A Medal For Murder: A Kate Shackleton Mystery

by Frances Brody

  I gave a touching account of ‘Mrs deVries’ and her deception in adopting a false name. ‘She entrusted the pawn ticket to a young friend, who then entrusted it to another who intended to pawn a watch chain. It was that person, a young woman, previously of good character, who momentarily succumbed to temptation and snatched your pawned goods, Mr Moony.’

  ‘A woman?’ He began to choke on his oatmeal biscuit. Mrs Moony hurried to tap him between the shoulder blades and urged a sip of tea.

  ‘A woman?’ he repeated.

  Sykes concentrated heartily on the pattern in the rug.

  I continued, trying not to sound either lame or fantastical. ‘She disguised herself by wearing gentlemen’s clothing. And she has now left Harrogate.’

  This was a little disingenuous, but probably true.

  ‘The cold-hearted minx!’ Mrs Moony’s cup trembled in its saucer. ‘My poor dear Philip. Such a shocking ordeal.’

  Mr Moony could not take in the story without a second and a third explanation.

  ‘And now you must decide, Mr Moony, what is to be done. You have your goods returned, and restitution will be made for the amount you loaned against Miss Fell’s diamond ring. I have not revealed the name of the perpetrator.’ Mr Sykes looked at me across his cup. I ignored him, or tried to. ‘This young woman is at your mercy if you wish to press charges.’

  Sykes could contain himself no longer. He picked a crumb from his trouser leg. ‘She committed a felony.’

  Mr Moony looked from me to Sykes and back to me. ‘Would it reach the newspapers if I go to the police about this?’

  ‘It would,’ I said in a definite tone.

  Sykes was about to speak when I sent a severe thought wave in his direction.

  ‘It is an awful lot to take in, my dear,’ Mrs Moony said quietly to her husband. She looked at me. ‘My husband believes it better to think things over. It is Sunday after all. I am sure he will want to take the matter to church with us later, perhaps to evensong.’

  Mr Moony agreed that this was exactly what he had in mind.

  This seemed a good moment for me to make a move and depart. Yet there was a feeling of unfinished business hanging in the air. Something more needed to be said, and I was not sure what.

  Mr Moony tilted his head and looked at Sykes. ‘You were about to say something, Mr Sykes?’

  Sykes looked at me. ‘No. Nothing, sir.’

  Mr Moony gave a noisy expelling of air that you could not call a sigh. ‘I am very grateful for your success, and for your speed.’

  I took the envelope from my bag. ‘Here is a brief written report, and the settled account.’ I set it on the table. ‘Apart from ourselves and the police, the only people who know about the robbery are three of your lady customers and the gentlemen Mr Sykes visited. I am sure they will be discreet, for their own reasons.’

  Mr Moody nodded. ‘I am very grateful for everything that you have done. I shall report to the police and the insurance company that the goods are recovered.’

  For a few moments, the conversation became circular. The desire for prosecution of the perpetrator was weighed against the bad publicity of a trial.

  Making a valiant attempt at changing the subject, I looked through the drawing-room window into the long back garden, crowded with flowers and vegetables. ‘You have an industrious gardener, I think.’

  Mr Moony smiled. ‘I like to be in the garden. Plants makes a refreshing change from jewels. If ever I retire, I shall take on more myself. As it is I have an old chap who gets his hands dirty for me.’

  ‘I’m growing marrows,’ Sykes said, glancing with envy at the serried rows of vegetables. ‘Just taken on an allotment.’

  Mrs Moony said, ‘Show Mr Sykes your marrows, dear.’

  When the men had excused themselves and left the room, Mrs Moony gave me a challenging look. ‘You don’t wish for a prosecution against this . . . this person,’ she said with distaste.

  I felt myself become suddenly warm. Had it been so obvious?

  She went on, ‘Why is that, may I ask?’

  ‘Sometimes I think it is better to draw a line. It has been a terrible experience for Mr Moony and to go to court would be to relive it. From what little I know of him, I believe it would be mortifying if news of this got out.’

  ‘Surely there could be some confidentiality for him, some protection.’

  ‘That is not how the legal system works, Mrs Moony,’ I said with all the conviction that comes from having read Charles Dickens on the matter. ‘Once the law begins to roll along its relentless course, there is no protection of that kind for anyone. There would have to be a trial, a jury, reporters would be present in the court.’

  ‘So it is entirely for my husband’s benefit?’ she said coolly.

  She was far more astute than I had expected. There was nothing for it but to be frank. ‘Mr Sykes disagrees with me, although he is loyal enough not to say so.’

  She nodded, hands folded carefully in her lap, waiting for me to continue.

  ‘The decision will be Mr Moony’s. But if you are asking why I feel as I do, although I hate what this woman has done, and it was an appalling crime, I understand how she came to do it, out of desperation.’

  Somehow I did not think that an account of Meriel Jamieson’s prospective brilliant career in the theatre would hold much sway with Mrs Moony.

  ‘You make it sound as though she is previously of good character. I believe that is the phrase sometimes used in mitigation.’

  Whatever Meriel’s qualities, I did not for a moment entertain the thought that being of good character was one of them.

  ‘She is a most personable and intelligent individual with sharp insights into human nature.’

  ‘Then it seems incomprehensible that she could stoop so low.’

  ‘It does indeed.’ Looking over Mrs Moony’s shoulder, I could see Mr Moony in the garden pointing with pride to what was probably a giant marrow. Sykes glanced through the window at me and Mrs Moony. He knew exactly what I was doing. ‘I believe there are occasions, Mrs Moony, when even a person who has committed a wicked act deserves a second chance.’

  ‘Is she sorry?’

  ‘Oh yes.’

  Meriel Jamieson would be very sorry to end up picking oakum and sewing mailbags.

  ‘I do not believe Mr Moony will want to prosecute,’ Sykes said gloomily as he drove back to Woodhouse, having claimed he needed more motoring practice.

  ‘Oh?’ I said in as neutral a voice as it is possible to utter that syllable.

  Sykes had become very confident at driving along a straight clear road. ‘I left the force because I didn’t fit. When they got something wrong, I said so. I stuck my neck out.’

  ‘Yes I know.’

  ‘You’re the boss, you pay my wages. But know this, Mrs Shackleton . . .’ He veered onto the edge of the pavement as he turned a corner.

  ‘Careful. Mind the lamppost.’

  Sykes returned his attention to the steering wheel and his eyes to the road.

  ‘What did Mr Moony say, while you were inspecting marrows, that makes you think he will not prosecute?’

  ‘Nobody throttled him. He was just too slow. While she snatched his bagged items, he was too open-mouthed to do anything about it.’

  ‘Poor Mr Moony.’

  ‘He is embarrassed by his actions – or lack of action.’

  ‘Thank you for not trying to influence him, when you were in the garden together.’ It struck me how large a part embarrassment had played in this case. Miss Fell’s at her poverty. Mr Moony’s at being robbed.

  Sykes shrugged. ‘All I have to say is, I can have no truck with compounding felonies.’

  I sighed. ‘No. I don’t suppose you can.’

  Sykes’s driving had improved to the point where it surprised him that he had reached his destination without having to think about it.

  He got out. I climbed into the driver’s seat and set off for my appointment with Inspector Charles. />
  Inspector Charles had said he would meet me in the Prince of Wales Hotel where he had set up an investigation room on the first floor.

  From my chosen seat in the lobby, I could see the staircase and the lift. The same police sergeant who had escorted me and Meriel on Friday evening plodded slowly down the stairs, stifling a yawn. A short, sturdy workman, whom I guessed to be one of the Milner & Son motor mechanics, pressed for the lift and seemed to enjoy the disapproval of the lift attendant.

  Coming down the stairs slowly was Inspector Charles. He gave me the briefest of acknowledgements and held up a finger to indicate that he would be one moment. He disappeared into the hotel’s telephone cabinet, closing the door behind him.

  Five minutes later, the inspector reappeared and apologised for keeping me waiting. As we walked up the stairs, I was very conscious of his closeness, the easy stride, an air of concentration. We walked along a corridor, hung with views of old Harrogate in the coaching days.

  A door stood slightly ajar. I glanced in at a room set with two trestle tables and a few chairs. His back to me, a stout plain-clothes man in shirt sleeves spread index cards on the table, like a man playing Solitaire.

  Inspector Charles took a key from his pocket and unlocked the door to another room. This one was smaller, with a desk and two chairs.

  He pulled out a chair for me, and took a seat himself.

  ‘Thank you for your written statement. I did take the Belgian chap, Monsieur Geerts, into custody. But we have now released him.’

  This news made me feel awkward, at having pointed a finger at the wrong man. ‘It was helpful to talk to him all the same,’ the inspector said quickly.

  ‘I was doubtful that he was our man, even before we checked his alibi.’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘Geerts hasn’t a scratch on him. The evening dress clothing that he wore is in pristine condition. I believe he genuinely did not know how Mr Milner was killed, or that the tyres of the car had been slashed.’

  ‘And he has an alibi?’

  ‘Young Dylan Ashton recovered consciousness long enough to confirm Geerts’s story. They left the theatre together. Geerts had been agitated to discover his wife carrying on under his nose. He went into the gentlemen’s cloakroom to compose himself. Young Ashton was there, feeling unwell. Geerts walked Ashton home and went in with him. He had a hip flask and dosed Ashton with whisky. He left Ashton’s rooms just before midnight. On the way home, he said goodnight to a chap who was walking an old sheep dog. We have confirmed that.’

  ‘And Dylan Ashton?’

  ‘With his friends, up to the point of leaving with Geerts.’

  ‘That will be a relief for Madam Geerts. She was most upset yesterday. And I’m glad to hear Dylan Ashton is recovering.’

  ‘We have the reckless driver who knocked him off his bike. Blighter left him by the roadside, panicked and went on his way. Fortunately, the local sergeant had circulated the description of his car, given by a fellow cyclist. A garage owner spotted it, with a damaged wing. The driver was a flighty young fellow who’d been carousing all night.’

  So Dylan’s accident had no connection with Milner’s death, or with Lucy’s disappearance.

  ‘Mrs Shackleton, you know we do from time to time in the force ask for female assistance.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Of course, you would know that, being Superintendent Hood’s daughter.’

  So he had done his homework. ‘I joined the women’s voluntary police myself for a brief time at the beginning of the war, before I deserted for the VAD.’

  ‘Then I’ll come straight to the point. We’re pursuing a wide range of enquiries, talking to the deceased’s business associates, customers, and so on. But I’m naturally interested in the people who saw him last – theatre patrons and performers, and there is one young lady we have not spoken to yet.’

  ‘Lucy Wolfendale.’

  He gave me an appreciative bow of the head. ‘You are two steps ahead. Just as you were at the Geerts’ dancing school yesterday, where I understand you were asking about Lucy Wolfendale, and Alison Hart.’

  ‘Yes.’ I decided against volunteering further information. I waited.

  ‘You found Miss Hart, but not Miss Wolfendale. Why were you looking for her?’

  That is the trouble with policemen. They are entitled to ask awkward questions. I felt some sympathy with Lucy and her vaulting ambitions and was reluctant to get her into trouble. At the same time, I would not lie for her.

  ‘Lucy’s grandfather was worried. He asked me to see whether she really was at Alison’s house, as she had said.’

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘She was not, as you know. Alison had stayed with Madam Geerts.’

  ‘Go on’

  How irritating he could be with his go on, go on. ‘I did not find Lucy.’

  He chewed thoughtfully on his lower lip, realised he was doing it and stopped. ‘Why did the grandfather ask you?’

  I felt myself blush, which was very annoying. ‘Because he knows that I am a private detective.’ A stroke of genius occurred to me. I could hint at Lucy indulging in some forbidden romantic liaison. ‘Captain Wolfendale knew I would be discreet regarding Lucy’s reputation.’

  ‘So . . . you think . . .?’

  There he was, at it again. In my excitement at recovering the jewellery, I had abandoned my threat to go to the police if Lucy was not found by the end of Saturday. Now I regretted it, but I did not want to give chapter and verse about Lucy’s phony ransom demands.

  Mr Charles pressed his hands on the table. ‘Does it not occur to you she could have come to harm, or be responsible for harm?’

  It had not. The idea seemed absurd. Besides, I had been too busy solving my own case. With confidence, I said, ‘I don’t believe she has been murdered, if that is what you are suggesting. Or that she murdered Mr Milner.’

  ‘Then where is she?’

  My annoyance levels rose. It was suddenly time to get off the back foot. ‘Inspector, I was in Harrogate from Friday afternoon to Saturday evening. Captain Wolfendale asked me to look for Lucy, which I spent a few hours doing. He then changed his mind. You asked me here today to help you, and all that has happened so far is that I have been cross-examined myself.’

  He gave me a candid look, tilting his head to one side, as though undecided about something. Then he smiled. ‘I’m sorry. Mrs Shackleton, I asked you here because I hope you may be able to help us, if you are willing.’

  ‘What is it you wish me to do?’ I knew exactly what he wanted me to do, and he knew that.

  ‘Since you began to look for Miss Wolfendale, would you kindly go on doing so, try and find her for me? I believe you may tread more delicately and with greater success than some of my men.’

  ‘Very well. But I will do it in my own way, a way that does not damage her reputation. Harrogate is a small place.’

  His jaw tightened. ‘Reputation?’ he said coldly. ‘A murderer is on the loose, a girl is missing since Friday evening, and you talk of reputation, and worry about gossip.’

  ‘If you are asking me to help you, please trust my judgement.’

  Let him order his sergeants and constables to do things his way, but he would not order me.

  He sighed. ‘Of course. Thank you for agreeing. We have a standard rate of payment for such engagements. I could . . .’

  I interrupted him, not wishing to discuss pounds, shillings and pence. ‘Your standard rate will be acceptable.’

  It suited me very well to continue looking for Lucy, to finish what I had started. The only looming difficulty was my mother’s impending arrival. I kept quiet about that.

  The inspector had a way of filling a pause with expectancy and meaning. There was something else he wanted to say. I waited. He flexed his fingers as though playing the piano. It made me think of a theory of Gerald’s, that the Druids and the poets of old had a memory system for stories that depended on their fingertips.

  He said slo
wly, ‘I am not cross-examining you. Please do not think that . . .’

  ‘But?’

  ‘There is one other matter.’ He was slightly embarrassed and this led him to sound a little brusque, which was oddly endearing. He continued ‘Madam Geerts is naturally very defensive at present, and emotional. She seemed equally upset about Mr Milner’s demise and her own husband’s arrest. It would be useful to know from her, or from other quarters, whether any other lady . . . this is rather delicate.’

  His tactic seemed to be a pretend hesitation, or perhaps it was genuine. ‘Are you asking me to find out from Madam Geerts what other mistresses Mr Milner may have had?’

  Now it should have been his turn to blush. He did not oblige. ‘I suppose I am. There are husbands who would not be as tolerant as Monsieur Geerts.’

  ‘Madam Geerts would probably be in the dark about other women. But I have another suggestion. There was no love lost between Mr Milner and his housekeeper. She might be able to help.’

  ‘Good thinking. I don’t believe that line of enquiry was followed up when the housekeeper was interviewed.’

  ‘Also, Milner played golf every Saturday. His golfing partners may know something of his amorous exploits.’

  The inspector leaned back in his chair in a relaxed manner, as though trying to banish the earlier awkwardness there had been between us. ‘I am going up to the golf club myself later. Not much golf being played there just now. It was flooded last week.’

  ‘Yes, I heard that.’

  ‘But I’ll talk to the secretary and the staff.’ He smiled. ‘Do you play golf? A lot of ladies do these days.’

  I shook my head. ‘We played tennis at school. That’s the extent of my prowess in ball games.’

  ‘And I don’t play tennis.’ He gave me a quick glance from unfathomable hazel eyes.

  It was one of those moments when we each knew there was an undercurrent, a tension between us that might go one way or another. He held my gaze for just a fraction too long. But there was no overture, nothing more than a ripple in the air between us.

  ‘I expect it would be a pleasant change for you to come to Yorkshire without a murder having happened,’ I said, sliding over the moment as quickly as he had himself, yet wanting to mark it in some way.