A Medal For Murder: A Kate Shackleton Mystery

by Frances Brody

  The captain continued by telling me something I already knew. ‘Lucy came of age this month. My job ought to be done now. She should be married.’

  Where was this leading, I wondered. I hoped he would not ask my advice.

  ‘Did I say this conversation is in confidence, Mrs Shackleton?’

  I hate it when people repeat themselves, and insisting on confidentiality is an insult. ‘You did, and it was not necessary.’

  ‘Sorry. Take a look at this.’

  He stood up. From the mantelpiece, he took a white envelope which he handed to me. It was postmarked Harrogate, with yesterday’s date stamp. Name and address were written in block capitals.

  CAPTAIN R. O. WOLFENDALE VC

  29 ST CLEMENT’S ROAD

  HARROGATE

  I was impressed. ‘Victoria Cross? You are one of the gallant few, Captain.’

  He waved his hand dismissively. ‘I want you to read the note.’

  I slid out the sheet of paper carefully, holding it by the corner.

  In letters cut from a magazine, the message read:

  ONE THOUSAND POUNDS TO HAVE LUCY

  BACK ALIVE

  AWAIT INSTRUCTIONS

  CALL POLICE SHE WILL DIE

  My first reaction was that this looked like a schoolgirl prank. It seemed too preposterous to be real. But then, so did finding the lifeless body of a theatregoer in a shop doorway. There could be no connection. Lucy had been in a huddle with her young friends. No one could have snatched her, could they?

  ‘When did you receive this note?’ The chair was soft and deep. Holding the note, taking in the situation, forced me to try and sit up straight.

  ‘It came with the first post, at seven thirty.’ He sat down again, looking across at me. Only the drumming of his fingers on the chair arm betrayed a hint of agitation. ‘What do you make of it, Mrs Shackleton?’

  ‘I have no idea what to make of it, Captain Wolfendale.’

  He nodded sagely. ‘I ask for two reasons. First, because you were the person who brought me the news that Lucy would stay with Alison last night.’ The pause that followed hung in the air like an accusation.

  ‘And the second reason?’

  ‘Because you are a private detective.’

  ‘You say I brought you “the news” that Lucy would stay with Alison. Lucy said she wanted me to remind you that she would do so.’

  ‘Reminder!’ He shook his head. ‘I’m not senile yet. If Lucy had said she was staying with a friend, I would have remembered. When you gave me the message, I expected she would be back this morning, saying “I could have telephoned to you if we’d had a telephone installed.” She accuses me of refusing to hobble into the twentieth century. Been after me to get a telephone for months, as though a telephone is one of life’s necessities.’

  ‘I can only repeat what she said. I don’t know what to make of this note. Do you?’

  He shook his head.

  ‘Captain Wolfendale, there’s a simple way of checking whether this note, this demand, should be taken seriously. Find out if Lucy is with Alison.’

  He pushed himself to his feet. ‘And what if she is not there? What then? By the very fact of asking, I would be announcing to Mrs Hart, and Alison, that Lucy did not come home last night. Something like that could shred her reputation. She’s sought after you know, will make a good match. But this . . . What’s the meaning of it? Has some blighter taken hold of her? Is it to torment me?’

  ‘I’m sorry but I don’t know what else to suggest. I brought you the message, but that’s all. I hardly know Lucy, or Alison. Kidnap seems most unlikely.’

  But so did murder seem unlikely.

  He picked up a framed photograph from the table beside him. It was the one I had taken of Lucy, as a publicity picture for the play. ‘Look at her,’ he said. ‘She’s a beauty. Her mother was a beauty, but Lucy . . . She really does shine in this photograph. What did you do to make her so . . . translucent?’

  When people ask about photographic technique, they rarely want to know the technical details. ‘I took the photograph on the day she was wearing her halo,’ I said.

  He smiled.

  ‘How long have you been Lucy’s guardian, Captain?’

  ‘Since her parents died.’

  ‘Has she ever gone missing before?’

  ‘No,’ he said emphatically. ‘Most certainly not.’

  ‘You’ve asked my advice. A little background would help.’

  He placed the photograph back on the table and sat down. ‘Her parents died before she was two years old. She doesn’t remember them. Her mother died of influenza, her father in a motor accident in the African veld. A nursemaid brought her to Britain. I was already a widower, so coming to Harrogate when my aunt died and left me this property worked out well. It gave Lucy stability. Miss Fell, my tenant on the floor above, was very helpful. She’s a spinster but had brought up younger brothers and sisters.’

  ‘The nursemaid did not stay?’

  ‘Not for very long.’

  The envelope and letter remained in my lap. ‘Do you take this threat seriously?’

  He jumped to his feet as though unable to contain himself. ‘How else am I to take it?’ He began to pace. ‘I can’t come up with a thousand pounds. It’s absurd.’

  ‘Then put your mind at rest. Walk round to Alison’s house, say you were passing. Congratulate Alison on her role. You did see the play?’

  And here was my chance for a rapier thrust, because I still wondered why he had been so cagey when I mentioned Mr Milner last night. It would have been natural to say he had been here that afternoon, when I had seen them playing a board game. ‘Were you at the performance last night?’

  Had he murdered Mr Milner, outraged by the man’s pestering of his granddaughter?

  ‘I did not leave the house yesterday,’ he said firmly. He placed a hand on the mantelpiece as though for support. ‘Saw the play on Wednesday.’ Unable to keep still, he made his way to the window, with renewed vigour, as if expecting to see Lucy and Alison in the street. ‘You’re right, Mrs Shackleton. This is some prank. Some girlish prank. She’s with Alison after all. They’re going to come in and start joshing me and saying, Now will you have a telephone installed.’

  ‘Captain, let’s be clear. I didn’t say I thought this a prank. You can only be sure by going to see Alison Hart.’

  The captain stood at the window, his back to me, for another long moment. When he turned to face me, he closed his eyes, putting his hand across his forehead, as though blinded by a sudden pain. ‘Even if it is a prank, how could she do this to me?’

  I was beginning to feel impatient. This was where I should say, Are you consulting me in a professional capacity? In that case, sorry but I am otherwise engaged.

  He sighed. ‘Mrs Hart is a widow. If I call and the girls are out, well, she’s the kind of lady likely to misconstrue my visit.’ He looked at his military memorabilia on the sideboard, as if for inspiration. ‘I could deal with the renegade Indian or Egyptian. I could deal with the Boer. I don’t know what to do about my own granddaughter. Women, the fair sex have not been . . . I’m at a loss in that direction.’

  Without attracting his attention, I carefully placed the ransom note and envelope in my satchel. It was possible the paper would need to be checked for fingerprints, but I did not want to alarm him by saying so. He suddenly appeared vulnerable, a frail old man. ‘What were the circumstances which led to your being awarded the Victoria Cross, Captain?’

  He looked at me quickly. For a few seconds, I thought he would avoid answering.

  He waved his arm. ‘We attempted to relieve Kimberley. Ambushed by the Boer. I managed to break through the Boer’s encirclement, while wounded, and under fire. That was all, and so long ago. I was a different person then. And the truth is, when you reach a certain rank, there are all sorts of things you just don’t have to deal with. I had a wonderful batman, never properly appreciated him. He was with me that day. He should h
ave got that medal.’

  I stood up and slung the satchel across my shoulder. ‘Where does Alison Hart live?’

  I arrived at Alison Hart’s house, justifying my dereliction of the pawnbroker’s mission by telling myself I would ask whether Mrs Hart knew a Mrs deVries. The garden gate swung open on well-oiled hinges. Paved with green tiles, and not a weed daring to peep through, the garden path took a straight no-nonsense line through a neat garden, the air heavy with the scent of roses. To the left of the path, roses were red. They had been dead-headed so only the brightest and best blooms and buds displayed themselves. To the right of the path, all roses were white.

  The green-painted door was decorated with leaded light panels. Elongated tulips in red and mauve entwined and reached longingly for the lintel. I rang the brass bell, and then crossed my fingers. Thick lace curtains defeated my attempt to peer through the bay window.

  Mrs Hart answered the door herself. A statuesque woman with a seriously stout neck and definite jaw line, she invited me in as soon as I introduced myself and waved Arnold Bennett’s Anna of the Five Towns. ‘Alison lent me her copy after the cast photography session. I said I’d return it.’

  ‘Alison’s not here, but do please come in.’

  With a busy, bustling walk that made me feel I was joining a procession, she led me along a hall decorated with heavily embossed blood-red anaglypta. I followed her into the dining room, keeping my eye on the grey bun at the nape of her neck.

  A fully extended table took up the centre of the room. It was covered in a heavy-duty cloth and strewn with a cornucopia of sale of work goods. Four chairs were tucked under the table. Four more chairs had been placed either side of the sideboard.

  There will come a day when English dining rooms are not full of dead things. But not yet. On the sideboard, a stuffed peacock, its glorious tail fully fanned, glared from beneath a gleaming glass dome, as though demanding an apology.

  ‘So it’s the play that brought you,’ Mrs Hart sighed. ‘Everything comes back to that play.’

  Mrs Hart caught me glancing at the peacock. ‘Bert died of natural causes,’ she explained. ‘His heart gave out after an unfortunate encounter with Skippy.’ She pulled out a chair for me to sit down, and then rang the bell by the fireplace. ‘You will have tea?’

  ‘Not if I’m disturbing you. You seem very busy.’

  ‘I like to be disturbed.’ She took the seat opposite me and ordered tea from a flustered maid who appeared in the doorway. ‘Alison usually helps me, Lucy too. But I’m on my own today. If you wouldn’t mind making cones of the paper squares there, that would be a great help. This is how you do it.’

  She picked up a square of greaseproof paper, shaped it into a cone and twisted the end. I copied the action, as she began to fill the first cone with pink and white marshmallows. ‘This is the first time they haven’t been here to help. First the play, then needing to get over the play.’

  At a closer range, I could examine the contents of the table. As well as the home-made marshmallows, and toffee, there were trays of fairy cakes ready to be transferred to waiting tins, jars of jam, knitted tea cosies, an embroidered table runner and a pious framed sampler extolling the virtues of home and hearth. Clustered together, like upside-down sand pies, were several small bucket-shaped bins. They had been given decoupage treatment, with pictures cut from magazines and old books pasted onto the bins and varnished. One was covered with dogs and puppies, another with cats and kittens, horses and foals, wild flowers and so on. ‘You’re admiring Alison and Lucy’s handiwork,’ Mrs Hart said, pausing in her sweet-filling operation. ‘Of course it pre-dates rehearsals. Nothing else mattered once rehearsals began.’

  ‘The decoupage must have taken great patience, and a long while to gather all the pictures.’

  Mrs Hart smiled fondly. ‘That’s Alison for you. She sets her mind to something and gets on with it.’ She held up a bin that bore pictures of babies and infants. The images covered the entire surface: solemn faces, sleeping, smiling, crying; chubby bodies, toddling, wriggling and lying sinisterly still.

  ‘Now guess,’ Mrs Hart challenged. ‘What was the original use of these small buckets?’

  ‘I can’t imagine.’

  ‘Guess.’

  ‘They were for children to play with at the seaside?’

  ‘Not even close! Guess again.’ She waved a tree and ivy covered bin, turning it this way and that as though to give me a clue. ‘If you were to ask me animal, vegetable or mineral, the clue would be animal.’

  ‘But the tins are metal.’

  ‘Precisely.’

  I wondered whether gathering all this stuff had sent her slightly mad. Perhaps Alison and Lucy had looked respectively at their mother and grandfather and decided to fake a kidnap, raise a thousand pounds and flee the country.

  ‘I give in.’

  At that moment, the maid returned carrying a tray that looked far too big for her. I watched as she placed it precariously on the edge of the full table.

  Mrs Hart made a space, moving several pairs of misshapen slippers that bore a strong resemblance to greasy felt hats. ‘Tell Mrs Shackleton, Annie. She can’t guess the original purpose of our decorative bins.’

  Annie sighed. ‘Offal. They held offal. The butcher saves ’em for us.’ She beat a hasty retreat.

  Mrs Hart called her back. ‘Annie! I know for sure that Alison made several pounds of chocolate bon bons. Do you know where they are?’

  Annie took a deep breath as though to savour her own words. ‘You know Miss Alison and chocolates, madam. Two guesses where they are.’

  Mrs Hart waited until Annie had closed the door. ‘Silly girl. As if Alison would scoff the lot.’ Mrs Hart stirred the tea in the pot. ‘Don’t these decoupage tins make perfect work-of-art waste bins?’

  ‘They do. Most ingenious.’

  It dawned on me. I would be held captive. She would shortly produce knitting needles, wool and a tea-cosy pattern. I would not be released until I knitted twelve tea cosies. The prison authorities could have learned a thing or two from Mrs Hart. Oakum picking? Child’s play!

  Not to be rude, I would take tea, sit for several minutes longer, and discuss the play, and Alison’s role, while thinking of a way to find clues as to where Lucy and Alison might be.

  My intention to enquire after the elusive Mrs deVries evaporated. If she existed, Mrs Hart would undoubtedly know her, and Mrs deVries would not thank me for naming her to such a thorough person.

  We agreed how clever it was of Miss Jamieson to turn the story of Anna of the Five Towns into a living, breathing play.

  ‘They rehearsed in such odd ways sometimes,’ Mrs Hart said, an edge of disapproval creeping in. ‘Miss Jamieson is something of a Bohemian I expect. It had me worried at times, though of course Alison and Lucy are so level-headed, and Rodney Milner is a charming young man. But off the three of them trotted, to be in character they called it. Not just learning the words but pretending to be Henry Mynors, Anna Tellwright and Beatrice Sutton. How extraordinary! Off they’d go on a picnic, taking not what they liked but what they imagined their characters would tuck into.’

  ‘Whatever Miss Jamieson did, it worked. The performances were quite extraordinary.’

  Mrs Hart smiled. ‘My feeling is that Miss Jamieson chose them for their parts very cleverly. For instance, Alison played Beatrice Sutton, who loves chocolates.’

  ‘Is Alison likely to be back soon?’ I asked. ‘I would have liked to congratulate her again on her performance.’

  ‘She’s staying the weekend with Lucy.’

  Ah, so that was the way of it. They were providing each other with an alibi. But why?

  ‘Have they been friends long?’

  ‘They were at Harrogate Ladies’ College together.’ Mrs Hart poured tea. ‘Help yourself to a biscuit.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  ‘Of course, Alison insisted on taking a position on leaving college. She has an important post in the solicitor’s of
fice. Her father would never have allowed it had he lived.’

  ‘Alison and Lucy must have lots of friends from their college days.’

  Mrs Hart returned to filling cones with marshmallows. ‘Times move on, and so many of the girls boarded. They write, but really it’s just Alison and Lucy now.’

  ‘I expect being in amateur dramatics broadens their social circle.’

  Mrs Hart looked down her nose at a slab of toffee. ‘Are you any good at hammering toffee into even pieces?’

  ‘I’ll have a go.’

  ‘Good, because I’m hopeless. What did you ask?’

  ‘They must have made new friends through being in the play. I’d better not hammer the toffee until I’ve finished my tea.’

  ‘Good thinking. And it’s funny you should say that about the play. Daddy would certainly not have approved of theatricals and on that account I was not entirely enthusiastic about the venture, but something good may have come of it.’ She smiled a secret smile.

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘Just between us, I think that play may have cemented a friendship, a friendship that has ripened into courtship, if I dare say so?’

  ‘For Alison or Lucy?’

  ‘Alison. I do think that she and Rodney Milner became close during rehearsals. It was thought that Rodney and Lucy at one time . . . but really, those two were always more like brother and sister.’

  Rodney Milner. He had been part of the little group encircling Lucy: Rodney, Alison and one other young chap. I hoped that wherever Lucy was, she would be safe, and in company. Perhaps there was a party afoot and it had gone on until the early hours. That would be something to keep quiet about among the polite society of parents and guardians.

  I transferred the toffee to the tea tray, set it on the floor, knelt down and began to tap-tap with the confectionery hammer.

  ‘Thank you so much, Mrs Shackleton. It’s unusual for me to be on my own on a bazaar day. I do half expect the girls may surprise me and come along this afternoon after all. They love the church bazaar.’

  ‘I’m sure the bazaar will be great fun,’ I said.