But you will, I thought, if I don’t push you too hard. I waited.
‘We were on Leeds Bridge,’ he said carefully, ‘and someone took a photograph. That upset her.’
‘I suppose it would. It’s not a picture she would want to have seen.’
‘She thought she recognised the photographer, as someone who worked for the same newspaper as her husband.
‘Why was he photographing you?’
‘At first he said he wasn’t, and that it was the scene he was taking. I did wonder whether …’
‘What?’
‘No. I’ll say no more on that.’
‘That her husband was having her followed, or that the photographer may ask a high price for his wares?’
When he stayed silent, I asked, ‘Who put you in contact with Deirdre?’
His answer came out so quickly and so pat that I knew it to be false. ‘We met in a café and hit it off. She was a good sport.’
‘What café?’
‘Does that matter? It was a café, that’s all. I can’t tell you the name.’
‘Where was the café?’
‘Just a café. We met in a café.’
‘That’s what the solicitor told you to say?’
He repeated his answer, word for word.
‘Thank you.’ There would be little more to draw out of him. I stood up.
‘Wait!’ He touched my sleeve. He let out a sigh and lowered his head. ‘If someone has hurt that lovely lady …’
This seemed an odd way to describe a ‘good sport’ he met in a café. ‘Mr Barnard, what can you tell me?’
‘It was her first time, and … Well I’m sure it was her first time.’
‘Do you mean her first time meeting a man in a café and going to a hotel with him?’
He hesitated. ‘I can’t divulge.’
I sat down again. ‘Mr Barnard, if you have any regard for Mrs Fitzpatrick, then please help me. I enjoyed HMS Pinafore, but I’ll probably be waiting in this station for the milk train, so have a heart, for Deirdre and for me.’
‘It was as I said, we met in a café and …’
‘Oh, spare me! She was with another man, in the same situation as you, and the outcome was rather unfortunate. And now I don’t know where she is.’
He had turned red and uncomfortable. He tugged at his collar. ‘What kind of husband does she have? What sort of man is he?’
‘It’s a little late for you to be asking that. You realise that your wife’s petition for divorce could be at risk?’
He hesitated, and then said, ‘Mrs Fitzpatrick, Deirdre, she needed the money. That was why she did what she did.’
‘You can rely on my discretion.’
Could he? I was not so sure, but he nodded. ‘I hope so.’ He did not look at me, but stared at his feet. He spoke quietly, but his actor’s voice allowed every word to come out so very clearly.
‘When I said it was her first time, I did not mean her first time meeting someone in a café. We agreed that intimacy need not form part of our arrangement. What you do in a situation requiring a certain sort of proof is not as important as what you are seen to do. What is seen, what can be used as evidence, that is what counts. We agreed to sleep with a bolster between us, and then we didn’t; didn’t have the bolster I mean. We liked each other, very much. I wished I had met her years ago, and I believe she felt the same. The next morning …’
‘The next morning?’ I prompted.
‘There was blood on the sheets. She was very embarrassed and tried to wash it out. We had a wash basin in the room.’
‘She had her bleeding period?’
‘No. It wasn’t that. It was her first time.’
A silence held between us, and then he spoke again. ‘She was lively, and funny, and told me about her mother, and her brother in New York who she thought must have died or moved because he never answered her letters. And now I feel helpless, because to act in any way on her behalf … the solicitor stressed …’
‘The solicitor …?’
‘That’s as much as I can say.’
Barnard stood up, and offered his hand. ‘I hope you don’t have to wait too long for a train.’
‘If there’s anything else, you have my card.’
‘You might as well know. I thought the photographer might be working for the solicitor, a belt and braces idea of seeing us together on our way to the hotel, but I cannot be sure. Deirdre thought not.’
‘Thank you.’
He nodded. ‘Goodnight.’
‘Goodnight.’
It would have been a better night’s work if I had found out the name of the solicitor. But at least I had eliminated the slim possibility that Deirdre would be with Barnard. I gave him time to leave the station, and then went to the platform to study the timetable. I need not have worried about trains. One was due in ten minutes. But if I took a train to Leeds, then I would be abandoning my motor to its fate. Far better to take a tram to my parents’ house in Sandal, where I would be better placed to do something about the motor in the morning.
The tram stop was a short walk away. On an impulse, I decided just to look and see if there was a light on at the house in White Swan Yard, where my birth mother lives. Not that I believe in the power of dreams. I had only dreamed of a mother’s death because of Deirdre’s mother dying. But it would not hurt, just to see.
A gentle glow from the gas mantle formed a golden edge around the blind. I could hear whistling, tapping or stamping, and a child’s voice that I recognised: my niece, Harriet.
I peeped through a gap at the side of the blind. There was Mrs Whitaker, the mother whom I didn’t know what to call, playing a penny whistle. My parents adopted me from Mrs Whitaker when I was a few weeks old, and I am only just getting to know her. Harriet was clapping and singing. The hearth rug was rolled back. Little Austin wore clogs and stomped a dance.
The dog barked.
Hurriedly, I turned away. It was late. I wanted to knock, but I didn’t want to knock. If the children saw my face, I might break the mood and remind them of sadder days, of the loss of their father.
But I was not quick enough. The dog’s bark alerted Harriet to someone at the door. She opened it as I was about to turn away, and her face lit up at the sight of me. ‘Auntie Kate! How did you know I was here?’
I smiled at her wonderful assumption. ‘Just a good guess, Harriet.’
She held open the door for me to step inside.
Austin had stopped dancing. He smiled, but not wanting to be seen smiling, looked at his feet.
Mrs Whitaker said, ‘Well you better sit down, our Catherine.’
I pulled out a buffet and sat by the table.
Harriet said, ‘Have you remembered it will be my birthday soon?’
‘I have.’
‘I’ll be eleven.’
‘I know they should be in bed,’ Mrs Whitaker said, as though I had criticized her, ‘but the bairns need a bit of enjoyment.’
‘Of course they do. I’ve just been to the theatre myself, to see Gilbert and Sullivan.’
Having called here, I had to stay for at least half an hour; half an hour of cups of tea, bread and dripping.
Harriet said, ‘Mam is going to come and stay with you while the banns are read for her and Uncle Bob to marry at Leeds Register office.’
Was she now? First I had heard of it. I tried not to look surprised. It was barely four months since my brother-in-law Ethan’s death. But Mary Jane is nothing if not full of surprises. She is my sister, but a sister I only met this year, brought up in this house, part of the Whitaker family, of whom I know only Mary Jane, Harriet, Austin and Mrs Whitaker.
Harriet talked about the proposed move to Helmsley, where her mam and step-father would run the newsagent shop. The children had been taken to see the place. Harriet seemed to be looking forward to the move. Austin gave nothing away.
I felt glad that they were moving to somewhere new, for a fresh start after the loss of their fat
her.
Austin was persuaded to do another dance. When he stopped and we applauded, he asked, ‘When we move to Helmsley, how will Dad know where to find us?’
Harriet said nothing. Neither did I. His grandmother said, ‘Your dad will be looking down from heaven. He’ll be that pleased to see you getting on right well.’
I waited downstairs with the dog, looking into the fire, while Mrs Whitaker took the children up to bed.
Shortly after she came down, I made a move. I explained about the Jowett. ‘I won’t go back to Leeds tonight. I’ll find a cab to take me out to Sandal.’
Mrs Whitaker is a practical woman. She straight away insisted that her neighbour down the yard would be happy to take me the three miles in his horse and cart.
She left me alone while she went out to ask him.
During the moments she was gone, I wondered how my life would have turned out if Mr Whitaker, a police constable, had not died suddenly while Mrs Whitaker was pregnant with me, and taking care of her already large family. It was hard to imagine a life other than the one I have lived.
Mrs Whitaker returned, all smiles. ‘Mr Cutler is getting his boots on. Give him ten minutes to get his pony out of the stable and harnessed.’
‘Where is the stable?’
‘Down the yard here.’
Ten minutes.
We looked at each other.
She said, ‘You tell Mary Jane, if you don’t want her to stop. It’s not right she should be imposing. She hadn’t asked you, had she?’
‘No.’
‘Just like her. But she regards you as family, you see. Because you are. But you mustn’t feel obliged to us.’ She poked the fire. ‘Are you warm enough?’
‘Yes thank you.’
Is this how we would be, Mrs Whitaker and I, polite, not quite knowing what to call each other?
Catherine, she called me.
‘Did you name me after someone in your family, Mrs Whitaker?’
Your family; I should have said our family.
‘Your father liked the name. Catherine if you were a girl. I can’t remember what we would have called a boy.’
So in spite all of their other children, they had thought carefully about my name. It gave me a different feeling towards this woman with the greying hair who looked so much older than her years.
‘And what is your Christian name, Mrs Whitaker? I never know what to call you, you see. I call Ginny Hood mother.’
‘So you should. And I don’t suppose you could say Ma.’
‘Ma.’ I laughed. ‘I’ve never said ma.’
‘Call me whatever you please. Ada, Ma, Mrs W. It makes no odds. You’ll always be Catherine to me.’
There was a gentle knock on the door. Mr Cutler had harnessed his pony in quick time.
I said goodnight to Mrs Whitaker, still unsure what to call her, but with a feeling that I would see her again, and soon.
Mr Cutler helped me onto the cart. I waved to the woman in the doorway, and the pony trotted us out of the yard.
I hoped that by morning, my brief interview with Joseph Barnard would make more sense, and that I would wake with an inkling of what to do next, or whether to withdraw from this business altogether.
It was almost midnight when Mr Cutler called whoa to his pony. I paid him and clambered from the cart. My parents’ house was in darkness. Fortunately, my mother insists on my keeping a key, ‘just in case’. I let myself in as quietly as possible, but not quietly enough.
Dad appeared at the top of the stairs in his dressing gown and slippers. ‘I heard the cart. Is something wrong?’
My dream came back to me. ‘Is mother asleep?’
‘Fast asleep.’
Not dead then. So my anxiety-filled dream had indeed been all about Deirdre Fitzpatrick. I flicked on the hall light.
Dad came down the stairs. ‘Wondered when you’d arrive.’
He never ceased to surprise me. ‘I didn’t say I was coming.’
He tapped the side of his nose. ‘Do you want a cup of cocoa?’
‘Didn’t mean to wake you.’ I followed him into the kitchen.
‘You know I’m a light sleeper.’ He poured milk into the saucepan, turned on the tap and added water.
I sat down at the kitchen table, and watched the match flame bring the gas ring to flickering blue life.
He spooned cocoa and sugar into mugs, adding a drop of milk to each one, mixing to a paste. ‘Your mother rang and spoke to Mrs Sugden. She said you had come to Wakefield to see a Gilbert & Sullivan.’
‘It was all a bit last minute.’
‘That’s what I said. She would have liked to go with you.’
‘She would have enjoyed it. But I really came because I wanted to talk to one of the singers.’
‘I guessed you weren’t in Wakefield solely for the love of HMS Pinafore.’
‘How did you guess?’
‘You wouldn’t have chosen to go to the Theatre Royal on your lonesome unless you had some ulterior motive.’
He watched the saucepan as I told him about the Jowett having lost heart, and that I had been towed into Wakefield and left the car near police headquarters, where Dad works.
‘That was bad luck, but good thinking to leave it by the station. We’ll do something about it in the morning, first thing.’
‘And I called in to see Mrs Whitaker.’
‘How is Mrs Whitaker?’ Even he, especially he, did not say, ‘your mother’.
‘She seems very well. Mary Jane’s children are staying with her.’
He poured the milk and water into the first mug, stirring carefully. ‘Where’s that biscuit barrel?’
‘Where it usually is.’ I went to the cupboard and took out the biscuit barrel. It is an awkward thing, made of dull steel, dented, and with a lid that never wants to budge. There must be some sentimental reason why my mother keeps it. You have to edge up the lid bit by bit until it gives in.
Ginger nuts. My favourite.
Dad stirred his cocoa and sat down. ‘So, your chief inspector is in Leeds, investigating the death of the banker.’
‘He’s not my chief inspector, Dad, but yes. I would have liked to help but he keeps me on the edge.’
‘Perhaps not so on the edge as all that.’ He took a sip of cocoa. ‘Too hot.’ He put down his mug. ‘He sent you a message via the station. Mrs Sugden told him you might call here.’
I wish I was not surrounded by people with a sixth sense. It can be unnerving.
Dad pushed the note across to me. ‘Bit cryptic, but I expect it makes sense to you.’
The note read: The C.I. presents his compliments and seeks your help in finding the woman unknown. Urgent. Fingerprints at scene match fingerprints in woman’s home.
I stared at the note.
Dad said, ‘Apparently, they found a fingerprint on a shoe she left behind in the room, and on a glass in the bathroom.’
‘So I was right.’
‘Who is she?’ Dad asked.
‘Deirdre Fitzpatrick. She was with the banker on the night he was killed. Marcus has already told me to let him know when I find her.’
‘He’s making it official. He wants you to find her on behalf of the police, rather than whoever asked you to find her.’
‘I suppose that is a compliment to me.’
Dad dunked a ginger nut in his cocoa. ‘No one is better at finding people than you. How many widows and mothers did you help after the war?’
‘That was different. All I had to do was seek old comrades, and do a little digging around.’
‘And there was Braithwaite, and your brother-in-law. Mr Charles knows what he’s doing in asking you. You’ll find her, Kate, this woman unknown. Just make sure the Yard pay you for your services, as I don’t believe you’ll be doing it for love.’
So he had understood that Marcus Charles and I had no future together.
He sighed.
It is always a mistake to dunk a ginger nut after you have taken a bite
. His biscuit disappeared into the cocoa. He fished for it with the spoon.
‘No, Dad, I won’t be doing it for love. Marcus and I are friends. That’s all. And I wish you wouldn’t sigh over me. I’m glad he’s asked for my help. I hate being on the edge, the spare part.’
He raised his eyebrows. ‘I suppose I couldn’t expect anything else but a sleuth for a daughter. If you’d known Mr Whitaker you would have admired him. He never made more than beat bobby, but not much passed him by. He could have had promotion but he liked being out in the open air, keeping an eye on the world. You have his blood in your veins and my example.’
What neither of us said was that I had so far failed in my search for Gerald. It was now five years since the war ended. I had no answer as to what had happened to him and whether he was alive somewhere, with disfiguring injuries or loss of memory.
‘Do you have much to go on regarding the woman?’ Dad asked.
‘Yes. She is Deirdre Fitzpatrick, daughter of the late Mrs Hartigan, sister of a New York “businessman”, Anthony Hartigan, a murderer and bootlegger. She’s married to a strange chap who works on the local paper. I’m not sure of the ethics of this situation as I’m already looking for her, on behalf of her husband.’
Best not mention the trio that came a-calling, the husband, the brother and the lovesick swain.
‘Any leads?’
I believe she stayed in hotels, with at least two different men, acting as co-respondent. Someone put her in touch with them, probably a solicitor on St Paul’s Street. I believe she worked for him. That solicitor could be giving her somewhere to lie low. Or she may have proved an awkward person to have around. I need his name.’
Dad gave his cocoa another stir. ‘Tell me about it.’
My parents’ neighbour, Arthur, is a Jowett fanatic, with a fully-equipped garage. He and Dad brought my poorly motor back before breakfast. Dad disappeared to work. Arthur, who is in a position to set his own hours, called to me to come and look. We stood in his garage that smelled of oil, rubber and manly competence. Arthur was seriously kitted out in dark blue mechanic’s overalls, his moon face showing distress.
‘Kate, there were only forty-eight of these motors made up to 1916, and you have this beauty. It’s a sacred trust.’
A Woman Unknown Page 16