Chapter Fifty-Six
At first, the darkness seemed total. My head throbbed. I did not move, except for shivering, being unsure how much of me was broken. Something bitter as an ice wind wrapped itself around my body, shooting icicles into my bones. The pain was excruciating. Gingerly, I reached over and touched one arm, one leg. It was when I tried to move my left arm that I let out a yell of pain. So that was the worst. It needed some support. I diagnosed a broken arm, unsure which bone had cracked.
I cringed as I became aware of a soft, scraping sound. Something walked onto my leg. I screamed. The thing quickly moved on.
As my eyes grew accustomed to the dimness, I realised the darkness was not total. Light spilled from what must be one of those half windows some cellars have. Because of the pain in my left arm, the only way to stand was to roll onto my right side and push myself up onto one knee, then both knees, shift one leg, and then the other. Having achieved that, I decided against standing and shuffled to the wall. Sitting with my back to the wall, I brought my left arm close to my chest, pulled off my scarf and took I do not know how long to make a sling.
I could hear the sound of silence, a kind of low hum. By concentrating on minutiae, I would pass the time until Sykes found a way in. He must by now have heard their motor as they left.
Becoming aware of the smells, I thought there must be food here. Cheese, ham, sour milk. Of course there may not be food. Smells linger.
What I could not understand was why Sykes and Alec failed to find a way in, to search for me, to call out. Perhaps they had. Now I wondered had I passed out for a few crucial minutes.
If they were searching, they must know to look in a cellar. Painfully, I got to my feet. Staying close to the wall, I edged my way towards the glimmer of light that seemed to come and go. Perhaps this was an optical trick, or the sun disappearing behind a cloud.
Gertrude and Eliot must still be here, otherwise Sykes would have come to find me.
Fear was in abeyance, but in the hope of attracting attention, I screamed. This had its disadvantage. If Gertrude and Eliot were still in the house, they might come and finish me off.
Greed had brought them to this, greed and a sense of entitlement. They were not very good at murder. The attack on me was clumsy. If I died, an amateur could solve the crime. A detective from a sixpenny novel would solve it.
As a reward to myself for this thought, I screamed again.
That would be my pattern. Scream, take a long pause, and scream again. Save my voice, save my throat, save my sanity.
Edging my way round, I knew I was coming closer to the half window that, when I lay on the stone-cold floor, seemed distant as a star. And then suddenly I was there. At windowsill level was a large sink. With the hand of my good arm, I steadied myself. Doing so shot darts of pain through my wrist.
Screams of pain are often quiet. I indulged in one of the hair-raising kind.
It was my reward to see a pair of men’s black shoes. The shoes stopped. I screamed again, wishing I had found something long enough to hit the window, to break it. Above the shoes were black trouser turn-ups, the calves of legs. The person bobbed down, knees in my direction. Lastly came a face. The face jutted forward, close to the glass. I saw him. He saw me. Raynor.
Part of his plan was to appear benign, in his look, benign and concerned.
He shouted something that I could not hear.
He would have been the one to put the body on the train, and now it was my turn. He had come to finish me off.
I blinked, and he was gone.
Now that I was at the sink, I realised that I had a burning thirst. I turned on the tap and put my head under it, gulping water into my mouth, letting it run onto my temples, and then down my neck which was horrible. The idle thought came to me that perhaps icy water running down one’s neck in a freezing cellar might make death seem perfectly acceptable.
I heard nothing more, and in those moments of nothingness, wondered whether there might be a side door, another way out, a place where the coal came in. If there were such a place, I might find it by touch before Raynor got to me. And where was Sykes?
But even as these thoughts came, I heard the creak as the cellar door swung open. Footsteps came steadily nearer and nearer. I must be living in slow motion, and perhaps I would go on living in slow motion after death.
There was a light, a swinging light reflected on the far wall, a lantern perhaps.
In spite of my plan to look for a door or coal cellar, my feet had taken no notice of my brain. If I could keep my broken arm steady, I might hit out with my other hand.
And then he was standing in front of me, looming over me.
“People will miss me. You won’t get away with it.”
“My dear Mrs. Shackleton, of course they will. The world will miss you. I will miss you even though I know you so slightly. Now let me help you.”
This was clever. This might put a person off her guard.
He took a roller towel from the wall by the sink. “This will make a better sling.”
It took a moment to realise he was not going to try and strangle me, but made a better sling than mine.
“Now will you take my arm, or shall I carry you?”
“I can walk.”
Stay calm, I told myself. The moment will come. You can walk but you cannot run. There will be an escape. It will not end like this.
He talked. He held my right elbow, and he talked.
“Mr. Brockman told me you were coming here. I thought you would be all right. Alec was with you. Where has he got to?”
“I don’t know.”
“Have they taken him?”
“I don’t know.”
He would learn nothing from me. I hoped Alec was safe, and Sykes too.
“Did they send you?” I asked. “Benjie, Gertrude, Dell?”
“Heavens no. Do believe me. I am here to help.”
“They killed Harry Aspinall and Mrs. Farrar.”
Raynor said nothing.
“Did you know that, Raynor?”
“I wondered. I had begun to think that a possibility, once Mr. Brockman told me the identity of the man on the train.”
“Why didn’t you say?”
“One hopes one is wrong. But why did you come here?”
“Didn’t Benjie tell you? I wanted their signatures in triplicate, so that the eight orphans could be brought back from Liverpool.”
“You should have asked me. Forging signatures is one of my skills.”
We had reached the top of the steps, without my remembering the pain in my arm.
He left a note on the front step, secured with a pebble. “Just to say you are safe, in case whoever is searching for you comes back.”
There was no sign of Sykes’s car.
Raynor helped me onto the back seat of Benjie’s car, and covered me with a motoring blanket. “I cast your astrological chart for you, Mrs. Shackleton. It alerted me to the fact that today was not propitious. Also, you are advised not to take on any new ventures at present, or to make hasty investments.”
Well that was good to know.
Chapter Fifty-Seven
Raynor drove me straight to the hospital where I was treated by the most gentle of doctors who assured me that I had been fortunate. I was fit, and had “fallen well”.
That might be thanks to listening to Harriet, and assisting when she practised her ju-jitsu. Some instinct must have taken over during that terrible tumble down the stone steps.
I did not feel that I had fallen well. My whole body ached. Bruises mapped my arms. My right elbow was swollen.
“You got away with a fractured wrist, Mrs. Shackleton.”
I had got away with my life, but did not say so.
“What happened?”
“I was pushed down cellar steps by two former friends.”
“I say, that’s a bit rich.” He glanced at the nurse, giving her a nod. “It’s the kind of thing we must report.”
F
or once, I did not have to go to the police. The police came to me, in the form of the silent CID chief inspector, Mr. Emsley. So much had happened since he sat with me and Dad two evenings ago that it felt like a lifetime.
Mr. Emsley took my statement. When I told him that Gertrude Brockman and Eliot Dell had admitted murdering Harry Aspinall and Helen Farrar, he paused in his writing. “Did anyone else witness this admission?”
“No. But the gentleman who brought me here, Mr. Raynor, he –” I had a terrible reluctance to say the words “rescued me”. Mr. Emsley kindly filled in my blank.
“He came to your assistance?”
“Yes, he did.”
“Mr. Raynor has given us a statement. Now are you able to sign yours?”
“Yes. I’m right-handed.”
Chief Inspector Emsley made no comment about my statement. He had the evidence of his eyes as to the treatment I had received at the hands of Gertrude and Eliot. What I described as an attempt on my life, they would brush off as the ramblings of a woman who found her way into an empty house.
He watched me sign. “Now can I take you anywhere, Mrs. Shackleton? Mr. Sykes is waiting along the corridor and Mr. Raynor is still here, but if you wish me to take you somewhere, or to telephone –”
“Thank you. I’ll speak to Mr. Raynor, and Mr. Sykes will take me home.”
Sykes had been full of annoyance with himself for chasing off after Eliot Dell’s car, and then losing it. He was only too eager to make amends.
* * *
The cast on my arm went from just above the knuckles to below my elbow. With help from Mrs. Sugden, who cut out the sleeve from a very old raincoat and fastened it over my arm with tape, I was able to risk taking a bath. The belt from the raincoat made a temporary sling. As a nurse, I would have told a patient not to do any such thing.
Mrs. Sugden hovered on the landing, tapping on the door every few minutes to make sure I didn’t slide under the water and undo the doctor’s good work.
I was resting on the sofa, too tired to climb back up the stairs, when the despatch rider arrived from the French Embassy, wheeling a Gnome Rhone motorcycle onto the garden path. Mrs. Sugden opened the door. After unpeeling layers of clothing, the rider turned out to be an elegant young woman. Her name was Catherine.
Seated on an armchair by the fire, with sausage and mash on a tray, she told us that she had first ridden a motorbike during the war, and the love of it never left her.
The letter she brought from Bernard Campaner informed me that communications had been made to the British government at the highest level, praising “the Kate Shackleton Investigation Agency” and regretting the false start that shrouded early enquiries into Mr. Aspinall’s death. There was also a hand-written note about stock exchange interest in the Bluebell Mine, and a commitment to help ensure justice for Stephen Walmsley.
Mrs. Sugden wanted Catherine to have a good night’s sleep. I was happy for her to take my bed. That gave me a good reason to stay put on the sofa.
She chose to snatch two hours’ instead, and had brought her own alarm clock.
I urged her to sleep for longer, but she refused. This was not entirely out of concern for her welfare. I did not want her to crash on the way back and lose the precious bundle of paperwork that I hoped would damn the guilty and free Stephen Walmsley.
Much as I now felt I could trust Chief Inspector Emsley, I wanted to cover all possibilities for saving Stephen and ensuring that the guilty would be brought to justice. Even as I thought that, I felt sick to my stomach about Gertrude. A horrible dizziness came over me. I had asked Mrs. Sugden for pen and paper. My hand shook as I took the pen. The room started to spin.
“Lie back,” Mrs. Sugden said. “Give yourself time to recover. That bath was too hot.”
“I need to add a note for Catherine to take with our paperwork for Monsieur Campaner, telling him that Gertrude and Eliot confessed to me.”
For that moment, my strength fled. I couldn’t think how to begin. “I need to tell him what they said, and what happened.”
“And it makes you sick to think of it, and you’ve been through the wringer. I’ll type it while you shut your eyes. Your Frenchman doesn’t need chapter and verse, just the facts.”
* * *
As it happened, the courier did not hear her alarm. She woke after four hours, annoyed at the delay.
I was glad Harriet was there to wave her off. The sight of a young woman setting off on a motorbike to ride over two hundred miles was something she ought to see. Barring some accident, our painstakingly gathered statements and my letter would be delivered safely.
* * *
“Is our case nearly finished?” Harriet asked.
“We have done all we can—or almost.”
“What else is there to do?”
“Oh not a great deal, some loose ends.”
The loose ends included interviewing Kevin O’Donnell, nickname Giant Jack, and discovering whether Eliot Dell and Gertrude had been found and questioned.
When the telephone rang, Harriet went to answer it. I heard her saying, in her best telephone voice, “Just a moment, I will bring Mrs. Shackleton to the telephone.”
I was shifting myself from the sofa when she came back in. “It’s Chief Inspector Emsley.”
This might be what I was waiting for.
He spoke in a flat tone of voice. “The two people in question had gone from the house when you arrived. They were on their way to Manchester for a meeting with potential investors, and from there to London.”
“But you saw what happened. And they were seen leaving.”
“There are conflicting accounts. Mr. Dell’s bailiff was nearby and confirms that they left before you arrived.”
“And you accept that?”
There was a long pause. “I’m sorry, Mrs. Shackleton.”
So was I. And so would be Stephen Walmsley, still in his cell, awaiting the trial that loomed closer.
Chapter Fifty-Eight
At Benjie’s request, Raynor booked a first class carriage to transport Sykes, Mr. and Mrs. Arkwright, Milly and me to Liverpool Lime Street, and two first class carriages to bring us and the orphans back. They would stay at Thorpefield Manor. Eliot Dell and Gertrude had wriggled out of sight. Not knowing where they were or what they were up to left me feeling uneasy.
Raynor drove over to bring Sykes’s and my rail tickets. He could have put them in the post, but this way we could talk.
“Raynor, if you know where Gertrude and Eliot are staying, tell me.”
“That’s what Mr. Emsley of CID would like to know.” He was unruffled. “These things have a way of working themselves out.”
“So far the workings out have led to murder and attempted murder.”
“That is rather difficult, but the police are still investigating. The house has been searched. The Lord Lieutenant asked to see Mr. Brockman. I drove him there. The sadness in his eyes after that meeting was almost unbearable. We do not know how this will end.”
“The word ‘badly’ comes to mind. I hate waiting on events.”
“It is no consolation, but Mrs. Brockman and Mr. Dell are doing a fine job in recruiting investors. It will be my job to ensure that those investors stay with us, whatever might happen, especially if we are amassing orphans as we go along.”
* * *
We all caught the train in good time. Sykes and I sat opposite each other, near the door. The Arkwrights and Milly were by the window. The engine settled into its soothing rhythm of clank and hum. My painful wrist throbbed in tune. I was wearing a plaid cape that was easier to deal with than a coat.
I had confided in Raynor about my intention to seek out Kevin O’Donnell, but we agreed to spare Benjie the pain of any disclosure until we knew more.
Sykes fully expected that he would seek out Giant Jack, and I would go to the children’s holding centre, with our documentation, and bring back the orphans. He took out a cigarette.
When I said, “We’l
l do it the other way round, Mr. Sykes,” his cigarette lighter stopped in mid-air.
“Are you mad? You want to tackle a man who’s the size of a mountainside, and leave me to gather up kiddies?”
Sykes did not need to know that Raynor had forged two out of three signatures. He would be less than happy about that. Nor would I tell him my deeper reason for not gathering up the children myself. Going into the holding centre would break my heart. The wartime images in my mind are sufficient for a lifetime’s nightmares. For the present, in my weakened state, I could take no more.
“There are good reasons why you should pick up the children. You are a dad, and you will know how to reassure them. Red tape is involved, which means officious officials will make the transaction as difficult as possible. You only have to adopt the ‘I am every inch a policeman’ look and they will roll over. I, on the other hand, with my arm in a sling and a bruise on my cheek would have to expend a great deal of energy trying not to look pathetic.”
He lit his cigarette. “And why should a woman with a broken arm –”
“Wrist.”
“ — and bruises confront a great stoit who can stop a horse and cart with his little finger?”
“I’ll be no threat to him. If we’re right, and he was the one who did the lifting and carrying, and put the body on the train, he’ll know that at the very least he could face prison. At worst, he is an accessory to murder. He’s bound to be a Catholic, and will want to confess, if he hasn’t already. I’ll coax him into telling the truth.”
“Then let me be standing by, round the nearest corner.”
I knew that Sykes felt bad about making the wrong choice at Eliot Dell’s house. He saw that as his first big mistake in all the time we had worked together, and was being extra cautious now.
It was a tempting idea to have him standing by. Yet for Sykes, there would be no nuances. Kevin O’Donnell would be culpable or blameless.
Sykes was still inclined to argue, so I put a stop to it. “I have to do this, and not just for the sake of regaining confidence after tumbling down those stairs.”
He gave a kind of growl. “You didn’t tumble, you were pushed.”
The Body on the Train Page 26
