He seemed to have forgotten that Sykes found the cricket bat and I checked under the bed, but he looked so happy. It would be cruel to remind him.
‘Of course you helped,’ he said, unable to stop smiling. He reached for his pipe, ready to give me chapter and verse.
‘Oh?’
‘Scotland Yard went to search Wilson’s house while he was at work. At knocking off time I looked out for him passing, asked him in to get him chatting. That’s where you came in.’
‘And how did I help?’
‘He holds a grudge against you for siding with his wife on the night of the Gawthorpes’ party. You showed him up by escorting Marjorie home. He reckons you’re one of these new women. You’ve deeply unsettled the female population by driving your car about and prying into other people’s affairs.’
And here I was, chiding myself for being so entirely conventional. I rose in my own estimation. Constable Mitchell did not need encouragement to continue.
‘Well, like I say, I waylaid Wilson on the way home. Kept the coast clear for CID to give his place the once-over. Wife made a cup of tea and brought in a plate of digestives. Wilson was that busy denigrating every female born the wrong side of 1880 that he let me keep him talking while the search went on. They found the box with the cash, and his fingerprints, not the boots cos he was wearing them.’
Something told me this all sounded a little too easy. ‘And did Wilson confess?’
‘Not at first. Blamed his poor wife. Said Marjorie was mad and a drunk, which no one round here would have a great quarrel with. He said she was allus round at Lizzie Kellett’s asking for her fortune telled. Happen she was round there paying her condolences, copped for a bad fortune and swung out over it, he said. When he was presented with the evidence, of the footprint and the fingerprints, well then he caved in. Said Kellett had owed him money and he’d gone to ask for it after Kellett died. Mrs Kellett wouldn’t budge an inch. He knew the money was there somewhere. He thought he was entitled.’
‘What made him believe he was entitled to money?’
The constable shook his head. ‘Search me. Envy? Kellett had done better than him, in spite of both of them being clever fellers. He’s owned up to murderin’ Mrs Kellett, but he denies having owt to do with Kellett’s death.’
‘Do you believe him?’
Constable Mitchell’s pleasure dimmed. He sighed and the smile had fled. ‘Lads at Keighley have him secure. They’ll get a confession out of him soon enough. He laced Kellett’s food all right. Wilson got greedy. Simple as that.’
‘Did the CID chaps find morphia and gel sem in Wilson’s house?’
‘No. They reckon he was clever there, got just as much of the drugs as he needed and no more. He doped Kellett’s food first, then went off to the party at the Gawthorpes’. Fixed himself up with a perfect alibi, or so he thought. He wasn’t so clever when it came to killing Mrs Kellett.’
It struck me that given Wilson could only hang once, it was odd that he would own up to one murder and deny the other, but I kept the thought to myself.
Mitchell crossed to the filing cabinet and opened a drawer. He took out a cash box, unlocked it and brought out two wage packets. ‘Wilson missed this, and so did we. Mrs Kellett’s pinafore was hanging behind the cellar door, pay packets in her pocket – hers and Kellett’s.’
‘What will happen to them?’ I asked, feeling unbearably sad that the pair of them should leave behind untouched wage packets.
‘They’ll have relatives coming across for the funeral. Inspector says for me to hand it to the next of kin, as long as there’s no squabbling as to who that should be. No use being official over a few bob. Kellett’s treasure trove will probably go in the same direction but with more formality.’
‘Had Mrs Kellett opened her wage packet?’
He unsealed the flap and tipped the contents onto the table. ‘I reckon she had, and resealed it, so at least she’ll have known of Mr Stoddard’s little kindness.’
‘What kindness was that?’
He fingered a coin and separated it from the rest. ‘Look, see – there’s an extra guinea. I went across to the mill to enquire of Mr Stoddard. He explained that he’d given her extra, on account of her having to bury her husband. Naturally she wasn’t in work that Friday, but he sent the packet across and paid her for a full week’s work. Paid both for a full week’s work.’
It seemed to me such a pity that the one day Lizzie could take off work was because her husband had died. ‘How is Marjorie taking the news of her husband’s arrest?’
The constable paused for a moment. He returned the wage packets to the cash box, locked it, and replaced it in the filing cabinet. When he turned back to me, he looked solemn, and full of sympathy for the prisoner’s wife. ‘No one’s seen Marjorie. She walks that dog of hers at ungodly hours of the night and early morning. The wife called, but she wouldn’t answer the door to her. That young lass she had working for her, she’s paid her off – sent her home to her mam.’
I called at the butcher’s before knocking on Marjorie’s door. As I’d hoped, the dog was inside and not out in his kennel. He barked. I opened the letter box. ‘Charlie! I’ve got a bone for you.’ Charlie stood behind the door, wagging his tail and jumping on his hind legs. ‘Good boy, Charlie.’ Inside the house, a curtain twitched. ‘Marjorie! It’s Kate. Let me in. I’ve brought a marrow bone for Charlie.’
Charlie stopped barking. I could hear her voice, hushing him, pulling him back from the door. ‘Just leave it on the step,’ she said.
‘Let me in, Marjorie. I won’t go away.’ Charlie started barking again. The door opened. Before she had time to change her mind or snatch Charlie’s bone from me, I pushed my way in.
Charlie leaped at me as though I were his long lost friend. I gave him the bone as quickly as I could so he wouldn’t accidentally eat my hand at the same time. He bounded off down the hall, the bone gripped in the vice of his jaws as if we might ask to share it with him and he would hate to refuse.
Marjorie’s hair was all undone, hanging in greasy strands below her shoulders. Her mouth turned down, her eyes looked blank with misery. I caught a strong whiff of unwashed body. She spotted dog hairs on the black sleeves of her cardigan and brushed at them with bony hands. She showed no sign of moving from the hall.
‘Can we go sit down somewhere, Marjorie?’
She looked round as if the house was a strange place to her and she did not know what room we might be allowed to enter. ‘He’s everywhere, you see, that’s the trouble. That’s why Charlie and me go walking, but I can’t go in the daylight. Not now. People staring.’
‘The kitchen?’ I asked. It struck me that Arthur Wilson would not often have been in the kitchen and we would be safe from the memory of his presence there.
She nodded and led the way down the hall, to where Charlie had escaped already. The dog looked up politely, wagged his tail and continued to gnaw at the bone. This seemed to soothe her a little, and she sat on a Bentwood chair by the empty range, pushing strands of hair behind her ear. I put the kettle on the gas ring and lit a match. The teapot was cold and had not been emptied. When she thought I intended to go to the back door and throw the old tea leaves on the garden, she shuddered. Instead, I emptied the leaves into a newspaper. ‘I’ve brought us a pork pie each, and one for Charlie.’
There was a shawl across the back of the chair. I put it around her thin shoulders. She looked so cold. ‘It must have been a terrible shock for you, to have Mr Wilson arrested.’
When I put the cup of tea in her hand, the cup rattled in the saucer. She would have been better sitting at the table. I stood a buffet by her and put the saucer on it, so she only had the cup to deal with. Charlie went to the door with his bone. She did not object when I turned the key and shot back the bolts so that the dog could go into the yard.
‘That’ll leave us free to eat our pork pies,’ I said.
For the first time she smiled. ‘Oh aye. He’d have it out o
f your hand soon as look at you, thinking you meant it for him. Well, I’ll have no one worrying at me to “get rid of the damn dog”.’ She made no attempt to pick up a piece of pork pie, though I had quartered it with a sharp knife to make it manageable. She stared at it for a long time, and then said, ‘I’ll have a dollop of brown sauce. It’s in that cupboard.’
‘Say when.’ I tipped up the sauce bottle.
‘When.’
‘Were you here when the police came to search?’
‘They asked me to leave. Take Charlie for a walk, and stay away from the direction of the mill. Do you think Arthur did it? It’s hard to believe that he killed someone else. I allus thought it’d be me.’
‘He’s confessed, to killing Mrs Kellett, but not Paul.’
‘Oh no, he wouldn’t kill Paul.’
‘The police think he did.’
She gave a snort. ‘They would.’
‘Why do you say he wouldn’t kill Paul?’
‘I can’t put it into words. They stood by each other, in that way fellers do.’ She picked up the second piece of pork pie. I guessed she hadn’t eaten or drunk for a long time, nor slept by the look of her. A hot bath and a change of clothes wouldn’t have gone amiss. She licked brown sauce from her fingers.
‘Marjorie, I’d like to help you if I can. I don’t expect you’ll want to stay here.’
As if she hadn’t heard me, she said, ‘Oh I told the police he wouldn’t have killed Paul. Not that they liked each other over much but they were two of a kind in wanting to get on. Only Paul had that bit more luck, and he was the one in Mr Braithwaite’s confidence.’
‘In what way was he in Joshua Braithwaite’s confidence?’
‘If Mr Braithwaite had waited till dark that day, it was Paul Kellett would have fetched him the motorbike to get away. It was Paul came asking Arthur to go back on the story about the suicide. Well, Arthur said he couldn’t. It wasn’t him that saw. It was that other chap, and all the boy scouts. Only by then, Arthur knew he’d done wrong in going along with it. It’s a wonder it never cost him his job.’
‘So Kellett was going to help Mr Braithwaite get away from the hospital before he was brought up in front of the magistrates the next day on a charge of attempted suicide?’
‘I listened in. That night when Paul Kellett came braying on the door, I earwigged to see what it was all about.’
‘And what was it about?’
She listened, putting her head to one side, brushing back the hair that fell over her face. ‘Charlie wants to come in.’
I went to the door. Sure enough, Charlie stood there, wagging his tail, the bone in his mouth, pushing past me into the kitchen. I sat down again, and he came at me, pushing the bone towards me, growling.
‘He wants marrow tekin out of bone.’
For a moment, I waited, thinking Marjorie would do this.
‘He’s asking you,’ she said. ‘He likes you.’
From what Constable Mitchell had said, I suspected that Charlie was the only male creature in the village who did like me.
‘Right, Charlie.’ I took a knife from the drawer and held out my hand for the bone. Marjorie and the dog watched me.
Charlie dropped the bone at my feet. In the short time he had spent outside, he appeared to have buried the bone and dug it up again. It was covered in slaver and soil. I held it gingerly, stabbing the knife into the bone, dislodging the soft pink marrow, dropping a piece to him. He wolfed this down.
‘Why didn’t Mr Braithwaite wait until nightfall, if Kellett was going to bring him a motorbike?’
The dog licked my hands, trying to hurry me up.
‘Because news came through over’t explosion. There was a delivery of yarn at mill, and news came with it. Soon as he heard, Mr Braithwaite waited for no one. He was off to Low Moor.’
Her words hit me like a blow. The knife slipped from my hand and clattered to the floor. Charlie backed off in alarm. Concentrate. I did not want to lose a finger during the course of my investigations. I picked up the knife and now carefully scraped the marrow to the top of the bone, within reach of a dog tongue.
‘Here, Charlie.’
The water ran freezing cold as I rinsed my hands under the tap. ‘Why?’ I asked. ‘Why did Mr Braithwaite go to Low Moor?’
‘You might refresh Charlie’s bowl while you’re at it,’ Marjorie suggested.
I tipped hairy, greasy water from an earthenware bowl down the sink and refilled it.
Tasks completed, I sat down again, and waited for an answer.
‘That lass who’d had his bairn, she worked there. Don’t ask me what a weaver was doing getting herself a job in munitions. Money I expect. She was a proud lass. Told Lizzie she wouldn’t be a kept woman. We never thought, me and Lizzie, never thought he’d leave his wife and family and the mill, turn his back on it all for her.’
I rubbed my hands to get some warmth back into my fingers, and to give me time to think. So I was right about Low Moor, and right about the young woman on the bridge, and the baby.
Marjorie was looking at Charlie with admiration as he attacked his bone with new vigour.
I had one more print of the young woman on the bridge. I took it from my bag and passed it to Marjorie. ‘Do you recognise her?’
‘That’s her,’ Marjorie said. ‘Daft ’aporth. Agnes. Bonny lass. Foolish, but then who am I to talk?’
‘Who else knew about Braithwaite and Agnes, and the baby?’
‘The only ones that knew for sure about Agnes and the bairn were the Kelletts. Lizzie told me. It got Arthur’s goat, guessing we knew summat he didn’t.’
‘Yet Arthur was in on it somehow. You said Kellett came here that Sunday night. You heard them talking.’
‘Oh aye, Paul came here. He wanted Arthur’s keys for the mill, so he could fetch summat for Mr Braithwaite.’
‘Do you know what it was?’
‘Aye. The key to his safe deposit box. I wasn’t supposed to know but I worked it out. Arthur got money for that bit of slyness, handing over the keys, though not as much as he felt hisself entitled to. And it rankled with him that Lizzie went on doing well.’
‘In what way did Mrs Kellett go on doing well? And how did Arthur know?’
Marjorie picked pork pie crumbs from her apron and popped them into her mouth. She looked at me puzzled, and for a moment I thought she would reach for a bottle of her favourite tipple and that I would learn no more today.
‘What did you ask me?’
I repeated my question. ‘You said Mrs Kellett went on doing well. And that Arthur knew, and resented that.’
‘Oh aye, that’s it. Every Friday Mr Stoddard give out the wage packets to the managers. Arthur, being weaving manager, said that Lizzie Kellett’s envelope was allus that bit heavier. He said that Stoddard paid her more than was written on’t packet, week in, week out. It drove him wild to know why.’
‘Why did you think the pay packet was heavier, Marjorie? Did Mrs Kellett ever say?’
‘She sent money for the upkeep of Agnes’ child. Braithwaite never contacted Agnes again, no more than he contacted his wife and daughter. He left Agnes and the little lad to fend for themselves.’
Charlie dropped his bone and came across, nuzzling at Marjorie, licking her hand.
‘So you never put an end to your husband’s curiosity and told him why Mrs Kellett got more money?’
‘I did not. Nowt to do with me. Arthur said it was so she would keep her gob shut.’
‘He thought that Mrs Kellett was blackmailing Stoddard?’
‘Daft bat. Lizzie wouldn’t have blackmailed no one.’ She stroked Charlie’s head. ‘Rich int it? Ten bob a week for the child of a millionaire.’
And eleven shillings for Mrs Kellett, I thought. The extra guinea in her last wage packet was not to cover the costs of Kellett’s funeral, as Stoddard had told Constable Mitchell, but to pay for the upbringing of Frederick Horrocks, and to keep Mrs Kellett’s silence about Frederick’s paternity.<
br />
The upright Stoddard had lied to the police.
Did Stoddard truly believe the whole guinea went to Agnes Horrocks? Or had he, for years, paid Mrs Kellet in order to protect his cousin Joshua Braithwaite’s reputation?
But all that took second place in my thoughts as I stood on the humpback bridge trying to make sense of what I knew. Agnes worked on munitions at Low Moor. Braithwaite had heard about the explosion and set off running to find her, not waiting for Kellett and the motorbike, and the key to the safe deposit box at Thackreys’ Bank.
And according to the editor of the Cleckheaton and Spenborough Guardian, who had attended the inquest on the Low Moor explosion, the death toll was thirty-eight, including “a male person unknown”.
But the explosion occurred at 2.30 p.m. and Joshua Braithwaite was seen running across the moors at 4 p.m. So it couldn’t be him, could it?
22
The Warp
The coroner had allowed Paul and Lizzie Kellett’s bodies to be released for burial.
The morning of the funeral broke blustery enough to frighten off rain. I crossed my fingers as I drew on my black coat. Nothing worse than a wet muddy funeral.
Sykes was watching out for me as I drew up outside his house. As he closed the door behind him, I noticed curious faces looking down from a bedroom window, a woman and two children. I waved as I got out of the car to let Sykes in.
‘Do you want to try driving, Mr Sykes?’
‘Oh no. Won’t risk that so close to home, and on the day of a funeral.’
One excuse would have been enough.
‘Just let me know when you are ready to screw your courage to the steering wheel.’
On a quiet stretch of road beyond Saltaire, he took a deep breath and said, ‘Right. I’ll have a go.’
At least an ex-policeman starts off with a little knowledge – hand signals. I gritted my teeth and praised him for the whole hundred yards that he was willing to drive.
When we arrived at Bridgestead, I dropped Sykes off on the main street, so that he could go to the police house to pester Constable Mitchell. I would scrounge breakfast at the Braithwaites’.
Dying In The Wool: A Kate Shackleton Mystery Page 29