Over egg and chips, tea and bread and butter, I told Sykes about Kevin O’Donnell.
“He was part of the demolition gang. He stayed in the area looking for work after they’d finished the job on the orphanage. The demolition company is in Pontefract. See if they know where he is.” I handed Sykes the man’s photograph. “This was given to me by Josh at the rhubarb farm. Oh and check hotels in Leeds and Wakefield. Did someone book a room and not arrive, or sign in and then not come back?”
“I’ve already checked the hotels. No results.” He dipped a chip in his egg yolk. “The information I gave you about the bank accounts, I’ve no reason to doubt it but I didn’t go through formal channels.”
Of course he didn’t, but Scotland Yard would have access to those formal channels. They could also check the telephone exchanges for overseas calls to Thorpefield. Somebody knew what time to expect Harry Aspinall.
What troubled me most was that CID would authorise a search warrant for Thorpefield Manor. Gertrude and Benjie had put themselves beyond the pale. What concerned me was the sudden fear that the incriminating items in the eaves might turn out to bear the fingerprints of Stephen Walmsley.
“The chips are good,” Sykes said.
“They are.”
“Then what’s up? There’s something else.”
There was, but even from Sykes I held back what Mrs. Dell had told me.
Chapter Forty-Eight
When Mrs. Sugden knew that Mrs. Shackleton was safe, and that Sykes was there too, she thought it time to take her charges home. They were in the waiting area at police headquarters, a nervous lad called Alec, and Philip Goodchild—who explained that he had returned a laundry van, but insisted that he must see them home on the train.
Mrs. Sugden had taken a liking to Philip. He was both a man and a boy, a funny combination but it suited him, as did his tufty hair.
“Are you sure you want to come back with us, Philip? You’ve a home to go to.”
He did not mind being asked again, and he repeated word for word what he had said before. “My mother talked to Kate’s mother. They agreed I should come back with you on the train and that I should see you home. I will stay the night.”
“Well then,” Mrs. Sugden said, “that sorts that out.” She wondered where she would put him, and the other young fellow. She didn’t know what to make of that one, Alec. He was twitchy, looking over his shoulder as if expecting one of the bobbies to arrest him. But he’d come to Mrs. Shackleton’s aid, and that was good enough for her. “We’ll collect Harriet and the dog, and then we’ll all catch the train to Leeds. It’s been a long day.”
“My mother said you will all be tired and upset and I must look after you. I said I would.”
Mrs. Sugden said, “That is very kind, Philip.”
* * *
Rosie Sykes was glad to be relieved of telephone duties at Batswing Cottage. She saw that Mrs. Sugden was not up to her usual energetic doings and so made a supper of what was to hand, as well as pots of cocoa with insufficient milk, but nobody minded.
Leaving Harriet, Philip and Alec in the kitchen, Rosie drew Mrs. Sugden into the front room. “Last week, I baked more scones than anyone could eat.”
“Oh aye?”
“Yesterday, I was dusting the picture rail.”
Mrs. Sugden could not quite see where this was leading. She waited.
“And so I’m going back into tailoring. I have a start at Montague Burton’s.”
“That’s a long way.”
“Two trams.”
“That’ll be a surprise for Jim.”
“It will. I’m not one who’s able to sit still all day, any more than you are, so I won’t be sitting in waiting for a telephone to ring. Just so you know. I want a bit of company. I want some brass in a wage packet, like I used to. I’ll tell Jim in my own way in my own time.”
Mrs. Sugden felt honoured by the confidence.
The telephone rang.
“I’ll do it this one last time,” Rosie said.
Mrs. Sugden waited.
Rosie came back. “Mr. Hood, to say that Mrs. Shackleton won’t be home tonight. Nothing to worry about, but she says would you take care of Harriet and the guests.”
Mrs. Sugden thought for a minute. “I’m not putting those fellows in Mrs. Shackleton’s bed. Harriet can have that. They can have Harriet’s room. I’ll tell them.”
“Do you want me to do anything?”
“You get yourself home, Rosie, and thank you for answering the telephone today.”
“Oh I didn’t. I sat here the day long and it didn’t ring.”
* * *
Later, Mrs. Sugden felt a stab of alarm. She knew that Philip was a trusted friend and neighbour of Mrs. Shackleton’s parents, but there was no telling about the other one. He was too good-looking and too nervy for her liking.
She went up to check.
Harriet was sound asleep.
She could hear them talking, Mr. Tufty Hair and Mr. Bonnie Boy. They were talking about motor car engines.
Chapter Forty-Nine
Cousin James was waiting on the platform, hat pulled down, scarf wound around his throat and mouth. He strode towards me, a startled expression on his face. Who else had he expected? Then I realised that it was my appearance that shocked him.
He grabbed both my hands in his. “You’re freezing. You’re shivering. What on earth is it that couldn’t wait until tomorrow?”
“Murder most foul, and it’s already tomorrow.”
“Let’s get you home.”
He looked about for a porter. “Where’s your luggage?”
I had Sykes’s motoring blanket over my arm, a flask in my hand and the satchel on my shoulder. “This is it.”
He took the flask and blanket. We began walking towards the exit.
“There’s a warm bed waiting for you.”
“We have to talk.”
“You need a good night’s sleep.”
“I dozed on the train.”
“Don’t believe you. You look whacked.”
“I need to have certain things clear before I see Commander Woodhead tomorrow, and don’t worry, I won’t say it came from you.”
“He’ll know.”
“But he won’t have been told. That’s how it works, isn’t it?”
* * *
Dad or Mother must have spoken to James’s wife. Prudence had set out night clothes, toiletries and a choice of dresses for morning. We don’t have the same size feet so I would be wearing my funeral shoes tomorrow. That seemed appropriate.
Perhaps what I told James was true, and that I had napped on the train, because by the time I was in bed, sitting up with a cup of cocoa, I felt alert again.
James sat in the chair beside the bed, still in his suit, one leg crossing the other. “There’s nothing I can tell you.”
“You mean there’s nothing you can tell me unless I ask the right questions and swear secrecy.”
“You get me up in the middle of the night, drag me out into the cold and now –”
“What piece of information led you to believe that a Bolshevik with Russian gold was coming to Yorkshire?”
One has to phrase questions carefully with James. If I had asked what piece of information led Commander Woodhead to believe such a story, he would quite rightly have said that he did not know. He was not privy to Mr. Woodhead’s thinking. I also needed to curb my annoyance, or I would have asked what the Bolshevik was expected to do with this gold. Buy up the rhubarb supply? Steal agricultural secrets so as to set up sheds for forced rhubarb on the Siberian plains? That all seemed more likely than the ability to start another national strike and begin the revolution.
James scratched his cheek. “We received a letter, containing reliable information from a trusted contact in Riga.”
“We?”
“Not I, at least not initially. It landed on the desk of an SIS officer.”
“It’s the wrong time of day for me to fathom your
sets of initials.”
“Secret Intelligence Service.”
“So you saw a copy? And did Scotland Yard?”
“Yes.”
“Because it’s SIS’s task to keep Britain safe from the Bolshevik threat?”
He brightened at my understanding. “Of course.”
“And so lots of people would have been sent a copy, just tell me who.”
“You know I can’t do that.”
“Then nod your head if I hit the right ones: MI5, the War Office, the Admiralty, Scotland Yard Have I missed anyone?”
“Yes.”
“MI5.”
“You said that.”
“How detailed was it? Did you have dates, time of arrival, a name?”
“We didn’t have a name. Naturally the person in question would have an alias and false papers. There was no specific date, just a broad timescale.”
“So this could have been a low-level informant trying to earn his keep by inventing a fanciful tale that SIS would swallow. He was testing gullibility and laughing at his own cleverness.”
“Any suggestion of a threat has to be taken seriously.”
“Or, perhaps the person from Riga was correct and at this moment a Bolshevik stalks the realm, distributing money to malcontents. Because the man on the train was not a spy. Harry Aspinall was a British subject from a good family who just happens to have made his life in France. He was here at the behest of his old nanny. You can’t get more British than that. He was here to right a wrong, and hoping that while here he might see the Ryder Cup and toast the winners with a glass of champagne.”
“If you are right, that would be unfortunate and embarrassing.”
“And we hate embarrassment.”
“Kate, there is no way of knowing whether this upright golf-loving Briton had been turned. Traitors do not go about announcing the fact. If he stayed abroad for years, he didn’t love his country that much.”
“Choosing to live abroad isn’t a sign of treachery.”
“You’re tired, and emotional.”
“And you are stubborn and your establishment-issue blinkers are too big.”
“You’ve changed.”
“Haven’t we all?”
“I suppose so, though one expects less change in—well, in some people.”
“Women?”
“Possibly. Sensible women at least.”
“A young man might hang for a murder he didn’t commit. Helen Farrar and Harry Aspinall were murdered because those who stood to benefit from appropriating trust funds feared exposure.”
“I’m sure you’ll tell Commander Woodhead all this.”
“He, all of you, created a bogeyman. I was sent chasing shadows. Will you make it clear that Harry Aspinall was no traitor?”
“I can’t promise.”
“Yes you can. And while you’re thinking about it, would you please bring me a typewriter, paper and carbons. I have a report to write.”
“It’s the middle of the night.”
“Then I’ll type quietly. Help me push that little table nearer the fire.”
Chapter Fifty
In my borrowed clothes, I entered the portals of New Scotland Yard.
DC Yeats met me in the lobby. Our first-name telephone conversations had been cordial to the point of chumminess. This morning I was back to Mrs. Shackleton.
“Did you have a good journey, Mrs. Shackleton?”
“What do you think!”
“Like that was it?”
“I’d recommend that journey only to someone I heartily dislike.”
“I can’t imagine you heartily disliking anyone.”
It was a light-hearted remark, and yet it struck a chord. In spite of everything, I was finding it hard to see Gertrude differently. If Mrs. Dell was right, she was a killer. If not, she must have had at least an inkling of what Benjie, Raynor and Eliot had done. She was responsible for tossing orphans to the winds. Yet I felt a well of pity for her. To do such deeds, she must have felt desperate beyond my imagining, or have always had a streak of evil. In my mind’s eye, she was still twelve years old, riding her pony, with such a look of mischief, and laughter.
We stepped into the lift with a uniformed sergeant and three plainclothes men, and made our silent way up the building.
Mr. Woodhead stood to greet me in his usual courteous fashion, and yet with an edginess in his manner. He was moving too much, rubbing his thumbs along his fingers, leaning forward, and then sitting back. Something had happened.
“Thank you so much for coming all this way, almost on an impulse I think?”
“Not an impulse, Commander.” I put my report on his desk. “This isn’t complete. Mr. Sykes is tying up loose ends but I believe you will have corroborated Harry Aspinall’s identity?”
“Yes.” He glanced at my report. “And I have had information telegraphed to me from Wakefield CID.” He could barely hide his annoyance. “You have been very busy, Mrs. Shackleton. Caused quite a stir.”
That was my mistake. He wanted me to report to him so that he could choose who and what to tell. Now that Wakefield CID had more details, the investigation might take a different turn.
The three of us resumed the places we had taken a few days earlier, the commander behind his desk, I facing him, DC Yeats a little off to the side, near the filing cabinet, leaning forward, all alert anticipation. He cleared his throat. “Sir?”
“Yes?”
“More information came through just a few minutes ago There is a record of closure of the Bluebell Children’s Home Trust account and a transfer of monies into the Brock-Dell Mining account.”
“Was it legal?” Woodhead asked.
“Yes, sir.”
Woodhead slid on his spectacles and looked at my report. “You believe Mr. Aspinall met his end at the Corner Shop?”
“I have no doubt of that.” Perhaps I should have had doubts. Sergeant Dog is such an eager hound that had he smelled jam roly-poly on the doormat he would be as wildly enthusiastic as Mrs. Sugden had described.
With some reluctance, Yeats spoke again, this time without clearing his throat. “Sir, in the message that’s on your desk from Wakefield, you’ll see CID are conducting an intensive search of the Corner Shop this morning. It will be sealed, a little belatedly perhaps, and also –”
Mr. Woodhead turned scarlet. “Who authorised this?”
“I don’t believe authorisation is necessary, sir, in the case of a crime scene, and –” He hesitated.
“And what?”
“The inspector has applied for search warrants, just a formality I suppose, for the properties of Mr. Brockman and Mr. Dell.”
Mr. Woodhead brought down his fist on his desk, and the pain registered ever so slightly in a tightening of his lips. “I will not have it. Brockman and Dell have been written up in The Times. They are sinking the deepest pit in Great Britain, perhaps the deepest mine in Europe. They will be saviours of the nation.” He glared at me. “Mr. Brockman may be the next Lord Lieutenant of your county, madam. Then where will you be?”
Had it been written on his forehead in coal dust, it could not have been more certain. Mr. Woodhead was an investor in the Bluebell Mine. What good company I had avoided by my reluctance to participate in that golden opportunity.
Mr. Woodhead rose. He pushed back his chair. “I’ll be back shortly. Talk among yourselves if you wish, but not about the case.”
He left the room. I listened to the receding thud of his heavy footsteps.
Martin Yeats spoke first. “One of the things I have learned is how easy it is to build a plausible case.”
“You think I’m wrong to have my suspicions?”
“I don’t have an opinion.”
Clearly, Mr. Woodhead did have an opinion, and a strong one. My misgivings flooded back. In certain quarters, it would be convenient for Stephen Walmsley to have one more charge laid against him. “I haven’t yet built a case. We’re still gathering information.”
&nb
sp; He raised his eyebrows. “And none of it about a revolutionary and Russian gold?”
“Sadly, no. Cloak upon decorative cloak of secrecy is not required on this occasion, except perhaps to save embarrassment.”
He gave a surprising chuckle.
“What?”
“Where I come from, embarrassment was when you made a terrible idiot of yourself at the Saturday night dance.”
“Martin, I’ll be sorry to meet you again in a few years’ time, and to find that you are as solidly discreet as everyone else.”
“But, Kate, what I don’t understand is why there were gold coins in the sack.”
“Neither do I, yet. Don’t forget there were also two Arran Victory potatoes.”
The footsteps along the corridor silenced us.
Mr. Woodhead entered with a false smile plastered on his face. He went to his desk, sat down and placed a brown envelope on his blotter.
“Mrs. Shackleton, on behalf of the investigation division, thank you for establishing Mr. Aspinall’s identity. Here is a payment towards expenses, and a note of where to send your final account.”
Having banged my head against a brick wall until I soaked the bricks in blood, I was disinclined to leave a job half done. One advantage of not being an employee was that although my contract may be terminated, I could not be sacked from doing the job.
I stood, ignoring his brown envelope. “An interim payment is not necessary, Mr. Woodhead. I will, as on previous occasions, send in my account on completion of the investigation.” I picked up my satchel.
While he was considering how to reply, I wished him good day. If he was about to attempt any prohibition on what I would do next, he would have to put it in writing.
It was left to DC Yeats to escort me downstairs, but probably only to be sure that I left the building.
Yeats did not speak until we were at the door. He gave a sympathetic smile. “I hope you don’t believe I’ve overstepped the mark, but you did say that you would lunch with Mrs. Kerner another time?”
That London lady detective had been far from my thoughts but a convivial lunch seemed just the ticket.
“Yes.”
“I’ve taken the liberty of booking a table at The Savoy.”
The Body on the Train Page 23