A Medal For Murder: A Kate Shackleton Mystery

by Frances Brody

  He shook his head. ‘I made it my business to call him in and give him a ticking off. He was suitably chastened.’

  ‘I suppose you soon realised that he was not telling the truth.’

  ‘It has been known for an inaccurate confession to be made by a killer – inconsistencies and so on – only to throw the hounds off the scent, but usually in detective stories rather than in life.’

  ‘He was protecting Lucy Wolfendale because he thought she was the murderess.’

  ‘That girl does elicit powerful emotions,’ he said, with a puzzled look.

  ‘You’ve seen her only in the dragged-through-a-hedge state, with a swollen ankle and dirty face. She polishes up in spectacular style. And Scotland Yard better watch out. She will be coming to London to study drama this autumn.’

  The inspector mockingly put his head in his hands. ‘That’ll give my boys something to look forward to.’ He suddenly gave me a serious look that made my heart skip a beat. Was I to be berated for not saying what Lucy was getting up to? ‘I do not blame you for covering up for her,’ he said kindly. ‘She is young, ambitious, and foolish. And she did take some smoking out of her hidey-hole . . .’

  ‘But?’

  ‘You should have told me about what she was up to. As it turned out, there was no connection between her disappearance and the murder, but there might have been.’

  ‘I suppose you’re right. But I was fairly sure one had nothing to do with the other.’

  He leaned across the table and took my hand in his. The events of the last three days had set emotions racing. It was a little like wartime, when we lived in a heightened state of tension. ‘If ever we work together again, promise me you’ll keep nothing back.’

  I avoided making any such promise. ‘That sounds like the offer of a job at Scotland Yard. I did not realise I had applied.’

  He smiled. ‘All right. I give up. For now.’

  When he let go of my hand, I could still feel his touch.

  During the soup, we deliberately left behind the subject of the murder, and got on first-name terms. I learned that Marcus Charles was forty years old, and a widower. He had joined the CID at the age of twenty-two, after a year as a beat bobby.

  My question surprised me. It must have been lurking there all along. I was thinking about having let Meriel off for thieving from the pawnbroker – an action that threatened my professional relationship with stalwart Jim Sykes.

  ‘Have you ever,’ I asked in what I hoped was a throw-away manner, ‘ever turned a blind eye when an offence has been committed?’

  ‘If it is some minor infringement, there may be discretion. At other times we are left with no choice in the matter.’

  ‘Say, in a robbery or something of that sort,’ I said, immediately regretting my choice of example. It would not surprise me in the least if he had heard that I was in Harrogate to investigate Mr Moony’s pawnshop robbery.

  There was a pause while the waiter gathered up our soup plates.

  ‘It’s my job to enforce the law, and that is what I do.’

  I had the feeling that he was reluctant to go in the direction I was leading. The waiter set our plates of venison and jugged hare on the table, and dished out potatoes, carrots and cabbage.

  I poured some gravy onto the venison. ‘Do you not sometimes feel pity for the perpetrators? An understanding of what drove them to the act?’ I turned the handle of the gravy boat towards him.

  ‘Oh yes, of course. All sorts of emotions come into play. Shock, as with this crime here in Harrogate – particularly in such a tranquil setting; anger and, yes, pity. The captain was a frail old man.’

  In as light a tone as I could muster, I asked, ‘So his confession convinced you?’ I glanced at Marcus’s hands, his shirt cuffs, his cufflinks, which were gold, with a tiny embossed pattern in one corner. It made me think of that other cufflink, lying in the gutter. It suddenly struck me that it was not the kind of cufflink I would expect an old man to wear. And if it indicated a scuffle, then there would be no doubt who would come off best. Milner was younger, heavier, fitter.

  ‘Without doubt I believed the captain’s confession,’ the inspector said, in a gentle, reassuring voice. ‘He could not have made it up.’

  I remembered that Meriel and the captain had both called on Rodney to offer condolences on Saturday morning, Meriel first. ‘Miss Jamieson could have let slip to Rodney some details about finding the body, and about the motor when she called to see him on Saturday. I know she shouldn’t have, but it’s possible. And then the captain called. For all we know, Rodney may have told him some details.’

  Again, he took my hand. ‘Kate, Kate. Don’t worry. You were right when you said I should pay attention to the captain. Believe me, he was the man. It was his knife. He described it. Now can we change the subject?’ It was as if he were saying ‘Don’t worry. There is no mad murderer loose on the streets of Harrogate.’

  The string quarter struck up a waltz. By the time our plates were whipped away, I had talked of my passion for photography. Marcus confided that he enjoys sketching, when he can find the time. This comes in useful at the scene of a crime when he can make a speedy visual record of whatever may catch his eye. Committing it to paper helps him make sense of what he sees. I learned that he lived in North London, walked on Hampstead Heath and swam in the pond there early in the mornings, and that this helped him think when he was stuck on a particularly difficult case.

  Over dessert, we conjured a romantic notion of swimming together one day soon. It would be a fine day in September or early October when we decided that there would be a spell of good weather, and we would take a picnic and set out a blanket like two people without a care in the world.

  ‘Would you care for brandy?’ he asked as we left the dining room.

  ‘Good idea.’

  The lounge was crowded. One or two people cast glances in our direction as we hovered for a moment in the doorway, looking for a free space. Were the glances because we were a striking couple, or because some of the guests had recognised the police inspector? We turned away.

  ‘I have a better idea,’ I murmured. ‘My mother never travels without brandy. Will you come up to our suite?’ I said the words calmly, without betraying the inward tremble.

  ‘There’s nothing I would like more,’ he said softly.

  We climbed the staircase side by side, not speaking. There was a touch of madness about what I intended, what I hoped would happen. This may break the spell my missing husband still held over me. Marcus touched my hand very lightly as we walked along the landing. At the door, I fumbled for the key.

  He had a boyish, almost hesitant look as he stepped inside. ‘Won’t we wake your mother?’

  ‘Not unless you plan to be very rowdy. That’s her room.’ I waved to the door on the right of our sitting room.

  ‘And yours?’ he asked gently.

  We forgot about the brandy. It was still there the next morning when Marcus had gone, leaving on the bedside cabinet a small thick envelope.

  The short letter, if such it could be called, was on hotel notepaper. It contained no endearments, but he had whispered enough of those in the small hours for that not to matter. Then we had slept soundly, or at least I had, curled in his arms and feeling safe from the haunting images of Milner’s staring eyes and the even more horrifying picture of what I had not seen: the captain, blowing his brains out.

  The reason for the thickness of the envelope was that it contained a medal – Captain Wolfendale’s (the real captain Wolfendale’s) Victoria Cross. Marcus’s note was written in a way that would withstand scrutiny should it fall into the wrong hands. It read:

  Dear Mrs Shackleton

  Thank you for your assistance. I am in two minds about leaving this VC with you. By rights it should go to the late Captain Wolfendale’s next of kin. However, after he signed his confession, the captain said to Sergeant Walmsley that this medal must come to Mrs Kate Shackleton, and that she alone would know
who to give it to.

  I did not hand the medal to you yesterday evening. It was not the right moment. If you do not accept the burden of this responsibility, please return the enclosed to the Harrogate police.

  If you are inclined to take up my invitation to visit Scotland Yard, I should be pleased to show you around by appointment. I can recommend a very good place to stay in Hampstead.

  Yours sincerely

  Marcus Charles

  I read the letter, once, twice, three times, and weighed the medal in my hand.

  My mother was moving about in the next room. We had an enjoyable day planned. Nothing would get in the way of that. I put the letter and the medal in the back of a drawer and slammed it shut.

  Captain Wolfendale, Sergeant Lampton, whoever you are and whatever hell you are in, I do not want to know. Leave me alone.

  Mother is not exactly a stickler for following directions. She appeared to be making an exception in relation to the Harrogate waters. It was 7 a.m. I was bleary-eyed, exhilarated and exhausted in equal measure, and still reeling from being given the dubious honour of taking charge of the captain’s Victoria Cross.

  Every action seemed clumsy. I could not find the heel in my stocking. A garter was missing. While I dressed, or tried to, in my bedroom, mother sat in our shared sitting room, reading to me from a guide book.

  ‘All the hot sulphur waters ought to be drunk quickly, or else the sulpheretted hydrogen blah-di-blah escapes. What is sulphuretted hydrogen, Kate?’

  ‘Don’t know.’

  ‘Ah, wait a minute, listen to this. “It is better to drink all the iron or chalybeate waters through a glass tube.” Which will we be drinking, chalybeate – how do you pronounce that? – or iron?’

  ‘Don’t know.’

  ‘Let’s see. Oh, it’s all so complicated. Did you know the waters were unpleasant?’

  I laced up my new, sensible walking-about-Harrogate shoes. ‘I guessed they would be.’

  As I walked into the sitting room, mother stared at my feet. ‘What on earth are those?’

  ‘I had to have a pair of comfortable shoes.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘I’ll change later.’

  Mother eyed the two brandy balloons and raised an eyebrow. ‘You haven’t told me yet how you got on with that nice inspector last night.’

  ‘His name is Marcus Charles . . .’

  ‘What a wonderful name! He sounds like a Roman senator.’

  ‘We hit it off admirably.’

  ‘How splendid!’ Mother unscrewed the top on the brandy bottle. ‘Do you know, I think if we are going to drink what sounds like fairly disgusting water for the good of our health, we ought at least to fortify ourselves. I mean we only have these medical men’s words that this water is any good, and they’ll say anything to line their pockets. Whereas we know for certain that brandy is efficacious.’ She poured two tots of brandy. ‘Here’s to Marcus Charles.’ We clinked glasses. ‘I am so pleased you hit it off. And is he, is he all right? I mean if a man gets to that age, what is he, forty?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And he is still available at forty, it could indicate a peculiarity or two.’

  ‘He is available, and I did not notice any peculiarities.’ Far from having peculiarities, Inspector Marcus Charles seemed to me to personify near perfection in a man.

  To ward off further questions, I sank the brandy, stood up and offered my mother a hand.

  In good spirits, mother clutching her furs against the early-morning chill, we set off for the Royal Baths Pump Room.

  Only later, as I gave myself up to the Dowsing Radiant Heat and Light bath, did my mind go blank and all thoughts vanished in a weirdly combined sense of discomfort and wellbeing. Perhaps this was how to grow a second skin: have long moments when nothing at all mattered, except your own physical self. But as I stepped out and began to dress, the thoughts flooded in. Like the police, all I wanted was to say case closed. Questions that I hoped to keep at bay popped up, demanding answers. What had Lampton, or the captain as I was used to thinking of him, tried to tell me? There could be some Lampton relation he wanted me to search out, and give that person the award that should have gone to the captain’s batman.

  I dismissed the idea as unlikely. All his actions had been directed towards keeping quiet, keeping secrets. The confession had convinced the police. Perhaps they had wanted to be convinced, including my estimable Marcus Charles.

  As I laced up the sensible shoes, something clicked. The batman, Lampton, should have got the VC in the first place. It came into his hands when he killed his captain, along with the captain’s identity and inheritance. In other words, the medal came to him because he committed murder.

  I tied my shoelaces in a double bow.

  That same man, Lampton, had gone on pretending to be the captain, had falsely confessed to murder, and taken his own life. He did not believe Lucy to be the killer, or the medal would have stayed with his effects and gone to her. He thought that I alone would be able to work out who really should get the VC. Who really killed Milner.

  But why? I could not fathom his reasoning. I had outmanoeuvred him, and now he was setting me a challenge.

  When we returned to our suite, a powerful scent of roses greeted us. An enormous vase of red and white blooms sat on the occasional table by the sofa. A small card read simply, To K from M.

  ‘Well,’ my mother said, breathing in the scent and sighing deeply. ‘You did make an impression on Mr Marcus Charles. When will you see him again?’

  ‘He has asked me to London, promised to show me Scotland Yard.’

  ‘I hope he’s interested in you for yourself and not in your . . . I don’t know, fingerprinting technique.’

  ‘I don’t have any fingerprinting technique.’ I slit open the envelope I had picked up at reception.

  Mother asked, ‘Is that from him, too?’

  ‘No. It’s from Alison, one of the actresses in Anna of the Five Towns.’

  Dear Mrs Shackleton

  I thought you would like to know that Mr Milner will be buried on Friday at 9.30 a.m. at Christ Church, High Harrogate, and a funeral breakfast at the Queen Hotel. Rodney respectfully hopes you will accept this invitation.

  Yours sincerely

  Alison Hart

  Good for Alison. She had wasted no time in getting her feet under the table. After the funeral, it would be a short step to the special licence and a wedding.

  I decided to attend the funeral, to pay my respects. I told myself that I was not carrying on any investigations.

  But if I were correct, Lawrence Milner’s murderer could still be at large, going about his or her business, perhaps even attending Milner’s funeral.

  I passed Alison’s note to Mother. ‘I’ll stay on in Harrogate until the end of the week.’

  She beamed. ‘That is just perfect. As it happens, I took the precaution of asking Emmatts to include some suitable outfits for a clement-weather funeral.’

  At eleven-thirty, we took our seats to watch two hapless young assistants from Emmatt & Son parade their wares. This was not something I would ever have arranged myself, and I felt that mother hoped fervently one of her old cronies had caught sight of the shop assistants making their way to our suite. But it did result in my putting on account a wide-sleeve long shawl collar dress with a low waistline, along with a modest hat, suitable for Mr Milner’s funeral. It was not all I bought and when the assistants had gone, mother was delighted.

  ‘You will have some good pieces for your visit to London. But don’t go to Scotland Yard, dear. I have been there myself. It’s a very dusty place. The cleaners would not last two minutes if they had a woman in charge. Now – about shoes . . .’

  By mutual consent, we decided one day taking the waters had been quite enough. The mental relaxation they had afforded lasted for at least another couple of hours. Only as I sat in Applebys, trying on shoes, did my thoughts return to the question of who really killed Lawrence Milner. As I
paced the floor, testing the fit, I had an unaccountable feeling that somewhere in the dramatisation of Anna of the Five Towns lay a clue to the murder of Mr Milner. But what was that clue?

  Part of me simply did not want to know. And since there had been some connection between my putting on shoes and my mind going over clues and possibilities, I seriously considered going barefoot.

  I replayed the drama of Anna of the Five Towns in my mind’s eye. I thought of every character, every actor, every scene. And then I remembered that some scenes had been cut from the play. Madam Geerts had said so when we were in the train together. Mr Wheatley had admired Meriel’s skill in knowing what to leave in and what to cut. And someone – I racked my brains to think who and when – had said that the scene where Mr Price, Willie’s despairing father, hanged himself had been left out, so that he was not seen being cut down from the noose, but the event was reported. If originally, in rehearsals, he had to be cut down, someone must have had a knife among their props.

  Sitting in a rear pew on the pulpit side of the church, I glanced through my discreet veil at the arriving mourners. Mr Croker was among the businessmen, flicking dust from his top hat. Caps in hands, mechanics and Owen the labourer, from Milners’ motoring firm, filed into a pew. Mrs Gould, the Milners’ housekeeper, in a black felt hat and serge coat, far too hot for the day, was accompanied by a ruddy-faced man, and a young woman smartly dressed in a dark costume.

  The Geerts, neat and trim, stepped with graceful dancers’ movements down the side aisle, looking neither right nor left. They glided into a pew at the halfway point.

  Miss Fell, head held upright, carrying her missal, looked even tinier beside Mr Root. He had slowed his steps so that she could keep up with him.

  The surprise mourner was Meriel Jamieson, in flowing black dress, full veil and elbow-length lace gloves. She spotted a place beside me, and squeezed in as the organist struck up.

  ‘Bloody train driver. Over-stopped in Todmorden to wait for some farmer. We had a German in the carriage. He looked at the station sign, muttered in these horror-stricken tones, “Todmorden? Death, murder?” Well I had all on not to say, better go to Harrogate if that’s what you’re after.’