When Mrs. Sugden joined them, Harriet took her to see the scarecrow in its damaged finery.
They both stared at the hole with a burn mark around it. It was Mrs. Sugden who recognised a bullet hole. “This scarecrow was shot through the tummy.”
Mrs. Sugden examined the jacket and shirt more closely. “Harriet, have you got that little camera with you?”
“Yes.”
“Take pictures of this scarecrow. Get a picture of that Jermyn Street tailor’s label, get a picture of that bullet hole.”
While Harriet took pictures, Mrs. Sugden allowed Sergeant Dog to lead her to the back door of the house. Sniffing and whining, he proudly drew her attention to a doormat.
Normally, Mrs. Sugden would report back to Mrs. Shackleton. But Mrs. Shackleton was otherwise engaged.
She knew that photographs or no photographs, all Missus Waste-Not-Want-Not would have to do was deny all knowledge of the scarecrow and its outfit. Better tackle the woman now.
“Harriet, walk up and down the street with Sergeant Dog. I’m going in to talk to that neighbour. You can let people see you.”
“You’ve already talked to her.”
“So I have, and while she’s in talkative mood I’m going to take her statement.”
Mrs. Sugden had never taken an official statement before, but there was always a first time.
The neighbour’s name was Valerie Pennington. She admitted taking some items of men’s clothing from the fire. God intended her to or He wouldn’t have sent a downpour to douse the flames. She slipped the shirt and jacket onto the scarecrow so as not to be seen making off with them. The shirt might make something. The jacket would go towards a quality rag rug.
When all that business blew up about a murder and stories of a body on a train, she thought she best leave it alone. She’d done nothing wrong. A woman had to live. Mrs. Sugden sympathised. It was hard when you were on your own, trying to make ends meet, paying your rent.
Mrs. Waste-Not-Want-Not Valerie Pennington admitted that it helped being granted a grace and favour cottage, but a woman had to eat, and buy coal.
They parted on good terms. Mrs. Sugden agreed that if she took the shop, she would be happy to sell Miss Pennington’s pies and cakes. She did not mention a good quality Jermyn Street jacket that was intended to have a second life as a rag rug.
Even as she spoke to Miss Pennington, there was another voice in Mrs. Sugden’s head. This voice told her that the shopkeeper might not have been murdered for her paltry takings. She might have been murdered because she knew something.
Did she and Harriet now know that very same thing?
A man in expensive clothes had been shot.
Chapter Forty-One
Mrs. Dell’s house would not have been out of place on the Rhine, or in a child’s picture book. The storeys on either end were topped with turrets that came to a point like witches’ hats. The imposing front door might have led to a Parisian courtyard.
I admired the design as I helped Mrs. Dell from the car, which I had parked close to the front door.
“We planned it ourselves, my late husband and I. He was an engineer but had a fancy to be an architect. You will come in?”
We entered a baroque hall, large enough to stage a concert. A broad staircase with barley sugar rails led to a gallery. Mrs. Dell’s walking stick tap-tapped as I followed her along the hall and through a door. “I live entirely downstairs now.” A corridor led to a comfortable sitting room. Beyond the bay windows were three tall poplar trees. A low fire burned in the grate.
“Do sit down, Mrs. Shackleton. I suppose we ought to take off our coats but I feel the cold these days.”
I had not meant to come in, but it would have been churlish to refuse.
She rang a bell. Sykes’s note was burning a hole in my pocket. I pictured him waiting in the White Swan, ordering another pint, looking at his watch. Would the stranger, Mr. Aspinall’s son, be with him?
Mrs. Dell wanted to talk. “If the rains had not turned tropical, I should have visited my daughter-in-law’s grave. We thought a lot of each other, Phyllis and I. She was more of a daughter to me than Eliot has ever been a son.”
“Then I’m sorry for your loss. Perhaps you will visit the grave another day.”
“That may not be possible. Thank you for your condolences. You see, she ought to have been alive.”
“Gertrude told me of the circumstances.”
“You mean that she repeated Eliot’s story?”
The maid came at that moment. She wheeled a trolley with tea things, sandwiches and plates. A stout, motherly sort of woman, she made sure that Mrs. Dell’s cushions were in place and her spectacles handy. She spoke to her mistress in a friendly familiar way. “I didn’t know if you’d go back to the Brockmans for the funeral breakfast.”
“I can’t be doing with it, Maggie. And I didn’t want to delay.”
Neither did I want to delay, but here I was. Sykes would know that parting company after a funeral would not be easy.
“Well everything’s ready,” Maggie said as she poured tea. “And he shouldn’t be long.”
“Are we waiting for Eliot?” I asked.
“Oh no,” Maggie said. “He’ll be at the Brockmans’ until late. Good timing, eh, madam?”
When she had gone, Mrs. Dell said, “Maggie is more than a servant. She is my rock and my friend. I have Maggie as Benjamin Brockman has Raynor.”
I wondered whether there was a deeper meaning attached to this remark, but simply agreed that Raynor did indeed seem loyal. I did not say that he had kept me in his sights in such a way that led me to believe he knew why I had come.
“I like you, Mrs. Shackleton. The son of one of our tenants told me about your interest in photography, as well as your other exploits.”
Something told me that it was the other exploits that aroused her curiosity. Perhaps now I would hear why she had chosen me as the person to bring her home.
“When my daughter-in-law died, I was in my bedroom.” She indicated an adjoining door. “Maggie’s room is also in this wing. Phyllis was too far away for us to hear. There was no need for her to die. I cannot say that Eliot murdered her, but I can say that he let her die, and die alone. That is one of the reasons I shall be leaving.”
“Where are you going?”
“My younger son is coming to collect me and Maggie. Our bags are packed. I thought he might be here by now.”
That seemed such a drastic measure that for a moment I did not know what to say. “Does Eliot know?”
“I may have mentioned it, but I don’t believe he took me seriously.”
“And have you confronted him, about your reason?”
“Oh yes. But he has no fears of me. Quite the reverse. And you see, I might be next.”
“Surely not?”
“He wishes to move to a grander place. He will shed anything and anyone that holds him back: Phyllis, the orphanage and the children, this house, me. I cannot prevent his inheritance, but I mean to live a little longer.”
“This is so shocking. Have you told anyone?”
“My younger son. Even he believes I am imagining things, but all the same he is coming for me.”
I was about to speak again, but she interrupted. “Whatever breach there is between Eliot and me, how could I say more than that he has always had great plans? I would be seen as a dozy old woman, best confined to quarters.”
We had both forgotten the dainty sandwiches. She picked one up and began to eat. I did the same. It had been a long time since breakfast. It saved me from thinking how on earth to respond. I did not need to. She continued.
“I noticed on Saturday that Gertrude was pretending to be in a matchmaking frame of mind, for you and Eliot. Be careful. She is rather playful. His heart is occupied.”
I knew immediately what she was hinting, but felt sure she was wrong on that count at least. Had there been a rift between Benjie and Gertrude, I should have noticed.
Magg
ie came in without knocking. “Mr. Alfred is here madam. He has taken our suitcases.” She helped Mrs. Dell to her feet.
Something came to mind, a question. If I did not ask now there may not be another opportunity. “Maggie, I’ll walk Mrs. Dell to the door. I need just another moment.”
Maggie looked at Mrs. Dell who nodded assent.
“Mrs. Dell, you said your daughter-in-law’s death was one of the reasons you must leave. What was the other?”
She hesitated. “I’m sorry to cut short our chat, Mrs. Shackleton. Do stay and have more sandwiches.”
“Please, Mrs. Dell.”
She hesitated, and then spoke as if to herself. “The night Mrs. Farrar was murdered, Eliot came back here with Gertrude Brockman, in her car. It was quite late. I didn’t want to see them, and went into the library to find a particular book. They came into the library, not knowing I was there. In the one room where you might expect silence, the acoustics are very good. My husband explained it, but I don’t remember how it works. They were talking about Mrs. Farrar, and how stubborn she was, and that she had left them no choice. And then Eliot told Gertrude that there was blood on the cuff of her coat.”
“Did they know you were there?”
“Yes, because I dropped a book, but they know I am hard of hearing. I am not as deaf as they think.” She had begun to tremble, almost as if she was back on that night, in the library. “When I dropped the book, I came out, saying that I didn’t know they were there, and would Eliot pick up my book because I go dizzy if I bend. I could see that they were in this odd state, excited and a little afraid. And I knew, even before Mrs. Farrar’s death was announced.”
“Thank you for telling me.”
“I won’t say this to anyone else. Don’t let it be known.”
I took her arm. “Come on, Maggie is waiting.”
As we walked back to the hall, I hardly knew what to say. “I trust you will have a good journey, and wish you well.”
“Thank you.”
I walked with them to the front door. Maggie was carrying a bag, so Mrs. Dell continued to rely on me. In the hall she turned and looked about her, as if taking in the house for the last time.
There were so many other questions I wanted to ask. I gave Maggie my card. “Please let me know how you get on.”
She nodded. “Don’t tell Mr. Eliot we are gone. He’ll find out soon enough.”
“All anyone need know is that I brought Mrs. Dell to her front door.”
Naturally, I was introduced to Alfred, the amiable younger son, but he was in a hurry to be off. He helped his mother into the back seat and smothered her with rugs. Maggie climbed in the other side.
Mrs. Dell beckoned to me. I leaned in to listen, because she spoke so quietly. “Gertrude went to stay with an aunt in Surrey last year, for several months. After she came back, she spoke of a sudden desire to adopt a baby boy.”
As Alfred went round to the driver’s side, she mouthed, “Be careful,” and “Go home.”
The car set off.
She raised her hand in a royal wave.
Chapter Forty-Two
In answer to Sykes’s question, the young Frenchman had to shout above the noise of the car engine.
“My mother sent me to the funeral of Mrs. Farrar. Now I go back to her.”
“How did she know about Mrs. Farrar?”
“From her enquiries with the Embassy. We came to search for my father.”
Sykes wished he hadn’t asked. He did not want this conversation, and especially not in the noisy motor.
Charles did not mind shouting. “The vicar, he says nothing. He is sympathetic in a way I do not like. He says talk to you.”
Sykes tugged at his left ear, to indicate he was having difficulty hearing. He needed time to think. The bad news would have come better from the vicar, but the vicar didn’t know the circumstances surrounding the death. The Reverend Mr. Branscombe might at least have hinted, Sykes thought. But perhaps he had hinted and Charles did not take it in, and the bad news failed to penetrate through a barrier of misunderstanding.
“We’ll talk when we get there,” Sykes shouted.
Sykes took him to the White Swan and bought him a pint.
Charles showed his return rail ticket. He intended to go back to London. His mother expected him.
“How long will you stay in London?”
Sykes glanced at the window, wishing Mrs. Shackleton would tear herself away from her posh friends. She would know what to say.
He took a drink of bitter, wiped the froth from his lips with the back of his hand. He wondered whether he had chosen wrongly. Had he asked Mrs. Shackleton to meet him at police headquarters, they would have been able to get word to Commander Woodhead straight away, and tell him the man’s identity.
Being in police headquarters would have allowed young Charles Aspinall to know that something was seriously wrong. He was looking at Sykes, waiting, waiting for an answer. He looked at his watch. “I must go for my train. I must know about my father.”
“Where are you staying in London?”
“The Savoy.”
“We will get word to you.”
“What word?”
“Please tell your mother to prepare herself for bad news. I am sorry.”
“My father is dead?”
“I believe so.”
“That is all you can say?”
“That is all I can say for now.” Sykes, usually so glued to facts, so prepared to swear by them, felt this bizarre welling of hope—hope that they were wrong. Nothing was confirmed yet. Nothing would be confirmed until the next of kin had identified the body. Identifying a portrait taken from a dead man did not seem sufficient.
Sykes walked the young man to the railway station and saw him onto the next train.
It rankled with him that a top man at Scotland Yard had given those below him instructions that tied their hands behind their backs, put them in blinkers and wasted precious time by being secretive.
He went back to the White Swan, ordered another pint and a whisky chaser.
An estate agent’s car stopped by the kerb on the opposite side of the road. The driver stayed put. Someone being dropped off at the railway station. The front passenger door opened. He saw a familiar hat above the top of the car door. The wearer moved towards the rear of the car. The rear door opened.
With a full view, he saw that the wearer of the hat was Mrs. Sugden. She was joined by Harriet and the dog. Knowing the dog had a soft spot for him and might dash across the road, dragging Harriet with him, Sykes stayed inside the pub.
What were they doing here? Then he remembered. Mrs. Sugden had been assigned to look at the Corner Shop where Mrs. Farrar was murdered, and talk to the neighbours.
The car drove off.
Mrs. Sugden, Harriet and the dog crossed the road.
Sykes put his drink on the counter, in view of the landlord, and went to the door.
Sergeant Dog gave a yelp of delight at the sight of him.
They stepped up to the pub doorway. “I’m here to meet Mrs. Shackleton,” Sykes said. “What are you doing here?”
Mrs. Sugden opened her mouth to answer, but Harriet got there first. “We left a note in the bee bole, to say we’d go to my gran’s, here in the yard.”
Sykes glanced at the yard, White Swan Yard. That explained why Mrs. Shackleton had taken someone a jug of stout, or did it? If his thoughts hadn’t been so focused on the unknown man turning into Harry Aspinall of Rothwell Manor, and his son turning up at the funeral, looking for answers, Sykes might have put two and two together. As it was, he just stared.
“I don’t suppose you’ve met my gran,” Harriet said. “Come and say hello, Mr. Sykes. She likes company.”
Harriet went ahead down the yard, knocked on a door on the right and let herself in.
Sykes turned to Mrs. Sugden. “What’s going on now?”
“All sorts of things are coming together. Like when you bake a cake and you think you
have all the ingredients and you look for sugar. You go to the tin. Open the tin, and tin’t in’t tin, and then you find you’d put sugar in a jar.”
Sykes never had this kind of conversation when he was on the force. “So Harriet’s grandmother –”
“You knew Mrs. Shackleton was adopted by Mr. and Mrs. Hood, and that she was born in this here yard.”
“No.”
“Well you know now.”
“I do.”
“You and I need to bring each other up to date on the case, Jim. And it doesn’t suit me to sit in the window of a public house.”
“We can go in the snug at the back, unless you’d like to go to Harriet’s grandmother’s house.”
Mrs. Sugden shook her head. “Best not. She lives on her own and likes to talk. The snug will do nicely.”
They walked back to the pub.
“Will you have a port and lemon?”
“That will be acceptable.”
“Don’t force yourself.”
Over Jim Sykes’s pint of bitter and Mrs. Sugden’s port and lemon, they exchanged information. Mr. Sykes knew the identity of the mysterious man, and his son. Mrs. Sugden claimed to know the name of Mr. Aspinall’s tailor, and that his clothes now dressed a scarecrow in the garden of Mrs. Farrar’s shop.
She was being fanciful, he thought, until she told him about the bullet hole, and Sergeant Dog smelling blood.
“We need to get moving on this.” Sykes looked at his watch. “Where’s she got to?”
Mrs. Sugden saw that he had begun to worry. “You can’t always get away easily after a funeral. She’ll be here if she said she would.”
Sykes knew she was right. Even polite Mrs. Shackleton ought to know there were more important things than offering condolences over slices of pork pie.
There was no point in worrying. “So this scarecrow, do you have any inkling of who dressed it? The rational action would have been to destroy the clothing.”
“Not only do I know who dressed it, but I took her statement. When I made her understand the severity of the situation, she preferred to talk to me than explain to the police.”
The Body on the Train Page 20