Murder in the Afternoon: A Kate Shackleton Mystery

by Frances Brody

  I gave up on the thought of slipping to the outsales department of the Fleece and buying a bottle of gin. It was too late anyway.

  She opened her eyes.

  ‘Whose child are you?’ I asked.

  ‘I’m nobody’s child.’

  ‘What’s your full name?’

  ‘Millie Featherstone.’

  ‘How do you come to be in Yorkshire, when you’re a Lancashire lass?’

  But her eyes had closed. I left her sleeping.

  Next I looked in on Harriet and Austin. Harriet was wide awake.

  ‘Who’s come in?’

  ‘Only a little girl who was lost. The girl from the farm.’

  ‘I’m glad she’s come. She pulled Austin from the fire.’

  ‘What?’

  But Harriet closed her eyes and would say no more, except, ‘Don’t tell on her. She didn’t mean it.’

  The rap on the door came so gently that at first I thought it must be the wind, blowing a bough of the apple tree.

  I opened the door to find Marcus, standing a little way back. ‘You should call out to ask who it is,’ he said. ‘You never know who might be wandering about on a night like this.’

  My first thought was for Mary Jane, that something had happened to her, or that she had confessed.

  ‘Come in.’ He stepped inside, and for a moment we stood in the light of the lamp.

  ‘Sit down, Marcus.’ I returned to my chair.

  He remained standing. ‘I can’t stay long.’

  ‘Are you on your own?’

  ‘I have a sergeant driving me. He’s in the motor. I stopped a little way down the lane so as not to disturb the children with the noise of the engine.’

  Marcus reached for a bentwood chair from the table. He sat astride it, his arms folded across the chair back. ‘Bob Conroy …’

  I interrupted him by pointing to the ceiling, and reminding him that the children may hear.

  He lowered his voice to little more than a whisper. ‘Bob Conroy has confessed to killing Ethan Armstrong. He says Mr Armstrong worked out who must be informing on his political activities, and when he challenged him about it, Conroy admitted everything.’

  ‘But he’s sold the farm. He’s going away. Why would it matter so much that Ethan knew?’

  ‘He couldn’t bear the shame of what he’d done. He felt sure Ethan would denounce him to everyone, including his own wife, and Mary Jane, so he killed him.’

  ‘Do you believe this confession?’

  He looked at the fire, and then at me. ‘No. I think he’s trying to protect Mary Jane.’

  In spite of his low tone of voice, I felt a sudden horror that Harriet would be out of bed, her ear to the floorboards.

  ‘He could be telling the truth, Marcus.’

  ‘It’s possible. I’m keeping an open mind. Ethan Armstrong had married the woman Conroy loved. There’s been talk in political circles that Mr Armstrong planned to stand for parliament.’

  ‘That’s why Special Branch took an interest in him?’

  ‘Yes. He was charismatic, a born leader. Conroy and he were school chums and comrades, and perhaps Conroy couldn’t bear the thought that he would forever be held in contempt by a man who – apart from his mad politics – was better in every way than Conroy himself.’

  ‘Marcus, your men searched this cottage and the outbuildings. Have you ordered a similar search at the farm?’

  He hesitated. ‘Not yet.’

  ‘And those papers of Ethan’s I handed over, has anyone gone through them?’

  ‘Yes. Most of it was familiar, a few surprising names.’ I felt sick at the thought that I had handed over the names and addresses of working men who only wanted better conditions and pay. But I put the thought aside and clutched at another straw. ‘That advertisement by a well provided woman seeking a well provided man, Dad thought it might be some sort of code, but I asked a friend to write a letter. It’s a real person, Marcus.’

  He listened while I told him about Mr Duffield’s letter, written as Mr Wright, and the reply, and the meeting scheduled for tomorrow afternoon.

  ‘Please don’t get your hopes up, Kate. There was probably some perfectly simple explanation as to why Mr Armstrong had that cutting in his possession. He was interested in all sorts of social issues and women’s rights – at least in theory.’ A tone of slight rebuke entered his voice. ‘You’d no need to go to the lengths of having a reply written to the advertisement. I would have had the box number checked. Saved your friend Mr Duffield and this enterprising lady a little embarrassment.’ He was about to say something flippant, but thought better of it.

  ‘Have you told Mrs Conroy that you have her husband in custody?’

  ‘Sergeant Sharp paid her a visit. He told her that Conroy is being treated in hospital for burns and shock, and that he’s under sedation.’

  ‘I expect she was mightily relieved.’ She would also be relieved to know that Millie was safe and sound.

  ‘What is it, Kate?’

  ‘The little girl, Millie, she turned up here not long ago, frozen and half starved. She’s terrified of getting into trouble. I’ve fed her and put her to bed. Do you think … I mean, having another child here would help Harriet and Austin …’

  That was not entirely true. Harriet and Austin had each other and tomorrow would be with their grandma. It was Millie who worried me. If she really had set fire to the cowshed, she needed help, not punishment.

  Marcus did not seem concerned about Millie. He nodded. ‘I’ll have someone call on Mrs Conroy and tell her we’ve found the child and she’s being taken care of. Is she hurt?’

  ‘No. Just dirty, exhausted and flea-bitten.’

  He smiled. ‘Well, it’s very noble of you. We both have our work cut out.’

  ‘I expect this means we won’t see you for Sunday dinner at my parents’ tomorrow?’

  He bent and kissed my cheek. ‘Don’t you believe that, Kate. I wouldn’t miss it for the world. A man has to eat, and …’ He left out the fact that as far as he was concerned, this case was all but concluded. He drew me up from the chair and into his arms. ‘Try not to worry too much.’ He kissed me again. ‘Get some sleep, Kate. And bolt the door after me.’

  I watched from the window as his figure disappeared into the darkness. The motor started, and the car drove off into the night.

  SUNDAY

  Will the day’s journey take the whole long day?

  From morn to night, my friend.

  Christina Rosetti

  One

  The three children sat at the table, each with a basin of porridge. Harriet pressed the lumps in the porridge with the back of her spoon. Austin sported a lump of porridge on his chin, like a joke beard. Millie ate quickly, not taking her eyes off the food. When she finished, she licked the dish clean.

  ‘Millie. Tell me what happened on the night of the fire.’

  She looked at her dish as if to read an answer.

  ‘It want me!’ Austin cried.

  ‘And it want me neither,’ Millie echoed.

  ‘I’m not blaming anyone. I just want to find out. Millie, where were you when the fire started?’

  ‘In my bed.’

  ‘She sleeps downstairs,’ Harriet said, ‘in a bed that pulls down from the wall in the kitchen.’

  ‘Tell me what you saw, Millie.’

  Millie recognised a bargaining situation. ‘I want a sup of tea.’

  Harriet poured some of her own tea into Millie’s porridge dish. Millie picked up the dish and began to drink. When she had finished, I asked her again.

  She stared at the empty dish. ‘Mr Conroy brayed on the door. That waked me up. Mrs Conroy come down. She wouldn’t let him inside because he had drink on him. She went after him.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Making sure he went off from the door and didn’t mither her. I shut my eyes again. And I heard more noise and I didn’t want to look.’ She stared at Austin.

  ‘It wan
t me,’ Austin wailed.

  ‘No it want him,’ Millie confirmed. ‘Austin’d woked up and was crying outside. Some flames was taking hold.’

  Austin began to cry, as if he must illustrate this story with his actions. ‘I wa’ cold, right cold, and Harriet want there.’

  Harriet shushed him. She turned to me. ‘Sometimes Austin sleepwalks.’

  That did not explain how he came to be outside, unless the door had been left open, or Millie had taken him out there to lay the blame for the fire on him.

  ‘What happened next, Millie?’

  ‘I knew summat was up. I went and saw the flames. I let the cows loose.’ She turned red and looked away. I guessed that she had shown more care for the cows than for Austin.

  I smiled at her. ‘That was very good, to set the cows free. You saved their lives. What then?’

  ‘Mr Conroy, rolling hisself on the ground. His clothes was on fire, and he rolled and rolled and he picked Austin up in his arms and run.’

  ‘Where was Mrs Conroy?’

  ‘She’d gone back to bed after shutting Mr Conroy out.’

  A loud knock on the door sent all four of us into an attitude of statues. I watched as the string that held the key began to move. And then I leaped across and grabbed it, and held the key.

  ‘Anyone home?’ It was Mrs Conroy.

  I nodded to Millie to go upstairs, which she did, silently.

  I opened the door, but only a fraction. ‘Mrs Conroy. I’m sorry but I can’t ask you in. The children are exhausted.’

  ‘Mrs Armstrong gave me care of them. I can’t let her down.’

  I stepped outside, closing the door behind me.

  ‘You have troubles of your own, and the children are expected at their grandma’s today.’ I reached out a hand and grazed her arm. ‘I’ve heard about the fire. It’s beyond me to know what to say. My heart goes out to you. I shall tell Mary Jane how kind and thoughtful you were to come looking.’

  My heart was beating fast. If she chose to force her way in, this could be a nasty scene.

  ‘My girl went missing too. The police have her in custody though of course they don’t say it in so many words.’

  ‘How dreadful. Go see Sergeant Sharp. I’m sure he’ll put your mind at rest. I would come with you, but the children’s grandmother will be here shortly.’

  That did it. Perhaps I was not sufficient of a deterrent, but with the addition of an arriving grandmother, Mrs Conroy retreated.

  I wished her goodbye, went inside, and shut the door. When I locked it and turned my back against it, I was trembling. What I was up to amounted to abduction, but Millie looked too frail to bear the brunt of blame for the fire.

  Harriet went to the window and closed the curtains.

  ‘I don’t like it dark,’ Austin complained.

  ‘You have to have the curtains shut when someone died,’ Harriet said gently.

  ‘Who died?’

  ‘Dad died.’

  ‘But that was before. That wasn’t today.’

  Harriet ignored him. ‘Is Grandma really coming here?’

  It didn’t do to tell lies in front of children. ‘I think it will save a great deal of trouble if we go there. And it will take Millie’s mind off things if she comes with us.’

  On the way, I would call home, freshen up and collect my outfit for the all-important family Sunday dinner.

  Once again I found myself in White Swan Yard, the Wakefield courtyard where I was born. Mrs Whitaker’s old dog lay on the flags. It thumped its tail, without bothering to lumber up until Harriet and Austin reached the door and rushed inside.

  Millie hung back shyly. I felt sorry for the child, having yet more strangers to contend with. ‘Can’t I come with you?’

  I considered. Shortly I would be at my parents’ house in Sandal. Something told me it would be complicated enough, with Marcus meeting Dad for the first time; valiant Mr Duffield arriving for his teatime appointment with the well provided woman; and Mother’s friend along to make up the numbers at dinner, and give Mr Duffield the once over.

  I was saved an answer. Mrs Whitaker came to the door and held a hand out to Millie. ‘Come on, lass. Don’t be left out in the cold. It’s Millie isn’t it?’

  Millie brightened up straightaway and went inside, accompanied by Benjie the dog.

  Mrs Whitaker turned to Harriet and Austin, told them to look after the little guest.

  She stepped into the yard. ‘Hello, love.’

  ‘Hello.’

  She wore a bright silky Sunday pinafore, printed with spring flowers. ‘Any news?’

  I couldn’t call her mother. I couldn’t call her Mrs Whitaker; that would be too formal. ‘Mary Jane has been released by the police, for now. She’s staying with the Ledgers. Their solicitor is acting for her.’

  She frowned at that. Perhaps Mary Jane had told her the secret about the Ledger children, or Ethan had confided his opinion of these particular members of “good” society. ‘What does your father … what does Superintendent Hood say about it all?’

  That your former son-in-law was an agitator, under surveillance, and that your daughter may be a murderess.

  ‘I’m going there now. Just as soon as there’s a development, I’ll let you know.’

  She thrust her hands into the pocket of her pinny. ‘I feel that helpless. Would it do any good if I went to speak up for her? She wouldn’t …’ Mrs Whitaker could not bring herself to finish the sentence.

  ‘I’m sure we’ll get to the bottom of this and she’ll be back home.’

  ‘She won’t have a home though will she, without Ethan. The house goes with the job.’

  ‘Let’s take it a step at a time, Mrs Whitaker.’ It slipped out, the Mrs Whitaker, and that made me add something more optimistic than I felt at that moment. ‘I’m sure it will turn out all right.’

  No I’m not. I have no idea how this will turn out.

  ‘I hope so, Catherine. I pray so.’

  ‘Goodbye then. I’ll call back for the children.’

  It seemed unkind to leave her so hastily, but I needed to get to my parents’ house. My stomach churned. I wanted Marcus to be too busy to come. I wanted him to arrive early and announce that he had charged Bob Conroy with murder, and Mary Jane was free to go.

  I dreaded the solemn look, the gentleness in his voice if he said the words I feared. Banish the thought. Thanks to me, dear Mr Duffield would be foregoing his usual Sunday routine, straightening his tie and steeling himself to meet strangers, and the mysterious Mrs Alexander, placer of a small advertisement. She may well turn out to be a secret code. An anarchist, black bomb under her arm stumbling into the house on the stroke of four and blowing us all to kingdom come.

  Whenever Dad knows I am visiting, he arranges with his motor-mad neighbour to check over the Jowett as he does not trust me to keep the tyres in good condition.

  The next-door neighbour, a young man with wild hair and tidy beard, lives with his mother. He was waiting, watching out for me, like a fussy old lady. He called out, ‘Keep her running!’

  He was beside me in an instant, listening to the sound of the engine, like a conductor who has detected a wrong note. ‘Have you checked the boiler lately, Mrs Shackleton?’

  I confessed I had not.

  ‘Leave her to me.’

  I smiled, thanked him, and picked up my bag. He is a man my mother once thought of in connection with her widowed friend Martha, but reluctantly concluded that Martha Graham did not have sufficient cranking parts to be of interest to an amateur motor mechanic. My Jowett disappeared into his garage and, if cars can look pleased, it did.

  Mother ushered me upstairs. While I washed away motoring dust and brushed my hair, she laid my dress on the bed.

  ‘This is lovely, Kate.’

  It is a new wrap-around style in turquoise silk crepe, with narrow panels gaily embroidered in darker silk and metallic threads. I don’t like the metallic, but Mother disagreed.

  ‘What you n
eed is my turquoise pendant with the matching bracelet.’

  She only just had time to fasten the pendant for me when the doorbell rang.

  ‘Our first guest.’ She listened as Pamela the maid let him in. ‘It’s your newspaper librarian.’

  ‘Mr Duffield. Good. I should like to have a chat with him before the others arrive.’

  ‘The sherry is in the drawing room. Pamela will take him in there. I’ll let you greet him and give you five minutes.’

  Mr Duffield shone with brushing and scrubbing. His face was pink from close shaving. The usually unruly eyebrows lay plastered in straight lines. His hair might have been parted with a sword. I wished he had chosen a more sober suit and a regimental tie of some sort but it was too late for that. Mr Duffield had dressed for the occasion, in his inimitable fashion. He wore a maroon bow tie and a long jacket that gave him the air of having stepped from a Wild West saloon. I could not place the era from which his footwear dated. A pixie could have admired its reflection in the sheen of his pointed toe caps. He smiled at me with a look of pure relief as though I was the cavalry and had just ridden across the hill in the nick of time.

  ‘Thank you so much for coming, Mr Duffield. Will you have a glass of sherry?’

  He accepted a dry sherry and immediately confided, ‘I arrived a little early because I feel most uneasy about this enterprise. The more I think about it, that poor lady coming to meet me under entirely false pretences … If you could go over what is required of me …’

  ‘Of course.’ Now was not the time to admit that I felt equally uneasy. ‘First there’ll be lunch, Mr Duffield, with my parents, Mr Dennis Hood, and my mother Virginia, Dad calls her Ginny.’ Mr Duffield visibly shuddered at the thought that I might suggest such familiarity. I did not add that Mother is also entitled to her Lady Virginia moniker.

  ‘I had the pleasure of meeting Mrs Hood yesterday when she called at the newspaper offices.’

  ‘Ah yes, of course.’

  ‘A charming lady.’

  ‘And there’ll be a friend of my mother’s, Mrs Martha Graham, a widow, and Mr Marcus Charles.’