A Snapshot of Murder

by Frances Brody

  ‘Do you suppose Edward will be coming back soon?’ Elisa asked me.

  ‘I hope so.’

  ‘They can’t think that he would kill anyone. Someone who has been as hurt as he was in the war knows the value of life.’

  ‘I’m sure you’re right, Elisa. But someone is guilty.’

  ‘Do you know much about him, Edward I mean?’

  ‘Not very much. He teaches English at a boys’ school.’

  ‘Is he married?’

  ‘No.’

  She did not ask me any other questions but gave me a useful titbit of information.

  ‘This morning, I don’t know where you were when he did it, but Mr Porter searched your rooms.’

  ‘I thought somebody would. Did he tell you that we have to stay another night? Will that be all right?’

  ‘Mr Porter didn’t tell me, but Mr Charles, the Scotland Yard man, he told me. I asked him who would pay the bill. He said to talk to you about it.’

  ‘Where will Rita and I sleep tonight? I don’t want to go back in that room.’

  ‘I’ll have beds made up in the library.’

  ‘Thank you. And now, I’m going to see whether I can speak to Mrs Murchison. It’s dreadful to think what she must be going through. I suppose she is still at the police house.’

  ‘Will you go see? Mr Porter would know.’

  ‘I’ll go to the station house. Where is it?’

  ‘It’s on Mill Hey. If Sergeant Hudson isn’t there, Mrs Hudson will be.’

  I took out my map. ‘Show me.’

  She looked at the map and pointed out Mill Hey, and the route. ‘Do you want to borrow a bicycle?’

  ‘Yes please.’

  Ten minutes later, I was cycling down the lane. I had the dog on its leash, with an extension of a length of rope. So far that was working. Knowing bloodhounds, I feared that any interesting smell might catch its attention, and land me in a ditch. Just as I thought that, I saw someone extraordinarily like Harriet coming towards us.

  It was Harriet.

  Having shown no great interest in Harriet earlier, the dog now decided he must make a dash for her.

  I stopped the bike. ‘What happened?’

  ‘I changed my mind. You’re staying here to clear up the murder, and to take care of Carine.’

  ‘No, Harriet, the inspector from Scotland Yard is here.’

  ‘I know he’s your friend. I’m not going to tell anyone, but I’ll help you.’

  ‘What about the message you were going to take to Mr Duffield tomorrow?’

  ‘Mr Sykes said it will be just as well if he takes it. I think he wants to talk to Mr Duffield.’

  ‘And what about your jobs?’

  ‘Mrs Sykes will go to the café and offer to take my place.’

  ‘You’re not going to miss going to the pictures?’

  ‘Monday is my night off, remember. I’m hoping we will have solved the murder by tomorrow.’

  ‘I admire your optimism.’

  ‘And I admire you for not toppling off the bike. Where are you going?’

  ‘Into Haworth.’ I untied Sergeant and spoke to him firmly. ‘This is Harriet. You can trust Harriet entirely, and I want her to be able to trust you. Go with her back to the hall and wait for me there.’

  He listened carefully to my words. Meekly, he allowed Harriet to take the leash and set off back up the lane, only once making a small whimper as I watched them go.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  The Blue Lamp

  The station house on Mill Hey announced itself by the blue lamp above the door. I parked my bicycle by the wall and rang the bell. It was answered by a woman who was still shushing children as she opened the door. By the time I stepped inside, the children had disappeared, save for one little head peering round the door at the end of the hall. An older child must have pulled him back, because the door between police station and living quarters quickly closed.

  I introduced myself, and asked if I might see Sergeant Hudson.

  ‘My husband is out, but come through.’ Mrs Hudson gave a friendly smile and we were soon in the office part of the house, just to the left of the front door.

  I have a great deal of sympathy for police officers’ wives, especially when they live above the shop, so to speak. Early in her career as police officer’s wife, my mother failed miserably in that role. When asked to visit a female prisoner in the station lock-up, she took an extravagant picnic. When she learned that the woman had a child, Mother immediately appointed herself counsel for the defence. There was a good outcome for that particular station as they soon saw the advisability of recruiting a female constable.

  Mrs Hudson went to the other side of the counter and opened a ledger. ‘I’ll just write your name and the time. As soon as the sergeant comes back, he’ll see that you called.’

  ‘It’s Mrs Kate Shackleton.’

  ‘Ah, it was mentioned to me that you might come.’

  I waited until she had finished writing. ‘I’m wondering how Carine Murchison is, and whether she is still here?’

  ‘She was here. My husband asked me to bring her. With all the crush and hubbub yesterday, and the crowds, there was nothing else to do but walk her down the main street. I brought her by way of the park.’

  ‘And now? I’d hate her to think that her friends have abandoned her.’

  ‘The doctor found a bed for her in the local clinic, Lindisfarne on Bridgehouse Lane. She was taken there this morning.’

  ‘Is she ill?’

  ‘More shocked than ill. The doctor gave her a sedative and she had a good night’s sleep.’

  ‘And how was she this morning?’

  ‘She was as well as might be expected, under all the circumstances.’

  Mrs Hudson would quite rightly give nothing away. I admired her for it, but wished she was more forthcoming. As someone unofficially helping Scotland Yard, I had no entitlement to push her for more details.

  ‘Do you think it likely I would be allowed to see her?’

  ‘I doubt it, not without permission.’ She gave me what might almost be described as a meaningful glance. Such glances only work if one can interpret the meaning. I should have asked Marcus to arrange some kind of special dispensation.

  ‘I’ll go there anyway.’

  She reached for a scrap of paper and sketched directions. ‘Will you find the way?’

  ‘I’m sure I will. Thank you.’ I hesitated. It was worth one more try. ‘Mrs Hudson, if it is at all possible to contact your husband, or the investigating officer at Keighley, I believe they may grant permission for me to see Mrs Murchison.’

  I had said the right thing. Occasionally there are magic words that allow something to happen. Mrs Hudson made a telephone call. She waited, she said her piece, she listened. Permission was granted. ‘Someone will contact the hospital.’

  Coming with me to the door, she spoke quickly, as if uncertain whether she should speak at all. ‘Mrs Murchison is a nice lady. I hope all will be well for her.’

  As I cycled through the hospital gates, I saw two familiar figures standing by the doorway, smoking. Rita Rufus and Derek raised a hand in greeting and seemed so pleased to see me that I might have been the relief cavalry coming over the hill.

  ‘Kate!’ I thought for a moment that Rita would throw her arms around me. ‘I’m glad you’re here. Not only do they forbid us from seeing Carine, they won’t say a word about her.’

  ‘How did you know she was here?’

  ‘We called at the police house.’

  Derek had his haversack on his back. He was ready to go home. Knowing that Marcus wanted to interview him at the station, I knew that he would not be going home just yet.

  ‘I should have known they wouldn’t let us in.’ Derek’s hunched shoulders dropped. ‘We have no visiting permit. When Gran was in hospital, I had to wait until the following Sunday and show my pass.’

  Rita was not to be pacified. ‘Your gran was ill. She had you as her nex
t of kin and named visitor. Carine is not ill and she is not going to be visited by Tobias, unless he comes as a ghost. She needs her friends.’

  ‘You two wait here. Let me try.’

  They both spoke at once. Derek told me that I would be banging my head against a brick wall. Rita pleaded that I must make the duty porter see sense. ‘He’s the most obstructive man imaginable.’

  Taking a deep breath, I went inside.

  The weary porter looked up from his desk, showing some relief that I was not Derek or Rita, and suspicion that here was yet another troublesome civilian come to interrupt his completion of the crossword puzzle.

  Yet when I gave my name, and asked to see Carine Murchison, he showed a change of heart. Mrs Hudson’s telephone call had done the trick.

  He raised his eyebrows, glanced over my shoulder towards the door, as if expecting Rita and Derek to mount a charge. He then picked up the telephone receiver. After much winding and waiting, he spoke. ‘Porter here, Matron. I have a lady to see Mrs Murchison. Her name is Shackleton and she has police permission to see the patient.’

  Like a man who had heard all this before, he did much nodding of the head to himself, and shaking of the head to me. ‘I’ll tell her, Matron.’ He hung up. ‘Matron says that she does not wish the patient to be disturbed. You can come tomorrow at 10.30.’

  ‘Very well.’

  My gracious acceptance of the inevitable elicited some sympathy from him.

  ‘It wouldn’t matter if you were Lord Chief Justice, you’d have the same answer from Matron.’

  ‘I was a nurse. I understand. There is something you could do for me, which Sergeant Hudson I know would appreciate.’

  ‘What might that be, madam?’

  ‘Call me a taxi, so that I might take my friends back to Ponden Hall.’

  ‘Right away.’ He made the call. ‘Mr Taylor is setting off now.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  Not wanting to enter discussions with Derek and Rita, and so that they would not grow restless, I went to the door opened it, and waved. ‘Give me five minutes!’

  I shut the door before they had time to ask me what would happen after five minutes. It was then I remembered the bicycle. The porter had a nameplate on his desk.

  ‘I’m sorry to trouble you over something else, Mr Jagger, but I came on a borrowed bicycle, from Ponden Hall. Is there somewhere safe I can leave it?’

  ‘Leave it with me, madam. I live in Stanbury and I’ll see to it. I’m off duty at eight and I’ll ride it back myself.’

  I thanked him. That was definitely worth a shilling.

  As the taxi drew into the yard, I called goodnight to the porter and left.

  ‘Aren’t we going in to see Carine?’ Rita wailed.

  ‘Ponden Hall, driver,’ I said. The driver opened the door and I bundled my friends inside. ‘I’ve made an arrangement, Rita. I’ll explain later.’

  ‘I need to go to the railway station.’ Derek had taken the haversack off his back and held it on his knees. ‘I’m sorry you two, but I can’t miss work tomorrow.’

  ‘Derek, I’ve sent word to Mr Duffield. He doesn’t expect you tomorrow morning. I’ll explain when we get to Ponden.’

  ‘But I have to be back at work.’

  We had a journey of a couple of miles, during which time I could consider how to break the news to Derek. Thanks to his love letters, he was a prime suspect in the murder of Tobias Murchison.

  As it turned out, I did not need to explain. As we drew up at Ponden Hall, two uniformed officers stepped out of a waiting constabulary car.

  ‘Mr Blondell?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘We must ask you to accompany us to Keighley police station.’

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  Looking Like a Policeman

  On Monday morning, Jim Sykes set out for his ports of call. He sometimes felt a spark of annoyance when people said he looked like a policeman. These were the times when he was trying to pass as a regular person, with no connection whatsoever to the world of law and order. On this particular morning of Monday, 6 August, when he was setting out to investigate circumstances that might cast a light on the death of Tobias Murchison, Sykes intended to make good use of his ability to look like a plain-clothes man.

  On his way into town on the tram, the tram conductor gave him what he had come to call ‘that look’.

  On the rarest of occasions, Jim Sykes saw himself living another life. This life might have been his if he had been born with a silver spoon in his mouth, or some mysterious benefactor had taken an interest in him at an early age, some windfall had come his way, or at a turning point he had compromised his principles and turned a blind eye to a dark deed.

  In such a life, he would have belonged to a gentlemen’s club. In that club, he would lounge in a smoking room, where deals were made on a handshake. He would help himself to whisky from a decanter and enjoy a long lunch in a dining room where the waiters wore penguin outfits. This place of his imagination would take a definite shape when he turned into Albion Place to call at the Leeds Club. But first, he would speak to Mr Duffield at the newspaper offices on Albion Street.

  Mrs Shackleton had told him that Mr Duffield’s advanced years did not deter early rising. He always arrived promptly at eight o’clock. When Sykes arrived at the newspaper premises, a van was just backing into the yard at the side of the building, having delivered the early edition.

  He stepped inside, breathing in the smell of newsprint and cigarette smoke. The commissionaire looked up, showing interest in this visitor who gave off an air of importance. Sykes asked to see the librarian, Mr Duffield. After a short wait while the telephone upstairs was answered, Mr Sykes was invited to go up. Sykes hated lifts that rattled. He took the stairs.

  Mr Duffield met him at the library door. They knew each other professionally, through Mrs Shackleton.

  A clerk stood on a ladder at a high shelf. Sykes glanced at him, and back at Mr Duffield in a way that said, ‘I need to speak to you alone’.

  They withdrew into a back room where the only natural light came from a small window high in the wall. Sykes explained, as briefly as he could, the events that had taken place in Haworth, the police investigation and that Mr Duffield’s clerk, Derek Blondell, along with every other member of the photographic society group, would remain in Haworth for a while longer. Mr Duffield looked concerned. ‘We’ll manage well enough. I hope the lad is all right.’

  It took slightly more tact and discretion for Sykes to ask the awkward question of whether they might search Derek’s desk and locker for any personal or private correspondence. Mr Duffield hesitated. He agreed only when Sykes explained that this would be preferable to involving the police, and that Mrs Shackleton had discussed the matter with Mr Charles of Scotland Yard.

  ‘What precisely are you looking for?’ Mr Duffield asked. ‘I feel uneasy about a general search. For all I know, Derek may keep his diary here.’

  ‘It is difficult to be precise.’ Sykes had a brief image of a newspaper advertisement or a receipt for a knife that might have been purchased, or a diary with an incriminating entry. He hesitated to say, love letters. ‘As I say, I believe the interest is in correspondence. It is a murder enquiry. The sooner your clerk can be eliminated from enquiries, the sooner he can return home, and to work. Would you like to speak to Mr Charles?’

  ‘I have met the gentleman.’

  ‘He is working out of Keighley station. I can give you the telephone number. He will perfectly understand if you prefer to wait until the police acquire a search warrant.’

  ‘That won’t be necessary. We will take a look at Derek’s desk, and his locker.’

  They left the small room and stepped back into the library.

  The clerk on the ladder had moved along to another part of the top shelf. Mr Duffield called up to him, ‘Raymond, make us a cup of tea please, and see if there are any of those digestives left. One for yourself as well.’

  ‘Right-o, Mr Duf
field.’ He was down the ladder in no time, and seemed glad of it.

  When he had gone, Mr Duffield went to a tidy desk and opened the drawers. ‘Raymond will be a few minutes. He is very quick at typing but slow at tea-making.’

  The search of Derek’s desk revealed an index book, a work diary listing his tasks, pencils and stationery.

  ‘So, to the locker,’ Mr Duffield said with a sigh. ‘It’s in the basement. Fortunately, I have duplicate keys for library staff lockers, so we’ll go down there now.’

  The lift creaked and groaned its way into the basement. Sykes opened the doors, stood aside for Mr Duffield and closed them again.

  Mr Duffield switched on the light and led the way to a row of metal lockers. He fumbled with the keys, and opened locker number sixteen. By contrast with the scrupulously neat desk, this locker contained bundles of papers, manila folders, a manuscript tied with string, letters in brown envelopes and a tartan tie.

  Mr Duffield took out the papers, handing them to Sykes.

  Sykes glanced at the pile of material, typescripts and carbon copies.

  ‘Mr Sykes, we can safely look at this in the library. Raymond will be up the ladder most of the day, sorting out material for the archive.’

  Over tea and digestive biscuits, Sykes and Mr Duffield looked through Derek’s papers.

  ‘A piece for the Amateur Photographer Monthly – rejected,’ Sykes said.

  Mr Duffield’s gulp of tea went down the wrong way when he glanced at the next piece. It took him a moment to recover. ‘I thought he was a decent lad.’

  Sykes looked with interest at what had changed Mr Duffield’s opinion of his clerk. ‘It’s just an article.’

  ‘It’s scurrilous nonsense, for The Mole of the World, of all papers.’ Mr Duffield took a sip of tea.

  Sykes began to read the first page of a carbon copy manuscript whose plot was summarised on the title page, ‘Reporter on the Moon’.

  A mad scientist, with a strong resemblance to Mr Duffield, entices a young reporter to his mansion in the country on the promise of examining an unusually designed flying machine. The dastardly plan is for the young man to be sent into space on a night when the moon is full, and ready to receive him.