‘Well I didn’t know she was going to spring a leak.’
‘The radiator hose has gone. You’ve damaged the pistons and the big end.’
‘I thought it was topped up.’
In the dim light of the garage, I could not tell what shade of puce he turned. ‘Didn’t you notice anything amiss?’
‘Well yes, obviously, with the smoke and the rattling.’
‘Before that?’
‘Are you saying I can’t drive home?’
‘Leave her with me for a couple of days.’ He shook his head. ‘You were lucky a Jowetteer came along and towed you last night. If you’d driven any further, I dread to think what you might have done to her.’
I looked at the Jowett fondly. Sometimes that motor seems alive. I could have sworn in that moment she transferred her affections to Arthur. I half expected her to speak and warn me to expect a charge of neglect.
It seemed heartless to turn and walk away.
Fortunately, Pamela, my mother’s maid, called to me from the garage doorway, giving me an escape route.
‘Thanks, Arthur. I’ll talk to you about it later.’
I went indoors with Pamela.
‘Mrs Sugden telephoned to you, Mrs Shackleton. I wrote down exactly what she said. And your father sent a note from the office. It all happened at once when I was seeing to the kitten.’
I thanked her and picked up the two notes. Mrs Sugden’s message was from Aunt Berta, informing me that a solicitor by the name of Walter Lansbury on St Paul’s Street might be able to help. What a grand name for a shady man of the law. Well, Mr Lansbury, you can expect another visit, very soon.
Dad’s note was more cryptic, that he had sent a message to the chief inspector naming a legal person who would be worth talking to.
This was very good because it gave me a reason to speak to Dad. I picked up the telephone and was soon connected to him.
‘Dad?’
‘Katie?’
‘That legal person, does he begin with an L and end in a Y?’
‘Your Aunt Berta beat me to it?’
‘She had a start. And, Dad.’
‘Yes?’
‘May I borrow your Morris, just for a couple of days?’
‘I suppose so. But be careful.’
‘I will.’ I returned the telephone receiver to its cradle.
My mother usually sits in bed reading until ten o’clock. I had taken her an early morning cup of tea.
As I was on my way up the stairs to see her, she called, ‘Is that you on the phone, Kate? I’m coming down.’
‘It’s all right. I’ll come up.’
She has a special arrangement of pillows when she reads, and a cushion under her knees.
Smiling, she set her book aside. ‘It’s the latest Arnold Bennett, very good indeed.’
‘I must get around to it.’
‘You should. It’s about this bookseller and a woman who takes a shop opposite him, and they are both very thrifty. I don’t know whether they are going to pair up or whether it will end in tears.’
I sat on the edge of the bed. ‘It was all a bit spur of the moment last night, and to do with work, that’s why I didn’t ask you to see The Pirates of Penzance.’
She sighed. ‘I didn’t like to think of you going alone. Marcus is up on an investigation isn’t he?’
‘Yes, but we haven’t got back together, not in the going out way.’
‘I thought not. Are you sure you’re doing the right thing in turning him down?’
‘Yes.’
‘And it’s not out of loyalty to Gerald, because I’m sure Gerald would want you to be happy.’
‘I am happy. Don’t worry. Everything is fine.’
When Mrs Shackleton came out from seeing the chief inspector, she asked Sykes to walk up the town with her. She wanted to talk to him about something, she said, but not in the hotel. Straight away, he knew she was up to something.
Like a couple of conspirators, the two of them occupied a corner table in Schofields café.
She said, ‘Mr Lansbury on St Paul’s Street is the solicitor Deirdre Fitzpatrick has dealings with. His office is where I lost sight of her on that day.’
Jim Sykes stirred his tea, again. ‘But he has been interviewed by Sergeant Wilson.’
Mrs Shackleton had that stare-you-out look in her eye. ‘Lansbury admitted to Wilson that he spoke to a woman answering Deirdre Fitzpatrick’s description.’
‘Yes, but that was weeks ago! He said she came to see him to enquire about a separation from her husband. It had gone no further than a brief interview. He made a few notes but when she did not return, he disposed of them.’
‘He is lying because what he has done could see him in hot water. He made the arrangement. Now he is afraid.’
Sykes sipped his tea. What did she have in mind? Well he had no intention of asking. Let her come out with it.
She did.
‘This is where you come in, Mr Sykes. I want you to visit Mr Lansbury, in the guise of a husband seeking a divorce. Wave money at him. Flush him out. He may be our only link to Deirdre Fitzpatrick.’
Sykes felt himself being manoeuvred into a corner. ‘I’m acting as a special constable. I can’t go chasing about off my own bat.’
‘Marcus agrees with me. You could do it. Not as a special constable.’
‘But I’m sworn in.’
‘Then you can be sworn out for as long as it takes.’
This was not fair. Sykes had wondered what Mrs Shackleton and the chief had been talking about so furtively. He might have known that there was something not quite pukka, and that the dirty work would fall to him. He waited, not wanting to encourage her.
‘Listen, Mr Sykes, Wilson told Marcus that the solicitor seemed afraid. That could be because he is lying, or he may be being blackmailed. There is more going on than we have found out. We have to use any means to get to the bottom of this. Runcie is dead. Diamond is dead. Who will be next? Deirdre Fitzpatrick could prove most inconvenient to someone, and we don’t know who.’
Sykes did not like the ‘we’ in the ‘We have to use any means’. He would still have to live here when the Scotland Yard men hightailed it back to London.
‘Why me?’
‘Because you will be good. You will be convincing.’
There was no way out. Sykes took a gulp of tea. ‘What would I have to do?’
‘We’ll come up with a plausible story. You must persuade Lansbury to arrange a co-respondent for you.’
‘You mean Deirdre Fitzpatrick?’
‘It doesn’t matter whether it is her or not. If Lansbury does it, we’ll know he’s lying. If it is her, then perhaps we can start to make some headway. She wouldn’t have flown without reason, without leaving some trace.’
Sykes knew when he was outnumbered. ‘All right. It looks as if you’ve volunteered me. I’ll do my best.’
Mrs Shackleton turned to practicalities, what his story would be, how he would dress. ‘Lansbury won’t make such arrangements for nothing. You’ll need money.’
She had money, in a brown envelope. Sykes looked at it. He knew that it came from a Scotland Yard petty cash fund. No doubt the numbers on the notes had been recorded.
‘Lansbury will smell a rat, with me turning up so soon after Wilson interviewed him.’
‘No. That’s exactly why we have to make a move soon. He won’t expect it.’
‘Why am I going to him and not to some other solicitor? He’ll ask how I got to know about him.’
‘He was recommended to you before, by a gentleman on the Chamber of Commerce committee, Mr Gledhill, chairman of Leodis Insurance Company.’
‘What if he checks with Mr Gledhill?’
‘Mr Gledhill spends every August on Lake Garda.’
‘It’s September.’
‘He travels slowly.’
She had an answer for everything.
*
The dapper, bespectacled man who climbed the stairs
to Lansbury’s solicitor’s office carried a silver-topped cane. He wore grey flannels, a flamboyant plum waistcoat, blazer, and cravat. Sykes almost had second thoughts about the cravat. Best not overdo it. But then, a man who did not overdo it would never contemplate allowing his wife to divorce him.
Sykes had once known a man called Paul Sheridan who was a devil of a man for the ladies, and that was the name he assumed.
Mr Lansbury, a diminutive man whose bald pate gave off a healthy glow, rose to shake Sykes’s hand, and to introduce himself. ‘Please be seated, Mr Sheridan.’
He indicated a straight-back chair, its ample green leather upholstery surrounded by brass tacks. Sykes sat down. His mouth felt dry.
‘Now what can we do for you?’ Lansbury smiled pleasantly in his best putting-the-client-at-ease manner.
Sykes cleared his throat.
‘Would you like a glass of water?’ Lansbury asked.
‘No, no it’s all right.’ Sykes took a deep breath. ‘I’m very sorry to say that my wife and I have come to a parting of the ways.’ He had practised this with Mrs Shackleton, but now had difficulty remembering what came next. The words ‘my wife’, conjured up Rosie. She would not like this one bit, even though he was not at this moment Jim Sykes and was not, when he said ‘my wife’, meaning Rosie. ‘She tells me that these days a married couple do not have to stay together for life.’
‘Perhaps I should take your address first, Mr Sheridan, and a few details.’ Mr Lansbury picked up his pen.
This part was not hard. Paul Sheridan, recently having returned to Yorkshire from Brighton, was lodging with an old friend in Chapeltown. His occupation was engineer. His wife, Isabella, a flighty Brighton belle, had a new love in her life. Out of courtesy, Paul Sheridan had agreed to give her grounds for divorce.
‘And what brought you to me?’ Mr Lansbury enquired softly.
Good question, thought Sykes. Thank you, Mrs Shackleton. ‘The friend who is kindly putting me up gave me a couple of names that he had gleaned from a fellow golfer, a chap in insurance who knows you from the Chamber of Commerce, Mr Gledhall I believe.’
‘Gledhill?’
‘Yes, that’s it. Gledhill. To be honest,’ Sykes said sheepishly, ‘you were not the first person I contacted, but the first who could fit me in at such short notice. My wife and I have decided that we both wish to make a fresh start, you see, and the sooner this matter can be put into motion, the better.’
He gazed into the pale blue eyes of the man across the desk, hoping that Mr Lansbury would not consider his dress outlandish for an engineer. Mrs Shackleton had suggested that Sykes present himself as some sort of Bohemian literary man. Sykes had agreed, but changed his occupation at the last moment, in case the solicitor was exceedingly well read. Though the only books Sykes saw in the room were legal tomes in a glass-fronted bookcase.
The solicitor proceeded cautiously. He put down his pen and leaned back in his chair.
‘Are you and your wife certain that this is not some temporary falling out that can be patched up?’
Sykes looked suitably regretful. ‘We are quite certain. She wants to marry again, though I don’t believe I ever shall,’ he added sadly.
The solicitor’s hand hovered over his pen. ‘In that case, let us consider how we should proceed. Have you given the matter thought?’
‘I tried not to, but I had a letter from her yesterday and well …’
‘May I see it?’
Sykes handed the letter to him, hoping the man would not expect to look at the envelope or postmark.
The solicitor read the letter, and shook his head sadly. ‘A divorce can be a most expensive business. A lot of preliminary work must be undertaken, contacting counsel and so on. I do usually ask for a payment in advance.’
‘Of course.’ Sykes brought out his fat wallet. ‘My wife tells me that if I give her grounds, it should be adultery.’
‘She has done her homework. It is very gentlemanly of you to comply with her wishes.’
Sykes warmed to his part. ‘Her friend is a lively sort of chap, and not short of a bob or two. Unlike me, he does not have to earn his living and so is able to squire Bella about to amusements, dancing and so on.’
‘That is sometimes the way,’ the solicitor said sagely, stroking his chin. ‘You will want to know what realms of finance we are speaking here. There will be additional costs. The matter will be dealt with in the Probate, Divorce and Admiralty Division and will require the services of a barrister.’
‘Yes. My wife advised me that would be the case.’
Sykes took out a notebook. He had bought this specially. It was bound in leather and was the type of thing he imagined an engineer might favour. He made notes.
The solicitor talked pounds, shillings and pence. Sykes handed over the notes, counting them onto the desk.
Mr Lansbury wrote a receipt. ‘You are unlikely to have your case heard in the current sessions. It may be next year.’
Sykes said, ‘Oh that is all right. Only Bella wants to know that she can begin proceedings as soon as possible. She asks me for a hotel bill.’
‘It may be better that you go to a seaside hotel. Would you manage to get away for a weekend by the sea?’
‘Getting away would present no difficulty. Only … the thing is … How to put this delicately? My wife is very good at making friends with the opposite sex, the opposite sex to her I mean. I am not, unfortunately. I never thought I should have to start again in that regard.’
Mr Lansbury gave a sorrowful look, accompanied by a sigh. ‘Indeed. You have my sympathy. But I may be able to help you.’
Sykes felt his shoulders stiffen. Would he meet Deirdre Fitzpatrick at some sleazy seaside hotel?
‘Does it have to be the seaside?’
‘My dear chap, I’m not asking you to swim the channel in December, I’m thinking of a night or two in Scarborough.’ Mr Lansbury smiled, waiting for his remark to lighten the proceedings and draw a response from his client.
Sykes did his best to muster a small smile. He thought, I know why you choose Scarborough. Too many adulterous liaisons in one town could begin to look suspicious. If it was to be done, let it be quickly. ‘Once I take up my appointment my time will be devoted to my work, so the sooner the better.’
The solicitor opened his diary. ‘Could you be at an appointed place on Friday evening?’
‘Yes.’
‘Excellent! By this time tomorrow, I shall send you a message. Or perhaps you would prefer to call back and see me?’
‘A message will be satisfactory. Thank you.’
That was probably the wrong answer, Sykes thought. He could have come back with a CID man and nipped this in the bud. Too late.
They shook hands.
And now Mr Lansbury would have to communicate with the lady in question.
Sykes left the building. He went to the boy who had set himself up to polish shoes at the entrance to the alley, and ignored the other boy who cycled by.
The boy began to polish Sykes’s shoes. ‘Keep your eyes open, Andy. If a messenger comes from this building, you or your pal follow him, depending whether he’s on foot or bicycle.’
‘What about the shoe cleaning stuff?’
‘If you follow on foot, ask your pal to take care of the shoe-shining. One of you must follow any messenger and make a note of where he goes.’
The boy nodded.
When his shoes were well and truly polished, Sykes gave the boy a sixpence.
A sudden thought struck Sykes. Perhaps Mr Lansbury had a whole stable of ‘other women’ ready to play the adulteress. The thought made him shudder. Surely there wouldn’t be the call for this sort of malarkey in Yorkshire. Folk had more sense than to rush to the divorce courts.
As he walked back toward the Metropole, Sykes’s elation at accomplishing his task swiftly gave way to melancholy. In the suite given over to the murder investigation, Sykes and his fellow minions occupied the room that would have been the be
droom. He undid his cravat, and ignored the raised eyebrows of the sergeant as he picked up the pen to note his visit to Mr Lansbury in the log book.
The sergeant moved the book out of reach. ‘No need for that, Mr Sykes. I believe you just made a private visit.’
Fitzpatrick’s telegram was waiting for me when I arrived home.
COME URGENTLY STOP HAVE NEWS
FITZPATRICK
I wasted no time in driving to Kirkstall. Fitzpatrick must have been looking out of the window because he opened the door on my first knock.
The sight of him shocked me; his face was grey with grief, hair uncombed. His left foot was bandaged to three times its normal size. He supported himself with one crutch, and a hand on the wall. Hobbling aside, he moved from the door to make room for me to step inside.
‘I came as soon as I got your message.’
He took hold of a second crutch, propelled himself across the room and lowered himself gingerly into a chair, waving a crutch at the opposite chair.
‘I’ve not much experience of sending telegrams. That “stop” was unnecessary. You would have understood if I’d said, Come urgently have news.’
‘Yes.’
He nodded, as if he had satisfied himself on an important point. ‘They charge by the word.’
I sat down. ‘What have you done to your foot?’
‘I’m no good any more. I can’t hold myself together.’
‘What happened?’
‘I was tidying at work. I dropped a case of type on my foot. I do nothing right. Had to be helped to the dispensary. It’s my concentration. I’ve lost it.’
‘That’s terrible. As if you don’t have enough to worry about.’
In spite of his injury, the room was immaculate. A low fire burned in the grate. Holy figures gazed from their framed position on the wall, looking with compassion at Fitzpatrick and wisely ignoring me.
I took his telegram from my pocket and unfolded it. ‘What is the news?’
He stared at the telegram. ‘You think Brown at the counter would have told me I didn’t need that “stop”. Nobody ever tries to save you a penny.’
‘Don’t worry about it, Mr Fitzpatrick. The “stop” makes a telegram a telegram. It imparts urgency.’
A Woman Unknown Page 17