Murder in the Afternoon: A Kate Shackleton Mystery

by Frances Brody

The waiter nodded at the attaché case. ‘Traveller are you?’

  ‘After a fashion. Hosiery and such like.’

  ‘Ladies’ stockings?’ The Rudolph Valentino waxwork waiter looked suitably impressed.

  ‘Some,’ said Sykes. ‘I’ll open the case for you after I’ve had my dinner, if you like.’

  The waiter shook his head sadly. ‘Out of my reach I shouldn’t wonder.’

  ‘You never know,’ Sykes said cheerily, cutting into the pie.

  ‘Enjoy it.’

  ‘I intend to.’

  Moments later, the waiter was back, bringing a second pint. ‘On the house.’

  ‘Cheers!’ said Sykes, glumly wondering if this was meant to cost him a pair of stockings. If so, he should have his stockings-worth. He nodded through the window. ‘That’s a fine motor.’

  ‘It is.’

  ‘Belongs to the landlord?’

  ‘No. He hasn’t given up the horses yet. That’s the colonel’s.’

  ‘Colonel Ledger?’ Sykes stabbed a guess.

  ‘Aye. You know him?’

  ‘Know of him that’s all. I suppose everyone round here does. Do you think he’ll be interested in a pair of stockings?’

  The waiter smiled. ‘He could well be, but it’ll be more than my life’s worth to bring it up. Mind you, he’s an approachable chap. You can talk to him, not like his late father.’

  He retreated behind the bar, polished a glass, and then disappeared.

  Sykes ate slowly, savouring the pie. Not in every job would there be the good excuse to sit in an inn beyond your means and enjoy a leisurely dinner. He laid down the knife and fork, but left some beer at the bottom of his glass. How long could he sit here without looking like a man who had nothing to do? There was not even the excuse of keeping out of the rain. It was a fine day out there.

  Well, he would risk it. He took out his notebook. Travellers had to keep a note of their stock after all, and plan visits. Here would be as good a place as any to loiter over his paperwork.

  The waiter appeared again behind the bar. ‘Anything else, sir?’

  ‘No. But I’ll pay for what I’ve had.’ Sykes pushed the pencil behind his ear.

  He walked across to the bar, carrying his plate with him.

  ‘Thanks,’ the waiter said.

  Sykes paid and went back to his seat. As an afterthought, he opened the attaché case and took out a pair of stockings. ‘My compliments.’

  ‘That’s very swell of you,’ the waiter said. ‘I wasn’t angling for …’

  ‘I know you weren’t. But the food was good, the ale superb, and you gave me a free pint. What more could a man want?’

  Except, in future, a little more information. Always good to have someone to come back to.

  ‘Excuse me, sir.’ The waiter went to answer a bell.

  Sykes picked up his case. It would look odd to stay here much longer. Besides, the place would be shutting soon.

  In the yard, he put on his bicycle clips and unlocked the bike slowly. He re-fastened the attaché case to the carrier, and snailed his bike along the yard.

  The man and woman came through the side door and walked to the motor. They were not touching. There was about a foot of space between them. Sykes wished he could read that space, and work out what it meant.

  Courteously, the man extended his hand to help her into the car. She seemed to demur and would have walked away, but he insisted. She climbed in, a little awkwardly, Sykes thought.

  He expected the car to turn and climb the hill in the direction it had come, but it went down, and so he followed.

  The man drove with one hand on the wheel, and the other on the woman’s shoulder.

  By the time Sykes reached the bottom of the hill, the car was drawing away. The woman stood on the other side of the road, at the tram stop that would take her back to Great Applewick.

  Two

  ‘A late lunch,’ Dad had agreed.

  It was already the middle of the afternoon; a very late lunch indeed. And I was not sure there would be enough fuel in the tank for me to reach Wakefield.

  The Jowett and I powered along familiar routes through the smoky city, past warehouses, mills and engineering works. Grime darkened my motoring goggles. Wiping them with gloved fingers did not help much. And then the world opened into countryside, fields, pit shafts, and ramshackle cottages.

  At Newton Hill, I stopped for fuel. As I climbed from the car, a stocky red-haired attendant appeared from a hut. He wore dark blue overalls and brought the reassuringly powerful smell of engine oil in his wake. ‘Come far have you?’

  ‘Just from Leeds. Would you top up the spare can, too, please?’

  I was glad to stretch my legs and shake off the dust. My day had started with a vividly disturbing dream in the early hours. A ghostly Miss Trimble stood beside the bench in the churchyard, wearing a moleskin-coloured dress, her head half turned towards me. On either end of the bench sat two spectres coated in white quarry dust, all three fighting for attention, all speaking at once. What did the dead say?

  Miss Trimble murmured, ‘The Ladies’ Friendship Group will go to bits without me …’

  The dead shepherd said, ‘My dog Billy, he listens for my footsteps.’

  Ethan’s words vanished before I caught them.

  ‘Off into Wakefield, miss?’ the attendant called to me.

  ‘Yes. Being taken to lunch by my father.’

  ‘All right for some!’ He whistled as he filled the tank.

  The sun shone, and made the world a more cheerful place, for those not pestered by ghosts from the past.

  All these years, I had chosen not to think about being adopted, pushed it to the back of my mind. Now, thanks to Mary Jane, the information exploded, and kept on exploding.

  Every family is complicated in a different way. I can entirely hold onto the whole lineage of my adoptive mother’s family. The first baron earned ennoblement as a thank you for his niftiness with a pen on behalf of Elizabeth I. Mother drew it all out for me on a sheet of foolscap when I was five. She let me crayon the squares that denoted generations. She provided me with an atlas so that I could pinpoint her ancestors’ land-grabs.

  The attendant finished filling the tank. He began to wash flies and dirt from the windscreen. ‘Don’t know how you saw through this, miss.’

  ‘You’re doing a grand job,’ I said. But my thoughts were elsewhere.

  Dad’s family is military. He was the first to find his way into the police force. One entire shelf of the family china cabinet holds polished medals, won in campaigns dating back to the late seventeen hundreds.

  My husband Gerald’s family also has certain features that allow me to get the hang of them. They crossed the border from England to Scotland and back again. When I think of the Shackleton family, my image is of a kilt-wearing exodus from Edinburgh of clever women and medical men.

  Where do I fit into any of this remarkable history?

  Nowhere. If we go by blood, I have as much notion of family history as the sparrow pecking at something by the petrol pump.

  When I was about seven, Mother told me that I was adopted, and tried to explain what it meant. After the explanation, she took a quarto sheet and said did I want to have it drawn? I said no, and scribbled on the sheet.

  By turning up unannounced, Mary Jane had forced me to look at a bloody great fault line running through my own history. My blood ties were to Mrs Whitaker, Barbara May, and the lost brother, cousin and uncle who died in the Great War.

  ‘All done,’ the attendant said.

  I settled my bill and gave him a tip for his cheerfulness. He was a man who loved his work.

  As I drove away, I could not shake off the image that Mary Jane had planted in my mind: an infant being carried from a Wakefield house in the crook of my father’s arm.

  I parked in the Bull Ring, just as if I had come on the tram, swapped my motoring bonnet for a navy Sans Souci wide-brimmed hat, tucked my big coat in the back of the mot
or, and then walked to Cross Square, already ten minutes late, and Dad is so very punctual.

  We had arranged to meet in Websters. That was the place Mother and I used to haunt before I was married, when we were on one of our shopping expeditions. It seemed strange to be meeting Dad there, among the smartly dressed shoppers.

  Dad waved to me, stood up, and drew out my chair. Heads turned discreetly in our direction. Dad, having shed his gabardine raincoat, looked striking in his West Riding Constabulary uniform. At six feet tall, he is not a man to pass unnoticed.

  He smiled.

  ‘Sorry I’m late, Dad. I stopped for fuel.’

  ‘It’s all right. Our new Chief Constable is out and about today so there’s no one will be looking at a watch.’ He pointed to the menu. ‘I’ve ordered for us. Hope that’s all right. I knew you wouldn’t be much longer.’

  ‘What am I having?’

  He looked a little sheepish. ‘I asked for the mince for us both. I’ve got a bit of a toothache and I don’t want to do much chewing. But if you’d rather …’

  ‘The mince will be grand.’

  He leaned forward, his eyes twinkling with anticipation. ‘Now what’s all the mystery? You don’t usually ask Mrs Sugden to telephone me at work and arrange lunch.’

  I unfolded my serviette.

  ‘Did she get it wrong?’ Dad raised an eyebrow. ‘Was I meant to ask your mother along as well?’

  ‘No. I wanted to talk to you. Well, both of you really, but I thought if I talked to you first …’

  The more I muttered and prevaricated the worse it would be. I know Dad so well and I could see straight away that he thought I had news about me and Marcus Charles. I guessed that Aunt Berta had been talking to Mother about how much time I spent with Marcus during my week in London.

  I could hear my aunt’s voice, loud and clear across the telephone lines. ‘Ginny, my dear, Kate was off with that policeman chappy of hers no end of times, and did I see him? No. Did I hear anything? No. But something’s going on, believe me.’

  Dad says that if the constabulary were half as good in making use of the telephone as Mother and Aunt Berta, communications in the force would be greatly improved.

  What he said next confirmed my opinion. ‘Your Aunt Berta tells us she was sorry not to meet Inspector Charles when you were in London. He sounds a good fellow.’

  ‘Yes he is.’

  ‘You know, you mustn’t feel obliged to carry on with your detective agency for the sake of Jim Sykes. I know it was my suggestion that you take him on in the first place, but he’d find another job. And so would Mrs Sugden.’ He looked at me and at once realised his blunder. ‘Am I jumping in with two left feet?’

  ‘Yes you are. Dad, I don’t know what Aunt Berta said, but you know what she’s like for matchmaking. I’ve no plans to give up my work, or leave my little house.’

  ‘Sorry, only …’

  ‘The reason I wanted to see you, Dad … I don’t know where to begin. It’s nothing to do with Marcus, or my visit to London.’

  ‘What then?’

  No other way than to just begin, just say it. ‘Someone arrived on my doorstep in the early hours yesterday. There’s a mystery surrounding her husband’s disappearance. She’s got it into her head that I’m the person to find him.’

  Dad nodded. ‘I can see why she would think that. You have had some success in that department.’

  ‘Her name is Mary Jane Armstrong. Her maiden name was Whitaker.’

  For a moment, he looked puzzled, and then the penny dropped. ‘Whitaker?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘From Wakefield?’

  I nodded. ‘She says she was brought up in one of the Yards off Westgate.’

  ‘White Swan Yard?’

  ‘That’s the one.’

  ‘Well then, she’s picked the right name and right yard. Do you believe she’s genuine?’

  ‘I think she’s my sister, yes. We don’t look all that much alike, but there’s something there, some connection. She has two children and, oddly enough, the girl reminds me of myself when I was her age. About ten.’

  He picked up a knife with his right hand, passed it to his left hand and back again before returning it to the table.

  ‘I suppose there was always a chance this could happen. How did she find you?’

  I gave a brief account of how one of my other sisters had kept track of me.

  Dad leaned forward. He spoke quietly. ‘You don’t have to do it you know, if you don’t want to. You can pass the case to the police.’

  ‘I already have, or tried to, and so did Mary Jane. The local sergeant mounted a search on Saturday night but drew a blank.’

  ‘Where does she live?’

  ‘Great Applewick.’

  ‘Do you want to tell me about the case?’

  ‘Well yes, I think I should because it’s not as straightforward as it seems. There was another death yesterday, a Miss Trimble, and I can’t help but connect them. There ought to be a post mortem to ascertain cause of death, but I believe the doctor will sign the death certificate without one.’

  He began to look interested, immediately grasping what was unspoken. We could pick up the case and run with it through our meal and beyond. But for once what was uppermost in my mind was more personal, closer to home. ‘Before we get on to that, I’m hoping you’ll tell me something.’

  The waitress brought our mince, potatoes and peas, nicely covered with suspiciously dark gravy.

  ‘What do you want to know?’ Dad asked, when the waitress had gone.

  ‘I’m not sure. Mother once or twice broached the subject of my adoption. I suppose she thought she had to. But I didn’t want to know at the time. Now there’s no choice.’

  ‘Wouldn’t you be better talking to your mother about it?’

  ‘Not yet. Only when I’ve sorted out my thoughts. You see, Mary Jane said you came to fetch me. She claims she tried to stop you.’

  ‘I don’t remember that. There were other children about.’

  ‘So she’s right. You carried me from the house.’

  ‘Your mother was outside. I’d borrowed a motor. Ginny wouldn’t come in. I’m not sure what she was afraid of. Perhaps she thought there might be tears, or a scene. Your mother upsets easily.’

  ‘That’s why I want to have everything clear in my mind. If you can answer my questions, then all I will have to do is tell Mother that I’ve finally made a connection with my original family. I don’t want it to be some great drama.’

  God knows there had been enough of those. Mother has not got over the loss of Gerald any more than I have.

  Dad concentrated mightily on chewing mince, and crushing a piece of potato with his fork. He was trying to eat using only the left side of his mouth.

  ‘You need to see the dentist, Dad.’

  ‘I know. Only you know my opinion of those fellows.’

  ‘Make an appointment all the same.’

  ‘I will.’ He swallowed. ‘Heard about a new tooth wallah opened up somewhere off Kirkgate. Thought I’d give him a try.’

  ‘Do. Shall I come with you?’

  ‘That’d look fine wouldn’t it?’ He forked half a dozen peas. ‘What else do you want to know?’

  ‘Why that family? Why did the Whitakers give me up?’

  Dad laid down his knife and fork. If we had not been in a public place, I swear he would have stood up and strode about the room – a combination of toothache and uneasiness. He frowned.

  ‘Your mother and I …’ He paused. This was how it would be now. Even the word mother would ring with a different sound. ‘We’d been married for three years. She was impatient for children. We’d never discussed adoption, but one day I arrived home early. She wasn’t there. When I asked where she’d been, it was to the Bede Home …’

  ‘The orphanage?’

  ‘Yes. They had these annual pound days, when people gave a pound of flour, a pound of sugar, and so on, and she’d taken part in that. Turned
up with I don’t know how many pounds of this and that she’d collected from her friends. That was when I knew. We chaps don’t always see into a person’s heart. Well, it stayed with me, the thought of her going to the Bede Home, and what she said about all the boys there. They were all boys. I kept half expecting her to suggest adopting one. But she didn’t. There came one of those cold, foggy days in October – I went home feeling very downhearted. One of my best men had died suddenly, a heart attack. He was just forty-five years old, with eleven children.’

  ‘Eleven?’

  ‘Kate, it was the last century. There was little or no knowledge of …’

  I knew what he meant without his having to continue. If it had not been for Marie Stopes and her ilk, I would not have dared what I had with Marcus last week. But it did set me thinking. If my natural mother had been so damned fertile, why had I not managed to produce a child before Gerald was snatched away?

  ‘You were just a few months old. Mrs Whitaker was forty-four, and worn out. She had daughters old enough to take care of you, but they had to go out to work. I had not thought when I went home and told Ginny the story that she would decide to visit Mrs Whitaker. But that’s what she did. And that evening, she told me that she wanted us to adopt you.’

  ‘As simple as that?’

  He hesitated, and in that moment I knew that it had not been at all simple. My mother would have weighed up all sorts of probabilities. Knowing her as I did, I guessed that she had inspected the other children to make sure they were physically sound and had their wits about them.

  Dad said slowly, ‘The moment she saw you, she wanted to take you home. We talked about it, and … I’m sure your family didn’t want to part with you, but under the circumstances …’

  I nodded. I would not help him with this. It was up to him to tell me what I wanted to know, and I would not divert him by questions.

  ‘Go on,’ I said, having picked up this little policeman’s phrase from Marcus Charles.

  ‘Your mother never kept it from you that you were adopted, as you know. But you were not curious as a child. Once the twins had arrived, you seemed more determined than ever to be of our family, and no other.’

  That was true. I remembered well enough my baby brothers brought from the nursing home, and feeling protective towards them, and wanting them to hurry up and grow so that I could play with them, and boss them about.