I opened my mouth to explain that I just wanted to go home. In a quiet voice, he said, ‘You’ll be safe in a public place.’
We walked down the stairs. I felt like an old woman, taking one careful step at a time. ‘He attacked me and you are protecting him.’
‘As I said, it would be your word against his.’
‘Why would I lie?’
‘Why would he?’
‘He is important. Next you’ll tell me that he plays golf with the chief constable.’
‘As it happens, I believe he does.’
He walked me to the door and opened it for me. ‘I don’t suppose there is any point in asking you to leave this investigation to me?’
I ignored him.
* * *
Approaching the doors of the dispensary, I glanced up. A pair of carved stone cherubs gazed down, one tearful and anxious, the other smiling, presumably after the careful attention of dispensary staff.
Benches were set against the wall and across the centre of the waiting room, row upon row of people, waiting to see a doctor. Just my luck that I would be here for the rest of the day. I gave my name and details at the reception desk. ‘It’s only a sprained wrist.’ Now I wished I had gone home and asked Mrs Sugden to bandage it for me.
The receptionist glared at me over her horn-rimmed spectacles. ‘The doctor will decide what is the matter, and what is to be done. And you have a bruise on your face. The cause?’
‘I tripped.’
She gave me a look that told me she had heard that tale before. ‘Take a seat. You will be called.’
There was a little shuffling up to make room for me. I cursed my bad luck and settled in to wait. It was now eight days since I had seen Lady Coulton. I was so near to finding her daughter, yet so far. As I looked at the number of people ahead of me in the queue, I calculated that I would be here for at least another three or four hours. The thought of Castle kept me sitting still, budging along every ten or fifteen minutes as some of those before me were seen.
I knew where Castle lived. He knew where I lived. What was he afraid of? That Dr Potter had told me something, divulged a piece of dangerous information, but what?
A solicitor missing from Castle’s legal firm, forty-odd years ago; a ghost appearing about the same time. If my head did not throb so much, I would be able to think more clearly.
I had reached the far end of the third bench when a rheumy-eyed porter with a red nose glanced about and then spoke to me out of the corner of his mouth.
‘Are you the Mrs Shackleton that works with Jim Sykes?’
‘Yes.’
He took the torn top of a cigarette packet from his pocket and handed it to me.
I waited a moment, until he had sidled away and then read what he had written.
Peter Donohue, 9 Danby Court, wound to his leg
This must be my day for having addresses thrust at me.
There were still two and three-quarter benches of people waiting to be seen. I hesitated only for a moment, and then left.
The porter caught up with me in the vestibule. ‘Aren’t you going to see the doctor?’
‘No.’
‘Wait on.’
A moment later, he returned and handed me bandages and pushed them into my coat pocket.
‘Thanks.’
‘You should have your wrist and that bruise seen to.’
‘I will. It’s all right, I’m a nurse.’
‘Aye, they’re the worst.’
‘Tell me about Mr Donohue. What was the treatment?’
‘He was patched up. Said he’d caught his leg on a nail, nasty wound to his calf. His mam dragged him in, fearful it would turn septic.’
So he had removed the bullet himself and kept quiet about being shot. What did Peter Donohue have to hide?
Twenty-Six
The porter had called me a taxi. It was raining when I arrived at Danby Court. The heavy overnight downpour had flooded the drains and a sickening, sour stench filled the air. I stepped carefully through the flooded courtyard but it was impossible to keep my feet dry.
I was conscious of being watched. My outfit marked me out as not belonging in this place where the inhabitants had little enough to shield them from the elements and the vagaries of ill-fortune. Short of tearing my garments to shreds, there was little I could do but press on, and find number nine.
It was at the far end of the courtyard, on the ground floor. Pity the people who lived in the cellar. Rain and filthy water teemed down the steps. Rain had also seeped under the ill-fitting ground floor door. I knocked.
The door was opened by a gaunt, skull-faced man with prominent cheekbones and ears that gave his old face a pixie quality. He stood a few feet from the door, on a pallet that, for now at least, protected his feet against the inch-deep ingress of water.
‘I’m looking for Peter Donohue.’
‘Oh aye, and who are you when you’re at home?’
‘I’m a nurse. I have fresh bandages for his leg.’ I tapped my satchel, indicating that there was more in there than he could dream of.
‘You best go up then.’ He nodded at a staircase.
Glancing behind him, I noticed how crowded this room was, including an old and a younger woman, another man and several children. Perhaps people had come up here from the flooded cellar.
I thanked him, and climbed the stairs.
Unfortunately, the woman who answered my knock was one of the people who had been in the courtyard when I was enquiring after Marian Montague, the thin woman who had taken my card from her companion. Thanks to my occasional visits to Scotland, I do a passable Edinburgh accent, though it is a touch on the posh side for a Leeds courtyard. Keeping my head down, as though my face was still lashed with rain, I watched raindrops from the brim of my hat fall onto the toes of my galoshes. ‘Is Mr Peter Donohue at home?’
‘He is not. Who wants to know?’
‘I’m a nurse. I’ve brought him dressings, for his leg.’ I took the blue wrapped packet from my pocket. ‘When will he be home? I’d like to take a look at his wound, see that it has not turned bad.’
‘He’s on the mend.’
‘All the same…’
Someone was staring at me from the corner of the room. I risked a glance. She was lying on a narrow bed covered by an army blanket.
At first we did not recognise each other in these strange surroundings and me with my faux Edinburgh accent.
The person who was quickest on the uptake was the woman who faced me, Peter Donohue’s mother I guessed.
‘It’s you. You was here a few days ago, asking after…’ She stopped and tried to place herself between me and Marian Montague, for now I saw it was she, propped up on a tick pillow, the blanket up to her chin. She looked pale. Her beautiful long hair had been roughly shorn, giving her the look of an urchin. Were things so bad for her that she had sold her hair? Or perhaps this place ran wick with lice.
‘Miss Montague?’ I let my accent drop.
‘Mrs Shackleton.’
Since the start of her employment, apart from a long chat at the Christmas social, our encounters had largely consisted of exchanging books across the counter. How had she come to this place after her respectable lodgings? The bump under the blanket gave the answer. She was pregnant.
‘You’re not a nurse at all, are you?’ the woman said.
‘Oh yes. I’m a nurse all right. I served throughout the war in the Voluntary Aid Detachment.’
‘Didn’t anybody tell you the war is over? First you’re here asking one lot of questions, then another.’
It was her turn to fire the questions. How did I know where to find Peter? Since when had the dispensary cared enough about its patients to send out emissaries with bandages? Who had sent me and why?
She would have slammed the door in my face, except that I could see she feared I would come back with the police. Perhaps she knew that her son had been shot in the leg and perhaps she did not. But she would know him well e
nough to realise he had been up to no good.
In the end, after neither of us would answer the other’s questions, and when Marian continued to stare at me, Mrs Donohue made to shut the door.
I had no intention of turning tail. Before she had time to shoot a bolt or turn a key, I pushed my way in, rudely stepping across the threshold. A shooting pain ran from my wrist to my shoulder. Perhaps it was a fracture and not a sprain.
‘Miss Montague, you left the library so suddenly. I was worried about you.’
‘There’s no need.’
‘There was a terrible misunderstanding. I want to try and put it right.’
‘Do they know where I am?’
‘No.’
‘And I don’t want them to, do you understand?’
The woman intervened. ‘The lass doesn’t need you. I’m taking care of her now.’ She turned to Marian. ‘Don’t worry, love. No one’s going to harm you.’
What did she mean? I looked from the younger to the older woman. ‘What is going on?’
‘I could ask you the same thing,’ Mrs Donohue said sullenly.
‘All right. To stop us going round in circles, I’ll tell you why I am here. The first time it was because someone saw Miss Montague coming from this courtyard. I was curious.’
‘And how is it you were snooping about for my son, pretending you want to change his bandage?’
‘I’ll gladly change his bandage. If his leg has turned septic he risks losing it. I would like to know what he was doing in the place where the bullet was fired.’
‘Bullet? He cut his leg on a nail.’ She turned to Marian Montague. ‘Is she all there? This woman who doesn’t know whether she’s Sassenach or Scot?’
Marian did not answer. She bit her lip. Her eyes locked on mine, with a silent plea to say nothing.
Mrs Donohue once more filled the silence. ‘The lass is doing well enough. I’m seeing to her, and she’s not paying the kind of rent demanded from her at her last place. She’s not been well, and unless you can do summat practical for her, I’ll ask you to leave now and stop disparaging my lad who is out earning a respectable living this very minute, but he’ll be back and he won’t be pleased to hear someone accusing him of being shot.’
There was nothing more to be said for the moment. Mrs Donohue had flung open the door and stood with one hand on the knob and the other on her hip, her head tilted back, mouth grim, inviting me to leave.
With some difficulty, using only my good hand, I took a bandage from my pocket.
‘Keep it.’ I crossed to the bed, handing it to Marian. ‘Here’s my card, too, so you know where I am, should you need me, or need help.’
Marian said, ‘I am quite all right, thank you.’ In a softer voice, she whispered, ‘I know where you are. Peter came to the wrong house.’
So the poor man had not intended to murder Professor Merton but to visit me. Of course, it was a simple mistake. We were on opposite sides of the same street and he had been confused. Since Mrs Sugden was so handy with a pistol, I guessed he would not try again in a hurry. But why had he come, and why did Marian seem so fearful of telling a straightforward story in front of her fierce protectress?
‘How far gone are you?’
‘Five months. I’m all right, but I slept badly, and my legs ache, that’s why I’m resting.’
Mrs Donohue crossed the room. She stood, arms folded, uncertain whether to join in the conversation or order me out.
‘I’m glad Marian has you to take care of her, Mrs Donohue. I’m sorry for my deception but I was concerned.’
‘Well you might be,’ Mrs Donohue snapped, though slightly placated. ‘It’s not the best start for a young couple, but they’ve made their bed and they’ll lie in it.’
Marian bit her lip.
So Mrs Donohue thought that Peter was the father. Perhaps he was. But the quick warning look from Marian told another story. Small wonder Marian was reluctant to speak.
I noticed a shopping basket on the table and a coat over a chair. ‘You were going shopping, I think. Let me keep Marian company while you are gone. And please, let me contribute to the groceries.’ I took out my purse. ‘I’m sure Marian would like something nourishing.’
‘A sliver of liver,’ Marian said. ‘I have a fancy for liver and onions.’
I handed over a sovereign, half expecting her to object. She did not.
‘What’s up with your arm?’
‘Just a sprained wrist.’
‘Better use that bandage on yourself.’
‘I’ll do it,’ Marian said. ‘You go to the butcher, Mrs Donohue. We’ll be all right.’
‘Well then, if you’re sure?’
‘I’m sure.’ Marian swung her legs from the bed and picked up the bandage.
When Mrs Donohue had gone, I sat on the end of Marian’s bed. ‘What’s going on, Marian?’
‘I could ask you the same. Why did someone shoot Peter when he came to bring you my message?’
‘He went by mistake to Professor Merton’s house, and something had been happening that made us all fearful. I’m very sorry that your friend was shot.’
She opened the bandage. ‘So was he. He can’t get over it. He could have been maimed for life, all so that he could ask you to meet me. I wanted you to know that I am innocent. Being sacked without a character is serious for someone who has to earn her living.’
‘It will be cleared up, and I will give you a reference if you need me to.’
She sighed. ‘I did a first aid course at school. Funny how things come in handy.’ She put her pillow under my arm and began to bandage my wrist. ‘I was worried when you found out I was here. Thought you might tell someone at the library.’
‘Mr Lennox?’
‘Yes. You know about us, about me and Sam?’
‘Only since yesterday. He told me how much he came to care for you. He knows now that you did not steal books.’
‘Of course I didn’t steal books. Much he thought of me to believe that old crow Carmichael. She sacked me without a reference and he let her. Men can be so stupid. But that wasn’t all.’
‘Why? What happened?’
‘You must swear not to say where I am. Once the baby’s born, I’m going to Australia with Peter.’
‘Have you married Peter Donohue?’
‘No, not yet! You don’t know anything, do you?’
‘Obviously not.’
‘I waited for Sam, Mr Lennox, on the day they sacked me. I hadn’t told him until then that I was pregnant. I threatened to tell everyone, make a fuss, show him up for what he was. He called me a liar. Said I was stringing him along for what I could get. As if I would have picked a pernickety librarian if I was trying to do well in the world. But that was the least of it.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘I wasn’t going to give up on him. Every night I went to the library. He’s always the last to leave. Nothing I said seemed to touch him. She had convinced him that I was a conniving thief and a scheming tart. He shook me off, every time, and then…’
‘Then what?’
‘You won’t believe me.’
‘Tell me.’
‘He tried to have me killed, to shut me up.’
‘Never!’
‘I said you wouldn’t believe me. Well it’s true. Ask Peter when he comes. That’s why you mustn’t tell anyone where I am.’
‘But that’s preposterous.’
‘He doesn’t want a scandal. Half the women in the library are in love with him. The men think he’s a great chap. Who would believe me? Mrs Carmichael took one look at me and guessed my condition. Said there were places for girls like me, places where I’d never see the light of day.’
‘Marian, your landlady told me that your mother died?’
‘Yes.’
‘I’m sorry. When?’
‘When I was twelve years old. I was left with my stepfather and I can’t go back there. It’s out of the question.’
Now my theories b
egan to crumble. ‘Tell me, were you ever known by another name, Sophia?’
‘No.’
‘Wells?’
‘No, why should I be? I showed my references and school certificate at the library. My name is there, plain for all to see.’
‘Of course.’
‘Who has been saying different?’
‘No one. Forget it. My mistake.’ I began to feel faint. My head throbbed.
The door opened. A tall dark-haired young fellow in a shabby jacket and baggy trousers with long arms and bow legs stepped into the room.
Marian said, ‘Peter, this is Mrs Shackleton, the person you were going to take my message to.’
He took off his cap. ‘Oh.’
‘I was telling her what happened but she won’t believe me. Who would?’
‘Aye,’ he said.
‘You tell her.’
‘Me?’
‘Go on.’
‘Marian wanted me to tell you she int a thief.’ He twisted his cap, wringing raindrops from it.
There must be more to be said, but an awkward silence hung over the three of us.
Out of desperation, I had convinced myself Marian and Sophia were the same person. Having discovered my mistake, I should go now, go home and lick my wounds.
But I could not. The injustice could not be allowed to stand. Besides, my now archenemy, Castle, had reacted so strangely at the mention of her name.
One sure way to encourage lovers to speak is to say, ‘How did you two meet?’
They both smiled. Good start.
‘I drew Marian’s likeness.’
He went to the mantelpiece above the empty fire grate, took down a piece of cardboard and handed it to me. It was a meticulously drawn portrait, so lifelike and carefully tinted that it could have been a photograph.
‘That’s very good. You are an artist.’
‘He is,’ Marian said. ‘I knew that soon as I saw his work. I used to like drawing myself so I know how good he is. His work should be hanging in a gallery, not chalked on the ground to be washed away by the rain.’
‘I wouldn’t take her sixpence, so she give me a box of chalks.’
‘That’s how we got to know each other. One day we went to the museum together in my dinner hour, to sketch the animals.’
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