‘How long have they been married?’ he asked.
‘Almost thirty years.’
‘The husband will know she had a lover. He may know about the child, even if he says nothing.’
‘I don’t believe he does know.’
‘In any case, it is a bit late in life for him to be spying on her.’
When we finished our tea, we took the precaution of separating, each making our way, in a roundabout fashion, to Victoria Road.
Confident that I had not been followed, as I stepped between a tramcar and a delivery van, I caught the whiff of fresh fish as a woman hurried by carrying a shopping basket.
Sykes approached from the other direction, pulling down his hat as a sharp gust of wind blew up from the North Sea. ‘Who’ll do the talking?’
‘If it’s Mr Wells, you. If it’s Mrs Wells, I’ll ask to speak to her privately, saying we have an acquaintance in common.’
‘It could be the daughter, Sophia.’
‘We’ll think of something.’
Sykes could not resist his little jibe. ‘If I’d been able to look at an up-to-date directory, we would have known what to expect.’
‘It’s more interesting this way.’
There had been a change of name. The sign above the shop read, Scarborough Fresh Fish.
To his credit, Sykes did not say I told you so.
Inside, a dapper chap with fair wavy hair and a small moustache finished serving a customer.
Sykes introduced himself. ‘Am I speaking to Mr Wells?’
‘Oh no, sir. Mr Wells died a long time since. My name’s Richard Bryam. We took over from Mrs Wells. She kept the shop going until the lease expired in 1912 and then decided it was too much for her. Mind you, if I’d known what was coming, I would have had second thoughts. It was a devil of a job for the fishing once war was declared.’
‘We’re trying to trace them, for a friend of the family.’ Sykes handed him our card.
Mr Bryam wiped his hands on a tea cloth and looked at the card. ‘Mrs Wells and the girl stayed in Scarborough for a bit, but I heard they went away.’
‘Do you know where she moved?’
‘I’m sorry, I don’t.’ His eyes narrowed. ‘Are you chasing her for money? I wouldn’t help no one who was hounding a widow.’
It was my turn. ‘Nor would we. Truly. This could be to her advantage. Mr Bryam, do you know what school Sophia attended?’
‘You’ve got me there.’ He went to the door between the shop and the house and opened it. There was a smell of baking buns. ‘Madge! Lady here has a question.’ A slender fair-haired woman appeared. ‘They’re asking about the Wells family and which school the lass went to.’
She wiped her hands on her apron. ‘She was a pupil at Queen Margaret’s, a right bonny, clever lass.’
‘Where is Queen Margaret’s School?’ I asked.
She looked at me, judging me to be neither bonny nor clever. ‘On Queen Margaret’s Road. Where else would you put it?’
‘Might Mrs Wells have kept in touch with any particular neighbour?’ Sykes asked.
‘Likely enough she did. No one had a bad word to say about her.’
We thanked them, and left the shop.
‘Something tells me you won’t be marching up to the castle after all, Mr Sykes.’
‘And Anne Brontë will be lonely in her grave, heaving a sigh that you didn’t visit.’ Sykes turned up his collar.
‘I’ll go to the school. You make some enquiries among the neighbours. Someone must know where they went.’
‘Right.’
‘Let’s meet in two hours at Ellingham’s on St Nicholas Cliff. Black’s Guide gives it a good recommendation.’
Sykes tilted his head and raised his eyebrows. ‘So you did do some preparation, when it comes to food.’
We sheltered in the entrance to an alley while Sykes unfolded his map. ‘Queen Margaret’s Road … It’s not above a mile … back along the way we’ve come, then right…’
‘It’s too cold to be guessing my way. I’ll walk back to the station and take a taxi. I think Lady Coulton will run to that.’
Queen Margaret. Walking back the way I had come, I racked my brains to place her. She married a mad Henry and started the Wars of the Roses single-handed. Is that what one must do to have a school named after one?
* * *
Queen Margaret’s School did appear fit for a queen. The wide entrance led to a tiled hall, its walls adorned with glass cases displaying shields and trophies, tributes to the achievements of former pupils, including Winifred Holtby, who had qualified for Oxford.
It must have cost Mr and Mrs Wells dear to send Sophia here. Even if she had won a scholarship, there would have been the price of a uniform and the cost of books, racquets and hockey sticks.
I had been adopted out of poverty into a more than comfortable station in life. Had Lord Coulton not been out of the country when his wife became pregnant, Sophia Mary Ann would have had a title and leisure. On the other hand, she would have missed her fine education at a grammar school, and may have been packed off to Switzerland to be ‘finished’.
A young teacher came hurrying down the stairs, carrying an armful of papers. ‘Hello. Can I help you?’
* * *
Twenty minutes later, I sat in an airy study opposite a middle-aged woman with a serious face and benevolent, bespectacled eyes. Her desk was clear, except for a diary and a pen and ink stand. On the window sill stood a blue vase, filled with bronze chrysanthemums.
I handed her my card and explained, in part, my mission to trace Sophia Wells.
‘Thirteen years ago.’ Her eyes narrowed as she tried to remember the name. ‘The register will jog my memory.’
From a filing cabinet, she drew out a register, and read through the names. She looked across her glasses at me. ‘No Sophia Wells on the 1912 register.’ She took out another register, and this time came upon the name. ‘Sophia Wells. She was withdrawn from the school in 1911. Now I recall her. She did very well, high marks in all subjects. We were sad to lose her but I believe she and her mother were removing to Leeds. I remember because I started my teaching career at Thoresby High School for Girls. I mentioned that school, in case Mrs Wells was able to let her daughter continue. I felt a little sorry for Sophia.’
‘Why was that?’
‘She was teased sometimes, accused of smelling of fish. You know what girls can be like. I had a sharp word in assembly, not specifically about her you understand, but about accepting people for who they are and not judging because of their background.’
‘I wish I had been at a school like this.’
She smiled. ‘We do our best. Sophia did have one good friend, Bella Davidson. Bella taught here for three years. She is now head of English at a school in Manchester. It’s an outside chance, but if you wish I will write to her and ask whether she stayed in touch with Sophia.’
‘Thank you. That would be most kind.’
She glanced again at my card. ‘I’ve never met a private detective. Perhaps you will come and talk to our sixth form sometime, and tell them about your work.’
* * *
Seated by the window in Ellingham’s restaurant, Sykes and I placed our order with a waitress whose apron was so well starched it could have walked out of the building and lived a long life on its own terms.
Sykes examined his right hand. ‘It’s a long time since my knuckles have knocked on quite so many doors. I went the length of Victoria Road and some of the side streets.’
‘Did anyone remember them?
‘They remembered them all right. One old lady spoke of little Sophia rolling up her sleeves and helping in the shop. She remembered her sweeping the flags. They were a nice family, well liked. Wells was a big fellow, red-faced and jolly. He slapped a fish about as if he could bring it to life and coax the creature into swimming again. His wife was tall and thin, and when they were in the shop together it was non-stop repartee. The pair of them could have earn
ed a good living on the stage, apparently.’
‘Somebody must know where they went.’
‘The old lady said they moved to Belmont Road after Mrs Wells gave up the shop. It’s on the other side of the bridge. I went there but couldn’t find a soul who remembered them. Happen they didn’t stay long.’
Over our fish, chips, peas and bread and butter, I told him about my visit to Queen Margaret’s School. At least there were two possible leads: Thoresby High School, and the old school friend, now head of English at a Manchester school, who may be in touch with me.
When we left Ellingham’s, we consoled ourselves with a walk along the Foreshore, as far as the pier. We stood and looked out to sea, watching the waves roll in, listening to them crash against the sea wall.
I liked what I had heard about the little family and felt sorry that their hard-earned life had changed so abruptly. Still, it was good that Jennifer Wells had chosen to take herself and Sophia to Leeds. We would advertise in the newspapers, and hope for a good result.
We walked back to the station through the evening gloom.
Sykes armed himself with newspapers from W H Smiths. I bought Winifred Holtby’s The Crowded Street.
We had a carriage to ourselves, so could spread out.
Sykes is one of those people who simply must read aloud any interesting titbit that catches his eye.
‘Price increases. Revolution in the air again. If we’d never come off the gold standard we wouldn’t have had to return to it would we?’
I cleared my throat, and read a few lines from my newly purchased novel.
‘All right, so you’re not interested in economics.’
‘I just don’t want to hear any more about the gold standard.’
He stayed silent for several miles.
‘Listen to this then, “Haunted Yorkshire Mill Girl, beset by poltergeists, spends time at the British College of Psychic Science.” When she is in a room, furniture shifts. Sounds like my Rosie, only with her it’s deliberate. Oh, hark at this. Our mill lass doesn’t even have to be in the room. Ornaments fly about. Very heavy furniture lifts of its own accord. But several weeks being studied and helped has reduced the psychic activity.’ He turned the page of the newspaper. ‘I’d say the mill girl came up with a good wheeze for free bed and board. I might invite a poltergeist to visit me.’
‘Psychic scientists would jump at the opportunity to observe you.’
At that moment, we entered a tunnel, the train lurched and the carriage became pitch black.
Sykes flicked on his lighter and the small flame gave a strange glow to his rugged cheeks. ‘The poltergeists,’ he joked.
I did not answer. Somehow the change of pace and sudden darkness seemed an ill-omen. We had drawn too many blanks for comfort.
After two or three minutes, the chug of the engine returned to normal and we were once more on our way.
When we left the train at Leeds, I saw him again, the tall man in the black hat and coat. This time, he was ahead of us, disappearing along the platform.
Sykes read my thoughts. ‘Worry not, Mrs Shackleton. He is a travelling salesman, with a notebook in his pocket for repeat orders.’
I was not convinced.
Five
The next day, Sykes continued work on our only other case which concerned a bank clerk suspected of devising an ingenious fiddle. The man had been seen splashing money about, and treating a lady, not his wife.
I drove the short distance to Thoresby High School for Girls, a solid, utilitarian building of smoke-darkened red brick. Early-bird girls gathered in clusters by the gate, looking so very young, clad in gabardine raincoats, school hats and stout shoes. Unless Sophia Wells had stood out in some way, perhaps, after all this time, the staff would not remember her.
Entering the main doors before being summoned by the bell gave me an odd feeling of breaking the rules. Inside, the building was not dissimilar from the school I had attended, with the broad corridor, wide staircase and that school smell of washed floors, running shoes and chalk.
A tired-looking cleaning woman, fastening the buttons of her coat, showed me to the headmistress’s office. The nameplate read, Miss D. Emerson.
I knocked.
She called for me to come in.
A middle-aged woman with a pleasant pudding face and wearing sensible tweeds and brogues stood by the desk, papers in her hand. She looked at me, seeming not in the least surprised to be interrupted by a stranger.
I apologised for the intrusion, introduced myself and said that I hoped she might help me trace the mother of a former pupil.
She hesitated.
‘Miss Blondell from Queen Margaret’s School recommended me to come here, Miss Emerson. I know it is a long time since Sophia Wells was a pupil here, but I have been asked to trace Mrs Wells by a client and have news which would be to her and her daughter’s advantage.’
I gave her my card.
In the corridor, the school bell rang.
She glanced at my card. ‘Do you always turn up without writing for an appointment, Mrs Shackleton? Is that the modern way?’
Any moment now she would give me one hundred lines to write, or demand that I learn a poem from the Treasury of Golden Verse.
‘If you’d like me to come back at a more convenient time…’
‘No. Since you are here, see my secretary, Miss Stafford.’
She opened the door to an adjacent office. ‘Miss Stafford, perhaps you can help this lady. She is a detective, trying to trace the family of one of our former pupils and assures me that it is not in connection with some felony but may be to their advantage.’ The bell stopped ringing. She handed Miss Stafford my card, saying, ‘Doesn’t do to be late for assembly.’
With that, she left.
There is something about Peter Pan collars that makes a person look most efficient. The gaunt Miss Stafford wore one. Her office was small, not much bigger than a cupboard but a cupboard where there was clearly a place for everything and everything stacked and packed.
‘What’s the girl’s name, and when was she here?’
‘Sophia Wells. She would have come here from Scarborough in 1912. Her date of birth is 10 July, 1901.’
‘Ah yes, I remember a girl coming from Scarborough. Her name wasn’t Sophia. Got off to a difficult start.’ She bobbed down and opened the bottom drawer of one of the filing cabinets. After peering at names on the closely packed files, she withdrew a heavy-duty board folder. She placed it on the desk, untied its faded pink tape and withdrew a register. ‘Here we are.’
Opening the register, Miss Stafford glanced at the names and tapped the page with her nicotine-stained finger. ‘Ah, you’re right. Sophia Mary Ann Wells. She chose to be known as Mary Ann. We always ask if a girl has a middle name which she prefers. When changing schools, it sometimes helps a child to have a fresh view of herself. Next of kin, mother, Mrs Bradshaw.’
‘Mrs Bradshaw?’
‘They lived on Compton Road.’
Being quite good at reading upside down, I had already made a mental note of the address that Miss Stafford was now writing for me.
So Mrs Wells had remarried; an unwanted complication.
She handed me the scrap of paper. ‘I do hope something beneficial comes to them as a result of your enquiries, after Mrs Bradshaw’s bad luck. Of course they may well have moved. Mary Ann will be twenty-four years old now – how time flies.’
‘What bad luck did Mrs Bradshaw have?’
‘It was so unfortunate. Her husband worked in tailoring, making uniforms, at Montague Burtons. He came out after his late shift one night, to make his way home. He was knocked down by the vehicle that had come to pick up the uniforms.’
‘How awful.’
‘Yes, twice widowed. I hope she was more fortunate the third time.’
‘The third time?’
‘I often saw girls with their mothers in town on a Saturday, and I saw Mary Ann and her mother on Boar Lane one day, after the
war. Mary Ann was working in some office. I remember thinking what a shame she did not stay in education longer.’
‘What age did she leave school?’
‘Sixteen.’
‘And Mrs Wells, Mrs Bradshaw, married a third time?’
‘She was about to, though I know no details. She was a hard worker, and a sensible woman.’
For my own purposes, I wished that she had not remarried. Perhaps Sophia, having changed her name to Mary Ann, may have decided to take the new stepfather’s name, just to baffle me.
‘Might Sophia have given the school as a reference? If Mrs Bradshaw remarried, they may have left Compton Road. I am wondering whether there may be a more up-to-date address on your files.’
‘I can’t easily put my hands on that sort of correspondence. We have a nightmare of archives. The teachers get at them and they have no sense of leaving something as they find it.’
‘Do you remember what year you saw Mrs Bradshaw and Mary Ann in town?’
‘It was after the war, but not so very long after. Perhaps the spring of 1919. I know I was out to buy a hat for a wedding and had very little luck in the matter.’
‘Did Sophia have any particular friends here, that you remember?’
‘Now that I couldn’t say. If anyone knew, it would be a teacher. But you know girls. Friendships flare up and burn out for no reason.’
‘You said she got off to a difficult start here.’
‘I don’t know whether that is worth mentioning now, or whether it is fair to do so.’
‘I am used to keeping confidences, Miss Stafford.’
‘It was to do with a tortoise shell comb. One of the girls said it was hers, and that Mary Ann had taken it, accused her of stealing. Mary Ann said she found it on Woodhouse Lane and finders keepers. It was sorted out but girls took sides, as they do. After that, if anything went missing, there was this bad atmosphere and suspicion of Mary Ann.’
‘Do you remember all your former pupils this well?’
‘Heavens no. It was her coming from Scarborough, then the business with the comb, and other items that inexplicably disappeared, then her being top of the class and so good at netball. She blossomed, you see. I also remember her because of her mother.’
Death of an Avid Reader Page 3
