A Snapshot of Murder

by Frances Brody

  Mr Duffield poured himself another cup of tea. ‘I shall have a word with that young man. I could sack him for this – using office stationery for personal use.’ He gave a slight chuckle. ‘He is very ambitious. I saw that from the first.’

  ‘There’s nothing here to interest the police,’ Sykes said. As far as he could tell, these outpourings would be of interest only to knaves and fools. Sykes had no time for far-fetched fiction, whether it was written as a novel or an article purporting to be based on truth and facts.

  ‘The young scoundrel!’ Mr Duffield passed a carbon copy of a neatly written piece to Sykes.

  It was the mysterious article about the trip to London by a titled lady, her daughter who practises the art of detection, a successful photographer and a lively gel.

  ‘I’m not sure I want that young man on these premises any longer. Who knows which of us he will next misrepresent?’

  ‘Don’t be too hard on him. You said that he was ambitious.’

  Mr Duffield rose, to see Mr Sykes out, and walked him to the lift. ‘Ambitious, yes, but there is no call for deceit and lies. Pressmen have a responsibility for factual reporting and telling the truth as we see it.’

  The commissionaire gave Sykes a respectful nod. He thinks I’m plain-clothes police, Sykes thought to himself.

  He strode the few yards to the sandstone building that never advertised itself but was known to aficionados as the Leeds Club.

  There was a time when Sykes would have gone to the tradesman’s entrance because he knew the caretaker. This time, he climbed the steps and rang the bell. He had done a good turn for Jack Piggott, the commissionaire. But Piggott had a big mouth and a good memory. By dinnertime, anything you said to him would be broadcast verbatim across the city.

  ‘Hello, Mr Sykes.’

  ‘Nah then, Jack. Is Old Billy in?’

  ‘Aye. You know where to find him.’

  Billy, a champion player, had taught Sykes everything he knew about the game of billiards. Sykes made his way to the billiards room and put his head around the door. Billy was in there with a young chap. He introduced him. ‘Mr Sykes, here’s young Edwin Boocock, come to work here while he perfects his game. Edwin, Mr Jim Sykes, a man worth knowing.’

  They shook hands. Boocock seemed a likely enough lad, but Sykes needed a word in confidence. Billy cottoned on straight away and sent the young chap on an errand.

  ‘What can I do for you, Jim?’

  ‘It’s a delicate matter.’

  ‘I’m good at delicacy, as you know.’

  ‘Have you come across Tobias Murchison? I believe he had membership here.’

  ‘Yes, I’ve come across him. Useless player. I hope he’s better at taking photographs.’

  ‘Unfortunately he’ll be doing no more photography or billiards playing. He died on Saturday.’

  ‘I’m sorry to hear that.’

  ‘There’ll be more news coming out about it, but here’s what I want to know. It’s been said that he was in regular contact with a woman by the name of Molly who cooks here. I’m told she is blonde and buxom.’

  Billy raised his eyebrows. ‘Is that so? Well I’d like to meet her myself but we’ve never had a woman working here, not ever. You’ve seen the chef, big fellow with greasy hair, in need of a barber. He wouldn’t have a woman in his kitchen.’

  ‘That’s what I thought, but times move on. What with young females getting the vote, I wondered whether there’d been a change of heart.’

  ‘It’s in the rules. We’d have mass resignations if we let them in. A female cook would be seen as the thin end of the wedge.’

  ‘What can you tell me about Mr Murchison?’

  ‘Not a lot. He came in on Friday nights, had a game of billiards. Caused a right rip in the cloth last week with his clumsiness. He was most apologetic and offered to pay. Had a drink, had supper.’

  ‘Was he pals with anyone in particular?’

  Billy shook his head. ‘Not that I noticed. He paid his dues and made use of the facilities. Oh, he’d discreetly mention his line of work. If any member had a daughter about to be married he’d raise the topic. I believe he got a bit of business that way.’

  ‘Any enemies?’

  ‘Not that I know of.’

  ‘Thanks, Billy.’

  ‘What happened to him?’

  ‘It’ll all come out.’

  ‘This might not be the time to ask, but where would I send the bill for a damaged billiard cloth?’

  Sykes left the Leeds Club by the front door, believing you should always go out the way you came in. He turned right, and then left, back onto Albion Street. He was heading for Park Row and the property agent.

  It was a fine line between looking the part of a detective, and being accused of impersonating an officer of the law. Sykes glanced in the window of Beeker and Cartwright, estate agents. There were photographs of shops for sale and to rent.

  When Sykes came through the door, the young man behind the counter looked up, hopefully, and wished him good morning.

  Sykes returned the greeting, and produced his card. ‘Is Mr Beeker available?’

  ‘Mr Beeker is out of the office at present. Perhaps I can help?’

  ‘Perhaps so. Mr Beeker called at Carine’s Photographic Studio in Headingley on Friday afternoon.’

  ‘Ah yes. It was not a convenient time for the proprietor, I understand. Are we able to arrange another time?’

  ‘Sadly, no, not at present.’

  ‘Is there a difficulty?’

  ‘Would you consult the file for me, please? You see I am acting for the family after a sudden bereavement.’

  The word bereavement often put a stop to obvious questions. The questions ought to be, who has died, when and what are your credentials? The clerk did not put the questions but gulped, went across to a gunmetal filing cabinet and brought out a manila folder.

  ‘We were instructed by Mr Murchison ten days ago.’

  ‘What were his precise instructions? The family is distraught at present and I do not want to pester them with business matters, at least not until they have buried their loved one.’ Sykes was pleased to hear himself sounding like a man of business, rather than an enquiry agent. His words had the desired effect.

  ‘Of course.’ The young man perused the folder. ‘The property in Headingley will be put up for sale as soon as practicable so that the purchase of the Boar Lane premises can proceed.’

  ‘Ah yes, the Boar Lane premises. Are you also handling that part of the transaction?’

  ‘No, that property is being dealt with directly by the seller himself, through his solicitor of course. I understand that Mr Nettleton and Mr Murchison entered a private agreement regarding Mr Murchison’s purchase, including fixtures and fittings.’

  ‘Thank you. You’ve been most helpful.’ Sykes stood and picked up his hat.

  ‘And thank you for letting us know, Mr Sykes.’ He hesitated. ‘I will keep the file open and await the family’s further instructions.’

  ‘We’ll be in touch.’

  Sykes rather liked the royal ‘we’. It gave the impression of a substantial company of professionals, which is what we are, Sykes decided. Mrs Shackleton, Mr Sykes and Mrs Sugden.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  Mrs Sugden Investigates

  No sooner had Mrs Sugden put on her coat than the dratted telephone rang. She wished it had never been invented. Most people got along perfectly well without it, although she had to admit that when you were running a business and had an employer who went haring off at a moment’s notice, the contraption did come in useful.

  Her first guess was that it would be Mrs Shackleton’s mother, but as she went to pick up the receiver she placed a bet with herself that it was not.

  Telephone operators had a certain way of making themselves known and a standard turn of phrase. ‘I have a call for Mrs Sugden.’

  ‘I’m Mrs Sugden.’

  ‘Putting you through now.’ There was a pause.
‘Caller, you are connected.’

  It was Mrs Shackleton. ‘I’m glad I caught you, Mrs Sugden. Tell me you haven’t been to see Mrs B yet.’

  Mrs B was Mrs Blondell, young Derek’s grandmother. Mrs Shackleton was being her usual cautious self in not naming names on the telephone. ‘That’s right, I haven’t. I’m just setting off now.’

  ‘There has been a development.’

  ‘Don’t you want me to go?’

  ‘Yes, but be prepared. Proceed as you planned but be warned, in case she has heard some news. A charge may be brought against her relative.’

  ‘What charge?’ Mrs Sugden asked, though the feeling in the pit of her stomach gave the answer before Mrs Shackleton spoke.

  ‘The most serious charge possible.’

  ‘Oh.’ Mrs Sugden immediately thought of treason, but this was peacetime and Sykes had told her just the night before that Mr Murchison had been murdered. She had barely slept with the horror of it. Now the shivers came over her. That poor grandmother, such news could be a mortal blow.

  ‘Will Mrs B have heard then?’ Mrs Sugden asked.

  ‘I don’t know, but at least now you are aware. If there is anything at all that you need to tell me, go to the nearest post office and send a telegram. You have the address?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Thank you, Mrs Sugden. Any questions?’

  ‘No questions.’

  No questions, Mrs Sugden thought, as she fastened her coat, except how will I keep the pity from my every look and word? How will I be able to face the woman knowing such a terrible blow will fall, or has already fallen?

  She went into the dining room and opened the top drawer of the sideboard. This was where they kept the tobacco tin with petty cash. Mrs Sugden took a pound note – not so petty – and entered the amount in the book. There was no telling how long this telegram would need to be. There might even be the need to take a train out to Haworth if there was something to be delivered, some vital piece of evidence.

  The awareness of the importance of her task grew. Mrs Sugden cut through the wood at the back of the house and turned into the street that led to Little London. She was heading for Camp Road. She had the house number, but it could be anywhere all along that road. There was a mixture of houses. She guessed it would not be one of the three-storey ones with an inside bathroom, but you never knew.

  She wished she did not know the young man, and was unsure whether she did know him. There were two clerks and one of them had brought her a cup of tea when she visited the newspaper library offices. When he typed something for her, his fingers moved so fast across the typewriter keys that he made the Remington sing. It was hard to believe that this young man could commit a heinous act. Yet the most benign appearances might conceal evil hearts.

  It was no distance to Camp Road for a person who could stride out, as Mrs Sugden did. Within the half hour, she located the house.

  She knocked on the door, telling herself – don’t look at her in pity. Perhaps she does not know.

  The door opened. The old woman who opened it looked at her with something like hostility, and fear, frowning, her fists clenched.

  ‘Mrs Blondell, I’m Mrs Sugden. We met at the chapel Christmas fair.’

  ‘Oh aye?’

  ‘I’m housekeeper to Mrs Shackleton who took the group of photographers to Haworth on Friday.’

  The frown diminished. The fists unclenched. The door opened wider. Mrs Blondell gestured for her visitor to step inside.

  ‘What have you come to tell me, Mrs Sugden? Had I best sit down?’

  ‘I think we both better sit down.’

  ‘I’m in the dark. What does it look like to the neighbours if you’ve plain-clothes men turning up in a car, and braying on your door? They came searching, chucking stuff about, lifting the rug, looking at the back of the oven, spoiling my rice pudding, burning their hands, refusing to say what they were after.’

  ‘I’m sorry for your trouble. You don’t deserve it, Mrs Blondell. You’ve done your best. Anyone can see that.’

  ‘What’s it all about? Do you know?’

  ‘Now calm yourself and don’t think the worst because the police will be checking on every person who went on the outing. Mrs Shackleton won’t let anyone wrongly take blame for what happened.’

  ‘Someone died, I know that much, but what’s that to do with our Derek?’

  ‘The person who died was Mr Murchison, from the photographic studio in Headingley. It seems that your Derek was very fond of the Murchisons like, but probably more fond of Mrs Murchison.’

  ‘I knew that would bring him trouble. She had him working for nowt on Saturday afternoons. I said they should pay him or he should leave them alone, but she had him under a spell, anyone could see that.’

  ‘I’m going to be blunt, Mrs Blondell. Derek wrote letters to Mrs Murchison. I know nothing about them, but the police have them in their hands. Now Mrs Shackleton wonders if Mrs Murchison wrote back to Derek. Happen that’s what the police were looking for – letters.’

  ‘They said summat about letters but I didn’t make the connection. She did write to him, I know that for a fact, egging him on, as I saw it. But it was no use telling him. I couldn’t tell him that I’d read her letters or he’d have packed his bags.’

  ‘Do you know where those letters are?’

  ‘He burnt them. You know how writing paper makes a certain delicate ash, that’s how I know he burnt them. She mun have told him to do it. She mun have known she was in the wrong. But why does it matter so much about letters?’

  ‘Because Mr Murchison’s death may not have been an accident.’

  Mrs Blondell had little colour in her sallow face but now that colour fled, leaving her as white as her pinafore. She closed her eyes and placed her fingers on her temples, as if her head might burst.

  ‘Is there anything I can get you, Mrs Blondell?’

  ‘A glass of water.’

  Mrs Sugden went to the tap and ran the water until the cloudiness disappeared. ‘I have some aspirins in my bag.’

  The older woman nodded.

  ‘I brought a buttered scone and a bite of cheese, thinking you might not have eaten.’

  ‘You’re right.’

  Mrs Sugden waved at the cupboard. ‘Do you mind?’ When the woman shook her head, Mrs Sugden took a plate from the cupboard, transferred the scone from the napkin to the plate, and doled out two aspirins.

  ‘You’re very kind.’

  ‘Think nothing of it. You’d do the same I’m sure.’

  ‘I would.’

  When she had taken the aspirins and a drink of water, Mrs Blondell said, ‘I’ve thought of summat.’

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘She stopped writing to him. I thought that meant he’d stopped writing to her. I’d seen him burn her letters. One last letter came from her. He was always first to pick up the post, and very secretive about it. That last letter went next door by mistake. My neighbour brought it round. And I thought, I’m not giving it him. He can whistle for it.’

  Mrs Sugden held her breath. ‘What did you do with it?’

  ‘Kept it. Out of instinct.’

  ‘How do you mean?’

  ‘I knew Derek burned her letters. I thought if ever her husband comes braying on this door to punch my grandson, I’d throw the letter in his face and tell him. His own wife was no better than she ought to be. And she’s the one who’s old enough to know better.’

  ‘And what did you do with it?’

  ‘I put it somewhere, somewhere safe.’

  Mrs Sugden had that sinking feeling. She was very good herself at putting something in a safe place. That ‘something’ might then evade her for a year, or fall into life’s deep shadow and never be seen again.

  ‘Did the police find it?’

  ‘I don’t think so. I sewed it into a lining.’

  ‘That’s a funny hiding place.’

  ‘Not if you had a husband who was a drinker, ready to drink
you out of house and home. Just disguise any coins in a bit of soft wrapping and sew them in.’ She stood and went upstairs.

  After a long time, she came down. ‘My cloak has gone. They must have felt the lining, but I did it so careful. They must have taken it.’

  ‘Well if they did, they will know that Mrs Murchison wrote to Derek, encouraging him. Don’t distress yourself.’

  ‘I’ve let him down. My poor son’s boy, and I’ve let him down.’

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  A Tender Shining

  Rita was still sleeping when I woke on Monday morning. It was a glorious day. The sun shone brightly through the library windows. Harriet had once more slept in her box bed, the worst of the sodden carpet having been removed from that room. I went through to speak to her. The dog padded alongside me.

  ‘Harriet, I’m going to the hospital early, to bring Carine back. It’s probably better if I do this on my own. So will you take Sergeant for a walk?’

  She sat up immediately. ‘He’ll like that. I’ll take him to the stream.’

  ‘Good. Don’t let him pull you. Say “heel!” and have him walk properly.’

  ‘We can’t just call him Sergeant.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Everybody has a name. Sergeant Somebody.’

  ‘Sergeant Bloodhound?’

  Harriet is very good at derisory noises. She made one now. ‘Sergeant Dog?’

  The creature in question wagged his tail.

  ‘He seems happy enough with that.’

  ‘Good.’

  ‘Will you also keep Rita company, and keep her occupied?’

  ‘How am I supposed to do that?’

  ‘You’ll think of something.’

  ‘Has Derek come back?’

  ‘Not yet.’

  ‘This is horrible, Auntie. What if they think he killed Mr Murchison?’

  ‘They wouldn’t think that without evidence. We must be patient, and watchful.’

  ‘Are we investigating, you and me?’

  ‘In a way, yes. We want to make sure the truth comes out.’

  ‘Tobias was a nasty person. What if someone killed him because they just lost their mind for a minute?’