‘I’m sure he’d be glad to help.’
That put me in my place. Good enough to interview a nervy chambermaid and comment on a frock. Something rose up inside me. Cold fury. We’ll see, Marcus. You didn’t even know the Runcies were divorcing. You pooh-poohed my thoughts about Hartigan, and the waiter fooled whichever of your minions interviewed him. We’ll see how you get on.
Sykes was delighted to be in demand as a special constable. I hid my fury at being entirely sidelined, and slung my hook. There was plenty for me to do. I should cocoa. Let the boys get on with it. I had a report to type, a letter to write, an envelope to address, a stamp to lick. Not to mention checking through the past few weeks’ newspapers for interesting items.
My cat Sookie came to greet me. She rubbed herself against my legs, leaving hairs on my stockings, threatening to trip me.
‘You’ll have to wait until Mrs Sugden gets back from the market with fish scraps.’
I opened the back door. She bounded out.
Right. I would type my report to the insurance company on our investigation of the fraud case. If I got on with it now, it would be finished before Mrs Sugden returned, and I would avoid having an audience watching to see how it was done.
I was so furious that my fingers thumped the typewriter keys too hard. Every single o and every p lost its centre.
The report ran to two pages. I typed the date at the bottom, and a line for my signature, then released the platen. I typed a short covering letter, and the job was done. I keep envelopes in the dresser drawer, along with table mats, not an ideal arrangement for the efficient office, but it works.
Plenty to do. Envelope. Stamp.
Mrs Sugden returned. She watched me put the cover on the typewriter. ‘I could do that sort of thing. If I learned to typewrite, you could concentrate on your brainwork.’
Mrs Sugden likes to keep busy. She is easily bored. No skill is too tricky. She is cook, dressmaker, knitter extraordinaire, gardener and maker of chutney. We agreed that she should look for a typewriting class.
When back from the market, she wants to talk, about who she saw, what she bought, and for how much.
I escaped. Plenty to do. Sort out August’s newspapers. They were in a pile on top of the piano. I remembered something I had meant to cut out at the time, to send to my aunt. Where was that newspaper? It was easy to date because it had appeared the day after grouse shooting began. And then I found it. There was a photograph, with the caption: LORD FOTHERINGHAM’S SHOOTING PARTY – STRAY SHOT AT SHOOT.
The photograph showed Caroline Windham, clutching her arm, while still holding her gun, unaware of the camera, a look of surprise on her broad, handsome face. Everett Runcie stood beside her. The article read:
The first day of grouse shooting was this year postponed to Monday the 13th, due to the Glorious Twelfth falling on Sunday. Renowned shot, Miss Caroline Windham, shown here in the butts at Somersgill, prepared to enjoy her day as guest of Lord Fotheringham. Moments into the shoot, Miss Windham suffered a grazed arm from a stray shot. She was promptly assisted by her nearest fellow shooters, Mr and Mrs Everett Runcie. Thankfully, Miss Windham suffered no lasting harm. After a brief respite for first aid, Miss Windham continued shooting. She bagged seven grouse by lunch – out-shooting even Lord Fotheringham.
Well she would. Caroline Windham, impeccable aristocratic connections, best seat in the county, archery champion, unrivalled on the tennis court, swimmer in wild places, extraordinary swordswoman. It was said she had inherited all the characteristics of her military ancestors, and none of their wealth. What was left of the family lands and money had gone to her timid younger brother who resented her accomplishments and disapproved of her adventures. He kept to his Derbyshire estate and allowed her nothing. Caroline Windham dazzled, she impressed. It was not just her size, her broad cheeks and her flaxen hair that had earned her the sobriquet the Viking Queen. In spite of her lack of money, she could have married well. But Miss Windham’s downfall was her love for Everett Runcie, and his for her. When she was nineteen, it was said she and Runcie were about to become engaged. At age twenty-one, she had travelled the continent with him, with no sign of a ring. At twenty-five, they shared his London home. When she was twenty-six, he married wealthy Philippa. Now, people spoke of Caroline as having ruined herself. No one would have her now. She and Runcie were unable to keep away from each other. Everyone knew it, including Philippa.
The article set me thinking. Was that ‘stray shot’ truly an accident? It did not surprise me that the culprit had not been shamed in the newspaper, as a bad shot and a worse sport. I wondered who fired, and whether the shot had not been accidental at all, but meant for Runcie? If that shot was intentional, and failed, then the culprit might be the murderer.
Had Marcus not put my back up, I may have immediately set off for the Metropole and taken this newspaper article to him, with my thoughts. But he was pursuing his own lines of enquiry, and had made quite clear the extent of my involvement.
Well then, I would explore these possibilities before presenting him with ideas that may appear outlandish or half-baked. I should in any case visit Philippa. Was it too soon? Was I going to express my condolences, or to steal a march on Marcus?
Both.
The Runcie home, Kirkley Hall, is a twenty minute walk for me. A stroll would allow me to calm down. I could barely imagine how Philippa must feel, having heard that Everett had been murdered.
I walked through the still afternoon towards Kirkley Hall.
Odds on that Philippa Runcie would not want to see me, or anyone. I remembered back to when I received the wartime telegram about Gerald. Had someone called on me in the hours following, I would not have had the wit to hear a knock on the door. But there were a couple of differences. I had not been in the throes of divorce from Gerald. Philippa Runcie knew nothing of answering her own door. Her staff would be well-trained in the practice of sending unwanted visitors packing.
As I walked along the broad wooded approach that led to the house, the trees cast late afternoon shadows. Through the spaces between the trees, I could see Kirkley Hall, in all its grandeur.
One needed only a glimpse of the place to understand why Everett Runcie had to marry an heiress. Everett’s much older bachelor brother held the family title. He transferred the house to his younger brother when Everett married Philippa. A clever move: Congratulations. Please accept this fine house, along with its mortgage and all the repair and restoration bills that come with it.
It is a Georgian building, on land that once belonged to the monks of Kirkstall Abbey. The Runcie family acquired the property a century ago, and made extensive alterations when they were in the money. Little by little, with the ebb and flow of fortunes, they sold off the adjacent farmland. Even so, extensive grounds still surrounded the house. It was said that the magnificent beech trees had been planted to represent the layout of troops at the Battle of Waterloo. Wellington himself held pride of place, in the shape of an oak tree. Over a hundred years on from the planting, the beech tree troops, officers and men, threatened to dwarf the old oak leader, Wellington.
Emerging from the cover of trees, I approached the house. Pillars framed the entrance, and on either side of the pillars stood plinths that held two magnificent Chinese lanterns, looted at the time of the Boxer Rebellion.
I lifted and dropped the heavy knocker. After a moment, the butler appeared. He remembered me from this summer’s garden party, and ushered me into the panelled drawing room, all gold leaf and brocade-covered furniture. I stood by the bay window, looking out onto the garden, waiting to receive a message thanking me for my call and saying that Mrs Runcie was indisposed.
When I first saw Philippa, we were on a visit to the opera. She was enjoying her first season, having been presented at court thanks to Aunt Berta’s machinations. There is always one indelible picture we carry of a person we know. For me the picture of Philippa was of a golden girl, glowing with health and vitality, wearing a co
pper-coloured gown and diamonds, leaning forward eagerly, as if to swallow every note that floated from the Covent Garden stage.
Slow footsteps approached along the hall. I turned. There was Philippa in the doorway. Although I had seen her only days ago at the races, a little shock ran through me, a memory of that evening at Covent Garden. And now here we were, both widows.
‘Hello, Kate. Thank you for coming.’
‘I didn’t know whether this was too soon. Throw me out if I’m intruding.’ We were not on intimate terms, certainly not hugging terms, but I couldn’t help myself. I went to her, and kissed her cheek. ‘I’m so sorry, Philippa.’
For a moment we were very still, and then she released me, saying, ‘Let’s sit down.’
I waited to take my lead from her as to where in this barn of a room, to sit. She went to a Queen Anne chair in the window alcove that had a partner, and there we sat. She leaned back in her chair, as if the slightest movement would be too much trouble. She wore an empire line mourning dress of softest crepe, square neck and long, loose sleeves. Her only jewellery was her wedding ring.
She spoke thoughtfully, as though from a long way off. ‘I’ve had to send for the dressmaker. Black was not something I expected to wear this September.’
It is not a good idea to put in your own two penny-worth when on a visit of condolence, but it just came out. ‘I didn’t wear black, because I expected Gerald was only missing and would come back. I fell out with his parents about it.’
She gave a sad smile. ‘You can be very stubborn. Unfortunately for me, the discovery of Everett’s body leaves no room for doubt. Though it still has not sunk in. I can’t believe that anything happening today is real.’
‘Have they let you see Everett?’
She bit her lip. ‘The hotel manager identified him. Apparently it’s not necessary for me to see him. I telephoned to Harold. He should be here from London by tonight.’
Harold is Baron Kirkley, Everett’s elder brother. In the normal scheme of things, he would have died first and the title passed to Everett.
‘Is it a relief that he will come?’
‘I suppose so,’ Philippa crossed her ankles. ‘Harold has already spoken to everyone who matters. There won’t be a formal announcement until Monday, thank God. Harold hopes to be able to hush up what happened, but I don’t see how he can. You can’t hide murder. I believe it was shock made him say that.’
‘But at least you won’t be dealing with this alone. That should be helpful.’
‘It ought to be, but Harold was not pleased about the divorce and he will not be glad to have this house back in his ownership, not without my cheque book to pay for the upkeep and running.’ She managed a small smile. ‘Who knows, he might have to marry and produce his own heir.’
She shivered, and picked up a shawl from a nearby stool. ‘This room is always cold, even in summer. Let’s go outside, unless you’re desperate for a drink.’
I followed her into the hall. She led the way down the steps from the terrace into the garden. To the side of the house, beyond the fountain, was the maze, created by some earlier Runcies from yew hedges.
Philippa looked across at the maze and began to stroll towards it, as if drawn by a magnet. ‘When I first came here, I imagined the day when our children would explore it with me. But of course we have no children, thank God.’
We walked in silence to the maze’s entrance. Philippa drew her shawl around her. ‘Now I come here to lose myself, and pretend that I’ll find a secret corner, a way into a different life.’
A man’s voice called, ‘Mrs Runcie!’
We both turned to see Philippa’s private secretary, the man I mistakenly christened Attila the Hun. I saw now that he was Genghis Khan, hurrying to catch up. He was a little out of breath, panting as he reached us, nodding a greeting to me, but clearly concerned about Philippa. ‘Would you like me to show Mrs Shackleton the garden, Philippa? Are you all right?’
‘Don’t fuss, Gideon.’
He hesitated for a moment, and then turned back towards the house.
‘Gideon’s very protective of me. I don’t know what I would do without him just now.’
‘I’m glad you have someone you can rely on. I can’t remember how long he’s been with you.’
‘Forever in a way, but here at the hall for about two years. He was at school with my brother, and then studied theology, intending to enter the church. When he lost his vocation, he drifted a little. It’s easy to find oneself frowned upon in Boston. It was my brother who suggested he come and take care of my interests.’
We had entered the maze. I guessed that Everett had not minded very much that Philippa had no head for business. That might have suited him very well.
Inside the maze, the stunted yew trees gave off a feeling of menace. Philippa waved a hand for me to go first. ‘See if you can find the bench at the centre. I’ll give you a start.’
I had only ever once before entered a maze, when I was child, with my younger twin brothers, and cousins. I could still hear my mother calling me, not to hurry ahead, and then the disembodied cries. Where are you? Stay there! Wait for me!
I did not know where I was then, or where I was now. Whatever I might imagine as Philippa’s mood, or her reaction to Everett’s death, it was not this. Was this her way of dealing with unwanted visitors, I wondered. I would be sent to the heart of the maze and deserted.
The Runcies had not economised on gardening. It was strange to walk alone among the perfectly trimmed ancient yew hedges. Round and round I walked, coming to dead ends, until I felt dizzy and had no notion of whether I was near the edge of the maze or the centre. When I spied an unexpected oblong of evening sunshine, I thought that must be the middle, but it was a little escape gap, just high enough for a frightened child. I retraced my steps, feeling foolish, not wanting to call out.
And then I came to the bench. Philippa was sitting there calmly, as though she had forgotten all about me. She looked up in something like surprise.
But when she spoke, I knew why she had brought me to the centre of the maze.
‘Your Scotland Yard friend is staying at the Metropole isn’t he?’
‘Yes.’
‘Did he come up here because he thought Everett was in danger? Is that why you were keeping an eye on us at the races?’
Her question shocked me. Perhaps I was wrong, and her guess was right.
‘Marcus doesn’t tell me what he does or why, but I don’t believe his visit is connected with Everett. I believe it is something else entirely.’
‘That’s what he told you?’
‘As I said, he doesn’t tell me.’
‘Then you don’t know for sure.’
‘No.’
I wondered whether Marcus had chosen to let me get the wrong idea about the reason for his visit. But I did not think so, and I believed that Everett’s death had shocked him to the core.
Philippa sat with intertwined fingers, hands resting on her stomach. ‘I don’t know what to think about who could have murdered Everett. Gideon said that the inspector this morning asked some odd questions, as if he thought it might be someone in the Runcie family, or on the board of the bank.’
‘Why would they want to do such a thing?’
‘Perhaps the police think it would be to avoid the scandal of a divorce, or the disgrace of the financial mess Everett has made.’
‘What twisted mind would see murder as a lesser scandal than divorce or financial shenanigans?’
‘No, I suppose not.’ She looked up at the yew hedge, as if it were the bars of a prison. ‘I feel blamed.’
‘No one could blame you.’
‘I blame myself. I was so starry-eyed about marrying into the English aristocracy, a Boston girl’s dream. Everett would succeed to the title. My son would sit in the House of Lords. No one had said, Bring your own tiara, we’ve sold the family jewels.’
‘Your family must have known about Everett’s financial situation.
’
‘Not really. Bankers are very good at sleight-of-hand. Besides, I wouldn’t have listened. I did not want to hear that my part would be to play the saving grace, redeem the mortgage on this pile, produce an heir, turn a blind eye to infidelity and bail out Everett when he made foolish investments. Patient Griselda would have buckled under the strain.’
It struck me that at first glance, the yew hedge was very sterile, but it probably teemed with all sorts of tiny insects and entire worlds that we could not see.
‘I want to know who killed him, Kate. I want them brought to justice, for my own sake, for everything I’ve been through. For the dream I once had.’
‘It’s horrible. No one deserves to have their life cut short.’ A ladybird landed on the bench beside me, such a perfect insect, in an imperfect world. ‘I’m sure Marcus will do everything he can.’
‘Is he good?’
‘Yes.’
‘It was the local inspector I saw this morning. Later he telephoned to say that Scotland Yard has taken over.’
‘Did the local chap have much else to say?’
‘Not to me. I don’t believe he would have told me how Everett died if I hadn’t insisted.’ She shuddered. ‘It’s horrible. Horrible.’
Philippa took a cigarette case from her pocket and offered it to me. We both lit up. ‘It just seems so strange that this had to happen when we were about to divorce. I can’t help feeling there’s a connection.’
‘What makes you think that?’
‘Why else would it happen now, when Everett was at the hotel to give me evidence, grounds to plead for a divorce?’
The ladybird flew away. ‘Perhaps there is no connection. Had you come to an amicable arrangement?’
She laughed, but without mirth. ‘I suppose so. It was my turn, Kate. I met someone else and it opened my eyes. I thought a better life, a different life is possible. Oh, my little fling didn’t last long. He was just another penniless man who thought himself onto a good thing, but it made me realise that it’s not beyond the bounds of possibility that somewhere there is someone who could love me for myself.’ She sighed. ‘As Everett loved Caroline Windham.’
A Woman Unknown Page 6