In aid of Seamans Mission
2 o’clock Grand Opening
A smaller hand-written sheet drawing-pinned to the board read:
Leeds Ladies College Event
Dramatised reading from Mrs Gaskell
Captain’s Room 3 pm
A length of red tape stretched across the entrance of the building. Four people on the steps of the building formed an official-looking welcoming party.
From left to right Sykes studied a man in naval uniform with the stripes of a commander, doubtless a person with a local connection. A couple in their more than Sunday best, he perhaps a Whitby worthy, fine of girth and good at throwing back his shoulders, she overdressed in a fur coat, interested Sykes. The man matched Mrs Shackleton’s description of Dowzell, the newsagent. He was about five feet eight inches tall, with a small moustache, dressed in a navy striped suit and wearing a grand watch-guard that befitted his girth. His wife, she must be his wife, had suspiciously white-blonde hair and wore a small green hat. Her fur coat was open and revealed a green dress with some sort of lace.
Alongside this glossy pair hovered a faded female who gave the impression of wanting to be anywhere but here. Sykes came to the conclusion that she could be the shop assistant, described by Mrs Shackleton. She wore a plain black mourning dress and a small black hat.
It was left to the naval man to begin proceedings. He consulted his watch and then addressed the waiting crowd.
‘Good afternoon, ladies and gentlemen, boys and girls, and a particular welcome to all who are visiting our fair town. We are here today to raise money for the most worthy cause of the Mission that aids seafaring men and their families. Mr Dowzell will say a few words shortly. But first, some sad tidings. Many of you will have heard announcements from the pulpit this morning regarding the sudden and unexpected death of Mr Philips the jeweller. It is my duty to ask that we remember him now with a moment’s silence.’
People bowed their heads as the moment’s silence began. Sykes observed the woman in black. She looked as if she might collapse. The woman in the fur coat must have sensed that too because she unceremoniously nudged her into the corner so that she was jammed between the fur coat and the wall.
When the silence ended, Mr Dowzell took a deep breath. ‘Good afternoon all. As the commander said, we are here today to raise money for those who risk their lives at sea. Thank you to the ladies and gentlemen on the committee, represented here today by my sister, Miss Dora Dowzell.’ He glanced at the woman in black. ‘They have worked tirelessly to provide an afternoon and evening that in its variety will satisfy all manner of tastes including a cornucopia of exciting goods followed by a special concert. This evening, the Whitby Quartet will provide music for dancing. To those who think dancing on the Sabbath should not be allowed, be assured we have a special dispensation.’
He waved his arm and summoned a trio of clergymen from their hovering spot. They said nothing, but stepped up and smiled in benign unison. The audience applauded.
Mr Dowzell continued. ‘It now only remains for me to ask Commander Whitehorn to do the honours.’
The commander produced a large pair of scissors.‘I declare this most worthy of events open.’
He reached forward and cut the red tape.
The crowd applauded.
On the instant, two girls leaped from the crowd, each grabbing a piece of the tape before dodging round the dignitaries and through the door.
The commander stepped aside to let Mrs and Miss Dowzell lead the way.
Sykes took Rosie’s hand. They nipped smartly up the steps and through the door. It was a grand building with several rooms off from the entrance hall and a wide staircase that led to a landing with a huge stained-glass window. Whitby took its obligation to seafarers very seriously.
‘What do we do?’ Rosie asked.
‘You keep an eye on Miss Dowzell. Talk to her. I’ll flatter Mr Dowzell.’
‘What do I say to her?’ Rosie whispered.
‘Anything at all. Find out who she’s in mourning for. It’s odd that the brother and sister-in-law aren’t wearing black.’
‘That’s a bit of a sensitive point on a first meeting.’
‘You’ll think of something.’
Mr Dowzell had already disappeared. Sykes went into the large room that was given over to goods for sale. On trestle tables were laid out scarves and gloves, tea cosies, antimacassars, crocheted doyleys, costume jewellery, and rather a lot of Whitby jet.
Sykes caught sight of Mrs Dowzell fondling a pin cushion.
Just as he thought that this room packed with tempting items would be a magnet for shoplifters, Sykes spotted a girl slipping a small ornament in her pocket. She was one of the kids who had snatched a length of the red tape to take as a ribbon. Sykes made a start towards her before reminding himself that he was not here to impose law and order. The girl was about twelve or thirteen. No, he was not here to police the room, but if he didn’t, who would? He kept the child in view. She wore a primrose-coloured dress and a straw bonnet. As he came closer he saw that her dress had conveniently large pockets. Barely moving his lips, he spoke to the top of her head. ‘Put it back and no more said.’
She froze.
‘Do it now. And just remember, you’ve been spotted. Next time you’ll be up before the magistrate.’
She did not turn to look at him and he wondered whether this was out of fear of showing her face or seeing his. Her hand went in her pocket. She walked back towards the table that held costume jewellery and knick-knacks. He stayed close until she had replaced the item.
Sykes spotted his prey. Mr Dowzell was roaming the room, nodding and smiling at the women, patting men on the back, shaking hands. Every inch the politician, Sykes thought. Mrs Sykes had said he was an ex officio justice of the peace, due to his position on the Urban District Council.
After several rounds of circulating the hall, Mr Dowzell left by another door. Sykes followed him into a back room that served as a bar. When Mr Dowzell made for the counter, Sykes took the opportunity to join him.
‘A fine opening.’ Sykes offered his hand. ‘Congratulations on a splendid event. Jim Sykes, here from Leeds for a fortnight in Robin Hood’s Bay. What’s your poison?’
Mr Dowzell named his poison and Sykes ordered two pints.
The barman pulled their drinks. ‘It’s a cause close to our hearts, this Mission.’ Dowzell watched as the barman tipped the glass and ensured a fine head of foam.
‘I’ve no experience of being at sea,’ Sykes admitted, ‘but have a lot of respect for seamen.’
‘My elder brother was a navy man, lost his life in the war.’ Dowzell took a deep drink. ‘That’s why my sister has made this her charity. She and the womenfolk work year round to make this and the Christmas event a success.’
‘She was with you on the steps, for the opening,’ Sykes said. It was sometimes helpful to state the obvious, oil a conversation along.
‘She was, along with my lady wife.’
Sykes could think of nothing to say regarding the lady wife that would not sound impertinent. He fell back on one of his many aunts. ‘I had a spinster aunt who wore black all her life for a brother lost in the Boer War. Does she always wear black, your sister? Is she mourning your brother still?’
‘Ah no.’ Dowzell took another gulp at his drink. ‘The minute’s silence, I didn’t stress this because… well we are here for people to spend money, and enjoy their day, but…’
‘But?’ Sykes prompted.
‘The man we held the minute’s silence for, Mr Philips, he had the shop next door to my newsagents. Dora took it hard. You see if it was robbery, which the police suspect, then it could have been us, and she’s in the shop on her own, insists on it, likes her routine of fetching in the papers each morning.’
Sykes let out his breath in a puffing sound. ‘How shocking, and in a peaceful place like Whitby. It must have been a hard choice to go ahead with today’s event.’
‘We hav
e great support locally. People come in from the outlying districts. We even have stalwarts from Middlesbrough, where my wife does her shopping. That’s why it wasn’t possible to cancel today.’
‘It’s one thing to have a tragedy off your shore and another for a man to be attacked in his own shop.’
‘I’d rather not talk about it, Mr Sykes. The police don’t want rumours spreading and they’re still investigating, you see. Scotland Yard are here.’
‘Really?’ Sykes’s eyes widened. ‘Who would have thought it, eh?’
Dowzell did some nodding, but said nothing.
‘You’re more than a newsagent, Mr Dowzell. You know Whitby inside out I should think.’
‘I do. I’m on the Urban District Council and an ex officio JP.’
‘Because of your council office?’
‘Yes, not everyone understands that. Are you a council man yourself?’
‘I’m thinking of standing next year.’ Sykes drew on one of the histories that he kept for just such an occasion as this. ‘I’ve moved from insurance into the motor trade. There’ll be a time when every other man you meet will have a car. I want to be the one who sells them.’
They talked of cars and motorbikes while Sykes tried to get the measure of the man. It was hard to dig beneath the surface gloss. Sykes now saw the bottom of his glass. Dowzell had not offered a refill. It would be better to retreat and trade on the acquaintanceship at a later time. He could always pop into the shop tomorrow.
With a regretful sigh, Sykes placed his glass on the counter. ‘Better go and find the wife before she accuses me of abandonment.’
‘You won’t let me buy you one?’ the newsagent said, with certainty.
‘Another time. And my condolences on the loss of your neighbour.’
They shook hands.
Mr Dowzell saw someone he knew in the corner and ordered a pint to be brought to him there.
Sykes went back to the main room where he had left Rosie.
There was no sign of her, or of the captain or of the commander, or the young girl with the nimble fingers and big pockets.
He wandered about the tables. There was a display of the famous Whitby jet, or at least black beads and brooches. He could not tell the difference.
‘Is it jet?’ he asked the woman behind the table.
‘Oh yes. It’s all been donated for the sale, and all genuine.’
He remembered hearing that some jet was better than others but since this woman may have been one of the givers and all the pieces were modestly priced, it seemed churlish to enquire about the quality. He chose a pendant for Rosie, and necklaces for the girls, feeling pleased at his thoughtfulness.
He put the pieces in his inside pocket and then went in search of Rosie.
He spotted her in the refreshment room, on the wrong side of the counter, selling cakes. She reached across the table to take money from a stout woman with several children in tow, the tiniest ones hanging onto her skirt.
Transaction completed, Rose spotted him and raised her hand. He walked over to her. ‘Hello. Making yourself useful?’
‘As soon as I got chatting to that poor woman, I knew she ought not to be here. She should be home in bed.’
‘You’re talking about Miss Dowzell?’
‘Yes. I don’t know how Mrs Shackleton ever saw her as vivacious. She’s like a poorly ghost.’
‘Where is she now?’
‘Gone into that room marked Private for a glass of water and a sit down. She was unsteady on her feet. I told her she should go home and I’d mind this table while her helper turns up.’
‘Did you have chance to say much to her?’
‘No, but you will. I said I’d ask you to walk her back home. She lives above her shop. It’s on Skinner Street, wherever that is.’
Sykes had to control his glee. He tried not to bounce with excitement as he thought about seeing the shop next door to the deceased jeweller’s. ‘What did you tell her about me?’
‘I told her you’d been on the force, and that if anyone would see her safely back it would be you.’
‘Did she mind the idea of being walked home by a stranger?’
‘She preferred it to the idea of facing her brother. He would insist she stayed, this being her main charity.’
‘Will you be all right till I get back, Rosie?’
‘Of course I will. As long as you do get back.’
‘And if it comes up again, let’s get our story straight. I told her brother that I left insurance and I’m in car sales.’
He waited while Rosie took the money for three cream buns.
She gave change to her customer. ‘Well then before you went from insurance to car sales, you were on the force. That’s easy to remember.’
There was no one else in the room marked Private, only the woman with the lined face, faded blonde curls showing below the small black hat that was held in place with a jet hatpin. She had sunk deeply into a battered armchair. Her black dress was decorated with cat hairs. She sat with her knees apart, making a hollow of her dress between her thighs. In this hollow, she rested a half-empty glass of water, cupped between her hands. In the instant before she became aware of him, her whole being bore the marks of utter dejection.
She looked up.
She had not been crying, or at least her eyes were not red-rimmed but blue-grey pools of emptiness.
‘Hello, Miss Dowzell. I’m Jim Sykes. You spoke to my wife.’
She pressed the empty water glass tightly enough to break it. ‘I’m all right. It was kind of her to offer, but I’m quite capable of getting home.’
She looked capable of doing nothing.
‘I’m sure you are, but I have my orders. Would you like more water?’
She released her hold on the glass. ‘No, no thank you.’
He took the glass from her. ‘I believe you organised this event.’
She looked at him as if he had come from somewhere far off and spoke a different language.
He tried again. ‘Do we drive, or walk?’
She noticed fluff among the cat hairs on her skirt and attempted to stroke it away.
‘I’ll be all right. I just need to go home.’
A coat stand stood by the door. Sykes looked at it and picked up a black mac. ‘Is this yours?’
She stared at the mac. ‘It must be.’
He put the mac over his arm, waiting. She didn’t move from the chair. ‘It’s fortunate for the Mission that this is your choice of charity.’
‘My brother was lost at sea. Choice doesn’t come into it.’
Coming from the West Riding where people always said our brother, our mam, our sister, it was strange to hear both Mr and Miss Dowzell say ‘my brother’. Sykes wondered whether this was the way of speaking here, or whether there was a rift between brother and sister that was marked in their speech.
‘I’m sorry. It’s hard to lose a brother or sister.’
She made a move as if to go but seemed to lack the strength to push herself out of the armchair that swallowed her.
He reached out to her, thinking she would shun contact. She let him take her hands in his and allowed him to draw her to her feet.
As she withdrew her hands, Miss Dowzell seemed for a moment unsteady. ‘I’m not myself today. A slight dizziness.’
‘What about a cup of tea and a bun?’
‘I’ve drunk enough tea to launch a battleship. It’s just the thought of… I have steps to climb or a longish walk round. It’s really nothing, but today…’
‘You don’t feel up to it.’ Sykes helped her into her coat. ‘You must let me walk you home.’
She hesitated.
‘Miss Dowzell, you will be doing me a favour. I could do with a breath of air.’
‘Very well, if your wife won’t mind.’
‘It was her suggestion.’ He smiled. ‘Is there a side entrance?’
She nodded, but pulled her arm away from him as he tried to steer her by the elbow. ‘I
don’t want anyone to see that I’m under the weather.’
‘Then you lead the way. I’ll follow.’
Sykes stayed a few feet behind her as she moved towards the exit. He watched as she walked as steadily and determinedly as a drunk trying to prove herself sober. What did Philips’s death mean to you, Sykes wondered? Was he more than the shopkeeper next door?
In the side hallway of the building, people stood about in small groups, chatting, smoking, standing with a cup of tea or a pint. No one turned to look at Miss Dowzell as she made her way to the door. It was as if she did not exist. Sykes drew one or two looks himself. It was because he was a stranger, he told himself, and certainly not because he looked like a policeman, or a former policeman. He was wearing a brown suit and brown brogues. That was not very policeman-like.
The outer door was open to let in air. What struck him was this: Miss Dowzell drew no attention to herself. People did not notice her. This could be because the crowd gathered near the door were holidaymakers, not locals, and had no reason to notice a middle-aged woman in a black mackintosh with a small and rather pathetic hat perched on dull curls. Or it could be that here was a woman people just did not notice. She could go into the jewellers shop as if invisible. The newsagent was next door to Philips’s shop. There would be a back entrance. All she had to do was tap on the door. But why would she do that? What motive might she have for killing the jeweller? Perhaps she was entirely what she seemed, a blameless spinster who devoted her life to good works and her adopted charitable cause.
Or perhaps she was a murderess, engulfed with remorse.
Thirty
It was time for me to act like a person who is really and truly on holiday and take a walk along the beach. The newsagent’s assistant had suggested I walk to Sandsend, and had recommended the Sandsend café.
Trying to clear my mind of everything that had happened since my arrival here, I made my solitary way to the beach, glad that the rain had cleared. Blue and grey fought for the sky.
It cheered me to see that I was not the only lone individual on the beach. An elderly woman sat in a deck chair, reading. A man, trousers rolled, carrying his shoes, paddled his way through the waves. A couple of solitary individuals walked dogs, which made them somehow more acceptable.
Death at the Seaside Page 23