“That is why I must interview Mr. O’Donnell myself. We should never plan our next move based on what went wrong before.”
In the face of such impeccable logic, Sykes recognised defeat.
* * *
The obliging taxi driver opened the car door, helped me out and waited outside the Burkes’ house. Fortunately Mrs. Burke knew her husband’s rounds inside out. He had come home at dinnertime. She had given Bonnie, the horse, her drink of water, oats and a carrot. Now himself was delivering to the big houses on Princes Avenue and Princes Road, all round there. I climbed back into the taxi, idly wondering what himself had for his dinner, or whether Bonnie was the one who really mattered.
For discretion’s sake, I asked the taxi driver to stop at the top of Princes Avenue and wait for me there. I walked down Princes Road, to where I had seen the horse and cart. I sat down on a low garden wall, to wait.
The wiry coal merchant came out of a house on my left. He was about to pick up another bag when I interrupted him.
“Mr. Burke!”
He paused, looking not displeased to take a break. “Aye that’s me.”
“Mrs. Burke told me I’d find you here. I’m a friend of Josh Whitwell who took Mr. O’Donnell’s photograph.” I held the envelope with the picture I had copied and mounted—Giant Jack next to Mrs. Whitwell. “When I told Josh I would be in Liverpool today, he asked if I would bring it for him.”
He sniffed and spat out coal dust. “Well he’s famous across Liverpool. He’s had proposals of marriage and offers of work, but I got in first.”
“So if it’s all right with you, I’ll have a word with him. Not to propose.” As I stood, my cloak fell open. “The proposal can wait until my arm mends.”
He laughed. “Chat away, queenie. Do Kev good to have a break.”
Kevin had come from the house next door. Mr. Burke spoke to him, and pointed to me.
He approached cautiously, taking off his cap, twisting it in his big hands, black with coal dust. He was too big to sit comfortably on a low wall, but did so, stretching his legs.
“You’ve been in the wars, missus.”
Not wanting to waste time, I said, “Eliot Dell did this when he threw me down his cellar steps and left me for dead.”
He knew the name, but made out he didn’t. “Eliot Dell?”
“You applied to him for work after you’d finished the demolition job on the children’s home. I’m wondering if you wish you hadn’t.”
“What’s that to you?”
“I’ve brought the photograph Josh Whitwell took of you.”
He looked at the envelope but made no move to take it. Perhaps he thought this was not a photograph, but blood money, or a blackmail note.
Holding the envelope in my left hand, I withdrew the picture and showed it to him. “It’s a fine likeness.”
A look of relief came over the red face that was smudged with coal dust but he said nothing.
He stared. “Someone stole my soul after this was taken.”
I looked from the picture to him, and saw what he meant, but contradicted him. “I would say your soul is intact.”
“What do you want, missus?”
“Not to cause you trouble. How did it come about that you helped Eliot Dell?”
“I didn’t help him, not with—It wasn’t like that.”
“Then tell me. Trust me. I’m guessing you weren’t there when the murder happened.”
Had he been there, Valerie Pennington would have seen him. He was too big to miss.
“What’s behind your asking?”
“Just to know what happened.”
“Who will you be after telling?”
“Talk to me and I’ll do what I can for you. Talk to the police and there’ll be no end to this.”
He sighed. “My pay went flying. Bets, sweepstake, the boozer called out for my wage packet. That kind of job sends a feller doolally. Watching a grand house fall, when there’s souls sleeping in alleyways. We all knew kiddies had been turned out. My foot flattened the face of a little rag doll. My sister was after a dolly like it. Whatever demon got to me, it emptied my pockets.”
“So you went looking for work.”
“Honest work.”
“You were unlucky.”
“Foolish.” He picked up the envelope with the photograph, and put it down again. “The mammy will love this, if I see her again, this side of the grave.”
Now he was overdoing it. “The work you took on?”
“The boss at the farm on Dell’s land got me lifting the last of the rhubarb. I was set to go on the tramp after that. Mr. Dell said he had something to go onto a train, bound for the London markets. Only it was hush-hush because killing wild boar breaks the law.”
“There are no wild boars.”
“That’s what he told me, a wild boar. Here’s something for your trouble, he said. He gave me two gold coins. Said wild boar fetched a good price in London. I felt sick when it hit me that I was carrying a man. I put Dell’s blood money in the sack, put the poor fellow on the train, praying for his eternal rest, and I set off on the tramp. God guided me to Liverpool.”
I understood why he would make a run for it. An Irish labourer who had drunk and gambled his wages would make the perfect dupe.
“Did Eliot Dell drive the van?”
“No. He sat in the back with me. It was dark. He didn’t want me to know too soon what or who was in that sack.”
“Did you see who was driving?”
“Probably some poor sod as hard up as me.” He looked towards the cart, where the coal merchant had set off along the street.
“Where did the van set off from?”
“By a barn on the farm where I’d done the work.”
So Eliot Dell and whoever was with him had managed to get Harry Aspinall into the back of a car. He must have parked behind the shop, out of sight.
“Would you tell your story to the police?”
“You know where I’d end up. I’m not a violent man. Here they call me Giant Jack. At home I was the gentle giant.”
“Take your likeness, Kevin. Good luck to you. Live well.”
He put the photograph in his pocket. “What’s your name?”
“Kate.”
* * *
The taxi driver was relieved to see me. He was standing by his car, looking about. “I thought you’d done a runner.”
“That’s not likely.”
“Why not? You’ve one arm but two legs.”
“Let’s make one more stop, before you take me back to the station. I want to go to the French Consulate.”
I would send a secure message to Bernard Campaner. He should have the full story, but with nothing to incriminate Kevin O’Donnell.
The driver had opened his window. As he drove along a broad street towards the docks, I could smell the River Mersey. Second thoughts floated in on the breeze.
I am so guided by my own official secrets act that when we arrived at the consulate, I changed my mind. “We’ll go straight to the station.”
If Campaner did not have enough information by now, he never would.
* * *
Sykes was standing under the station clock, waiting for me. We had five minutes before the train left.
“Where is everyone?”
He grinned. “On the platform.”
“That’s a relief.”
We walked towards the barrier.
“You should’ve seen the joy on the bairns’ faces when the Arkwrights appeared. They looked half-starved. We’d to find them something to eat.”
Sykes showed our tickets and we hurried to the platform. “What about O’Donnell, how did you get on?”
“He’s blameless.”
“But did he do it?”
Chapter Fifty-Nine
When our party of adults and children arrived at Thorpefield Hall in two taxis, the staff assembled by the front door to meet us. Benjie Brockman had donned his old military uniform. He saluted as M
r. and Mrs. Arkwright led four boys into the house. Milly followed with two girls. A couple of young ones had fallen asleep in the taxi. Raynor carried one, and Sykes the other.
“Where will you put them all?” I asked Raynor.
“Two rooms are spruced up. They’ll be in there together, and there’s the old nursery.”
Milly holding the two little girls by the hand, said, “I feel happy and sad at the same time. Happy for the children, but no one is saying anything about Stephen.”
“Don’t give up.”
“I never will. And the housekeeper says I can look after children.”
I congratulated Benjie on giving the orphans a home. “Only for now, you know. There have been misunderstandings. Gertrude will be making arrangements.”
He was a little out of date. We had just rescued the children from Gertrude’s arrangements. I wondered if Benjie fully understood what was going on, or whether his mind played tricks in order to protect him.
“And we’ve had offers of help from the village. People are very good. Valerie—Miss Pennington—brought rugs for their rooms. The chap who looks after the pit ponies brought a box of toys that he found.”
Now that he had done ceremonial duty by welcoming his visitors, Benjie was anxious to return to his study. He asked me to come with him. His stamp collection was on the desk.
“If the children are good, I may let them see my collection.”
“And what about your coins, Benjie? Did you find the two that you missed?”
“I never did you know, but they’ll turn up I’m sure. Gertrude seemed to think that Alec stole them, but she’s wrong. He’s gone, you know, gone to be a proper mechanic as he calls it.”
“The man he works with is a friend of mine, Philip Goodchild. They’ll get on very well. And I’m sure Alec will come and visit you.”
“Do you think so?”
“Yes.”
I would see to it that he did, just as Benjie had suggested Alec visit Valerie Pennington. “Benjie, what were those coins, the missing ones?”
“George III guineas, dubbed the spade guinea because of the shape of the shield.”
“Two the same?”
“Yes. I was going to do a swap. Fellow collector I correspond with, he wanted one in exchange for a military guinea.”
“Well perhaps yours will turn up, or perhaps Gertrude might have another thought about where they are?”
He gave me an odd, slightly quizzical look. “I wondered that too. Funny you should have the same thought.”
“Where is she today?”
“She and Eliot are doing a grand job, raising investments. She telephoned just before you arrived. They are arranging a meeting with important investors in London.” He closed the lid on his stamp collection. “She thought you might invest, you know.”
“I’m advised by a very cautious bank manager, Benjie, and I follow his judgement. But to be honest, I forgot to mention it to him.”
He laughed. “You always were a bit of a card, you know. If you change your mind, just say. Fully subscribed or not, there’ll always be a slot for Gertie’s oldest friend.”
That was kind of him, even though untrue on both counts.
I had heard someone come in, and thought Sykes had grown tired of waiting. Raynor appeared at the door. For once he looked slightly flustered, which at first I put down to his having the sudden additional duty of shepherding a couple of four-year-olds.
“Sir, there’s Chief Inspector Emsley here to see you. I told him you have someone with you and when he heard who, he says perhaps you will both be interested in what he has to say.”
Since Mr. Emsley had, if reluctantly, accepted Gertrude and Eliot’s version of events at the Dell house, I felt a sudden animosity towards him. Whatever he wanted to say now would not bode well.
“Show him in,” Benjie said. “While you’re about it, see if Mrs. Shackleton’s chap would like to come in. I’ve spotted him walking past the window. I’m sure our grounds aren’t so very fascinating.”
Raynor had already thought of this. “Mr. Sykes has declined. He is enjoying the fresh air.”
Benjie often surprised me. He had never met Sykes, but made the connection. Just as I had Benjie marked as a man with his head in the clouds of his collections, he would be suddenly astute. I wished I could remember whether he had always been like that, or whether he was feeling his age.
Moments later, Chief Inspector Emsley entered. He took the chair offered by Benjie, while giving the impression that he would have preferred to stand.
“It’s good news and it’s bad news, sir. The good news for him and his friends is that we will be releasing Stephen Walmsley.”
I blinked. I listened, waiting for him to say it again, just to be sure.
“There has been a lot of interest in his case, from various quarters, leading to the conclusion that a trial may not be in the public interest. The charges against him have been withdrawn, after new information has come to light.”
What I most wanted to know was what new information, and where it came from, and was this really justice for Stephen, or might some dark cloud cast a shadow across his future?
“What new information?” Benjie asked. “And is the lad innocent?”
Being a man who preferred as few words as possible, Emsley answered only part of the question. “In my view, only babies are innocent, sir, but new evidence casts doubt on the advisability of prosecuting Stephen Walmsley.”
This man would get on very well with Sykes. “How soon will he be released?” I asked.
“He has been released. He was met at the prison gates by representatives of the Miners’ Union.” He sighed.
I guessed there had been some fanfare, perhaps including the Temperance Band.
Benjie picked up a pencil. He tapped his blotter. “I suppose he’ll want his job back.”
“That I couldn’t say, sir.”
The relief swept through me with such power that it was unnerving. Until that moment, I hadn’t realised how much I dreaded Stephen going to trial and being unable to hold his own against a hostile prosecution barrister. It took a moment for me to catch my breath.
“Inspector, you said you have good and bad news.”
“At present we have no other viable suspects for the murder of Helen Farrar and Harry Aspinall.”
So the local CID had finally admitted that the crimes were linked, and the two murders were committed by the same perpetrator or perpetrators. That was a start.
Chapter Sixty
After Stephen Walmsley’s release, silence prevailed. If Wakefield CID was still investigating the murder of Mrs. Farrar and Mr. Aspinall, they were not telling me. Scotland Yard had signed me off with a thank you and a cheque. That would satisfy a mercenary. It did not suit me.
My case was in the hall, and the taxi booked.
Mrs. Sugden voiced her objections. “This is madness. You can’t go to London with your arm in a sling.”
She had a good point, but I had a better one. “It’s that or start climbing up the curtains.”
“Take someone with you then.”
“Are you offering?”
“I am not. You won’t catch me going to London, not unless I’m summoned by the King.”
That lifted a weight from my shoulders.
“At least let me cancel The Savoy. Stay with your aunt or stay with your cousin.”
“The Savoy is very good at arranging help for residents with an arm in a sling.”
She looked so crestfallen that I had to tell her. “I’m meeting a friend there. She and I have a lot to talk about.”
Annette Kerner was more an acquaintance than a friend. If anyone could tell me what was happening at Scotland Yard, it would be she.
I checked my watch. Before catching my train, there would be time to visit Mr. Cohen, the solicitor who had so superbly submitted a defence for Stephen Walmsley.
Since being without a car I have got to know a friendly taxi driver, Stanl
ey Wilson. He was happy to wait on Park Square, while I called on Mr. Cohen.
* * *
Small and squat with a slightly squashed face, Mr. Cohen has a warm smile and an amiable manner. I thanked him for his work on behalf of Stephen Walmsley.
“That’s our job done then, eh?”
“Yes, as far as the wrongful charge is concerned. What I would like to know is why everything has gone so quiet. I know it will take time to re-investigate and to build a case, but do you have any idea how long, and when there may be other arrests?”
“I’m no more privy to these matters than you are, Mrs. Shackleton. All I can assume is that the evidence isn’t strong enough to bring a case. What you told me about the items in the eaves of the house, that can be explained. The shoes may have been left behind by a guest. Mrs. Brockman’s ownership of a pistol does not make her a murderer, even if the type of bullet matched one found on the shop premises. Pistols are made in vast quantities, more’s the pity. The occupant of a grace and favour cottage—readier to say what she did not see than what she did see—would make a poor witness. Is there anything new that you can tell the police?”
There was nothing new. I clutched at the straw offered by Bernard Campaner of a private prosecution.
Mr. Cohen should have had the grace not to laugh, but his lips formed a pillar box shape and a puh-puh-puh sound came from them as his shoulders moved up and down.
“I am not an expert in French law, but I do know that what they call citation directe wouldn’t be brought in the case of a felony in France, only for a misdemeanour or a petty offence. And they would have more sense than to try such tricks here.”
“What would be needed to take a private prosecution?”
“A dossier would have to go to the Public Prosecutor. There would need to be new and compelling evidence. The chief police officer of every district is bound to give information to the director with respect to indictable offences alleged to have been committed in his district. Your French friends may not even gain entry to the British labyrinth. If they did, a modern-day Charles Dickens could make a novel of it.”
His words hit me like a blow. My arm began to itch intolerably. The bruise on my face throbbed so hard that I wondered if my cheekbone was cracked. Had Campaner known this all along, and simply dangled the prospect of a private prosecution so that I would share information with him? If so, I had been totally naïve.
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