'Not you again!' she cried. 'I hope you don't think I've changed my mind. I told you the last time, I won’t answer any more of your rude questions.'
Billy panicked and sacrificed Kick to keep the woman onside. 'Sorry about him, lady. He can’t help it. He's got a mental disease. It makes him rude and bad mannered sometimes, but he doesn't mean it. He's harmless.' Surprisingly, Kick did not seem to mind being labelled as some sort of lunatic, and stiffened the idea by smiling soppily.
The woman backed off a pace. 'He was here the other day, asking silly questions. I wouldn’t let him in.’
Billy distracted her with his newspaper cutting showing Darnley addressing the dinner-jacketed diners. ‘We're doing a project for our school,' he announced. 'Did this man ever come here?’ He pointed to Darnley.
‘I don’t think so, but he did,’ the woman said sourly and pointed to Longden, shown seated beside the professor.
Billy looked at her in surprise. ‘This one?’ He jabbed a finger at Longden’s image. ‘Are you sure?’
‘Excuse me, but I am not stupid, young man. I recognize him very well. He used to come here all the time, often several times a week.’ She screwed her eyes up in concentration for a moment before going on, ‘Doctor Longden, he’s called. He’s a very important man.’
Billy smiled apologetically. ‘Er - yes, you’re quite right. It’s just that I thought you would know this man too.’ He pointed to Darnley again, and held the clipping up for her to study at closer range.’
‘He’s very important too,’ Yvonne put in shrewdly. ‘He’s a professor …’
At that, the custodian appeared much more interested. She gave up glaring at Kick and peered closely at the photograph. ‘There was another man, once,' she said. 'I suppose it could be him. In fact I think he was the one who brought Doctor Longden the first time.’ She took hold of the clipping and peered at it even closer. ‘Is he from the museum?’ She looked up for a second, seeming suddenly very pleased with herself. ‘Yes I remember him. He's from the museum. Very important I believe. He came with the doctor that first time. Then they came together a few times after that, but then this one stopped coming and only the doctor came.’
‘Why did they come so often?’ Hadfield asked. ‘Oh, forgive me, madam. I’m Doctor Hadfield. I’m responsible for these young – er - historians.’
The woman smiled coyly and shook Hadfield’s extended hand. ‘Oh, doctor, how nice to – err – yes –err –… I don’t know really.' She leaned close to Hadfield and whispered, 'I suppose you have to look after him.' She flicked her eyes in Kick's direction, who was twitching his head and smiling gormlessly. Doctor Hadfield avoided the question by looking around the room as though fascinated.
'Doctor Longden often made rubbings from the lead sheet on the roof. I don’t know why. We can go up and look at it if you like?’ She waved them towards a narrow oak door, but stopped suddenly, struck by something she had seen through her window. ‘Ooo–ooo-ooo dog! Look dog.’ She squeezed by them and ran outside waving at a poor man walking his dog. ‘No dogs! You there, no dogs. This is a historical monument, not a toilet for dogs. Get away, get away.’ The alarmed dog walker ran for the gate, dragging his puzzled pooch behind him.
Kick looked at Billy and raised an eyebrow. ‘She’s a nutter,’ he whispered out of the side of his mouth.
Doctor Hadfield gave the now flustered custodian a slightly embarrassed smile as she returned. ‘Shall I go first?’ she said in a singsong voice. ‘It might be best if I did.’ She opened the narrow oak door to reveal a spiral of steep stone steps immediately behind it. ‘It’s three floors up to the roof. It keeps me very fit.’ Her laughter echoed in the dark stairwell.
Hadfield had a job keeping pace with her and the children. At the top, the woman pushed open another narrow door. Sunlight poured in. They trooped out into its brilliance, blinking and squinting, to find themselves on a flat, square roof, covered with lead sheet and surrounded by battlements. ‘Here we are, the Turret House roof.’
Billy scroamed up the battlements to gaze out from the old walls, perhaps, he thought, as Mary Queen of Scots had done during her long imprisonment. In every direction, the steel city swarmed over its seven hills and five river valleys; certainly not the vista the Scottish queen would have enjoyed.
The custodian coughed and harrumphed loudly to net their attention. ‘He used to kneel down here and stare at the lead floor. He brought a special kneeler with him; like from a church - a hassock. He had it in a Gladstone bag with all sorts of things; a magnifying glass, scrapers and pencils, notebooks and drawing paper. He would lay a sheet of paper over any special marks he found and rub the pencil over them to make a copy, you know like brass rubbings in a church.’
‘What was he looking for?’ asked Billy.
‘I don’t know. I’m not nosey with my visitors, young man. All I can say is he came two or three times some weeks. It went on for several weeks.’
‘So he doesn’t come anymore?’ asked Yvonne.
The woman shook her head. ‘Not for four or five weeks.’
‘Huh, not since Darnley was killed,’ Billy whispered to Doctor Hadfield.
After a quick tour of the rest of the Turret House, the custodian ushered them back to the entrance on the ground floor. Doctor Hadfield dropped some coins into a collection box and thanked the woman. Billy said, ‘I wonder why he stopped coming?’ He did not mention the professor’s death.
‘Humm yes, it’s a puzzle,’ said the woman. ‘I remember, he was very excited the last time he came. I think he must have found whatever he was looking for. He put a ten shilling note in the box,' she nodded at them, as though such a thing could barely be believed, 'Humm, ten shillings. Then he rushed away, very excited.’
‘Did he say what he'd found?’ asked the doctor.
The woman shook her head looking very disappointed that he had not. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said apologetically.
The trio trooped out behind Hadfield. In silence, they climbed into the car. After a while Billy said, ‘I feel worse now than before we came.’
‘Well, don't,' said Hadfield cheerfully. 'I know we didn’t learn very much, but it wasn’t a complete waste of time.’
Billy blew a sigh filling out his cheeks. ‘I was hoping for more.’
Kick glared at both of them. ‘What are you talking about? We dint get nowt. It were a total waste o’ time.’
‘No it wasn’t,’ said Yvonne. ‘For one thing, we can now safely assume that Longden knew about the letter, the Pagez Cypher, as well as Darnley did. Otherwise, why else would they have been scratching around the place where Queen Mary was imprisoned.’
‘Yes,’ agreed Hadfield thoughtfully. ‘The letter could be the thing tying this place to our enquiries. I can’t see any good reason for two professional men to be so obsessed about it otherwise, especially Longden.’
‘I agree. I think they were looking for the other half of the letter,’ said Billy. ‘We know the queen cut it in two. How did she hide both halves? Where? She was watched all the time.’
Hadfield started the car and pulled away from the curb. ‘Good question, Billy. It would not have been easy for her. History records that all her visitors, whether high born or lowly, had to endure body searches and very close scrutiny on their way in and out of her presence, to prevent her sending secret messages. The authorities obviously knew of the existence of the letter, because the Bodleian’s half of it came from Wallsingham’s papers after the Queen’s execution. But where is the other piece?’
‘Wallsingham?’ queried Billy.
‘He was Queen Elizabeth’s spy master. He was ruthless and very good at his job. Old Queen Bess charged him with keeping the Scottish Queen locked up and quiet. He had to ensure her complete isolation from her friends, and any possible conspirators. Queen Mary endured regular searches of her apartments and belongings. The poor woman had no peace, or privacy, just a head full of useless secrets.’
‘You realise what this
means, don’t you?’ Billy said, thinking allowed. ‘If Longden knew about the letter, which now seems certain, he could have stolen it from the bank. He was there that night …'
'Opportunity,' said Kick, raising a finger.
'All he had to do was walk into the ruined bank and pinch it.'
'Means,' said Kick, flicking up a second finger.
'And he gambles on the horses, said Billy quietly. 'Stan Daniels says he's lost a fortune gambling.'
'Motive!' cried Kick, trying, but failing, to successfully raise a third finger in the count. 'He was skint. He needed the money. He was after the gold.'
Billy turned and looked back at the Turret House. His face was grave, his shoulders slumped in misery. 'If that’s all true, it means it could be him who killed poor Mary Scott.’ He looked at each of his friends in turn. ‘That's why there was no ort – ort – autopsy. He covered it up. Once again, he had the means, the opportunity and the motive. Nobody else did. Not Darnley or Clegg - or … anybody.'
When they reached South Road, Billy asked the doctor to drop him off outside Lambton’s fruit and veg shop. He waved cheerio to his pals and for a second or two watched the little car drive away. Turning to Lambton’s shop, Billy read the whitewash lettering on the window announcing irresistible offers on beetroot, onions and cabbages, and marched inside.
Mister Lambton groaned and looked up at the ceiling as he saw him. ‘Oh no, what does tha want, Billy?’
‘You’ve gorra tell me,’ Billy said stomping up to the counter, ‘otherwise it’s called aiding and abetting, and withholding police evidence. You can go to jail for it.’
‘Worriz!’ cried the distraught fruiterer.
‘I've been informed, by a police officer,’ said Billy putting on his most authoritative voice, ‘that you will be arrested if you do not tell me what you know about somebody nicking a coat out of a car down Rivelin.’ Billy was now bluffing for all he was worth. He stood in front of the shopkeeper and shrugged despairingly, as if utterly helpless in the situation. ‘Thiz nowt I can do to stop it, Mister Lambton. It’s not my fault. They warned me that if I don’t tell ‘em who told me about it, I’ve had it. I’ll go to jail - and so will you.’
Mister Lambton fixed one of his eyes on Billy’s face, and quivered pleadingly. ‘If I tell thee, does tha have to say it were me?’
Billy’s spirits soared, but he struggled to cling on to his mask of dejection. ‘If you tell me who it is, I promise, I’ll keep you out of it, even if they torture me with red hot needles.’
Mister Lambton glanced shiftily around his shop as if it were not already obvious that he and Billy were alone. ‘It was Ernest Tomlinson. You know him, the budgie breeder at the Cocked Hat cottages.’
Despite fireworks and streamers of delight going off inside his head, Billy kept a straight face as he expressed his deliberately muted gratitude. He marched out the shop and set off to find the witness. Half an hour later, he had the full story. Ernest Tomlinson had seen old Sutcliffe steal the jacket from an unlocked car parked outside the Rivelin Hotel at Man’s Head. The car was a grey one, make unknown. Mister Tomlinson, a vinegarish, chain smoking skeleton of a man, had grunted sourly and said, 'It's the same make as belongs to that stuck up fancy piece at the post office.’ Billy immediately ran round to the post office, but could find nobody there fitting the description of grey car owning stuck up fancy piece.
*
It was late afternoon when Billy and Kick cycled down to see Stan Daniels at the swimming baths. Billy had cajoled Kick into joining him for the journey by saying he needed his opinion on the boiler man. His real reason however, was to conduct an experiment to ascertain how clearly one could hear people talking in the cold plunge room, through the “chunter pipes” in the boiler room. Stan would certainly have helped him, but Billy was concerned that he might have taken over, or interfered in some way, whereas Kick would do as he was told.
Stan was delighted to see them. He made a big fuss of Kick, letting him wear his bright red crash helmet. Kick could not be parted from it, or the motor cycling goggles that came with it. He wore both even as they drank mugs of tea in Stan’s cosy little tea break corner. After a while, Stan looked at the pair apologetically. ‘I’m sorry lads, I don’t want to rush thee, but I’ve gorra knock off soon. I’ve been here sin’ five this morning, tha knows; twelve hours straight. Them in t’office said they were going to get me an assistant. Huh, weer is he? Scotch bloody mist! I have to do it all me sen.’
Billy smiled secretly. He’d heard it all before from Stan, a man who so obviously loved his job that he really didn’t care how long he had to spend doing it. He drained his tea mug and told Stan about his proposed experiment. He explained that he wanted to go into the cold plunge room while Kick listened at the duct opening for the “chunter pipes” then he’d come back and ask Kick to repeat whatever test he had set for him.
‘Well tha’ll have to do it thee senz,’ said Stan. ‘I’ve gorra get ready to leave. I’ve no time for malarkying about.’ He left the lads to it and bustled off to his jobs.
Billy’s experiment confirmed that anything said in the cold plunge room could certainly be heard in the boiler room, provided the listener stood close to the pipe duct opening.
‘Just like you said,’ Billy told Stan. ‘You can hear every word.’
Stan looked up briefly. He was packing the ex-army gas mask bag he used for his snap tin and milk. When he finished, he donned an old leather flak jacket and slung the bag over his shoulder. Kick reluctantly returned the crash helmet and goggles to him. Chattering all the time, Stan led them to the exit, pausing here and there to switch off a light or reset a valve. Billy wondered how, without Stan to coax and coddle the steam and water, the place would survive overnight without a flood or explosive disaster.
Outside, the street throbbed and clattered with rush hour traffic. Stan mounted his motor cycle, a scarlet Royal Enfield, and kicked it into life. The admiring, envious lads took a step back as he grinned at them, saluted, and roared away into the traffic.
0o0o0
Chapter Twenty-Three
Behind the relish factory, near the entrance to Walter’s ramshackle gymnasium, Billy and Kick played heading tennis with Kick’s ubiquitous tennis ball. They were waiting for Walter Mebbey to arrive. The evening sun was still above the rooftops though the relish workers (relishers I wonder) had knocked off leaving only lazy wafts of steam and the sweet, vinegary smell of Sheffield relish on the air. A couple of the gymnasium’s patrons arrived, bandy legged, barrel chested blokes. They grinned and joined in the heading tennis. Weightlifters, Billy guessed. They had slicked back hair and towels round their necks. They might each be capable of lifting a Co-op dairy float with one hand – and the horse too, but mobility was not their forte. The youngsters were soon three games up.
Walter arrived a few minutes later. He looked shiny and pink and smelled of shaving soap. ‘Ayup sithee!’ he cried greeting the lads. ‘It’s the dare devil detective and his pal, England's next centre forward. What’s up, lads? Tha must want sommat.’
He shoved a large, wear polished key into the door, jiggled, coaxed and teased the lock with it for several tense moments before throwing the door open with undisguised relief. The smells of stale sweat, rosin, liniment and dusty floorboards tumbled out of the gloom to greet them. Walter inhaled it happily and proudly strode into his kingdom.
Over the next half hour, an oddly shy dribble of men and boys arrived without ceremony and joined their fellows. They chatted quietly as they stripped down to gym shorts and vests, and began shadow boxing, chinning the bar, or skipping before the serious business of pressing weights began. Billy sat on a bench seat in a corner talking with Walter. He gently led the old man back along the years to the few hours he had spent in the tunnels under the bombed out shell of the Marples Hotel.
‘Well there’s Sally Snape,’ Walter said, responding to a question from Billy about Mary Scott's friends. ‘She was at school with Mary Sc
ott, but I don’t think she’ll be much help to you. They lost touch after Mary got married.’
‘Married?’ Billy hadn’t thought of that. ‘What about her husband then? Do you know where he lives?’
‘He’s been dead years. He died afore the war; pit accident - Treeton colliery. He were only about twenty-five. They’d not been married long.’
Billy sighed and leaned back against the wall. ‘She dint have much of a life, did she?’ he said sadly.
‘No, but she weren’t a misery or owt like that. She were a nice woman. She helped people, ‘Walter told him. ‘I dint know her all that well, but I know she loved her job at the museum. She started there as a cleaner, but they let her do more as she went on. She even used to set things out for displays. I think it was him who encouraged her – the professor.’ He leaned closer and lowered his voice. ‘To be honest, I think there might have been a bit of – er - hanky panky at some time. I don’t know for sure, but tha knows - putting two and two together ...’
‘Was Professor Darnley married?’
Walter straightened up suddenly. ‘Here, now don’t thee go building that up into sommat, Billy Perks. I dint say they were having a passionate affair or owt like that.’ He puffed out his cheeks and shook his head, annoyed with himself. ‘I shouldn’t have said owt.’
‘No, but was he married? That’s all I’m asking thee.’
‘Yes, but I've only just found that out, and I don’t know where they lived; somewhere up Fulwood or Ranmoor I think.’
Ranmoor again thought Billy. There’s a lot going on behind those high walls and big posh gardens. Walter scribbled an address on the edge of his newspaper and carefully tore it from the page. ‘Here, this is Sally’s Snape’s address. As I say, I don’t think she’ll be able to tell you much. You’ll just have to see for thi sen. I don’t know the house number, but it’s the one with lots of plants in old buckets and chimney pots. Her husband grows stuff everywhere; potatoes, sprouts, strawberries, he can grow owt – green thumbs tha sees.’
Dance Floor Drowning Page 22