Dora Dowzell was a damsel in distress. His emotions puzzled him. He did not normally feel such pity, but there was something about the woman that touched him. His aunt Harriet had kept a shop, all on her own, day after day, year in, year out. It was only after her death that he realised what courage it must have taken, what energy and staying power. They had all thought her wealthy when she left one hundred and twelve pounds between her nieces and nephews. Now he understood how she must have striven to keep up those habits of hard work and thrift.
If Miss Dowzell had murdered Jack Philips, he must have driven her beyond endurance.
When he arrived at Skinner Street, the shutters were down and the door still bore its Closed sign. The Monday morning newspapers, tied with string, had been left in the doorway.
He glanced up and saw that the curtains were drawn. Sykes found his way round the back and entered the yard.
There was no chink in the curtains at the downstairs window. He felt a sense of panic. The woman had been so distressed that he feared for her, yet she was made of stern stuff. It was not that he imagined she would harm herself, more that she might turn her face to the wall. But there was the cat.
If she had gone to the trouble of visiting the bungalow and bringing back the cat, how had she done it, he wondered? Was it the kind of cat that would drape itself around her neck, or be carried under her arm? Perhaps she took a carton. Carrying a cardboard box with a cat would be heavy and awkward for her. She was thin from overwork yet must be strong from heaving parcels of newspapers about.
If he made too much noise, the neighbours would be alerted and it would be difficult to explain what he was up to. They might be suspicious if he said, ‘I’m a total stranger, here to help Miss Dowzell because I think no one else will.’
Whatever had been between Dora Dowzell and Jack Philips, they had kept quiet about it. Quiet enough for Mrs Turner to think he might be her very special gentleman friend.
Just as Sykes wondered what to do next, the cat appeared in the window, looking out at him. Feeling rather stupid, he tapped on the pane. The cat stared.
He went back round to the front of the shop. The papers were still there, untouched in the doorway.
This is silly, he told himself, and walked back round to the yard.
Now the cat was sitting on the outside wall. Either it had found a way out, or Miss Dowzell had opened the door for it. He knocked on the back door.
A voice called, ‘Who is it?’
‘It’s me. Jim Sykes, from yesterday. I’m here to help as I said I would.’
‘I’m not opening the shop today.’
‘Then at least don’t leave the papers where they are, otherwise someone will be calling the police, or your brother.’
A long silence ensued.
Sykes did not want to alarm her by knocking again, but he sensed that she was behind the door. ‘Miss Dowzell, just bring the papers in and add something to the Closed sign. Closed due to bereavement. People will understand. They’ll respect you for it. They won’t interfere.’
No answer.
Sykes tried again. ‘I was a newspaper boy. You’ll have a lad coming to take out deliveries. If he doesn’t, people will be round asking for their morning paper.’
No answer.
‘I’ll fill the newspaper lad’s satchel for you, Miss Dowzell. Do you have one lad or two?’
She came to the window, hair undone, wearing a dressing gown. She pointed, and mouthed, ‘Go round to the front.’
He did her bidding and then waited in the shop doorway so long that he thought she must have changed her mind. It took ten more minutes before she opened the door.
She was wearing the same plain black dress from yesterday, her hair uncombed.
Twenty minutes later, Sykes had set the kettle to boil on the gas ring, set and lit the fire, and was filling satchels with morning papers. There were two satchels. Both boys would come at seven. She had told him that they knew their own rounds but the papers had to be put in the bags in order.
Having told him what to do, Miss Dowzell watched for a while. ‘I’ll have to dress.’
‘You can leave this to me, Miss Dowzell. I won’t make a mistake.’
‘Why did you come?’
‘A little help is worth a lot of sympathy.’
She tilted her head and gave that sudden smile that so far only the cat had merited. ‘I have a lot to do. There’ll be arrangements to make.’
‘Arrangements?’
She did not expand on her remark but went upstairs. He heard her begin to cry. She was in no fit state to make arrangements, whatever she had in mind.
At seven o’clock when the boys came for the papers, she was again downstairs. Her eyes were red and her cheeks blotchy. He thought she must have been crying half the night.
She poured two mugs of tea from the pot. He had sliced bread from a stale loaf and found the toasting fork. ‘You must eat something.’
She did not look at him when she said, ‘I’ll wait for the boys to come back with their bags and then I’ll put the Closed sign on the door.’
He nodded. ‘I would offer to mind the shop but you’d have to tell me every price. I suppose you can leave the papers in their rack outside and people will pay you later, or put out an honesty box for visitors.’
The idea seemed too much for her.
‘I’ll make you a box from cardboard, with a slot. Might your brother come earlier to help? Does he have a telephone?’
‘No.’ She spoke so adamantly that Sykes did not pursue the question.
‘Is there anyone else? Do you have an assistant who could come in?’
‘Yes, there is someone. Mrs Broomfield.’
She hadn’t thought of this, Sykes realised. That happened when a person was in shock, the simplest ideas, the simplest possibilities, did not occur, like being in a fog or a blinding storm, not able to see the way forward. There was something in her eyes, a kind of blank puzzlement.
He took out his notebook.
‘What’s your assistant’s address?’ It was not that he thought the shop should remain open. He simply wanted someone to be with her.
‘She lives in Haydocks Place, off Flowergate.’
He handed her the notebook. ‘Write it for me.’
Writing and thinking might nudge her back into the land of the living. She should not be nudged. She should be left to mourn, to sleep if she could, or to stare into the fire. But as long as she was alone it seemed to Sykes better that she should do something, come slowly into the day ahead.
It did not take him long to find his way to Flowergate and turn into the yard that was Haydocks Place. Mrs Broomfield answered the door. Her sleeves were rolled above her elbows. There was a smell of soap and her pinny was wet. She pushed back a strand of hair with a chapped hand.
He explained. ‘Miss Dowzell is unwell and needs help. She’d be grateful if you would come.’
‘I’m washing. I’ll come as soon as it’s hung out.’
‘Isn’t there anyone else…’
She cut him short. ‘I have a key. I can let myself in if Miss Dowzell needs to lie down.’
Sykes walked back to Skinner Street. He would stay until Mrs Broomfield came. Later, the brother would arrive. When he told Miss Dowzell his plan to stay with her for the time being, she seemed not to be listening.
The cat was back and sat on her lap. Woman and cat stared at the fire.
He repeated his words. ‘I’ll wait with you until your assistant comes, Miss Dowzell.’
‘There’s no need.’
He saw that she had dropped a cup. He picked up the pieces and mopped up spilt tea.
She watched him. ‘Jack sent me a guardian angel.’
When he came back from putting the broken crockery in the dustbin, he asked, ‘Will Tiger be all right here? It would be a shame if he strayed, being used to the bungalow.’
‘How do you know he was at the bungalow?’
‘The cleaner was worried.
Mrs Shackleton said she was asking the police about Tiger.’
‘I’ll have to let Mrs Bailey know. Tiger won’t stray from me.’ She stroked the cat. ‘Who’s Mrs Shackleton?’
She had forgotten that he mentioned her yesterday. ‘She came in here on Saturday and bought postcards.’
‘Ah, you told me.’ She hesitated. ‘She found Jack.’
‘Yes. She came back here but when your brother told her there was no telephone, she went to the police.’
‘My brother said she might have had a hand in Jack’s death.’
‘Then he was wrong.’
This did not seem to surprise her. ‘I had to have my fingerprints taken.’
‘It’s routine, you being his neighbour.’
‘That’s what Sergeant Garvin said. Routine.’
They lapsed into silence. There were many questions Sykes would have liked to ask, but she would have been interviewed. It was not up to him to stick his oar into this investigation. Much as he had taken a dislike to Chief Inspector Charles, the man must be left to do his job.
Sykes told himself he ought to leave now.
He didn’t.
Nothing happened. The clock ticked. The fire crackled. When the clapper rang as someone entered the shop, it made Sykes jump.
Miss Dowzell stood and walked into the shop. People came, and went. Something in Miss Dowzell’s manner subdued even the chatty customers. When someone spoke of the death, or the bazaar or the weather, she said nothing. They went away.
In a lull between customers, she said, ‘This Mrs Shackleton, you said you work together.’
‘Yes, on investigations.’
‘And is she a friend of yours?’
‘I like to think so.’
‘I can’t remember what else you said. I know, you used to be a policeman. You don’t look like a policeman.’
Sykes was so happy to hear her say so that he could have kissed her, but didn’t.
When the clapper sounded, it was Sykes who went into the shop. He took payment from an elderly man for a morning paper and five Woodbines. It was not hard. He knew the price of cigarettes. Sweet jars were marked. He could get the hang of this.
When the clock ticked towards nine, Miss Dowzell said, ‘Your wife must wonder where you are. Mrs Broomfield will be here soon.’
‘I’ll stay until she comes.’ Sykes chatted to her now and then, telling her where he was staying in Robin Hood’s Bay, telling her about Mrs Shackleton at the Royal. He did not mention Alma Turner and her fortune telling, or her designs on Jack Philips.
It took both Sykes and Miss Dowzell by surprise when the brother arrived, hours earlier than his usual time. Bustling in, walking like a crowd. He did not have his elbows out but somehow he seemed to take up a great deal of space.
Sykes expected to be asked to leave.
Miss Dowzell looked at her brother in surprise. ‘What are you doing here so early?’
The brother stared at Sykes. ‘Who’s this?’
Sykes came to his feet. ‘Morning, Mr Dowzell. We met at the Mission yesterday.’
‘So we did. Why are you here?’
Miss Dowzell’s answer surprised Sykes. She did not move from the chair. The cat still sat on her lap. It glanced at the new person in the room, and then half-closed its eyes. ‘I asked Mr Sykes to help me with the morning papers.’
‘Why didn’t you ask me?’
Sykes wanted to say that the brother should not have needed to be asked, but he bit his tongue.
Miss Dowzell did not answer the question. ‘Mr Sykes is staying until Mrs Broomfield arrives. After that I have things to do.’
‘What things? Where’s that cat from?’
‘It’s Jack’s cat, from the bungalow. It’s living here now.’
The brother came and stood over his sister, but he looked at Sykes. ‘You can go now.’
Sykes didn’t move.
‘You need a rest,’ the brother, the ex officio JP, said to his sister. ‘I’m arranging for you to have some convalescence. I’ll take over now.’
‘I’m all right.’
‘No. You’re not. Everyone said yesterday how poorly you look. I’ve sent for the doctor. You can come back with me and stay with us, and then we’ll see. I’ve found somewhere quiet for you to stay, somewhere restful.’
‘Go away. Go home. Nothing has changed as far as we’re concerned.’
Sykes felt uncomfortable. He was glad when the clapper sounded and he had the excuse to go back into the shop. The customer wanted a Yorkshire Post and twenty Capstan.
When Sykes returned to the back room, he saw that the brother was still standing over Miss Dowzell. The cat stared at the man.
She gazed ahead, and spoke to the air. ‘I have to stay here. There’s Tiger to think of. And you don’t know about the paper deliveries, the lists. You wouldn’t be here on time.’
‘You’re ill.’
‘No. I’m sick and tired. Jack’s death changes everything and it changes nothing.’
‘You’re making no sense.’
‘I’m making the only sense there is.’
Mr Dowzell became aware of Sykes behind him and turned. He leaned forward, clenching his fists, his mouth forming a snarl. ‘Time for you to go.’
Miss Dowzell rose. ‘No, Timothy. It’s time for you to go. It’s over. Everything is over. Don’t come back.’
Mr Dowzell rocked to and fro like a man impatient to hear the starting pistol. He looked from Sykes to his sister and back again. For a moment it seemed to Sykes that he would lash out.
He barked at his sister. ‘I’ll be back. I’ll be back with a doctor. I’ll be back with two doctors. They’ll sign you off and they’ll sign you into a nursing home.’
She did not look at him but simply said, in a quiet voice, ‘I’d go to no place you would pick.’
‘Then we’ll see. I’ll be back with the police. They’ll know who had it in for Jack Philips and I’ll tell them why. I’m looking after you. The doctors will say diminished responsibility.’
‘Out!’ She stood and took a step towards him.
The stalemate broke when the clapper sounded. One of the returning newspaper boys called through from the shop.
‘I’ll be back!’ Timothy Dowzell marched out.
Sykes watched as Miss Dowzell went calmly into the shop and took the satchel back from the newspaper boy.
She was shaking when she returned to the room and stood before the fire.
‘What do you want me to do?’ Sykes asked.
‘I don’t know. I don’t know what to do.’
‘Start by changing the locks. I saw a locksmith on Flowergate.’
She nodded.
‘Is your brother trying to have you committed?’
‘I think so.’
‘Why?’
‘This shop is mine, and it’s over. Jack and I decided I’d done enough. Tim won’t let go. He could never let go.’
‘You need a solicitor.’
‘I have a solicitor.’
‘Would your brother find doctors to have you sent away?’
‘Oh yes. He knows all sorts of convenient people. He knows the police superintendent too. If they don’t find someone for killing Jack, they could pick on me. That would suit him.’
‘Why would it suit him?’
She shook her head. ‘I can’t say it. I can’t say what I fear.’
She did not need to. Sykes just wished that woman would come, that Mrs Broomfield, that she would leave her washing in the set pot and bustle herself up here.
‘Come on, Miss Dowzell. Let’s drop the latch and go. You’re not up to being bullied by your brother and mistreated by doctors.’
At least she smiled. ‘No I’m not. But where can I go?’
‘Where do you want to go?’
‘To the bungalow, but the police had it cordoned off when I went to find Tiger.’
‘Would you like to spend a little time in the Royal Hotel with Mrs Shackleton?’
/>
‘I want to be out of my brother Tim’s way. I need to think, and I can’t.’
‘Then come with me. After that I’ll go to the locksmith, and your solicitor, and whatever other errand you want me to run.’
‘There is one thing.’
‘Yes?’
She hesitated. When she spoke, it was with difficulty, squeezing out the words. ‘That storm. Jack’s boat, the Doram, he let Brendan take it. I want to know if Brendan is safe.’
‘Where was he going?’
‘Up the coast. He didn’t say where. What with the storm…’
Sykes almost did not say it, but then he did. ‘Brendan is Jack’s son?’
She looked at him steadily. ‘And mine, though not a word. We haven’t told him yet.’
‘I’ll make enquiries.’
‘I’ll go mad if we’ve lost him too.’
First, Sykes went to the locksmith who said he would call within the hour. Next, he went to see the solicitor on Silver Street. The man was in a meeting with a client. Sykes left a note asking him to visit Miss Dowzell, urgently.
He had seen the coastguard station and walked there as rapidly as he could, once more passing the shop, relieved to see that the brother had not returned.
The uniformed coastguard officer was in the back room in shirt sleeves. When he saw Sykes at the desk, he put on his jacket and walked through. Sykes wished him good morning.
‘What can I do for you, sir?’ There was a practised patience in his voice that told him the man was used to townies arriving and wanting to know this or that just because some grandfather had been at sea or a cousin was in the navy.
‘It’s about Mr Philips’s boat the Doram. I’m enquiring on behalf of Miss Dowzell, Mr Philips’s neighbour and friend. She’s concerned about the young people aboard and whether they’ve reached their destination.’
‘Well then you can put her mind at rest as regards the youngsters. They’re unharmed. The boat came aground at Scremerston.’
‘Thank you. I’ll tell her.’
You’re the second person to ask today.’
‘Mrs Webb I suppose?’
‘Someone on the east side took word to Mrs Webb.’
‘Does Mrs Turner know?’
‘She’ll know by now. A Mrs Shackleton, Felicity’s godmother, was here enquiring earlier.’
Death at the Seaside Page 26