A Snapshot of Murder

by Frances Brody

  As we walked along Briggate, Derek had just one subject of conversation.

  ‘I expect Carine will be feeling wretched.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And wearing black.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Do you think she is as beautiful as any star from the pictures? I offered to take a photograph of her to put in the studio window. She would be able to colour it.’

  ‘Carine would not put her own photograph in the window.’

  ‘I don’t see why not. She does everything, you know. My gran said that she ran that place all on her own once.’

  ‘When was that?’

  ‘From a very young age.’

  ‘I didn’t know her then.’

  ‘When her father was incapacitated.’ He looked about and lowered his voice. ‘Permanently drunk.’

  ‘Poor Carine.’

  ‘She is so gracious and lovely and, well, this may be presumptuous of me …’

  ‘Oh go on, be presumptuous, Derek.’

  ‘She still does all the work. Tobias takes the glory.’

  ‘Well, we don’t know that do we?’ From what I gathered, there was very little glory to be had in the Murchison studio.

  ‘Don’t you think Carine could be the subject of a painting?’

  ‘I’m sure she could. Do you paint?’

  ‘I enjoyed art at school, but I’m just a dauber. She would deserve one of the old masters.’

  I changed the subject before he said something he might regret and made a complete idiot of himself. For a while we talked about his work.

  As we chatted, I realised what an ambitious young man he is, just as Carine had said. Although he works as a clerical assistant in the newspaper library, or perhaps because he works in the newspaper library, he teems with ideas.

  ‘Every week, I put a photograph on the editor’s desk, and every other week, I write some little article about a topic of interest.’

  ‘And has the editor used your material?’

  ‘Oh yes, twice. And when I saw him in the corridor last week, he stopped me and gave me some advice.’

  ‘Well done to have been noticed, Derek. What was the advice?’

  ‘We are living in most uncertain times. People are hard up, uneasy, worried about the future and their children’s future. In such times, reassurance is called for. People must be made to feel that there are possibilities and other ways of being. When that happens, they look back. They hope for better days – as in the days of yore.’

  ‘Goodness, all that in a corridor.’

  ‘When he spoke, a white light switched itself on in my brain.’

  ‘Yes, I can see that might just happen. Did he say anything about your articles or photographs?’

  ‘What he said was enough, more than enough. He threw a rubber tyre to a man floundering in a lake of possibilities.’

  ‘And where might this lifeline lead you?’

  ‘You’ll see.’ He smiled. ‘Just wait and see what I will produce during our big adventure.’

  ‘Our trip away?’

  ‘Yes. I may need your help, Mrs Shackleton, if that is agreeable.’

  ‘Of course, Derek.’ He once more seemed so terribly young, and so hopeful, that I felt a pain in my heart. I was also rather wary of having his affections transferred to me when Carine rebuffed him, or when Tobias Murchison bopped him on the nose, or drove over him and broke his legs. ‘What is it you may need my help with?’

  ‘I’m not sure, only I don’t believe people in the society fully accept me.’

  ‘They would not have voted for your proposal for the outing if you were unpopular.’

  ‘Do you think not?’

  ‘I’m sure not.’

  ‘Only I feel a little bit of a fraud.’

  ‘In what way?’

  ‘I’ve never won a single prize for a photograph, and I don’t live in Headingley. My gran’s house is in Little London.’

  ‘That’s near enough, and it doesn’t matter in the least. No one else in the society has had articles in the paper.’

  ‘Tobias Murchison doesn’t like me.’

  ‘Derek, here’s a tip. Do not worry about whether people like you or not, just be yourself and do your best. That is all any of us can do.’

  ‘That is good advice. Thank you.’

  ‘Here’s another piece of advice.’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘Look both ways when you cross the road. I don’t want you knocked down before you produce our circular to members.’

  ‘You’ve just given me an idea!’

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘Ah, there are some ideas a fellow keeps to himself.’

  We parted. He walked on, a young man of mystery in a cut-down suit, a medieval page devoted to his beautiful mistress, a spring in his step with the power to take him to the moon.

  What on earth did he plan to do over our few short days away? More importantly, I wondered what he expected of Carine, and she of him.

  And then I wondered, had I given good advice to Derek in telling him to be himself. It might have been better to tell him to stop drooling over Carine and give a wide berth to Tobias Murchison.

  Afterwards, I drove up to see Carine again.

  Her sign was on the door: CLOSED DUE TO BEREAVEMENT, with her watercolour of lilies on the bottom right corner.

  Dominating the window was a photograph of her parents’ wedding. The couple in the photograph looked so like Carine and Tobias that it gave me the shivers.

  Wednesday, April 11, 1928

  The Mole of the World

  The newspaper that shines a bright light in dark corners

  Dispatch from Your Northern Mole

  Brush with Death

  A dapper young man about town, not yet in his twentieth year, was the intended victim of a vicious driver in the centre of one of our great cities.

  Your humble correspondent does not spare his blushes in admitting to being an unsung hero. While the young man’s preoccupation with life and love did not allow him to see the motor car hurtling towards its intended victim, this correspondent did. He is rewarded by the knowledge that he saved a young man’s life. The would-be lethal weapon on this particular spring day was a maroon Armstrong Siddeley motor.

  Driver – you were seen. Your dark glasses and pulled down homburg did not fool this observer.

  The car hurtled down a main thoroughfare, scattering horrified pedestrians. Our young fellow, full of the joys of spring and with a singing heart, stepped onto the road oblivious of the threat to life and limb. Had not this reporter grasped him and pulled him to safety, there would have been blood, much blood and the crushed bones of a fine young Englishman.

  There is a dark heart at the centre of this story. That beating organ belongs to the driver of the killer car. The whisper among those who know is that the bloated sot behind the wheel suspects his fair wife of harbouring tender feelings towards the handsome young fellow whose undoubted attraction for the opposite sex almost cost him his life.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  A Fine Funeral

  The funeral service for Carine’s father, Percival Whitaker, was held at St Michael’s Church. He was buried at Lawnswood Cemetery. Naturally, my sympathy was for Carine, and for Tobias, who had been close to his father-in-law. Yet I also felt sorry for the nurse who had attended Mr Whitaker. She looked about her with an air of defiance, as if half expecting to be accused of neglect, or worse. She dabbed her eyes with a lace hanky, and seemed more upset than Carine.

  Afterwards there was a funeral tea in the Skyrack. The nurse did not attend.

  The shopkeepers of Headingley turned out. Carine’s many friends came to offer their condolences and support. Tobias’s drinking cronies from the Oak greatly enjoyed the proceedings. Some of those who were in employment managed to take a day off, knowing there would be plenty to drink. A couple of well-dressed men, whispered to be from the Leeds Club, put in an appearance.

  There was hardly a moment w
hen Carine was alone. Finally, she managed to extricate herself from the mourners and the ham sandwiches. She drew me into the yard, seeking a breath of air.

  Carine’s friend, Rita, followed. Rita is an engaging young woman who holds a steady job at the local pharmacy, and is known to be well travelled. She frequently dresses in silks, brought back from India. On her travels, she picked up the habit of smoking a rather exotic leaf with a sweet scent, which she now grew in the pharmacist’s greenhouse.

  When the three of us were out of earshot of the other mourners, Carine confided, ‘Father made Toby the executor of his will. Everything goes to Toby, on the grounds that he will take care of me.’

  Rita exploded. ‘That’s outrageous, Carine. It’s your studio. It was your mother’s, your grandmother’s, that can’t be right.’

  Carine smiled at us. ‘I’m sure Daddy knew what he was doing. He and Tobias were very close, and very alike. I have no head for business. Tobias will take care of everything.’

  She seemed so remarkably calm and detached, almost as if none of this had anything to do with her. I wondered had she taken some sedative.

  Rita persisted. ‘Something must be done. You need a legal opinion. You must speak to Andrew.’ She turned to me. ‘My friend is a solicitor.’

  I wished Rita would be quiet, at least for now. Carine seemed determined to remain serene. I felt a chill at what seemed her extreme quiescence. ‘Carine, you, me and Rita will talk about this again, when you are over the shock.’ This was a day to be survived.

  It would be terrible for her if life changed for the worse. Without the knocking of the walking stick on the bedroom floor, the plaster on the downstairs ceiling would remain secure. But Tobias would have his hands on the purse strings.

  Carine smiled. ‘Ours was almost an arranged marriage, you might say, arranged by Daddy. But we are a good pair. Toby will take care of me.’ She gave the slight grimace that today passed as her smile. ‘And I will take care of him.’

  Rita embraced her friend. ‘You are a saint.’

  I spotted Tobias, making his way unsteadily into the yard, heading for the lavatory. He had been drinking heavily.

  Smiling, he executed a low, mocking bow to the three of us. ‘When shall we three meet again, in thunder, lightning or in rain?’

  Carine lowered her head. Rita stared at him, open-mouthed, but nothing came out.

  One of us had to answer. ‘When the hurlyburly’s done, when the battle’s lost and won.’

  Carine had begun to tremble. ‘The truth is, I’m beginning to be afraid of him. He has everything now. I fear he’ll take my life as well.’

  Rita caught her breath, ‘Oh, Carine, what has he done?’

  ‘Nothing. It sounds ridiculous.’

  ‘Has he threatened you, been violent?’ I asked. She shook her head. ‘Then what makes you afraid?’

  ‘I was at the top of the cellar steps. He came behind me. I knew he was going to push me down. I couldn’t move, I couldn’t breathe, my heart was racing.’

  ‘Did he touch you?’

  ‘I knew he wanted to push me down the stairs. I knew what he was thinking, one good shove.’

  ‘Carine, that’s terrible.’ I was glad that she had told us and tried to think what to say or do.

  Rita’s reaction was quicker than mine. ‘It is a premonition. You must leave him at once. And what you have just told us, you must say again in the presence of a witness, a man of the law.’ She turned to where her friend Andrew and the pharmacist, Mr Norton, were talking to each other. ‘Andrew, a moment, please. Mr Norton, too.’ The two men came across. It was a surprise to me that Andrew Barrington and Rita were friends. He dresses soberly, every inch the neat and reticent family solicitor. Rita’s employer, the pharmacist, is in his sixties, with sparse hair and rimless spectacles. He wore a well-brushed black suit that must have attended many funerals.

  Rita urged Carine to repeat what she had told us. Carine did so, adding, ‘It keeps coming back, that I know he will do it. I dream that I am falling. I hit the cold hard flags and I know that if a dream ends like that it is because you have died. And I hear myself scream. I’m so afraid.’

  Mr Norton said, ‘Mrs Murchison, you have been under a terrible strain. Do please see your doctor. What you have described sounds like a classic symptom of anxiety.’

  Carine had stopped trembling. She glanced at Mr Norton as if he had said the very words she wanted to hear. ‘So you believe I’m imagining this?’

  ‘Your anxiety is as real as you feel it to be, but the sort of dread you describe could attach itself to anything, even a worry about crossing the road. That seems to me the most likely explanation.’

  ‘Then perhaps you are right. He never touches me.’

  Mr Norton smiled. ‘There you are then. You need a rest, Mrs Murchison.’

  Andrew Barrington said softly, ‘Come and see me at any time, Carine. As a friend.’

  I looked about, just in case Carine’s long-lost fiancé, Edward Chester, had found his way here. I had seen a slim volume of his poetry in the bookshop and had bought a copy. He was good, very good.

  It may be that when the hurlyburly was done, neither Rita, I, nor any other of Carine’s friends would see her again. She might run off with her poet. If she did, good luck to her.

  But the poet was not at the funeral. Nor did he come to the society’s meetings in May, or June. Between them, Harriet and Derek had posted flyers through the letterboxes of every member, about the August outing.

  Harriet had been surprised to deliver the one for Edward Chester to the newsagent’s shop on Hyde Park Road. The owner had said she would send it on.

  The response to the proposed outing was disappointing. The only good point about the low level of interest was that we would be an intimate group, and more easily accommodated at Ponden Hall.

  After a decent lapse of time, I persuaded Carine that she ought to come. If she was worried about the studio, I felt sure that my housekeeper would keep an eye on the premises during our weekend away.

  I spoke to Mrs Sugden. She took up the idea with enthusiasm. Yes, she would certainly be willing to help out.

  When I reported this to Carine, for the first time in ages, she looked happy. The thought of going away cheered her. ‘Oh good. Kate, I’m asking people not to tell Tobias we’re staying at Ponden Hall. I told him it would be a surprise, but I did so in such a way that he thinks we’ll be in the Black Bull for the weekend.’

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  The Failed Bloodhound

  Mrs Sugden made herself a late breakfast. She loved the idea of being sole occupant of Batswing Cottage for the whole weekend, just her and the cat.

  She had seen them off this morning. Mrs Shackleton left at the crack of dawn for Wakefield. She would drive with her parents to Stanbury. Young Harriet set off to catch the train, with that look she had when feeling important and full of herself.

  There was also the added prospect of doing something a bit different and earning extra money. That never went amiss. Life had taken a good turn for her since she came to work for Mrs Shackleton. You never knew what might happen next.

  She was charged with the responsibility of sitting behind the counter in the photographic studio. She had friends who worked in shops. Like as not, they had to stand all the time. The Murchisons were civilised. There was a chair behind the counter. It gave her a shiver of excitement to think of herself as minding the shop.

  She had made notes of everything that Mr Murchison told her. Customers would come to collect the photographs that they had left for developing and printing. If they forgot their ticket, she must check the name and ask when they brought in the film. If any person wanted to book a wedding photograph, or a studio portrait, she should enter details in the diary, and make a note. Passing trade might be customers bringing in a film to be developed. She should take the film, give them a ticket and tell them to come back in a week.

  Mr Murchison, a proper gentleman, had also said t
here would be an extra job, and he would leave a note. It would be sorting out the cellar, a surprise for his wife. He’s the new broom, Mrs Sugden thought when Mr Murchison asked for her help. He’s the new proprietor who intends to sweep clean.

  She let in the cat and fed her. Sookie then went upstairs to sleep on Mrs Shackleton’s bed.

  At twenty past eight, Mrs Sugden was just about to put on her coat and set off walking to open up the studio, when there was a knock on the door, one of those big thumping knocks that sends the heart racing.

  She went to answer. On the doorstep was a young police constable with a bloodhound on a leash.

  ‘Mrs Shackleton?’

  ‘Mrs Shackleton’s gone for the weekend. I’m her housekeeper, Mrs Sugden. What’s the matter?’

  ‘I’ve brought the dog.’

  ‘So I see.’ She looked down at the morose creature. The animal looked back, wagging its tail in a half-hearted fashion, unsure of its welcome. ‘Why have you brought a dog?’

  ‘It was on order, the first failed dog was to come to Superintendent Hood. If it was a Leeds dog, it could be brought here and he would fetch it.’

  ‘Superintendent Hood and Mrs Hood are away, and so is their daughter, Mrs Shackleton. You’ll have to hold onto it until they come back.’

  ‘When will that be?’

  ‘Mrs Shackleton is off for the weekend, I can’t speak for her parents.’

  ‘That’s a shame.’

  ‘Give me a telephone number. I’ll ask Mrs Shackleton to speak to you about it when she returns.’ She opened the door wide so that he could step inside, and went to the hall table for the notepad. ‘You’re safe. The cat’s upstairs.’ All the same, she kept an eye out, in case Sookie came down.