Dying In The Wool: A Kate Shackleton Mystery

by Frances Brody

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Perhaps I’ll pick up something that’s been missed. I still don’t feel I know enough about Mr Braithwaite’s state of mind.’

  ‘I’ve already told you his state of mind. Saddened by the loss of his son. And I’m sure you’ve spoken to Evelyn. There’s nothing to be gained by reading our commercially confidential information.’

  ‘But …’

  ‘Really, it would go against the grain for me to do that. We mill owners are very secretive. And don’t forget, as far as our employees are concerned, you’re here because of your interest in the mill, and photography.’

  There was no more to be said as we walked back to his office.

  The impressions jumbled together in my mind. I could hold on to only a vague notion of what I had seen, the noise and the smells overriding any sense of what process followed what. A bent old woman creaked into the office, her arthritic hands shakily clutching a tray of tea and biscuits.

  He pulled a face. ‘You haven’t stirred my tea!’ he called.

  She grumbled a reply. I had a feeling this was a regular exchange between them. It made me warm towards Stoddard.

  When the tea lady had gone, I said, ‘I know you don’t want to talk about it but …’

  ‘Digestive?’ he offered me the plate.

  I took a biscuit.

  ‘I have a routine, and a good workforce. Mrs Braithwaite has a shrewd business head. Between us we have steered through some difficult times. It’s fortunate that Joshua wasn’t a man to hold power tight to his chest or we wouldn’t have had the authority to carry on.’

  Under his attempt at modesty, I sensed a pride in his own achievements.

  ‘Tabitha did tell me that she and her mother are on the board and that the three of you continue the business. It does puzzle me that Mrs Braithwaite has not sought to have her husband declared dead.’

  ‘I believe she’ll wait the full seven years.’

  That magic word seven, seven leagues, seven seas, seventh heaven and seven sins.

  ‘And are Mrs Braithwaite and Tabitha … I mean do they know the business well enough to be of help?’

  He paused, and smiled. ‘Ask me another question.’

  ‘Do you think Mr Braithwaite tried to commit suicide?’

  He picked up his fidget bobbin, holding it in both hands, turning it, sighing.

  ‘Did you do sports at school, Mrs Shackleton, or were you one of these young ladies educated at home?’

  ‘I play tennis. I ride.’

  ‘As I mentioned, when we were boys, Joshua and I were both keen runners. Lots of people round here take it up. You test yourself, against the elements. You run, and when you feel you can run no more, you keep on running.’

  ‘Are you saying he was not a man to give up?’

  ‘I think that day, when he was found, he’d been out running and taken a tumble. That’s my guess. When he said he wasn’t trying to top himself, he meant it. It’s just that he was unfortunate enough to be found by people who wanted to believe differently and he didn’t have enough strength – or perhaps the will – to persuade them otherwise.’

  ‘Your theory about a new life – in a good climate – where do you think he may have gone? And what would he have used for money?’

  ‘Joshua provided for Evelyn and Tabitha. He left the company in good heart, and the workforce secure.’

  ‘But he had other money?’

  ‘Is it likely Joshua Braithwaite stashed away money?! Does the sun rise in the morning? If he is dead, there’s probably money in accounts that will go unclaimed forever, money that should rightly go to Evelyn.’

  ‘What do you believe? Is he dead, or alive?’

  ‘Tabitha’s clutching at straws, but what young woman wouldn’t on the eve of her wedding?’

  ‘There is just one other thing, Mr Stoddard. It seems such a coincidence that he disappeared on the day of the Low Moor explosion, when so many people were killed. Is there any possibility that he would have gone in that direction?’

  He lay his fidget bobbin down and rolled it back and forth on the desk. The fidgeting had begun to disconcert me. I wondered whether he had one of those slight stammers where movement acts as a distraction.

  He seemed not to want to begin. ‘I’ve wondered that too. There’s nothing I haven’t imagined, nothing I haven’t thought about. But I can think of no reason he would have gone there.’

  ‘Did Mr Braithwaite leave a note?’

  ‘What kind of note?’

  ‘An explanation? A suicide note?’

  ‘Good heavens no. Joshua sometimes left notes about this or that to be done, or something to be added to the minutes for the next meeting, but there was no note of the sort you have in mind.’

  I decided not to mention that Evelyn Braithwaite had said that there was.

  ‘Perhaps his stumbling into the beck was a cry for help.’

  Mr Stoddard gave up on his bobbin. He placed the backs of his hands on the desk in a gesture of surrender. ‘That’s a bit deep for me. If you said that he came over queer, took a dizzy turn, that might make sense.’

  ‘Why did no one send for you when Mr Braithwaite was found in the beck?’

  ‘Out of consideration I expect. My wife was dying.’

  ‘I’m sorry.’

  ‘No. You’re right. They should have come for me. I would have seen to it that Joshua was taken home. The local scout troop had been camping out in the woods. There was a lot of that sort of activity then, perhaps you’ll remember something of it yourself – self-sufficiency, training lads up to take their place in the front line. They went to their scoutmaster. He’s dead now, poor man, but he was the brother of a rival of ours. That’s how the whole thing became public so quickly, and such a scandal. That’s why I started to say what I did, about warmer climes.’

  ‘But surely even a rival would baulk at accusing a man of suicide. He would have understood the necessity to keep up morale in wartime.’

  ‘The scoutmaster understood we’d almost put his brother out of business.’

  The telephone rang. Mr Stoddard called through to his secretary in the next office, ‘Not now, Dorothy!’

  ‘Not many more questions, Mr Stoddard. But what do you believe happened after Mr Braithwaite was taken to the hospital at Milton House?’

  ‘I’m really and truly not sure. I’ve come up with all sorts of ideas during the intervening years, and none of them seem satisfactory. Some say – I don’t listen but I know what they say – he was overcome with shame at being accused of attempting suicide, and went somewhere to finish what he started. If so, why didn’t we find a body? Did he somehow find his way to a new life? I can’t see it. He would have been in touch. He would be here for Tabitha’s wedding. Now is there anything else that I can do for you?’

  ‘Yes. I’d like a souvenir of my visit – a bobbin like yours.’

  ‘Easy!’ He handed his bobbin across the desk. ‘They’re ten a penny.’

  He insisted on escorting me from the building, through the yard, past the house within the grounds where he lived, and out as far as the gate.

  The mill hooter sounded the dinner hour. My stomach rumbled, but I had to develop my photographs, and keep my appointment with Sykes. I hoped he would have been more successful than I had been so far. One advantage of working alone is that you are not measuring yourself against anyone else. Now that Sykes had come to work for me, that changed. Which of us would find out that useful little fact that would act as a key to the Braithwaite mystery? And who would get to it first?

  7

  Twisting-in

  Twisting-in: joining the threads of an old warp to a new warp.

  The Ramshead Arms is a market tavern some hundred or so years old, built to replace a much older coaching house. I parked a little way off in case any inhabitant of Bridgestead might be conducting business in the town and spot my car outside.

  Sykes must have been looking out. He came to meet me. We exchanged
a brief greeting then entered the Ramshead Arms by a side door and turned into a small function room.

  There was something almost awkward and boyish in the way he had thoughtfully arranged for plates of sandwiches and glasses of cider to be set out on a large oak table at one end of the room.

  At the other end of the table was an open valise containing bathing suits.

  ‘My cover story,’ he said. ‘As far as the staff and customers here are concerned, I’m a traveller in bathing attire.’

  Having missed lunch while developing and printing my photographs, I tucked into a ham and mustard sandwich. He took a striped plain navy and a two-tone bathing suit and placed each one carefully on the table, betraying great enjoyment in his play-acting. ‘Just in case we’re interrupted.’

  It struck me that my five pounds payment to him on account had gone a very long way. As if he read my thoughts, he said, ‘I have the bathing suits on sale or return.’

  It was time to pool our information.

  I brought out my gallery of characters, suggesting that I go first. Sykes studied the Braithwaites’ wedding photograph, alongside a photograph of Joshua Braithwaite at a Wool Exchange function, and by the sea with Tabitha and Edmund, shading his eyes.

  We looked at the photographs intently, as though the man himself might speak.

  ‘Joshua Braithwaite is or was about five feet five inches tall,’ I said. ‘Spare, energetic. He and his cousin Neville Stoddard were great fell runners in their youth. He’s teetotal, pillar of the chapel, a womaniser, and a good businessman. His son was killed in July 1916, on the Somme. According to the cousin, who runs the mill, Braithwaite was brought exceedingly low by Edmund’s death, as you might expect.’

  Sykes swallowed a mouthful of his best Yorkshire ham sandwich. ‘Low enough to try and top himself?’

  ‘His wife thinks yes. Tabitha says no. Stoddard won’t admit to Braithwaite’s having attempted suicide. He says he was not a man to give up easily. Stoddard won’t say outright that Braithwaite is dead, though I’m sure he believes that.’

  Sykes stabbed at Evelyn on the wedding photograph. ‘Why hasn’t she had Braithwaite declared dead?’

  ‘She believes he’s dead but as far as I can gather wants to wait the full seven years. Perhaps it’s for Tabitha’s sake. Evelyn’s main concern just now is to see the wedding go smoothly. Hector, Tabitha’s fiancé, is ten years her junior. He resents the investigation. I’m hoping to get more out of him but he’s reluctant to talk in case I tell Tabitha and it reminds her of how young he is – as if she didn’t know.’

  ‘Can’t you give him assurance that what he says won’t go any further?’

  There was a hint of criticism in his voice which made my reply sharper than I’d intended. ‘It’s her investigation. She’ll be coughing up. My obligation is to Tabitha Braithwaite, and the truth.’

  He shrugged and wiped his mouth with the serviette as if attempting to button his lip.

  ‘I play it straight. That’s why Tabitha asked me and not some tuppence ha’penny private detective, or an ex-policeman.’ I polished off the cider, wondering had I made a big mistake taking on this clever Dick.

  ‘Touché!’ He smiled. ‘But my point is, it’s the result she’s after, not every bit of tittle-tattle on the way to it.’

  For a moment we were silent, picking up each of the other photographs from the table, like playing snap without hope of a match. I told him about each person in turn. Evelyn, not sorry to see the back of her husband, claiming there was a note but not remembering its contents; Tabitha, who blamed herself for not being there; Edmund, much mourned young soldier whose death may have prompted Joshua Braithwaite’s suicide attempt; Hector, the former boy scout who knew more than he admitted; Stoddard, cousin and friend of Braithwaite’s youth who had held the fort at the mill; Mrs Kellett, on the upturned barrel outside her door. I explained her special insights into who had reached where and who did what in the afterlife and her certainty that Braithwaite had shuffled off this mortal coil. Lastly I showed him the photograph of the dyeworkers, including Kellett, whom I had not yet spoken to except concerning the workings of the dyehouse.

  ‘Kellett interests me.’ Sykes picked up the photograph. ‘That’s him?’

  ‘How do you know?’

  ‘By his description. The dyeworkers go for a pint after work. I stood them a round last night in the Gaping Goose. Only Kellett’s the one who jumps in to get the overtime, so he wasn’t there. Just as well because they may not have been as forthcoming about him if he had been. Must be a bit of a comedown for him, to be back in the dyeworks. He had his moment of glory.’

  ‘Do you mean the injury? He’s missing his left hand. He has a sort of claw. It’s tucked up his sleeve in this photograph.’

  ‘He joined up in 1914, after a row with the missus and an argument over a pay increase that wasn’t forthcoming. He came out in 1915, due to his Blighty wound.’

  ‘Are you saying it was a self-inflicted injury?’

  Sykes shrugged. ‘Don’t know. But I do know that some men made their own wounds worse, to keep from going back to the front. And a hand or foot injury – that’s always the easy one to self-inflict. It’s his left hand, and he’s right handed.’

  I knew well enough about war injuries. I’d once been asked by a doctor in France to bandage the arms and legs of men to stop them from scratching their wounds worse so that they would not be sent back to the front. We all knew what they were up to but said nothing. It would have been a court martial offence. If Kellett had shot his own hand off, he must have been desperate.

  ‘The moment of glory I was thinking about was when he came back.’ Sykes selected the photograph of Braithwaite with his business colleagues and set it alongside the photograph of Kellett and the dye workers. ‘Did anyone mention a German connection?’

  ‘Tabitha said there was talk about a friendship between their family and the von Hofmanns and that because of it there was some local suspicion of Braithwaite.’

  ‘Did she say why?’

  ‘Just that they were thought to be too close. She mentioned Little Germany, an area of Bradford where the merchants worked.’

  ‘There was a bit more to it than friendship and fine buildings. I picked up on a little gossip at the Wool Exchange that confirmed what the dyeworkers said. Before von Hofmann left the country, he and Joshua Braithwaite came to an arrangement. See, our textile industry was hugely dependent on German chemistry, and German dyes. With that source cut off after the outbreak of war, there was real difficulty. Anyone who could get their hands on the German dyes that were in storage here stood to make a fortune.’

  ‘And Joshua Braithwaite was that man?’

  ‘Indeed. Of course he did it at arm’s length. Kellett came out of military hospital in 1915, with his honourable discharge and his demob suit …’

  ‘And he knew all about dyes.’

  ‘Exactly. Oh Braithwaite made the right gestures, for appearances’ sake. He sold the picric acid to the Bradford Dyers’ Association at a proper price. They had a subsidiary – the Low Moor Munitions Company, formerly Low Moor Chemical Company. The picric acid was used to manufacture high explosives. Low Moor Works got the picric acid, but there were a lot of other dyewares Braithwaite had come by. The shortage was so drastic that the Braithwaites of this world could name their price.’

  ‘Braithwaites would have needed the dye for themselves surely?’

  ‘Some of it. But if you compare Braithwaites with mills the size of Salts and Listers, they’re small fry. They’d get away with far less. They were weaving khaki, you said?’

  ‘Yes, according to Stoddard.’

  ‘Khaki was produced from two olives, white, light-blue and purple. But some dyers threw in all sorts of stuff. It wasn’t unknown for the khaki to turn pink or blue once it’d had a day’s outing in fair or foul weather.’

  ‘So Braithwaite was making a lot of money out of these dyes. I wonder how much.’

  �
�According to my informants, Kellett was on the road selling dyes between 1915 and 1916.’ Sykes pulled out his notebook. ‘I made a few notes as soon as I was out of the Goose and out of sight of my dyer friends.’ He flicked the page. ‘To give you an example – Chicago Blue 6B, eleven pence a pound, was sold in Bradford for ninety shillings a pound – diluted. And Braithwaite had access to the von Hofmann warehouse. He got in before war was declared. Don’t know where he shifted the stuff but shift it he did.’

  It made me feel indignant. ‘That’s just greedy. He was already a millionaire.’ Footsteps trod the corridor. I returned the photographs to my satchel.

  Sykes fingered a bathing suit. ‘Profiteering. A lot of it went on.’

  The footsteps passed. ‘No wonder Stoddard goes about saying Braithwaite’s decamped to warmer climes. He could afford to.’

  Sykes gave me a quizzical look. ‘It would have to be warmer climes like Cornwall or Devon. I can’t see Braithwaite making his way to the South of France at the height of the Great War.’

  ‘So do you think Kellett may have had a grudge? If he did the selling and Braithwaite picked up the profits?’

  ‘Not as simple as that. They say Kellett has a fair whack stashed away, and that he’ll surprise them all one day and go off to Bradford-on-Sea – to some grand bungalow on the cliff tops.’

  ‘Bradford-on-Sea?’

  ‘It’s their nickname for Morecambe. They say Kellett keeps on working because he’s adding to his pile.’

  ‘He’s turned into a miser?’

  ‘Don’t know. I hope I’ll get the chance to talk to him. What did Mrs Kellett have to say?’

  ‘I got the impression she’s happy to rake in as much money as she can herself. Nice little sideline in fortune telling. She did have a postal order stub on the mantelpiece. Perhaps that was a payment towards the dream bungalow.’

  ‘Could be.’ Sykes consulted his notebook. ‘Have you come across one Arthur Wilson yet?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘He’s related by marriage to Miss Braithwaite’s fiancé, Mr Gawthorpe. So he’ll be more closely connected with the Braithwaite family soon. Wilson works in the mill as weaving manager.’