He drummed his fingers on the desk before giving his lawyer’s answer. ‘I am not in possession of information which would help you in your search to be of assistance to Mrs and Miss Braithwaite.’
‘Do you believe Mr Braithwaite may have begun a new life, either with another woman, or perhaps to follow new pursuits? He was a painter after all. I believe he hadn’t intended to go into the mill as a boy. There are precedents for businessmen to become tired of their life and seek a change.’
His lip curled in disapproval. ‘Indeed, though not so many round here. We are a hard-headed lot in this part of the world.’
‘Were his affairs left in order?’
The blue eyes held a look of startled reproach. ‘Entirely in order.’
‘Do you suppose he would have put his affairs so entirely in order after his son’s death had he not expected some huge change in the pattern of his life?’
‘That I cannot say. Suppositions are outside my realm, Mrs Shackleton.’ There was a finality in his voice that said he had all but given up his hopes of writing a will for Kate Shackleton. ‘Please do telephone us, Mrs Shackleton, if we can be of further help in the future. I’m afraid I’m due in chambers in a very short while. Miss Conway!’
The secretary wafted smokily into the room.
He waved her to take away the Braithwaite papers. ‘Mustn’t leave the office with the wrong set of documents.’
He stood as I rose to go. In the doorway, I turned.
‘Mr Murgatroyd, why did you not go to Milton House when Mr Braithwaite asked you to, on the morning of 21 August?’
He hesitated for just too long. ‘That was the week of our family holiday in the Lake District.’
Behind him, Miss Conway turned, surprise showing on her face. She took a breath as if about to speak, then thought better of it and returned to her own office.
I thanked Mr Murgatroyd for his time and found my own way out onto the bustling thoroughfare. What was it my father had said? If you ask the right questions you can get information even from a professional whose intention it is to withhold it. So much for my great technique! But one inspired guess had proved correct. Joshua Braithwaite tried to enlist his solicitor’s help in his hour of need, and did not get it.
Sykes was waiting for me in the Forster Tea Rooms as arranged. Sitting at a table facing the window, he folded his newspaper, and motioned to the waitress to bring tea.
‘Well?’ he asked. ‘What did you think to our Mr Murgatroyd? I’ve seen him in court once or twice.’
I pulled a face that was meant to show I found him devious, inefficient, crooked and boastful, but probably showed my defeat.
‘Mr Braithwaite put in a call to him from Milton House, and he did not respond. On holiday, supposedly, but I don’t believe him.’
‘It could be that he didn’t want to risk his reputation by being involved in a case of attempted suicide.’
I sat with my back to the window. ‘Tell me if he leaves the building. He claims to be due in chambers shortly, but I think that was just to be rid of me. Braithwaites did take out at least one patent on an invention. If that’s for the loom picker and it’s been a financial success, Wilson has some cause to feel aggrieved. He’d be angry with Braithwaite. There’d be a motive.’
‘Possibly, though a bit drastic to kill over an underpayment.’
‘People can simmer with resentment at life’s unfairness, Mr Sykes.’
He nodded. I could see that he knew that well enough.
We agreed that he would stay on top of the investigation, and keep me abreast of the progress of the police enquiries and the results of the post mortem on Mrs Kellett.
I gave him my address in London. ‘Do write to me. I want to keep up with everything. I wish there was more to go on regarding the postal orders, and Mrs Kellett’s relatives. Someone must know where her brother and sister are.’
He walked me back to the railway station, for the train to Leeds.
‘I hope you enjoy your trip to London, Mrs Shackleton.’
I walked through the barrier towards the steam and noise of the platform. When I turned to wave, Sykes was still standing there. He smiled and raised his hand in a salute.
19
Soft dress goods
My mother reached out a hand to steady herself as we walked back from the dining car to our carriage. ‘There’s something about eating on a train that cheers me up, I don’t know why. The unexpectedness of it perhaps.’
Our fellow travellers had left the train at Grantham. We had the compartment to ourselves. Mother took out her compact, looked at herself critically and powder-puffed her perfect nose, smiling at her miniature self in the small round mirror.
I sat with my back to the engine, watching the landscape we left behind, aware of my mother’s delight in the journey. She travels not simply from Wakefield to London, from a house rented by the West Riding Constabulary to a grand house in Chelsea. The journey gives her title an outing. Leaving behind her role as Mrs Hood, police superintendent’s wife, she metamorphoses into the elegant Lady Virginia, daughter of the late Lord and Lady Rodpen. Her sister Ethelberta married a mere baronet and so the delicious irony for Mother is that in spite of marrying a commoner, she takes precedence over her sister. They make a joke of it, but I suspect mother finds it more amusing than does Aunt Berta.
Mother leaned across. She wore a striped velvet two-piece costume in royal blue with calf-length fringed-hem skirt. The long jacket, over a creamy silk blouse, reached just below her hips. The jacket was open to the waist, with three silver buttons at hip height. Her hat, in a slightly lighter shade, took the shape, of an elaborate upturned jelly on a plate. Her shoes were elegant buttoned-up black patents with Cuban heels and ornamental bows. Everything was new.
I was glad to be wearing my skirt and cardigan set, which at one year old is the newest item in my wardrobe, barring the borrowed gown from Tabitha.
‘That’s a very well-cut costume,’ Mother said approvingly, ‘but it’s that “ghost of khaki” no-colour colour again.’
‘I like these shades, Mother. And if it’s good enough for Coco Chanel, it’ll do for me.’
‘You should have come over with your trunk yesterday. We could have made sure you don’t need tucks in your clothes.’
‘I haven’t lost weight.’
‘Looks like it to me.’ She sat back, hands folded in her lap, gazing at me steadily as if she had to find out all over again who I am.
‘I want to talk to you, Katie.’
‘All right.’
Was this to be a mother-daughter chat about why I didn’t come home more regularly, or move a little closer to her and Dad? I braced myself for questions.
Her mouth made a little smile, but her eyes looked sad. ‘You were my lucky charm. When you came to us, I’d given up all hope of children. I thought I’d be one of those sad women for whom it just didn’t happen. There is a certain amount of barrenness in the animal kingdom, you know, so why should we humans be different?’
‘I’m glad you think I was your lucky charm.’
‘I hope I didn’t scoop all the luck from you. I hope there’ll be some left.’
The conductor, strolling along the corridor, paused to look in at our compartment. He touched his cap. Mother inclined her head, and waited until he had passed.
‘It only happened when I’d given up hoping, or even thinking about it. You were seven.’
‘I know. I remember very well. It was when I saw the baby clothes in the drawer that I realised.’
‘You were wonderful. Such a good little helper.’
‘I’d never seen twins before. It felt like a fairy story.’
Mother reached over and this time did take my hand. ‘It’s like your own personal miracle when you have a child, Katie. I can hardly bear the thought that you’re closing your mind to that possibility.’
I let her hold my hand just a moment longer, not to be unkind. ‘There’s nothing I can do about tha
t.’
‘You mustn’t give up. It’s how long since Gerald was killed … four years?’
‘Since he went missing’ – I could not bear that word killed, not in the same breath as Gerald’s name – ‘it’s four years on Saturday.’
She spoke softly. ‘He’s not coming back, Katie.’
‘I know that.’
Whistle blowing, our train sped through a local station. On the platform, a woman and a small child were seated on a bench. The child waved. A man on crutches in a demob suit stared dully at the train.
‘Berta has invited someone who …’
‘Mother, I’m not interested, not after last year.’
‘Don’t jump to conclusions.’
‘Honestly, you’ve no idea what the men out there are like. They’re the most total rejects, atrocious. Last year … that old lecher …’
‘He was a mistake.’
‘They’re all a mistake.’
Mother was thoughtful for a moment and then decided to come to the lecher’s defence. ‘Perhaps he was just a little enthusiastic, bowled over by you.’
‘He will be bowled over if I see him again.’
‘Some men, they see a wedding ring, and they hear a young woman’s a widow …’
‘So I’m to take off my wedding ring? Or wear a sign, Yes I’m available but no pawing until we’ve known each other ten minutes.’
Mother sighed and gave up, for the moment.
I gazed out of the carriage window. Green fields sped by, hedges and ditches, wildflowers, lambs, birds in the trees. There is something so damned obvious and annoying about April. It gets under one’s skin without asking. Something in us seems primed to drown in longings, to fall in love with a man seen from the top of a tram, or some mysterious person who might be just around the corner.
‘Hasn’t there been anyone you’ve found the least bit attractive?’ Mother asked plaintively.
‘No one suitable.’
‘Oh blow suitable. Your father wasn’t suitable.’
‘No one I could see a future with, let’s put it that way.’
Mother sighed. ‘Don’t become a mistress, dear. It wouldn’t suit you. And you’re still young.’
‘I don’t feel young.’
‘I was your age when I had the twins. I wouldn’t have liked to have left it very much longer.’
I shut my eyes, feeling suddenly weary. The April effect evaporated. Being witness to two horrible deaths left me feeling emotionally scooped out. I pretended to sleep, and very soon did, for a long stretch of the journey to London.
Aunt Berta has a way of making a person feel very special. When she heard Mother’s worries that I had lost weight, she came to my room with her maid and insisted we look through every item in my trunk as it was unpacked.
‘You see, Aunt Berta, Mother’s worrying about nothing.’
Aunt Berta nodded. ‘All the same, we’ll go out shopping. There’s some lovely material in Liberty’s, and I have the latest pattern books from Paris. You’re invited to a wedding I hear?’
‘Yes. Tabitha Braithwaite’s. We were in the VAD together. She’s marrying in May.’
‘Goodness, we’re almost in May. Easter next week, then May around the corner. Have you bought a hat?’
‘No.’
‘And have you selected a wedding outfit?’
‘Not yet.’
She beamed with delight. ‘Then that will be our task. You must have a picture hat. That should be chosen first, then the gown. People always get it the wrong way round. A wedding will make a pleasant change for you. Does Miss Braithwaite have brothers?’
‘She had one brother, Edmund. He was killed on the Somme.’
‘How sad. And the bridegroom, who are his people?’
‘Oh … they have land and farms with tenants, that sort of thing.’
Aunt Berta put a hand on my arm. ‘I’m glad you’re getting out and about. Your mother worries about your investigations and your photography, but I think it’s downright plucky.’
On the evening of the birthday dinner party, I stood with Aunt Berta and Uncle Albert in the hall, to greet arrivals. The Conan Doyles’ carriage drew up.
Aunt Berta nudged me. ‘Sir Arthur and Lady Jean are about to set off on a tour of America but wouldn’t miss my party. They’re very fond of you, you know, Katie. For two pins they’d ask you to accompany them.’
My aunt blissfully ignores inconvenient facts, such as the gulf between the Conan Doyles’ beliefs and mine. They’re skipping off to America to promote spiritism – knock-knocking on the door of the beyond.
‘I should like to go to America, Aunt, but not just now.’
‘We must look into that,’ Mother said. ‘An Atlantic voyage would do us good, but I don’t suppose your father will spare the time.’
‘Then you and I must go.’
‘When?’ Mother asked.
Why do I say these things?
Fortunately we were interrupted. When Sir Arthur and Lady Jean swept in, I went into the ballroom with them. Sir Arthur is so intense, but there is always some gem of wisdom to be got from him. Occasionally a person will say something that gives you another way of looking at the world, and he can do that better than anyone else I know. They have known me since I was a little girl. Lady Jean is always charming. All the same they do try to convert me to spiritism. I refuse to try and contact Gerald in the beyond.
Gerald was a great fan of Sir Arthur’s historical novels and passed them to me. The last time I met Sir Arthur, I had a dream that we did contact Gerald and he wanted to talk about Sherlock Holmes.
I chatted to Sir Arthur and Lady Jean about their planned trip to America, and all the engagements arranged for them.
Lady Jean is a great one for getting other people to talk. I found myself telling them about the Braithwaite case.
When he heard that Joshua Braithwaite was found in the beck, Sir Arthur’s interest sparked immediately. I led him into the library where I had my photographs tucked onto one of the lower bookcases. Truth to tell, I hoped he might have some astonishing insight into the case of the missing Joshua Braithwaite.
Lady Jean followed, as if she had decided never to let her husband out of her sight.
‘How extraordinary!’ He examined the photograph of Tabitha with the waterfall in the background. ‘This is so like Cottingley where the fairies were spotted and photographed by those two young girls. You’ll have seen my book on that?’
‘Yes.’ I tried to sound both interested and non-committal. No photographer worth their salt would imagine that those photographs were anything other than total fakes, but nevertheless Sir Arthur and his Spiritualist friends had chosen to believe there really were fairies.
Sir Arthur spoke with barely suppressed excitement. ‘This gentleman who has disappeared, he may well have found his way through to the fairy world. I do firmly believe there are places on this earth – muddied as it is with our materialism, conflict and greed – where we can cross the line into that other world, that parallel universe of grace and joy. Behind the waterfall. There may be a clue.’
‘Mr Braithwaite didn’t find his way into a parallel universe. The scout leader called the local bobby. He was arrested and taken to hospital.’
‘And perhaps found his way back to the waterfall? This is most fascinating. It would be astonishing to have evidence of a man breaking through the barrier between this world and the next, propelled by grief, drawn by the call of his dead son. Take a look, Jean.’ He passed the photograph to Lady Doyle.
She creased her brow thoughtfully and said, ‘Mmmm,’ in a most intelligent and thoughtful tone of voice.
I needed to divert Sir Arthur from his other-world views if there was to be an earthly chance of his talking sense. ‘When Mr Braithwaite was found in the beck, he claimed not to have intended suicide. He was in a poor way, confused, bruised, with cuts to his face. It’s possible he’d fallen or been attacked. I don’t believe he was trying to find his way
to another world.’
Sir Arthur looked saddened by my scepticism but obliged me with his speculative glance. ‘The clothes that he wore then – were they examined? Did they have marks consistent with a fall? Say, if the lapels had been tugged, or some such thing, there might have been an assailant. It is best to look thoroughly, explore the most obvious details first.’
‘There was no note in the policeman’s account about his clothing being examined. He did have a scrap of material caught in his watch chain.’
‘What sort of material?’
‘It’s something between textured cotton and webbing, in a check, beige and red. I haven’t got the piece with me, but I did take a photograph.’
I produced the photograph from my briefcase. I had colour-washed it to reflect its faded beige, with red and black stripes, like a poor imitation of a tartan.
Sir Arthur examined it closely. ‘Some kind of upholstery, or lining. A heavy cotton weave?’
‘Yes.’
‘Probably woven in Lancashire.’
He passed the photograph to his wife. If she was already bored with me, she hid it well, saying graciously, ‘Mmmm. I do believe you’re right, my dear.’
Sir Arthur narrowed his eyes thoughtfully. ‘This confusion the gentleman experienced, had he been treated for any ailment or disease? Certain medicines induce symptoms such as those you describe, or it could be that he had glimpsed the other world and if so I should be most interested to know the effect that would have on a man’s mind.’
‘I don’t know whether he was undergoing treatment. The regular village doctor was in the army. If Mr Braithwaite was ill the chances are he would have been relying on whatever home remedies he usually turned to.’
Could Braithwaite’s confusion have been caused not by his being duffed up as everyone thought, but by the overdose of some drug?
‘It would be wise to eliminate the obvious,’ Sir Arthur said sagely. ‘I’ll send over my materia medica. You might find it useful to take a look. If so, I shall treat you to one of your own as mine is full of youthful scribbles in the margins. Keep it until we return from America.’
Dying In The Wool: A Kate Shackleton Mystery Page 24