Murder in the Afternoon: A Kate Shackleton Mystery Read online

  We sat in silence for a long time.

  ‘Is that why you wouldn’t go to the Hall, to ask the colonel whether he’d been to the quarry to see the sundial? Are you still attached to the Ledgers, after what they did? You were not much more than a child.’

  ‘No. I’m not attached to them. I think Miss Trimble must have caught a glance or something in the air between us, between the colonel and me. I don’t know. She took against me, and I could imagine why. I know I should have left here long ago, but sometimes you’re bound to a place, no matter what.’

  ‘Because of your children in the churchyard?’

  She sighed. ‘That’s it. It’s stupid isn’t it? I can’t leave the children. They’re still mine. What would they think if they knew, and if they knew I could just walk away?’

  ‘But you have Harriet and Austin to think of.’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘Mary Jane, you’ve come to me for help. And I’m doing what I can. But I’m not proper family, like your mother, or your sister Barbara May. With Ethan gone, you’ll need them. Tell them. If Ethan has abandoned you, or met with some accident, you’ll need your real family.’

  She opened her mouth and shut it again. Whether she would have agreed, or contradicted, I didn’t know.

  Mary Jane climbed out of the car. ‘I’ll think on it. I might go see my mother tomorrow.’ She turned back. ‘And Kate, don’t tell anyone about the Ledgers and me, and about the money in my bank book. I won’t ever touch it now. It will be for Harriet, and Austin.’

  As I started the motor, she called again. ‘Wait!’ A moment later, she appeared with armfuls of folders and newspapers. ‘Take this stuff of Ethan’s. I can’t bear to read it. But it must give some inkling as to what was going on in his life that I didn’t know about. I want you to read it.’

  Twelve

  It was hard to concentrate on the road when the image of Miss Trimble’s body seemed real enough to be in the car with me. Look at the road, I told myself. Keep an eye on the tramlines.

  It was not that I missed the turn for Kirkstall but that I mistook an earlier road for it and ended up on steep hills, scenic but unfamiliar, taking me to a high point beyond woods where the journey stretched on into a bitter chill before I had to stop and consult the map with shivering fingers, and come home via Butcher Hill and a roundabout route through West Park.

  As I drew into Headingley, I remembered that this was my housekeeper’s night for exchanging books with our neighbour across the road, the professor’s sister.

  Instead of going straight home, I drove to Woodhouse, to talk to Mr Sykes. Jim Sykes is my right-hand man, an ex-policeman who likes nothing better than to corner and capture a guilty party. This morning he would have been to Marshall & Snelgrove’s department store, where an ocelot coat went missing some weeks ago. Sykes had suggested a training course for sales staff. The first of these events he had undertaken this morning.

  Talking to Sykes about the events of this long day might help me make some sense of it all.

  When I reached Woodhouse and knocked on the Sykeses’ door, Mrs Sykes answered. She is a round, friendly woman who beamed a greeting and asked me in.

  ‘There’s tea in the pot, and you’ll have a scone with me. They’re fresh baked today.’

  ‘That sounds lovely.’

  She put a plate of scones on the table, and a butter dish, plate and knife. ‘They’ll be swallowed up in minutes when that lot come back. Jim and the kids are on the moor, playing cricket, though they’ll be at it in darkness if they don’t come back soon.’

  As I buttered my scone, I glanced about the house. This was only my second time of being indoors here. It was a neat terrace house, with this one room downstairs, two up and a cellar. The leaded range shone, from the application of black lead and elbow grease. A low fire burned in the grate. The rag rug was a riot of colour with no discernible pattern. I guessed that they had all joined in the making of it on winter nights.

  The Sykes family have lived in Woodhouse for six years, three years less than I have lived in Headingley.

  Mrs Sykes watched me bite into the scone. ‘It’s a new recipe, with a bit of cheese. My own invention.’

  ‘Delicious.’

  ‘Then you’ll take one for Mrs Sugden.’

  ‘Yes I will, thank you.’ Mrs Sugden would not be pleased if Mrs Sykes’s scones turned out better than her own.

  ‘Jim’s that pleased with himself today over the Marshall & Snelgrove business. I can tell you now what I can’t say in front of him. He’s a changed man, since working with you, Mrs Shackleton. It suits him to have that bit of independence, and the chance to drive the motor car now and then.’

  Why thoughts of remuneration should have popped into my head at that moment I don’t know. It occurred to me that I do not pay Sykes enough money. But this isn’t a proper job. We never know what might come next, or if anything will come next.

  As if she guessed my thoughts, Mrs Sykes said, ‘He appreciated that bonus you gave him after the business you took care of for the jeweller.’

  That had been the least I could do. The case was one over which we did not see eye to eye, and never would. ‘I’m glad.’ I polished off the scone and refused another.

  ‘And there’s summat else, though don’t let on I told you. If we hadn’t had that holiday in Robin Hood’s Bay, our Thomas wouldn’t have made himself useful to the joiner there and developed his taste for carpentry. Then he wouldn’t have got his apprenticeship.’

  ‘He’s got an apprenticeship! That’s wonderful. I didn’t know about that.’

  She put a finger to her lips. ‘Jim’ll want to tell you himself.’

  ‘Then I won’t breathe a word. I have one or two things I need to talk over with him.’ I carried my plate and cup to the sink.

  ‘Oh leave that.’

  ‘I’m going to walk along in the hope of meeting them. Mr Sykes and I will take a turn on the moor and talk about something else that’s come up.’

  Her eyes sparkled. ‘More jobs?’

  ‘Sort of,’ I said. ‘A family connection.’

  ‘Ah.’ She nodded. Everyone knew that where family comes in, money does not.

  *

  Woodhouse Moor is one of the precious green spaces close to the city centre. As I walked onto the moor, I spotted Jim Sykes and his children. Thomas, at fourteen the elder of the two boys, sauntered along carrying the cricket bat. Half running, half walking, the younger girl and boy threw the ball back and forth, laughing if one of them dropped it. Sykes came a little way behind them, and raised a hand in greeting.

  I thought back to last year, when Dad first suggested that Sykes come and work for me. We had arranged to meet on the moor. He was seated in the centre of the bench that stood to the right of the path. Both of us were wary – me at the thought of interviewing a prospective employee on a park bench, he because wary is part of his character. He had worn a trilby that day and as he whipped it off, I looked for a pin hole at the back of the hat – for his extra eye, the one in the back of his head.

  It was growing dark enough for the children to keep missing the ball. Sykes stretched, caught it, and threw it back. As we grew close enough to see each other better, I noticed how cheerfully he strode along, looking much happier than when we first met. Back then he was unemployed, and very much out of favour with the constabulary. One of his superiors had arrested the wrong man for a crime, and when Sykes attempted to right a wrong, it was made clear he had no future. After being forced into a corner, he saw no choice but to resign from the force.

  Thomas spotted me and waved. He broke into a sprint. Last year he was all elbows and knees. He was still a little gangly but had lost the awkwardness.

  ‘Hello, Mrs Shackleton. Do you notice summat different about me?’

  ‘Thomas! You’re wearing long trousers.’

  ‘Guess why.’

  ‘I can’t think.’

  ‘Guess.’

  ‘I can only think
you must have a job.’

  ‘I started my apprenticeship today.’ He was practically bouncing with delight.

  ‘If you do as well there as you did making the nameplate for my house, they’ll be glad to have you.’

  He had made the nameplate of English oak, and named the house Pipistrelle Lodge, after the bats that inhabit the adjoining wood.

  The younger two Sykes children stood back, giving Thomas his moment.

  Then we all fell into step walking to the edge of the darkening moor.

  ‘Tell your mother I’ll see her later,’ Sykes said and the three of them hurried off in high spirits. No doubt we old ones had slowed the youngsters down.

  ‘Great news about Thomas,’ I said.

  Sykes gave one of his rare smiles. ‘I expect Rosie told you. She can’t keep quiet about it. Worse than the lad himself.’

  The street lights flickered into life. By the time we walked once around the moor, Sykes had told me as much as I needed to know about how well he prepared the staff of Marshall & Snelgrove to spot likely shoplifters.

  My story took a little longer, beginning with Mary Jane’s arrival at my house in the early hours of this morning.

  He listened gravely. ‘I had no idea you were adopted.’

  ‘It’s not something I’ve thought about for years. Though now I have no choice but to think about it. I’m going to Wakefield tomorrow to speak to my father. He and Mother have to know that I’ve been contacted by this sister of mine. Dad will tell me I’m too close to be helping Mary Jane of course, no objectivity, and he’ll be right. It doesn’t help that I have to squeeze her like a tube of toothpaste to get information.’

  ‘What does she hold back?’

  ‘There’s something I don’t like about the local bigwigs, Colonel and Mrs Ledger, Great Applewick’s nearest thing to lord and lady of the manor. It turns out that Mary Jane worked as Mrs Ledger’s maid. The relationship was not entirely conventional, if you take my meaning.’

  Sykes, admirably, did not raise an eyebrow, or if he did, the gloom prevented my noticing. ‘It happens.’

  ‘Mary Jane has a rather large insurance policy on Ethan’s life, and a bank book he knew nothing of until days before he was either murdered or disappeared. Two hundred came from Mrs Ledger, deposited before Mary Jane married Ethan. I don’t know about the other hundred. It was paid over in smaller amounts.’

  ‘That’s a lot of money for a lady’s maid, or a stonemason’s wife. Did she drop any hints as to how she’d …’

  ‘Earned it?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Saucy photographs. It sounds harmless but anyone looking with an objective eye would put Mary Jane on the list of suspects for Ethan’s murder, if he found out and threatened to leave her.’

  ‘Along with the Ledgers, though I expect the colonel would be unlikely to dirty his hands. Anything else I should know, Mrs Shackleton?’

  We were overtaken on the path by a huge dog, bounding free as its owner let it off the leash.

  ‘Ethan was offered work elsewhere last year, but she wouldn’t go.’

  ‘Because of the Ledgers? Is she still … in touch?’

  ‘I don’t believe so. It was a long time ago. She’s thirty-six now, with a daughter of her own. She’ll probably look back on that episode and see it quite differently. There’s something else. She lost two children after Harriet. They’re buried in the chapel graveyard. Bob Conroy, he’s the farmer and Ethan’s old friend, believes that makes it hard for her to leave, but I’m not sure I agree with him.’

  ‘Could be,’ Sykes said. ‘Some people make visiting graves an important part of their lives. Now, can you tell me a bit more about this Miss Trimble? Finding her must have been a terrible shock.’

  A group of dog owners had gathered with their animals and were chatting a few yards away. With some effort, I forced myself to voice my barely supportable suspicions about Miss Trimble’s death. ‘I’m sure she was poisoned, though the doctor looked at me as though I were mad. Is there or isn’t there a connection? I just don’t know.’

  ‘If the police come in on the case, it’s not something we’ll need to pursue,’ Sykes said grimly.

  ‘I can’t let it go, Mr Sykes. She’s my sister. Those children … the little girl reminds me so much of myself at her age. She’s brave, and desperate to know whether she can trust the evidence of her own eyes. I can’t desert them. Do you understand that?’

  ‘I do. But does that mean you must go on investigating personally? I’m sure when you see the superintendent tomorrow, he’ll …’

  ‘Dad will order me to steer clear. But let me tell you a little more.’

  I described Josiah Turnbull, quarry foreman, and his son Raymond, and my meeting with Colonel and Mrs Ledger.

  Sykes listened carefully, asking for details, descriptions.

  I had parked my car by the edge of the moor. As we drew close, Sykes asked, ‘So what exactly would you like me to do?’

  ‘It wouldn’t hurt if you paid a visit to Great Applewick, just to take a little snoop about. If someone has murdered my brother-in-law, I want to know.’

  ‘Even if it is your sister?’

  I did not answer that directly. ‘There’s an advantage in that no one there will know who you are, and that includes Mary Jane. You might be able to pick up some useful information, though I don’t know how you’ll go about it. It’s the kind of place where a stranger sticks out like the barber’s pole.’

  ‘I’ll put my thinking cap on.’

  ‘And this is going to sound very sneaky.’

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘Before I left, I urged Mary Jane to tell her mother, or her proper sister, the one she’s close to and was brought up with, that her husband has disappeared. They’re her real kin and will be far more help to her than I in the family stakes, whatever the outcome. If Ethan has abandoned her, or met with some accident or …’

  ‘Been murdered.’

  ‘… then she’ll need her family. She said she might do it, visit her mother tomorrow I mean.’

  ‘But you don’t think she will?’

  ‘The children will be at school. She trusts Harriet to take care of Austin so she might well go off visiting. If so, I’d be interested to know what tram or train she catches.’

  Sykes does not miss the slightest hint or intonation. ‘You don’t trust her, and you wonder whether she may go see someone else altogether?’

  ‘I don’t believe Mary Jane killed Ethan. But she doesn’t help herself. She can be frank to the point of foolishness, or she tells a stupid lie, or holds back. She’s trying to be private in a situation where that just won’t do.’

  Sykes darted a quick look at me and I felt slightly uncomfortable, as though he were saying, Well then, who’s just described herself?

  Thirteen

  The house was empty. I switched on the light in the hall. Along with the day’s post, Mrs Sugden had placed a note on the hall table.

  Supper on plate on pan

  I made the telephone calls –

  1. No hospitals in vicinity report accident victim answering Ethan Armstrong’s description

  2. Your dad – tomorrow lunch, 12 noon – will meet you at Websters

  One of the letters was from Marcus, another from the Yorkshire Mutual Insurance Company. But before I read the post, I would look for Sookie. She must have had her kittens by now.

  I called her name.

  Of course she never answers. I knelt on the floor and looked under the dresser. Not there. Nor was she curled on the sofa in the drawing room, or on a dining room chair. I went upstairs. Mrs Sugden always closes every upstairs door. No Sookie fastened in the spare bedroom or the bathroom. Not in the airing cupboard. What a relief. Mrs Sugden would be most annoyed if Sookie had her litter on the linen. She was not under my bed, nor on the rattan chair by the washstand. It is pointless to look out of the window for a cat in the gathering dark, but all the same I did it. I took a cardigan from the drawer.
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  Where could she be?

  There would probably be some old Chinese proverb that warned against looking for a black cat in a dark wood, and if there wasn’t, there should be.

  All the same, I would try one quick whiz around the garden and wood. I picked up the torch and let myself out the back door. Sookie has a den in the snowberry bush. I peered through the gap, her doorway. The torch’s beam caught a startled dormouse.

  Slowly, I circled Batswing Wood, looking among felled logs where soft bark might provide a bed. A pipistrelle bat grazed my hair.

  ‘Sookie!’

  If she gave birth here, some fox might kill her kittens and her too, in her weakened state.

  I gave up and went back into the house. Mrs Sugden had left me a pie and pea supper.

  As I ate the pie and peas, I read Marcus’s letter.

  Dearest Kate

  I raced to Kings Cross station hoping to see you off. Your train was just leaving the station. So sorry to have missed you and not said a proper goodbye. Our time together lit my life.

  Till next time. Soon, I hope.

  All my love

  Marcus

  Ten out of ten for brevity, Marcus.

  I had come back from London only yesterday, and it seemed a lifetime ago. During our time together, I had a feeling that Marcus would ask me to marry him, and I could not think of a kind way to say no.

  I enjoyed his company. I had slept in his bed. But that did not mean I wanted to be the wife of a police inspector, living in Hampstead, waiting for my man to come home. All the same, his letter cheered me. The warm glow made me feel guilty and dissatisfied that I would never again be someone who would fall hopelessly, helplessly in love.

  The Yorkshire Mutual Insurance Company letter lifted my spirits. The managing director asked me to telephone to arrange an interview with himself and Head of Claims. If this was to do with tracking down fraudsters, it would suit my cohort Sykes down to the toecaps of his shiny boots.