Dying In The Wool: A Kate Shackleton Mystery

by Frances Brody

  The cat came scurrying from further down the beck, carrying something in its mouth that wriggled. It waited for the door to open. After a moment, the cat gave up and stalked off in disgust. I tapped again, and then pushed the door gently. It opened just a little. Something was stopping it.

  That ‘something’ was Lizzie Kellett.

  She lay at the bottom of the steep stone stairs, her legs on the first step, as if she had tripped. She rested on her front, her head turned sideways, left cheek resting against the flagged floor. Because of her position, the right side of her face was pushed into a contorted leer. All colour had gone from her. Her face had the alabaster hue of a figure on a church tomb. Pale-blue veins mapped her hands and wrists. Her clenched left fist made a claw. The fingers of her right hand splayed flat. She looked more human than any of us could ever be, in that way that an unformed fledgling fallen from its nest is more a bird than some faraway eagle.

  The long black skirt was rucked up above her knees, revealing wrinkled brown lisle stockings.

  Slowly, I closed the door and retraced my steps along the path.

  Constable Mitchell looked his age that morning. He was hastily buttoning himself into his jacket after hearing my news. ‘Are you sure she’s dead?’

  ‘Quite sure, otherwise I would have pushed the door further open and gone in to see whether I could revive her. You’ll see for yourself.’

  ‘I’ll be there straight away. There is something you could do for me, Mrs Shackleton.’

  ‘Anything at all.’

  ‘Could you bear to take her photograph?’

  ‘Yes of course.’

  ‘Then would you bring your camera to the cottage?’

  ‘I’ll go for it straight away and meet you there.’

  ‘Better take a look for myself before I contact HQ. Then if I can tell them we have photographic evidence, they might let me move her. Course there won’t be a difficulty if it’s a straightforward trip down the stairs.’

  I could sense he hoped it would be ‘a straightforward trip down the stairs.’ A suspicion stirring deep inside me said otherwise.

  ‘Poor soul, eh?’ Constable Mitchell sighed. ‘She deserved a better death.’ To give us more room, he propped open the inner door to the downstairs room with the spindly chair I had sat on to have my fortune told.

  ‘Did she trip?’ I asked. Her feet looked awkward, turning away in embarrassment, as if they wished to be somewhere else.

  ‘Hard to say. Both shoes are cross-laced and tied in a double bow. That’s a fair old bump on the back of her head.’

  ‘These stone steps have a lethal edge to them.’ I was putting the case for the accident, because I could hardly bear to think that here was another murder.

  Constable Mitchell bent down and looked closely at the gash on Lizzie’s head. ‘CID were going to come over and question her regarding morphia and some other substance found in her husband’s guts. She could have taken fright and flung herself down’t stairs.’

  So he had heard about the post mortem results on Kellett.

  I could have acted surprised, but this seemed no time for games. ‘Lizzie wouldn’t have known they were coming.’

  He looked up quickly. ‘You knew though?’

  ‘Yes, but I haven’t breathed a word.’

  It would be awkward to take a clear photograph of Lizzie’s body, in such a confined space in a house with little light. ‘If we pull back the curtains, there’ll be a light source, and open this internal door as wide as possible.’

  Perhaps the cat thought I could bring her back to life. It appeared on the window sill, minus its prey, looking on with interest.

  ‘Could the cat have tripped her?’ Constable Mitchell wanted it to be an accident as much as I did.

  ‘The cat was outside when I arrived.’

  The Reflex was already loaded with film. I would fix it on the tripod as I did not trust my hands to keep from shaking. As I set up to take the photograph, I remembered her standing by the doorway, just days ago, proudly holding the small sample of crêpe-de-chine.

  ‘I have a magnesium flash in that bag. We can try that for one of the photographs but I’ll see what I can do with the available light first.’ I squeezed myself and the tripod into position.

  ‘Can you get that?’ he asked. ‘The gash on the back of her head.’

  I nodded.

  He perched on his haunches and took a close look. ‘The more I look at this injury, the less it appears accidental.’

  I looked into the viewfinder.

  ‘You mean that it may have been caused by a blunt instrument.’

  I triggered the shutter, wound on the film, and shifted the tripod. ‘Did you look round, Mr Mitchell? Has anything been tampered with or taken?’

  ‘Not that I could see.’

  I took two more photographs, then prepared the magnesium flash and gave it to him to hold.

  The flash lit the scene. I prayed I had the correct exposure. ‘I’ll develop this right away.’

  ‘Don’t you need a darkroom?’

  ‘I have everything I need with me. I’ll use the cellar.’

  ‘There’s a couple of footprints I’d like you to photograph. If it rains, we’ll lose them.’

  I followed him outside.

  ‘It’s a size nine boot,’ Mr Mitchell said.

  The light was good and I felt confident that I would get a clear image.

  ‘Can I do anything to help you with the developing of the photographs?’

  ‘I just need some clean water. There’s no tap in the house.’

  ‘Back in a jiffy.’

  With a shudder, I stepped over Mrs Kellett’s body and back into her downstairs room. The hearth looked so cold and sad, grey ash that she would never shovel up and tip outside. Don’t start to shake, I told myself. Take deep breaths. The black cat sat on the windowsill looking in.

  I lit my way to her cellar with a candle, taking the camera and my canvas bag. Fortunately I have a foldable fabric lamp which can be used with a candle.

  Constable Mitchell called to me from the top of the cellar steps. ‘Can I come down?’

  ‘Yes.’

  We stood by the light of the candles. He watched as I prepared my dishes and set out the printing frame.

  ‘Where would you like the jug of water?’

  ‘Just here on the slab, please … and that bucket?’

  ‘Here?’

  ‘Yes. Thank you.’

  Candlelight made an eerie glow and cast our tall shadows against the wall.

  He spoke softly. ‘I don’t like to ask this, but do you feel brave enough to hold the fort for a short time? I need to go back to the house, to telephone headquarters.’

  ‘I’ll be all right. I have everything I need now.’

  ‘I’m going to lock you in, Mrs Shackleton. There might be another multitude of weavers tapping to pay condolences. I’ll also see who I can get to ward off nosy parkers until we’ve had time to examine the scene.’

  Here was my opportunity to bring Sykes into the heart of the investigation. ‘Don’t take this amiss, Mr Mitchell, but I’ve someone working with me – recommended by my father, ex-force. His name’s Jim Sykes. He’s staying at the Ramshead Arms in Bingley. He’d be a great help until your chaps arrive.’

  ‘Maybe,’ he said thoughtfully. ‘Saturday morning, and I don’t know how quickly they’ll get over here.’

  The memory of my fortune telling visit tormented me. ‘I came here to talk to Mrs Kellett about Joshua Braithwaite. Do you suppose there’s any connection between my investigation and the deaths of Paul and Lizzie?’

  He hesitated. ‘I can’t see it myself.’

  I couldn’t see it either, but that didn’t mean there was no connection. Had Lizzie told someone about my questions? Someone who was afraid the Kelletts might be ready to spill some bloody beans? I felt a queasy lurch in my guts. It occurred to me that Lizzie had known much more than she was willing to say. Yet whatever secrets Paul
and Lizzie kept had died with them.

  ‘Don’t imagine this had anything to do with Joshua Braithwaite, Mrs Shackleton. It may be that we’re both wrong, and she tripped. It happens.’

  The gash on Lizzie’s skull did not somehow seem compatible with a fall down the stairs.

  ‘When I’ve developed the photographs, do you mind if I look round, see whether I spot anything different between now and my previous visits?’

  ‘As long as I look with you, then I know you’re not disturbing evidence. We’ll do it when I come back.’

  I heard the key turn in the lock as Constable Mitchell left the house. For Lizzie’s sake, I must make these prints perfect – then perhaps she could be moved. It was appalling that she lay dead, but at least we must try and give her some dignity.

  For a long time I worked in silence. As I became absorbed in the work, my mind went into that peaceful blank state where there is no past, no future, no death, only this moment.

  When Constable Mitchell returned, we went back upstairs with the fruits of my labour and spread the photographs on the table where Lizzie had set out her tarot cards. The prints were sharp and clear. Lizzie had what hairdressers call a double crown, and the gash had marred her lower crown.

  ‘You’ve done a good job,’ he said. ‘It shows everything needed. And I’ve made a sketch of her position.’

  I nodded. It was as if neither of us sufficiently believed in the power of a photograph to tell such a horrible truth, even when it was before our eyes.

  ‘My sergeant’s on the way from Keighley, and there’ll be an inspector following on. Your man Sykes is coming too.’

  ‘Thank you. Are you allowed to move her?’

  ‘Not on my say so. It’s being treated as a sudden unexplained death. We need the coroner’s permission before the body can be moved, and the coroner will decide whether there’s to be a post mortem. The inspector might regard it as an accident and if the coroner agrees, then I’ll be able to take her upstairs to her bed and send for Mrs Broughton from the village to lay her out.’

  ‘I hate to see her just lying there.’

  ‘I know. They’ll be as quick as they can. There’s nothing more you can do now.’

  ‘Except take a look around?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Mrs Kellett told my fortune on the day I arrived. There was a postal order stub on the mantelpiece. She put it in the Rington’s tea jar with the money I gave her.’

  He lifted the lid carefully.

  ‘No postal order stub. Was it completed with the name of a payee, or post office?’

  ‘There was something written across, you know the way you do when it’s just for yourself? I couldn’t make out the name. It was for ten shillings.’

  He raised his eyebrows. That was a lot of money for a weaver to be parting with.

  Together we looked at the contents of a floral pattern biscuit tin from the cupboard. It contained her birth and marriage certificates and the birth certificate of her husband. Her maiden name was Dale. She paid several penny insurance policies. One book was marked for her burial. Other life policies named her husband, Paul Kellett, Arthur Dale who I guessed must be her brother, and Amy Dale. The ‘Dale’ on Amy’s name was crossed out and ‘Crosby’ inserted. None were amounts that would be worth her life.

  The sewing basket by the fender held a pair of men’s grey wool socks, one with the darning mushroom tucked in, and a needle stuck through a partly finished darn. It crossed my mind to finish darning the grey sock in her work basket – just to do something – except that I never learned to darn.

  Behind me, Constable Mitchell opened the kitchen drawer.

  At the bottom of the sewing basket was a folded piece of paper, used as a holder for a needle, and a length of dark sewing thread. I took out the needle and unfolded the paper. This, too, was a postal order stub – again for ten shillings. On the line payee was the letter H.

  I handed it to Constable Mitchell. ‘She was sending money to someone.’

  He took the stub and placed it on the table. ‘Perhaps her sister or brother. She and Paul were fortunate, with two wages coming in.’

  Constable Mitchell turned back to the drawer. ‘Your business card’s here.’

  ‘Yes. I gave it to her. I thought she might think of something else to tell me about Joshua Braithwaite.’

  The table drawer appeared undisturbed and yet the tiny book she had called her address book and into which she slipped my card was gone.

  ‘There was an address book.’

  ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘A black cover, half the size of a postcard.’

  Constable Mitchell made a note.

  ‘Anything else?’

  I shook my head.

  ‘Let’s take a look upstairs.’

  ‘I didn’t go upstairs.’

  ‘No, but you seem to have a good eye. We won’t touch anything.’

  There was a tap on the door. ‘That was quick!’ Mitchell said, expecting his sergeant. But it was Sykes. Being nearer, he had arrived first.

  We stepped outside onto the garden path to speak to him. I introduced Sykes to Mitchell.

  ‘What can I do to help?’ Sykes asked.

  ‘Keep people away until my sergeant arrives.’

  ‘Will do. Mind if I take a glance round? I have worked with CID, I know the rules.’

  Mitchell nodded. ‘But anything you spot, tell me and I found it, all right? I don’t want to complicate my life with HQ.’

  ‘Understood.’

  Following Mitchell back into the cottage, I stepped over Lizzie’s body and upstairs. Bedroom drawers contained her few items of clothing, neatly folded, smelling powerfully of mothballs. Her bed was made, corners tightly tucked, nightgown folded and placed under the pillow. A cupboard held a hoard of Sunlight soap bars, half a dozen candles, a new white sheet, snowy pressed nightgown and matching lacy cap.

  If there had been anything in that room to incriminate a murderer, it was there no longer. A secret, if one she kept, would go with her to the grave.

  The grave – at the thought of that, I looked again at the contents of the hoard cupboard. She had placed her own laying-out stuff there, the sheet, the snowy white nightgown and pressed cap.

  Looking at the smoothly ironed gown gave me a helpless feeling, and that strong sense that if I had not stirred up the past she may still be alive.

  Mitchell was watching Sykes through the window.

  I looked under the bed. The enamel guzzunder was mercifully empty. ‘Look at this, Mr Mitchell.’

  The floorboards sported a light covering of dust and fluff. I caught a sneeze just before it happened. One rectangular patch looked cleaner than the rest. Something had been dragged from under the bed, disturbing the fluff. Mitchell got down on all fours to look. When he stood up he scratched his head. ‘Looks as if there was a box there.’ He walked about the room again, looking for something that would answer the shape and size of the mark under the bed. ‘Kellett had money. He was close about it, but everyone knew he raked in a packet during the war. Mystery was that he didn’t throw it about, and kept on working all the hours God sent. Some said he was after buying a house by the sea.’

  ‘Would he have kept his money under the bed?’

  ‘Oh aye, he’d have done that all right. Cellar floods you see, or he might have stashed it down there somewhere.’

  ‘If robbery was the motive, why not just break in while the two of them were at work?’

  Mitchell thought for a moment, shaking his head as if the motion would set the pendulum of his brain swinging. ‘You were on your way home today I believe?’

  He wanted me and my smart observations off the premises before his sergeant arrived. ‘Yes. I’m meant to be packing to go London but …’

  ‘There won’t be anything more for you to do here until we’ve had the post mortem on Lizzie. You look to me as if a break wouldn’t do you any harm.’

  There was a tap on the downstairs door
. Mitchell went down. It had been a gentle rap, not at all like a copper’s. The voice was Sykes’.

  ‘Something you should take a look at, Constable Mitchell.’

  I perched on Lizzie’s bed for a moment. She hadn’t slept here last night. That’s when she must have fallen – or been pushed. Sometime late yesterday after her neighbours had departed.

  I watched from the bedroom window as Sykes led Mitchell down the bank, to the reeds by the humpback bridge. He was pointing something out. Some men carry cigarettes, matches and a penknife. Sykes produced an evidence bag from his inside pocket. Mitchell leaned down carefully to pick up a cricket bat. Sykes intercepted him and put the bag over the bat, lifting it carefully, handing it to Mitchell without looking at him. Tactfully, Sykes then walked away as a small crowd began to gather on the bridge. Time for me to leave.

  I walked up the bank, carrying my camera bag, reaching the bridge as a car approached from the main street. The burly moustachioed sergeant sat at the wheel. His inspector climbed out of the car first. Spotting me with the camera bag, he gave me a grumpy acknowledgement for taking the photographs, and clearly wanted me off the scene as quickly as possible. The sergeant followed, looking so much the part that he could have been cast in a Keystone Cops film as the one who knots his brow and chases the villain. Behind us, Mitchell tramped about the bank – probably looking for a box of treasure in case it had been too heavy for the thief to carry.

  From the small crowd on the bridge, Hector emerged.

  ‘You must let me help you with your camera stuff!’

  If I saw a photograph of Hector as a baby, I’m sure he would have changed not a jot. He has a round, jowly face with sparse hair. His pale-blue eyes dart about as if looking for his mother.

  He insisted on helping me onto his mount.

  Being in the saddle allowed me to see the shiny patch on his crown when he adjusted his cap. ‘You’re losing your hair, Hector!’

  ‘Yes. Terrible isn’t it? I’ll be bald by the time I’m thirty.’

  ‘That should age you up a bit.’

  He laughed, knowing immediately of Tabitha’s worries about the difference between their ages. Straight away he said, ‘It’s abominable to laugh, after what’s just happened. You must think we’re a desperately unlucky village. First Kellett dying in that appalling way, and now Lizzie. What happened?’