Murder in the Afternoon: A Kate Shackleton Mystery

by Frances Brody

‘And Mr Charles is …?’

  ‘A friend of mine.’ I took a breath. ‘He’s a chief inspector at Scotland Yard.’

  Mr Duffield’s hand trembled. The sherry made waves. I watched, wondering would he crush the stem or spill the contents onto the rug. He did neither but carefully placed the glass on the mantelpiece, as though too distraught to see the occasional table next to him. He bit his lip. ‘Superintendent Hood, and Chief Inspector Charles, and I am here to partake of Sunday lunch, and then perpetrate a deception upon an unwitting lady. Surely …’

  ‘My father and Mr Charles are aware of this. It is part of an investigation. You will have the gratitude of the West Riding Constabulary, and Scotland Yard.’

  I may not, but you will.

  He waited for me to say more. This is the trouble with men who have been in the army. They either want to give orders, or take them. In his empire at the newspaper offices, Mr Duffield gave orders. But this, in his eyes, was my domain. I rose to the occasion.

  ‘We will finish lunch in time for you to be ready to meet your teatime guest, Mrs Alexander. You will bring her into this room, so please make yourself familiar with it. Sherry glasses there, sherry dry, and sherry sweet. As soon as she arrives, Pamela the maid will admit her and take her coat. She will be shown in here where you will walk to meet her, offer your hand, and welcome her. We get the sun through this window in the afternoon, so make sure you sit with your back to the window, so that you can observe her well. Once she is seated, even if she accepts sherry, pull the bell cord by the fireplace. Pamela will return, and you’ll order tea.’

  He held up his hand, schoolboy fashion. ‘What if Mrs Alexander doesn’t want tea?’

  ‘There will be cake, to have with the sherry. Give a truthful account of yourself, but keep it very simple, sticking to what you said in the letter.’

  With a look of panic, he said, ‘I can’t remember what I said.’

  I reminded him about his widowhood, his income, his properties, and his reasons for living here.

  ‘What if her advertisement was a secret code, as you half suspected, and she asks me questions I can’t answer?’

  ‘Well then, she will realise you are an innocent party, unaware of the code. If she asks you everyday sorts of questions that you find awkward, say that you would so much like to hear about her, and how delighted you are to entertain such a fragrant lady in your humble home.’

  He looked around the drawing room with something like dismay. ‘It’s not humble.’

  ‘Be your charming self. Give her admiring glances, whether she merits them or not. Listen to her.’

  ‘What if I find myself engaged to be married, under false pretences?’

  ‘It will be all right, believe me.’

  Before he had time to worry further, Mother glided in. She wore a peach dress with tiered skirt, and her second-best pearls. ‘Why Mr Duffield, how delightful to see you. My husband is so looking forward to hearing all about your work at the newspaper library. I told him how very well informed you are on every topic under the sun.’

  Mr Duffield stood to attention. Under her flattery, his worries dropped away. I left him in her capable hands when the doorbell rang. It was Marcus.

  He kissed me. ‘Kate, you look ravishing, as always.’

  The always was a lie, but turquoise does suit me.

  We stood for a few moments in the hall, and I wished we were going to be alone, but of course there was a purpose to the visit. Dad emerged from his study, and I introduced them, then we all went into the drawing room for sherry.

  Martha Graham arrived last. She is a slender live wire of a woman who only truly lights up when she plays bridge. Mother introduced her to Marcus, and then drew her into conversation with Mr Duffield. This helped take his mind off the task ahead, and perhaps gave him a little time to practise being suave.

  Dad cornered me at the far end of the room. While making it appear that we were chatting about his visit to the dentist, he said, ‘What on earth are you thinking of, Katie, setting up some lonely hearts meeting here?’

  ‘It wasn’t meant to be here. They were to meet at an hotel.’

  ‘It’ll look grand, won’t it, if your man over there fluffs it and we end up with some insulted female suing for breach of promise and I’m to stand up in court and explain how this came about under my roof.’

  ‘Dad …’

  ‘Don’t Dad me. This was meant to be an opportunity to meet your friend Mr Charles.’

  ‘Well, you are meeting him!’

  It was a relief to me when dinner was served and we all sat down to tuck into Yorkshire pudding.

  ‘We always eat the Yorkshire pudding first,’ Mother explained to Marcus.

  Dad said, ‘When Katie was little, she would never eat her Yorkshire pudding until I cut windows and doors into it and made a little house.’

  Marcus caught my eye and we smiled.

  Mr Duffield turned out to be the perfect guest. He speculated as to who would replace Bonar Law; would it be Mr Baldwin or Lord Curzon? He thought Mr Baldwin because the Conservatives were trying not to appear so aristocratic and patrician. He and Dad agreed that they could see no end to the lawlessness in Afghanistan. Mother successfully steered the conversation away from politics, to give Mrs Graham the opportunity to talk about her garden.

  Only when the little French clock chimed the quarter hour, did some shifting about on the chairs take place, and Mr Duffield glanced in my direction, awaiting orders.

  Mrs Graham had clearly been primed as to her time of departure, looked at her watch, uttered a goodness me and was off as fast as Cinderella from the ball, but not before saying a warm goodbye to MrDuffield.

  Mr Duffield took up his position in the drawing room.

  Not until ten minutes past four did the doorbell ring.

  I almost jumped out of my skin.

  We dining room inhabitants sat in unnatural silence while Pamela opened the front door. I listened, ear to the crack in the door.

  Pamela asked the visitor in, and offered to take her coat.

  ‘Thank you. It’s rather chilly out.’

  The voice was cultured, with rounded vowels and carefully enunciated word endings; too careful, perhaps. It was the voice of someone who has just filed her nails.

  ‘Mrs Alexander?’ Mr Duffield asked, with a smile in his tone.

  ‘Yes. You must be Mr Wright.’

  The door closed.

  I heard no more.

  Marcus caught my eye, silently asking who or what I had expected, or suspected. When I did not respond, he flashed me a smile that was both kind and annoyingly indulgent.

  Mother whispered something to Dad whose face took on a thunderous look.

  Pamela stepped smartly along the hall and tapped on the drawing room door, delivering a tray. She was supposed to come in and give a description of the woman, but did not.

  Twenty minutes stretched to half an hour, stretched to forty-five minutes. What was Duffield doing in there? It was supposed to be a brief tête-à-tête, not the development of a ten-year plan.

  I could bear the tension no longer and rang the bell for Pamela, not daring to step into the hall and break Mr Duffield’s cover.

  Moments later, the door opened. Pamela mouthed exaggeratedly, ‘Sorry. I forgot.’

  Forgot? How could she forget?

  She tiptoed to the table.

  ‘What does she look like?’

  She thought for a moment. ‘You know that picture of Pola Negri, with the beauty spot?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Well, she’s like her, but without the beauty spot and her eyebrows don’t come quite as far down her temples as Pola Negri’s do.’

  ‘So she has dark hair?’ I asked.

  ‘Yes.’ Pamela looked at my mother.

  Mother said, ‘Pola Negri has a sort of round face, a little sultry looking.’

  ‘She wears gold-rimmed spectacles,’ Pamela added. ‘The lady, not Pola Negri.’ She thought for a mo
ment. ‘Solemn looking.’

  ‘Her figure?’

  ‘Buxom.’

  ‘Well?’ Dad asked.

  At the same time, Pamela whispered, ‘How is my ginger tom, Mrs Shackleton?’

  Ginger tom? I hesitated to ask.

  Mother said, ‘Oh, you know, Kate, the ginger tom in Sookie’s litter that you promised for Pamela.’

  ‘Ah.’

  Sookie had not had a ginger kitten. ‘He’s very well, Pamela. I’ve told him all about you. Only he’s not entirely ginger.’

  Dad looked ready to explode.

  Pamela smiled and turned to leave. I caught up with her at the door, still desperate to have the smallest hope that I had been right. ‘What does she wear, this Mrs Alexander?’

  ‘A dark skirt and blue blouse, quite nice stockings in artificial silk, and a pair of court shoes with a heel. Her coat is reversible.’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘Yes. It’s a cape. Bottle green on one side, plaid on the other.’

  ‘Bring it in, quickly.’

  She brought the cape and handed it to me. I held it up, as though it were exhibit A in the most notorious Old Bailey trial – first the green side, and then the plaid. It was exactly the plaid of Mary Jane’s cape. ‘It’s her. It’s the woman who was seen near the quarry’

  I handed the garment back to Pamela.

  She left the room and hung up the coat just in time because seconds later, the drawing room door opened. ‘Pamela,’ Mr Duffield called cheerily. ‘I shall escort Mrs Alexander to the railway station.’

  ‘No need, Mr Wright,’ the lady protested.

  ‘Please,’ said Mr Duffield, giving the orders this time. ‘I insist.’

  No one at the dining table had responded to my claim, ‘It’s her.’ I said again, the moment that the door closed. ‘A woman in plaid was seen by the quarry. Ethan had that advertisement in his pocket. We must do something!’ I looked from Marcus to Dad and back again.

  There was a pause, during which looks passed around the table. What were we to do? Dash into the street and confront her?

  ‘If you won’t go after them, I will.’

  ‘We have to follow it through,’ Marcus said, biting his lip. ‘I should have asked a constable to be on hand, only …’

  He kindly refrained from saying he didn’t believe me.

  Dad stood up. He held out his hand to Mother. ‘Come on, Ginny. We’re going on a jaunt. Kate, fetch your mother’s coat.’

  Mother stood up, about to say that she needed to change her shoes but I did not give her the time. The moment the door closed behind Mr Duffield and Mrs Alexander, I rushed into the hall and grabbed Mother’s coat from the hall stand.

  ‘It’s probably a wild goose chase,’ Dad said, ‘but we can’t come this far and not follow it through.’

  Marcus said, ‘Wait, sir. My driver’s in the kitchen. He’ll take you to the tram stop and you can follow the tram, see if she really is going to the railway station.’

  Dad nodded. ‘Good point.’

  He looked grim and there would doubtless be a lecture later.

  When they had gone, Marcus said, ‘Your parents are sports.’

  This was not how the afternoon was supposed to go. They were humouring me because of Mary Jane. Later they would be able to say, we kept an open mind. We tried to clear her name.

  Two

  From the early days of her married life, when she shocked her aristocratic family by marrying a police officer and moving to Wakefield, Lady Virginia, or Ginny Hood as she became, had never felt easy about taking a supporting role. Once, when asked to step in as temporary matron to a woman in custody, she had brought two ounces of Lapsang Souchong and a sponge cake to the Wakefield cells. After that incident, Dennis, then Inspector Hood, never again asked for his wife’s assistance.

  Now here she was again, once more trying to do her best as she and Dennis, now Superintendent Hood, settled themselves in the motor ready to tail Mr Duffield and his mysterious companion, and follow the tramcar. She must try, for Kate’s sake, to manage this surveillance with the utmost diligence and discretion.

  Dennis and Ginny climbed from the motor at Westgate Station. She watched as that nice Mr Duffield waved goodbye to the lady, who entered the station without looking back. Ginny avoided the temptation to meet Mr Duffield’s eye, but she certainly looked forward to meeting Martha Graham tomorrow and finding out if she was correct in thinking there had been a little spark of interest between them. Mr Duffield had passed Mrs Graham the gravy boat with immense courtesy.

  At W H Smith, Ginny picked up the Sunday Pictorial and a bar of Five Boys chocolate. On the platform, she and Dennis chatted calmly about she knew not what. He listened politely, nodding agreement, and checked his watch against the station clock. Now and then, Ginny cast a surreptitious glance in Mrs Alexander’s direction as she stood calmly, a couple of feet back from the platform edge, showing no sign of pleasure or excitement at having just met a potential suitor.

  When the train steamed in, Mrs Alexander was first into the carriage. Ginny was ready to shoot in after her, but Dennis held her arm and allowed a young family to go ahead.

  Ginny gazed out of the window. Don’t let me be drawn into conversation, she said to herself. I would feel so bad to have struck up a liking for a female criminal. It would be the Lapsang Souchong all over again.

  Dennis read the Pictorial.

  At Leeds station, Ginny allowed a few moments before she followed Mrs Alexander into the Ladies’ Waiting Room. Ginny powdered her nose and tidied her hair for what seemed an interminably long time. If it had not been for the description of the reversible cape, she would have paid no attention to the woman who emerged from the lavatory, blonde bob, no spectacles, and much slimmer than the plaid-caped lady from the train.

  Ginny gave her hair a last pat, dropped tuppence in the attendant’s saucer, and followed the woman out.

  Dennis was waiting for her, a little way off from other travellers. Even so, she whispered, ‘That blonde woman with the bob, it’s the same woman who just parted from Mr Duffield. She went into the lavatory and came out having shed a disguise. She was wearing a dark wig, Dennis, and has reversed her cape.’

  Dennis nodded to a railway guard.

  Ginny swelled with pride. She’d done it; been a help to Dennis, and to Kate. Lapsang Souchong and sponge cake were consigned to ancient history.

  Three

  Marcus and I had said little to each other while we waited, side by side on the sofa. The moment the doorbell rang, I leaped to my feet and went into the hall to meet a gloomy Mr Duffield, returned from the station. He took off his hat, refusing to step into the drawing room, intending to catch the next tram. ‘I feel such a cad regarding that lady. Just for a moment, Mrs Shackleton, she touched my heart. It briefly came to me that we would marry, that she would delight my life and that of an evening we should sit either side of the fire, me reading Trollope and she with the Good Book, or a pair of knitting needles.’

  ‘I could be wrong, Mr Duffield. Perhaps Mrs Alexander is who she says she is. I am only going by a feeling, and by her reversible cape.’

  ‘No,’ he said sadly. ‘She would not give me her address but will contact me. Something about a sister who disapproves, and something else …’

  ‘What else, Mr Duffield?’

  ‘I watched her walk into the station. She waved. I waved, and turned, but then looked back. Her gait had changed. Don’t ask me how, but something altered in her step, and the way she held her head. I know we are all a different person when alone, but this was something else, and I can’t say what, but I knew. These things are perhaps instinctive, as you hinted, Mrs Shackleton.’ He sighed. ‘Instinct, you know, whether a life spreads out just as it did before, or with some subtle change. My life spreads out as it always has.’

  He smiled bravely, hiding disappointment.

  Marcus had stepped into the hall and was listening. ‘Thank you very much for your assistance, Mr Duf
field. It’s most public spirited of you to help us in this way.’

  I smiled at Marcus, glad that he now at least pretended to treat my wild scheme with such sober appreciation. The change in Mrs Alexander’s gait might be accounted for by her knowledge that she had made a conquest, or her relief at being able to escape from an eccentric.

  Mr Duffield replaced his hat. ‘Well, good day to you both.’

  I watched him slowly walk away, head bowed.

  ‘Don’t feel too bad about all this, Kate.’ Marcus placed a hand on my shoulder. ‘Who knows but that you may have given the old chap an idea or two? Perhaps he’ll be placing his own personal advertisement for a wife before too long.’

  ‘Or brushing up on his bridge to please Mrs Graham.’

  Back in the drawing room we sat beside each other on the sofa, a little way apart this time. ‘Kate, when this business is settled, I have something to ask you, and I hope you’ll say yes.’

  I knew what the question would be, or at least thought I did. A Scotland Yard chief inspector does not have Sunday dinner with a West Riding Constabulary superintendent and his wife while planning to ask their daughter to live in sin or continue a clandestine affair.

  Marcus is a dear man, but we were treading warily around each other. He wasn’t saying so, but he believed my scheme to have Mr Duffield answer the letter had come to nothing and that because of a reversible cape, I had sent my mother and father on a wild goose chase. Like a finely adjusted set of scales, something hung in the balance between us.

  ‘Pamela!’ I ran into the kitchen. The woman wore artificial silk stockings. So did a thousand other women.

  Pamela turned from stacking dishes. ‘Pamela, did the lady wear jewellery?’

  She thought for a moment. ‘Earrings, a ring on each hand.’

  ‘A ring on each hand, one a wedding ring?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And the other, a buckle ring?’

  ‘I think so.’

  ‘What kind of earrings?’

  ‘Pierced. I don’t come across many ladies with pierced ears, and I expect they was gold.’

  ‘Pear-shaped hoops, smallish?’