Dad continued. ‘Your mother had several pretty speeches planned, in case you asked her questions, but you never did.’
Why would she have needed pretty speeches, I wondered, except to cover something sordid? ‘Did money change hands?’ I asked.
He shook his head. ‘No. I made sure that the family benefited from the police benevolent fund, and a collection was taken. Work was found for the older children. When two boys wanted to go to Canada, I wrote them a letter of introduction to the mounted police.’ He smiled. ‘They’d spent weeks learning bareback riding at a farm in Outwood. I believe they’ve done well for themselves.’
‘Do the family still live in White Swan Yard?’
He knew exactly who I was asking about, not “the family”, but my mother.
‘Mrs Whitaker lives in the second house on the right. I call on her from time to time. She asks about you.’
A sudden heaviness filled me so that I felt glued to the chair. If a fire bell rang, I would have to be carried out.
The waitress appeared and asked brightly whether we wanted pudding. We did not, but ordered a pot of tea.
When she had gone, he said, ‘I expect you’ll want to meet Mrs Whitaker?’
‘I suppose I should. She must be getting on.’
‘Well into her seventies. I’m glad you’ve asked me about her. So often in life we leave something too late.’
Fortunately, he did not press me as to when I would go. Something told me it would be better to see my mother, and tell her, before I went to visit this other mother, in White Swan Yard.
We sat in silence for a while until the tea came. I stirred the pot, and then poured.
‘I shall have to let it cool,’ Dad said, rubbing at his jaw.
The toothache did not stop him spooning in plenty of sugar.
‘Tell me,’ he said, ‘this missing husband of Mary Jane’s. Did you make much headway?’
‘No. And it’s a very strange case. His children, his daughter at least, saw him lying motionless in the quarry. And now he’s nowhere to be found.’
‘Motionless?’
‘Dead. I believe he was murdered and that someone was still there, lurking nearby, and disposed of the body.’
‘The local sergeant, you said he had the quarry searched.’
‘Yes. I could be wrong. Harriet could be wrong, she’s the little girl, but somehow I don’t think so. The sergeant chooses to disbelieve Harriet – a fanciful tale. He thinks because Ethan’s tools are gone he’s left, after an argument with his wife. And then the death of the vicar’s sister, Miss Trimble. I’m sure there was something she could have told me. I know this sounds far-fetched.’
Dad stirred his tea. ‘The missing man, what’s his name?’
‘Ethan Armstrong.’
Dad’s spoon came to a halt. He stared at me.
‘Ethan Armstrong, of Great Applewick?’
‘Yes.’
‘And he works as …?’
‘A stonemason.’
‘Ah.’
‘What is it?’
He began to stir again, forgetting that the sugar must be long dissolved.
‘Katie, I’d like you to come back to the station with me. I want you to tell me everything you know.’
‘But …’
‘It’ll be best if I don’t say more. But of course if I have details then … there’ll be a much greater chance of finding him.’
He was not looking me in the eye as he took a sip of tea. He winced as he did so, but that could have been because of his troublesome tooth.
Dad took my arm as we crossed the Bull Ring, as though he half expected me to walk under an electric tram. He chatted away as we strolled down Wood Street.
His words floated away.
Mrs Whitaker lived in the second house on the right, in White Swan Yard.
Dad held onto my arm, though we were safely out of the way of tramcars. ‘Your mother hopes you’ll come over to stay for a couple of days. She dragged me to the Empire last week to see Blood and Sand. And there’s something on at the Grand that she talked about. Orphans of the Storm, that was it. I’ll happily get you tickets if you want to see it.’
Second house on the right, in White Swan Yard.
We were on Back Bond Street, and in a moment would walk across the threshold of the red brick West Riding Constabulary building.
Second house on the right, in White Swan Yard.
I stopped. Never had I felt less like giving a statement, which was what he was asking me to do. Poor Dad. He had done his best to make this seem like a routine matter that would take a moment. But I knew him too well. Why had he changed so quickly when he heard Ethan Armstrong’s name?
I had wanted to wash my hands of the case, and leave it to someone else – Sergeant Sharp, Jim Sykes – but now I realised this was my case. Mary Jane had asked me.
White Swan Yard, the second house on the right.
Something did not feel right about accompanying my father to the station.
‘Why, Dad? Why are you suddenly interested? Before you heard Ethan’s name you were quite happy to leave it with the local sergeant.’
Dad had assumed his professional manner. He was no longer my father, but the superintendent, speaking calmly, as if he were addressing a public meeting instead of his daughter. ‘The man’s missing. It’s our jurisdiction. I shall check whether a report has come through.’
‘Anything I tell you will be second hand from Mary Jane and Harriet and …’
‘Exactly.’ Dad held the door for me. ‘You’ve already covered the ground. That could save us a great deal of time.’
‘Dad! You’re asking me to …’
But we were already inside the building and walking through the lobby, the tap-tap of my low heels echoing across the tiled floor. We passed a plain-clothes man on the stairs. Dad nodded to a young fellow who carried a heavy file of papers; he spoke to the chap in a low voice.
In his office, Dad drew back the chair for me, and sat down behind his desk.
I heard the strain, my reluctance, as I said, ‘Mary Jane gave her own account in the local police station. I really have nothing to add.’
‘Katie, what’s got into you? You want to find the man don’t you?’
‘Yes of course. Only there’s something you’re not telling me. That’s not fair.’
Dad sighed. ‘Ethan Armstrong is a person of interest, because of his political activities, let’s put it that way. Have you looked round their house?’
‘Yes.’
‘What did you find?’
I shook my head. ‘If he’s on your list because of political activities, I’m sure you know the sorts of things I found. Nothing was hidden. He’s involved in a trade union. That’s not illegal is it? Dad, you know what it’s like for men who came back from the war expecting a new world, homes for heroes and all that. It doesn’t surprise me that they should try and do something about it.’
‘But there are ways and means, Katie. Some of these groups stir up trouble, call for a general strike, call for workers to take over the means of production. They think they’re in Russia and it’s 1917. They went to war as factory operatives and farm workers, and came back knowing how to kill. There are men who look the same on the outside, but what goes on in their minds cannot easily be read.’
I smiled. ‘Dad, he writes letters. There was some stuff about a merger between unions – mine workers and quarry workers – and support for men on strike, or locked out, at a pit where wages have been cut. He collects all sorts of bits and pieces of knowledge by way of newspaper cuttings, and has his own library of books that he lends out. Nothing sinister. Nothing sinister at all. He took a collection for families of striking miners, but there’s no money missing or anything like that.’
There was a tap on the door. Dad called out, ‘Come in!’
The young man we had passed on the stairs padded silently across the room. He handed Dad a note that said, ‘No report on Ethan Armstrong.’<
br />
Dad glared at him. ‘In future, fold notes if you mean them to be confidential. Not that there is any need. This is my daughter, Mrs Shackleton.’
The young man coloured up, ‘Sorry, sir. Madam.’
‘Get onto Otley, Simpson. See if they’re sitting on a missing person’s report on Ethan Armstrong, and a sudden death …’ He looked at me.
‘Trimble, Miss Aurora Trimble of the Vicarage.’
‘Yes, sir.’ The young man stepped smartly to the door.
Dad interwove his fingers and studied the palms of his hands. His tone was conciliatory. ‘I’m sure you’re right about Armstrong. It’s not me who draws up these Home Office lists, and there’s a great deal of local discretion. It’s quite likely that Sergeant Sharp is making his own enquiries. He won’t have told you that, but he’ll be on the case. I’m not asking you to make a formal statement or anything like that …’
Aren’t you, I thought. That’s what it sounded like when you heard Ethan Armstrong’s name. Only my reluctance has made you change tack.
‘Just tell me about it, Katie. Likely as not by the end of the day it’ll be sorted out one way or another. And it’s possible a report is on its way through. So what did Mary Jane have to say?’
‘If the report will be here by the end of the day …’
Dad was not to be deflected so easily. ‘I’d rather hear it from you.’
There was no escaping the grilling.
‘At about five o’clock on Saturday, Harriet took her father some food to the quarry. He was working alone, putting finishing touches to a sundial for Colonel Ledger. Harriet describes seeing her father, and felt sure he was dead. She went for help, to the nearest neighbours – Conroys’ farm.’
‘Sensible girl.’
‘I went to the quarry with her, first thing yesterday morning, and took some photographs.’
‘Do you have the photographs with you?’
‘They show nothing conclusive.’ I took the prints from the satchel and laid them on his desk. ‘This is taken behind the hut. You’ll see footprints. Nothing unusual in that, but one of them is on the small side. It could be a woman’s footprint, or the footprint of a small chap, or a lad. Austin, the little boy, thought there was a goblin behind the hut. There are all sorts of scary stories about the quarry, designed to keep children out. But he could have heard something. Then there’s this.’
He studied the photograph of the shallow lake, the footprint, the drag marks on the damp ground. ‘Yes, I can see how this looks. The lake …’
‘That’s what I thought. It looks deep, but it’s run-off groundwater and rain, quite shallow, not deep enough to hide a body.’
‘Are you sure?’
‘One of the other masons told me.’
‘All the same, we might check.’
‘It did occur to me that …’
‘Go on, Katie. However silly it may sound.’
‘Someone who doesn’t know the quarry might have thought as I did, and dragged the body to the lagoon. Once he realised his mistake, he would have to find another way of disposing of it.’
‘May I keep these?’ Dad’s fingers itched around the photographs.
I shrugged. ‘If you’re investigating and I’m not, then they’re no use to me. But why so cloak and dagger with me? He’s a respectable working man, with an interest in improving conditions. What’s so revolutionary about that?’
‘Katie.’ Dad spoke in his you-know-far-less-than-you-think voice. ‘Ethan Armstrong is part of an extensive network. Don’t underestimate the motivation of people who want to radically change our society. We have to be careful. These men have access to explosives. And there are still lots of wartime weapons about, brought home by soldiers. All over the country we have to keep an eye on tight-knit groups of politically motivated men, and not just the Irish.’
‘I didn’t trip over any anarchist bombs or pistols. The Armstrongs live on a dreary lane called Nether End. It’s a damp cottage with the benefit of a good roof and a garden at the back where they grow a few vegetables. Ethan Armstrong may have access to explosives but it strikes me he’s a man who makes more use of pen and ink.’
Dad nodded. ‘You’re a good judge of character, Katie, but you haven’t met him in person remember. From everything you say, this may have nothing whatsoever to do with politics. It could be purely a domestic matter, or some workplace disagreement. There might turn out to be a very simple explanation. Now leave it to us, Katie. Don’t go back there.’
It had not been my intention to go back there, yet it surprised me that Dad should issue what amounted to an order. ‘You’re right that it’s difficult for me to be objective. That’s why Sykes is in Great Applewick today, taking a look round.’
‘Then get him out, please.’
‘Dad, what is it you’re not telling me?’
Because what I’m not telling you is that Mrs Sugden is also itching to board a tram to Great Applewick to do a little snooping of her own. Helping Sykes with store detection went to her head.
Dad drummed his fingers on the desk. ‘You are far too close to this than anyone ought to be. Mary Jane should have shown more thought, more discretion.’
‘Discretion isn’t the uppermost thought when a woman’s husband has gone missing.’
He nodded, and said gently, ‘That’s the other reason for you to draw back. Leave this to me. And take a tip regarding Harriet’s story. You can’t always rely on what children say, especially girls of that age. They like to romance. Once they have the limelight they want to keep it, and stick to a tale, no matter how fanciful.’
Three
I had walked the short distance from Back Bond Street to Cross Square enough times that I could point myself in the right direction, like a blinkered horse. But on the corner of Wood Street, an old soldier played such a haunting tune on his flute that he stopped me in my tracks. I dropped a coin in his cap. So many brave men, out in the world trying to scrape something that passed for a living. I wished I had it in me to either not look, or to take up some noble cause.
I thought of Mary Jane’s words about who in our family was lost in the war. A brother, a cousin, an uncle. Don’t be curious about that family, I told myself. Don’t wonder what they are like, whether someone has perfect pitch, a madness for horses, a passion for photography or for Rudolph Valentino, is well read, would have flourished in some sphere of life if given the opportunities I have been given.
What was it Dad had said? Mrs Whitaker had lost heart when her husband died, lost heart for keeping me.
But had all of them lost heart? With ten other children, at least some must have been working, and others big enough to feed and change a baby. They could have kept me.
But I was glad they had not.
Lost heart. Well, I knew how that felt. I had lost heart myself. Lost heart for helping Mary Jane. My reason for sending Sykes into the fray was because I could not face it. Mary Jane should not have come to me. Her father had been in the force. There would have been someone still, someone her mother knew – even my own Dad – to whom she could have turned. She knew from her sister Barbara May that I had lost Gerald. By turning up on the doorstep, she had robbed me of choice. Well, I had that choice back, and I had made it. Let the West Riding Constabulary investigate the death or disappearance of Ethan Armstrong.
The Whitakers were not a family I wanted to be part of. From everything Dad had told me, and that I’d heard from Mary Jane, they struck me as an odd job lot. Bareback riders who set out for the other side of the world; a Nosey Parker cleaner, Barbara May, who had found out where I lived; a lady’s maid, Mary Jane, paid by her boss to pose for saucy photographs, and left forever dissatisfied. They were people who went in every direction and none, travelling in circles, meeting themselves coming back. They were a family driven by necessity, with never a moment of leisure to ponder on what might be wonderful in life, or having the capacity to strike out in some useful profession.
But curiosity
made me want to see where I came from, not the family, just the yard.
White Swan Yard, second door on the right.
Back through Cross Square, past Bread Street and across Westgate, and there it was: White Swan Yard. I stepped through the opening and into the courtyard. Only a look, that’s all. A look at the place.
A slightly sour smell of drains and cabbage mingled with the hoppy, beery aroma from the White Swan. A line of washing hung across the top end of the yard, a greyish sheet, a petticoat and a pair of drawers. Halfway up the yard, a woman in a long black dress and white pinafore scrubbed a windowsill. An enamel bucket on the ground beside her was surrounded by splashes of water. A contented dog lay on the flags, lazily scratching its ear.
No strangers ever came into this yard, I guessed. They would have no reason to do so.
I glanced at the second house on the right. A white curtain covered the lower window pane, and a partly unrolled paper blind shaded the upper part. Step and windowsill were scoured clean. Blue curtains hung at the upstairs window. The door was painted brown.
The door of the first house opened. Small children tumbled out.
Was she there, in the second house, the woman who had given birth to me and had given me up? If I stood here long enough, would some unknown brother come home for his tea, or did she live alone? Perhaps she worked for her living, or looked after grandchildren. I had no idea. There would be one easy way to find out. All I had to do was knock on the door.
But I didn’t want to know. This was enough. Just to look. My hand made a fist, but not so that my knuckles would rap on the panel of that door. I left the yard and walked up and down the street, crossed and re-crossed the road, and then came back into White Swan Yard, to the second house on the right.
Eleven kids Mr and Mrs Whitaker produced, and for all I know several misses in between. Who did Mrs Whitaker give away? Me. Logic and sense told me that it was nothing to do with the look of me, the touch of me, the smell of me, and yet how could she do it? Like an unwanted kitten, I was snatched and despatched.
Murder in the Afternoon: A Kate Shackleton Mystery Page 14
