovered as he poured, waiting for an opinion. When he had gone, the inspector asked, in a solicitous yet professional tone, ‘How are you feeling, after everything? It’s been an ordeal for you.’ He looked at me with grave concern and total attention that could have been disconcerting if it were not so broadly edged with kindness. I would not have liked to be on the receiving end of an interrogation by him.
‘It was a shock, hearing about the captain’s confession, and that he shot himself. It did leave me shaken.’ I did not tell him that I had also made sure Lucy Wolfendale was shaken, by me.
‘I’m sorry that I dashed off like that. Did you stay long with Miss Wolfendale and the old lady?’
‘No. They had each other. And Mr Root gallantly came to my aid.’
Mr Charles gave an unexpected laugh. ‘Good for him,’ he said ruefully. ‘It almost prompts me not to charge him with leading us up the garden path with his false confession.’
‘Will you pursue him on that?’
A Medal For Murder: A Kate Shackleton Mystery Page 30