As a young chap, Dad played rugby and cricket and still picked up a bat now and again.
We looked at each other. He raised an eyebrow in answer to my unspoken question. The cricket ground detour had provided his excuse to call and see me. I knew that Mother had spoken to Mrs Sugden, and then managed to get word to Dad.
‘How’s Mother?’ I tried to keep the suspicion from my voice.
‘She’s very well. Would be even better if you’d agree to go shopping with her on Monday, but I understand you may have other plans.’
The annoyance started somewhere around my toes and eased its way up. Mrs Sugden may be the soul of discretion, but not where my mother is concerned.
‘Dad! I’m a big girl now.’
‘I know, I know, love. And I suppose I’m to blame for the sleuthing.’
‘Yes. I suppose you are.’
‘Inherited, eh?’ He winked at me.
I laughed. ‘Almost certainly.’
The truth is, I am adopted and so any aptitude I have for investigation is not an inheritance of the blood. Perhaps it arose from a fascination with polishing Dad’s silver buttons, or having a failed police bloodhound as a pet.
I was adopted as a baby, when Mother thought she would not have children. When I was almost seven, she had my twin brothers. By then I must have passed the trial period because I was not returned to sender as surplus to requirements.
I call the little wood at the back of my house Batswing Wood because a glossy dark green ivy grows there whose leaf forms the shape of a bat’s wing. There are maples, sycamores, elms, beech trees, a bracken fern and toad-stools. A pregnant-looking oak, massive growth protruding from the middle of its trunk, takes centrestage in a flat raised area of the wood where local children sometimes perform their magical plays on summer afternoons.
In a clearing, Dad and I sat on a bench hewn from a fallen beech tree by some long-ago gardener. I told him about Tabitha’s letter and my visit to the newspaper library.
Dad entered into the spirit of the case straight away. ‘How have Mrs and Miss Braithwaite coped in the past six years? Until it’s established to a court’s satisfaction that a man has died, the financial assets are frozen. And who’s been running the mill?’
‘I don’t know.’
He stretched his legs. The bench is too low for a tall man. ‘Sounds as if there could be a lot of practical difficulties. I’m surprised the widow hasn’t applied for presumption of death before now.’
‘From Tabitha’s letter she’s obviously hoping he’ll be found alive. Missing doesn’t mean dead.’
I had said the wrong thing. Dad went quiet. I knew what he was thinking. Why doesn’t Kate accept that Gerald won’t be coming back? Missing only means: No one saw him die and lived to tell the tale. Presumed dead means blown to smithereens.
‘I expect I’ll find out more when I speak to her,’ I added quickly. ‘From her letter, I don’t think it’s about money.’
He shook his head. ‘People never do say what it’s really about. The court will expect to hear that all attempts to locate Braithwaite have been exhausted.’ He watched a squirrel run up the oak tree and dart across the branches, heading towards the big house. ‘From what you say, Kate, this won’t be like the cases you’ve taken on before, not like finding information for some bereaved soldier’s relative. You’ll be stepping into a different sphere. Bradford – Worstedopolis, wool capital of the world. Hard brass at stake.’
‘It’s different in another way too, Dad. Tabitha must think I do this work professionally. She’s offered to pay me, and I’m inclined to say yes.’
To my surprise he gave me a broad smile. ‘Couldn’t be better. Fits perfectly. After all in the last couple of years you’ve probably tracked down more recalcitrant husbands and sons than a small police force.’
He swayed slightly, with that gleeful involuntary movement that means he expects he is about to get his own way. My suspicions were roused.
‘What do you mean “Fits perfectly”? What fits?’
‘I have a suggestion to make. There’s a chap lives not a mile from here, in Woodhouse. He’s ex-force, face didn’t fit, so he left. Since then he took on short-term security work for a shoe company who had rather too many boots walking away. Now that’s at an end, I’d like you to meet him.’
I turned to him, protesting. ‘Dad! I can’t promise a man permanent employment.’
‘Take him on for this case. See how you get on. Don’t forget you’ll be off to London for Berta’s party. And we’re there over Easter. You’re not going to let your mother down over that are you?’
‘No.’
He was winning me round to the idea. But I still felt a tug of reluctance. Yes, it could be useful to have someone to help. After all, Sherlock Holmes had Dr Watson. On the other hand, I’m my own woman. An ex-policeman sounded a daunting prospect. Bound to be a know-it-all.
Dad made a steeple of his fingers. ‘Your mother worries. She tracked me down to the Town Hall and bent my ear this morning. If I can tell her you have a chap utterly fearless, straight down the line who’ll …’
‘I don’t need protection.’
‘… who’ll be your assistant and take on some aspects of the work. If you do that, then I think I can persuade your mother to leave you alone to … to get on with your life.’
There was a gulp in his voice. He wanted me back as much as she did. They don’t see that if you’re thirty-one years old, it’s too late to be a little girl again. I was in the big bad wide world and had to do something, or I would go mad.
‘Need to stretch my legs.’ Dad stood up. I took his arm as we walked along the path to circle our way round Batswing Wood. ‘I know how you feel about wanting to make your own way in the world, Kate, but there are limits, even for someone as independent as you. You’ve searched out military men before – with a lot of goodwill from their comrades and officers. This will be a different world. From what you say about the missing Mr Braithwaite, it’ll be useful to ask a few questions in the Bradford Wool Exchange. You won’t hear the swish of a skirt there, unless it’s an early morning cleaner.’
‘Hang on a minute …’
‘You need someone who’ll do a bit of leg work.’
A branch of mistletoe caught my skirt. I stopped to untangle myself. ‘I like to see who I’m talking to, Dad, weigh them up, try and understand what they’re not saying.’
‘You need to know what your own strengths are and not be afraid to accept help. If this young woman is due to be married in how long …?’
‘In just over a month’s time, on the first Saturday of May.’
He let out a soft whistle and shook his head. ‘Even I would think twice about taking on that kind of job. You’ll be hard pressed to get any kind of conclusion without help.’
We had circled the wood and reached my back fence. Through the kitchen window I could see Dad’s driver, leaning across the table, lighting Mrs Sugden’s cigarette.
I thought over Dad’s words. Perhaps it wouldn’t hurt to have help, just this once, given the urgency of Tabitha’s request. ‘What’s the name of this ex-policeman, security man, pursuer of missing boots?’
‘Sykes.’
‘As in Bill Sikes? Notorious villain, slayer of Nancy?’
‘Not Bill, Jim. Jim Sykes. He’s 35 years old, a married man with three children. You’ll need to pay him at least two pounds a week, so cost that into whatever you charge for the job.’
‘I haven’t said yes. Either to the job or Sykes.’
‘Meet him. See how you hit it off.’
I did not want Mr Sykes to come to the house, or for me to go to his, in case we did not get on and I had to decline his services. We were to meet on Woodhouse Moor, a little after six that evening. I would rendezvous with Sykes on the second bench, as arranged through Dad.
I wore my belted dress with matching cape, and Cuban heels with the strap. This seemed to me a businesslike look. The damp evening air felt fresh
and sweet. A light rain started as I reached the moor. I unfurled my umbrella. Suddenly, the situation struck me as comic and absurd. A little voice in my head mocked the whole business and said that I should be wearing a red rose between my teeth, to fling at him and say, ‘You are Jim Sykes, son of Bill the slayer of Nancy. I claim my prize.’
Since telephoning Tabitha and arranging to meet her on Monday, I had tried to recall all I knew about mills, worsteds and woollens. From my thimbleful of knowledge, I remembered that Harris tweed, Irish tweed, Scottish tweed and for all I know Yorkshire tweed are sometimes lumped together under the name “homespun”. Then I spotted him.
It seemed appropriate that here was a man, sitting in the centre of a bench, wearing a homespun suit, a pulled-down trilby and highly polished brown boots. Perhaps the brown boots were his bonus from the shoe company for whom he had acted as security man. They looked new.
He tilted his head towards the sky as if asking the drizzle how long it might last. His umbrella remained furled. At first glance, he appeared totally unconcerned with all around him. At second glance, I saw that he missed nothing. Likely he had a pinhole in the back of his trilby for the convenience of the eye in the back of his head.
Wiry and wary, he sat bang in the centre of the park bench, as if daring any other person to claim a seat.
Although he had not appeared to notice my approach, he leaped to his feet and raised his hat in a pleasant manner.
We shook hands and he moved along the bench, making room for me, on the dry spot where he had previously perched. Fortunately the brief spit of rain stopped so we did not need to negotiate umbrellas.
A good four inches shorter than Dad’s six foot, Sykes was six inches taller than me, with the kind of pronounced cheek bones, ears and nose that make me think of the skull beneath the skin, and of poor Yorick. That leads me on to imagine that here’s a man who will look at himself in the mirror while shaving and know that he must make the most of his short time on earth. Not very logical, but I can’t always help the trains my thought catches. He was clean shaven, though I had for some reason expected a handlebar moustache. He had bright intelligent eyes, with the sort of bags under them that I associate with mothers whose children keep them awake in the night.
Dad had told me that Sykes’ face didn’t fit. That his boss got the wrong man for a robbery and told Sykes to let it go, but Sykes wouldn’t. ‘That’s being a good copper in my book,’ Dad had said. But in Sykes’ nick it was seen as insubordination. He would never rise above pounding the beat, and with the worst shifts his sergeant could throw at him. When I asked Dad could he not have intervened, he said that it did not work like that. Sykes resigned.
For a few moments we exchanged words about how long Mr Sykes and his family had lived in Woodhouse, which was five years, and how long I had lived in Headingley, which was eight – since Gerald and I married in 1913 after our whirlwind romance. Of course if I took off my time away in the VAD, I had hardly lived in my little house at all until the end of the war.
Behind us some lads began to kick a ball about. A woman wrapped tightly in a musquash fur coat walked along the path, talking kindly to two Pomeranians who trotted alongside her.
‘How well do you know Bridgestead and the mill business, Mr Sykes?’
He turned to me with a solemn glance, as formally as if I were an entire board of directors interviewing him for the post of bank manager. ‘I don’t know Bridgestead at all, madam. But I have family who work in the mills.’ He told me about his aunts who worked in Listers Mill, and of the spinners and weavers who were his ancestors. ‘My knowledge should help me to blend in and not arouse too much suspicion while making enquiries.’
‘Where would you begin? My father mentioned the Wool Exchange.’
‘That would be on the list certainly, Mrs Shackleton, especially on the meeting days, Monday and Thursday. But I might begin by finding out which public house Braithwaites’ workforce frequent. There’s gossip to be picked up over a pint and some of it proves useful.’ He paused, giving me a chance to question him.
‘I shall visit the Bridgestead village bobby, Mr Sykes. Is there anyone you could draw on for information?’
He looked thoughtful. ‘There’s one or two officers in Keighley who’d be willing to talk to me about what they remember of Joshua Braithwaite. If you agree, I’d like to find out what I can without revealing my connection to you.’
‘Why would that be, Mr Sykes?’
‘Call it a copper’s instinct to play his cards close to the chest. But I believe there are two kinds of people in the world – them that cough out information and them that gather it up.’
He made the work sound as though we would be walking about offering a spittoon to passers-by.
‘And how would you keep your connection to me secret, and yet find out all you wanted to know?’
‘I’d have some good story – as I expect you may have.’
I had not thought of that. ‘Until I see Miss Braithwaite, I’m not sure how I’ll proceed.’
I told him what I had read in the newspaper library and about the librarian’s story from the reporter on the scene that Mr Braithwaite had tried to commit suicide.
Sykes shook his head sadly. ‘Attempted suicide’s a nasty business. And it muddies the beck, if you’ll pardon a pun.’ Sykes let out a sigh. ‘The Keighley lads will tell me whether they had the bloodhounds out searching for a body.’
Without our having formally agreed to a working arrangement, I realised with surprise that we were already jointly on the case and were discussing who would do what.
I would speak to the family and the village constable, and try to find out whether there had been family or financial difficulties. Sykes would quiz the workers, Keighley CID and connections at the Wool Exchange.
‘My father says two pounds a week would be an appropriate remuneration,’ I said, thinking it best to get this out of the way.
‘He said that to me too. And there’d be any expenses I might incur, travelling, standing a drink, and so on.’
‘So perhaps you would like something on account?’ I took a folded five pound note from my pocket and handed it to him.
He grinned for the first time. The smile lit his face and I saw the relief. He would go home to his wife and children and say that he had a job.
He extended his hand and this time the handshake was stronger and held longer. ‘Thank you. You won’t be sorry.’
‘I’m going to Bridgestead on Monday. I suggest we meet, say Tuesday evening and compare notes.’
He nodded. ‘I’ll take the train to Bingley, that’s nearest.’ He took out a notebook and wrote the name and telephone number of a hostelry. ‘I know the landlord at the Ramshead Arms. He owes me a favour and will give me a room if necessary.’
‘Six o’clock. And if I can’t make that time for any reason I will telephone Mrs Sugden and she’ll send word to you.’
And that was how I came to work professionally for the first time, and to employ Jim Sykes, the man in the homespun suit.
3
The Silesian Merino Shawl
Early on Monday morning, the sun shone brightly in a crisp blue sky. It was the kind of day when you look through the window and expect that it will be warm, only to get a chilly surprise when you put your nose outdoors. I loaded the boot of my Jowett convertible with portmanteau, camera bag and walking-stick tripod. I had packed my Thornton-Pickard Reflex, useful with or without a stand. The tiny Vest Pocket Autographic Kodak slid into the notebook section of my satchel. The VPK is to other cameras what a watch is to a clock, as the slogan goes. In other words, easy to lose at the bottom of your handbag. Mrs Sugden shook the travelling rug and folded it carefully.
Setting off can be a trial.
Mrs Sugden will say, ‘Have you got the map?’
‘Yes.’
Two minutes later: ‘Have you got your driving goggles?’
‘Yes.’
A minute later: ‘Is there
petrol in that there can?’
At which point I pretend not to hear, and have totally forgotten what it was I meant to remember.
In spite of the sunshine, it would be a chilly ride. My motoring coat is a great fleecy swaddler with detachable lining. It saw me through the war and is way out of fashion, but it makes me feel safe, secure and immune to traffic accidents.
I pulled on my tasselled motoring hat and gauntlets.
‘Have you got …’ Mrs Sugden began.
I turned on the petrol tap.
‘If I haven’t got, it doesn’t matter.’ I switched on the ignition. ‘I’m going to Bingley, not the North Pole.’
I turned the choke to rich and pressed the starter button. You will gather from this that my motor is modified for easy use, and I don’t apologise for that so there.
Mrs Sugden waved. ‘Go careful!’
‘I will.’
Rain during the night had dampened the roads so they were not so very dusty. Once out of Leeds, I made good progress, through villages, past farms and mills, keeping an eye on the signposts and milestones.
I thought about the time Tabitha and I last met. It was almost two years ago, June, 1920, at the opening of the Cavendish Club. All through the war, we VAD girls had nowhere in the capital to call our own. Afterwards, that was put right and Tabitha and I were among the supporters of the campaign for a club that women could afford. Since then, the two of us had promised in our Christmas letters and summer postcards to meet up, never doing so until now.
We had arranged to meet in a café on Bingley High Street. Once parked by the side of the road, I shed my antique coat, swapped the tasselled hat for a cloche, and set off to find the café.
Looking over the red and white check curtain that hung across the lower half of the plate glass window, I saw her. With one hand she held a cigarette, with the other she twirled at a strand of her blonde curly hair. She has the quality of a Dresden doll, with neat features, a snub nose and bow lips.
Dying In The Wool: A Kate Shackleton Mystery Page 3
