“Was this your idea, Mr. Yeats?”
His reply was ambiguous. “I could hardly do such a thing without the commander’s approval, unless it was a personal matter between you and Mrs. Kerner, what with you having so much in common.” He smiled. “And I’m still Martin.”
He walked me to the gate, and waved at a taxi. “Is there anything else I can do?”
Certain matters involving red tape can be very difficult for a civilian to unravel. There was something Yeats might do that would save an awful lot of time. “Eight orphans from the Bluebell Home were transferred to Stoneville, York Street, Wakefield. They have been certificated for emigration to Canada, sailing from Liverpool. Please find out how the certifications can be revoked and they can stay under the care of friends.”
“It’s not the kind of thing I’ve ever dealt with, but I’ll see what I can do.”
Chapter Fifty-One
Annette Kerner has the bosom of an opera singer, which she once was, and moves with the grace of a dancer. Combs adorned her crimped hair. Her dress shimmered.
I joined her at a small table near the bar. She ordered cocktails.
“I know you’ve been involved with a tricky case, Kate. I thought you might be in need of moral support and a little cheer.”
I smiled. “That’s very sporting of you.” We raised our glasses.
“The truth is, I have an undisclosed interest in your case, and now I must come clean.”
“What?” I expected her to say that Commander Woodhead had offered her the job first, but it was not that.
“A good friend of mine, Bernard Campaner, attached to the French Embassy, is here, with someone who’d like to meet you, before you and I have lunch.”
I felt a sense of dread, remembering the day of Helen Farrar’s funeral, and the young man at the graveside. “Harry Aspinall’s son?”
“Yes. You don’t have to. Now I feel I’ve brought you here under false pretences.”
I stared at the glazed cherry in my cocktail. “I’m not sure what I could say to him.”
“And to her. Harry Aspinall’s widow is also here.”
It was one of those moments when my mind went completely blank. Suddenly I felt the strain of the last few days, and my sleepless night on the train and at cousin James’s. How could I say I didn’t feel up to this?
“We have a private room, Kate. They will be going back soon, taking Mr. Aspinall’s body to France.”
It was the kind of situation where there was only one possible answer. “Yes of course I’ll meet them.”
She glanced across the room. “Oh look! What good timing, there’s Bernard now.” She waved to an elegantly dressed man who approached us from the other end of the bar.”
On cue, I thought.
“Kate, may I introduce Bernard Campaner. Bernard, Mrs. Kate Shackleton.”
“Enchanté!” He kissed my hand, causing me slight unease. He was about thirty-five, not handsome but with an attractive vitality about him.
It was up to me to make the next move. “How do you do, Monsieur Campaner. Do draw up a chair.”
“I am grateful that you have agreed to meet me, Mrs. Shackleton.”
“Yes, though I am not sure –”
He shook his head and shrugged. “Who of us is sure, especially at such a time? I commiserate with you for undertaking a distressing case.”
“I’m sorry that it has turned out so tragically.”
He waved away my apology. “No one could have imagined such an end. I believe that Mr. Aspinall’s fate was sealed when he left the country. Certain people knew that he was arriving.”
“His former nanny was expecting him, Mrs. Farrar.”
Bernard crossed himself. “May she rest in peace. He was devoted to her.”
“But devoted from such a distance.” It was not tactful of me to say this, but I could not help thinking that had Mr. Aspinall come back sooner, and been an active trustee, things might have turned out differently.
He nodded an acknowledgement. “It will be a comfort for his widow and son to speak to you.”
“How shall I address them? Are they known by the same name, Aspinall?”
“Mrs. Aspinall and Charles.”
“Are they waiting for us now?”
“In a private room.”
I stood. “Then let us go.”
He stubbed out his cigarette and pushed back his chair, giving a bow to Annette. “You will pardon us for leaving you.”
“Don’t worry about me. I have friends at the bar.” She took out a cigarette, and he lit it with a small gold lighter.
Monsieur Campaner and I climbed the broad staircase to the first floor. As we reached the landing, he paused. “The family have it in mind, if there is no satisfaction from the police investigation, to take out a private prosecution against the perpetrators of the crime against Harry Aspinall. And so if there is anything you can tell us –”
“I have signed the Official Secrets Act.”
“Yes, yes. I understand. I believe there was suspicion regarding foreign agitation in the Yorkshire coalfields, hotbeds of radicalism.”
I would have liked to put him right, and tell him that cold beds of poverty would be nearer the mark, but I waited for him to continue.
“Surely the Official Secrets Act would not apply in the case of cold-blooded murder?”
“Monsieur Campaner, you said earlier that certain people knew that Mr. Aspinall would be arriving?”
He nodded. “A letter from Mrs. Farrar to Mr. Aspinall suggested that the cat remain firmly in the bag regarding his visit. Mr. Aspinall should have listened to his old nanny. He telephoned Mr. Dell to say that he was coming. Shortly after, he telephoned the Brockman household.”
“How do you know?”
“The Bordeaux telephone exchange noted the telephone calls. The length of the first call was four minutes and forty-five seconds and the second was three and a half minutes.”
“Would you be willing to let Scotland Yard have this information?”
“It is done, madam. And we have also forwarded the information to the local CID.”
“Thank you. Then, let us meet Mr. Aspinall’s family.”
* * *
We left the restaurant and walked to a private room on the first floor.
The young man I had seen at the graveside in Rothwell stood by the window. His mother was seated in a leather armchair, so big that it threatened to swallow her. Monsieur Campaner introduced us. The family resemblance between mother and son was clear. They had the same high cheek bones, sleek dark hair and blue-grey eyes.
I can’t now remember what I said, because feelings rather overcame me. It was not my place to cry. Perhaps because of my accident, my tiredness and the journey, I could not stop my tears. They cried, and so did I.
Chapter Fifty-Two
Three of us sat around the kitchen table. Mrs. Sugden had ringed a short but chilling item in the local paper.
MURDER TRIAL EASTER ASSIZES
The trial of Stephen Walmsley for the murder of Helen Farrar will take place at Leeds Crown Court during the Easter Assizes. Date to be announced.
A calendar hangs on the wall, showing a date of 31st March for Easter Sunday. In just over three weeks, Stephen would stand in the dock. Our best hope would be to put up a magnificent defence.
“Have you heard from Mr. Cohen?”
Mrs. Sugden shook her head. “Not yet. I delivered the statements to his office.” She pushed a folder towards me. “Here are copies. It was a funny business, to be asking questions of a whole street.”
“Anything helpful?”
“Mr. and Mrs. Arkwright and Joan vouched for him being with them until minutes before he raised the alarm. Some neighbours had nothing to say, or didn’t want to be caught up in it. There’s neighbours that give times for him passing by, one listening to a wireless, one looking at the clock, wondering where her husband had got to.”
“Nothing unusual?”
&nbs
p; Mrs. Sugden pushed in a stray hairpin. “Our friend at the end house was interesting, Mrs. Waste-Not-Want-Not.”
“Valerie Pennington,” Sykes added.
“Aye. She made a point of saying that she didn’t see Mr. Brockman. Well why would you say who you didn’t see?”
That was a good question. “She has a grace and favour cottage, probably granted by him, but that’s not a good enough reason.”
Sykes wanted to know why she had a rent-free house in the first place. A movement outside, by the back fence, caught my attention. “Who’s that?”
Mrs. Sugden followed my glance. “I didn’t know what to do with him. It’s young Alec Taylor. He came home with us on the train, worried about facing the butler’s wrath for taking part in getting you back to Wakefield. He’s frightened of taking the blame for tinkering with the car. I’m sure he didn’t do it, but he has a good idea who did.”
Alec need not have worried. Benjie Brockman would continue to care about him, buying his comics, ensuring he learned a trade. Alec may well be the reason that Valerie Pennington had the end cottage. Someone gave birth to him. If Miss Pennington had watched her son being placed in an orphanage, she deserved more than a rent-free cottage.
“He’ll be safe to go back. No one will harm him. But that still doesn’t explain that odd remark of Miss Pennington’s.”
Sykes was itching to chip in, and then he did. “My guess is that she ‘didn’t see Mr. Brockman’ because she did see him, and is protecting him.” He interlaced his fingers. “Or, she really didn’t see him but she saw someone else from the house. I think one of us should have another go at Miss Pennington.”
So that was a yes, a no, or a maybe. But Sykes was right that we should talk to her again. Whether she would be forthcoming with me or Sykes was another matter. She could well decide not to say another word.
We sat in silence for a few minutes, each of us thinking how best to make use of the information from neighbours on Silver Street, and how such information would play out in a courtroom.
“Are you thinking what I’m thinking, Mr. Sykes?”
“About the Wakefield CID chief inspector?”
“Yes. The neighbours need to know that justice for Stephen Walmsley would be best achieved if they give formal statements to CID. Questioning at the time was minimal, given that Stephen had blood on his hands.”
Mrs. Sugden picked up the baton. “Now that they’ve spoken once, they’ll be willing to let their tongues wag again, I’ll be bound.”
I gave Sykes the nod. Sad to say, sometimes a man to man chat works well. He could make the trip to Wakefield.
It was time to break the news that Commander Woodhead had thanked us for our services, and said goodbye.
Mrs. Sugden’s mouth turned down at the corners. “The cheek of him, and after all your hard work and jumping on trains.”
“There has been another development.” I told them about meeting Bernard Campaner of the French Embassy, and Mr. Aspinall’s widow and son.
Sykes frowned. “Working with the French won’t do us any good with Scotland Yard.”
“Pointing a tentative finger at a deputy to the Lord Lieutenant of the County did not go down well either. The encouraging part is that the French will be as happy as we are to keep cooperation quiet. They can pull strings behind the scenes in a way that we can’t.”
I passed him a note of the telephone calls from Harry Aspinall to the Dell house and to Thorpefield Manor, supplied by the Bordeaux exchange. “They knew he was coming. Mrs. Aspinall didn’t know. I got the feeling from our conversation that there was friction about his continued links with Yorkshire, with Rothwell Manor standing unoccupied, and his obligations here only ever costing him money.”
This mollified Sykes a little. “Commander Woodhead didn’t want an investigation. He wanted a whitewash job and a dupe in case things went wrong. You’ll be justified in the end.”
I appreciated his vote of confidence.
He took out his notebook, though he clearly didn’t need to. Everything was in his head. “I checked the main hotels in Leeds and Wakefield, none of them had a booking in the name of Aspinall. No one had a booking in any name for a person who didn’t arrive. I spoke to taxi drivers. No one remembered him. Station Left Luggage—nothing uncollected.”
It was as if Mr. Aspinall had vanished. Perhaps we would never know how he made his way to the place where he met his death.
Sykes had not finished.
“I visited the demolition firm in Pontefract. Kevin O’Donnell, nickname Giant Jack, was knocking on their door as they opened on Saturday morning, 2nd of March, morning after the murders. Did they have any work for him, he wanted to know, and he wanted to go somewhere else—be away from this area. He was philosophical when they couldn’t give him work. Said he’d go to Liverpool and take his chance there. The foreman got the impression that if there was nothing for him, he’d board a ferry back to Ireland and see his family.”
“So we could have lost him? Do they have an address in Ireland?”
“No address in Ireland.” Sykes wore his I’ve-got-the-sixpence-from-the-Christmas-pudding look. “Better than that. I asked myself, where would a demolition worker go if he wanted employment in Liverpool? I looked up the trade directories, and I looked up the newspapers. There he was in the Liverpool Echo, an article about him.”
“What’s he done?” Mrs. Sugden asked.
“Surprise, surprise, he was hero of the hour. “Giant Jack stops Coal Merchant’s runaway horse.” He was treated in the local pub, and what’s more the coal merchant gave him a job. And before you ask, I have the coal merchant’s name and address.”
There was a sudden burst of energy in the room. We all felt it. Sergeant Dog, who had been lying with his head on all of our feet, pushed his way out and began to wag his tail.
“Mr. Sykes, that is a breakthrough. We’ve no way of knowing that Kevin O’Donnell was involved but –”
Sykes was not to be discouraged. “It was them, Brockman and his butler Raynor, or Dell, or all of them. Which of them could carry a body? Not Brockman or Dell. They can push a pen. They can lift a knife and fork.”
“Benjie Brockman boxed for his school. And I know they both played rugby.”
“But would they get their hands dirty?”
For a few seconds, I was no longer here with Sykes and Mrs. Sugden. I was in Mrs. Dell’s drawing room. She was telling me about the conversation in the library, between Eliot Dell and Gertrude. Her voice came back to me. 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.
She was hard of hearing. Such an account was not reliable. If I told Sykes and Mrs. Sugden, Sykes would want this made known. I thought of frail and fearful Mrs. Dell, taking me into her confidence.
Sykes was waiting for me to answer his question as to whether I thought Brockman and Dell would get their hands dirty. It distressed me to think he might be right.
“Probably not.”
The most plausible explanation was that Benjie, Dell or Raynor had recruited out-of-work Kevin O’Donnell, who had then immediately left the area. “So it’s a trip to Liverpool, Mr. Sykes.”
“I can set off now.”
“Hang on. I might be coming too.”
Mrs. Sugden decided to be mother hen. “Mrs. Shackleton, think on! You’ve hardly slept. You’re not over that shocking accident yet. And why would you want to go to Liverpool?”
“I intend to stop those orphans being sent to Canada. They’re in a holding centre in Liverpool.” Martin Yeats had been thorough in his researches.
Sykes’s eyes widened. “Why stop them? They’re going to a great new country, open spaces, fresh air, a new start.”
“The youngest is four, the oldest is nine. Canada can wait.”
Chapter Fifty-Three
Nothing happens without completion of the correct forms, and in this
case the forms must be completed in triplicate. I needed signatures from Benjie, Gertrude and Eliot Dell, trustees of the Bluebell Home. They had authorised the emigration of eight children, and they must rescind the authorisation. I was not sorry that Sykes had insisted on coming along. Since my car was out of action, we travelled in Sykes’s motor. I had advised Alec Taylor to come, too, and at least let Benjie know that he was safe and well. Whatever else Benjie had done, or failed to do, he was fond of Alec.
Alec climbed out of the dickey seat to open the gates to Thorpefield Manor. “My legs have gone into cramp.”
“Mine too, but from the cold!”
The first gate creaked open. I turned to Sykes, who was driving. “It’s not just Alec’s legs that bother him. He feels uneasy about being back here.”
The police report on my accident concluded that the loosening of the steering linkage could have been done deliberately, or may have happened gradually and escaped notice. Like me, Alec believed the damage was deliberate, an opinion reinforced since he knew that Philip maintained my car. He had confided that Eliot had shown an interest in the car and spent some time taking a look at it. I thought that it was more likely to have been Raynor.
Alec opened the second gate. “I’ll walk to the house.” He sauntered ahead, hands in pockets.
Sykes waved an acknowledgement, and drove on, passing the main door. “I won’t come in.”
“That’s all right. This shouldn’t take long.”
Like Alec, I felt slightly awkward. But now it was up to Scotland Yard and Wakefield CID to make the next move, if they chose to act on the information we had supplied.
By the time Raynor opened the door, Alec had caught up.
“The prodigal returns,” Raynor said, giving him a stern look.
“Hello, Raynor. Alec needs to speak to Mr. Brockman. And is Mrs. Brockman at home?”
“She is not, I’m afraid.”
Was this a “not at home to you”, or a genuine not at home?
He answered the unspoken question. “She is visiting old Mrs. Dell.”
In a way it was endearing that Mrs. Dell had become “old Mrs. Dell”, almost in tribute to the younger Mrs. Dell who was no more. I said nothing about seeing Mrs. Dell driven away by her younger son. Perhaps she returned as quickly as she went.
The Body on the Train Page 24