Dying In The Wool: A Kate Shackleton Mystery Read online

‘It’s a long time back. A lot’s happened in the last six years.’ She took off her spectacles and polished the lenses on her apron. ‘I do recall my surprise that a man such as Mr Braithwaite should get hisself in bother.’

  ‘What kind of bother?’

  ‘You couldn’t get a proper tale out of it. Just the feeling that there was more to it than met the eye. I do recall it was around the time of the tragic explosion at Low Moor. A cousin of mine was one of the firemen who lost his life.’

  She picked up the morning paper and slapped it down in annoyance. ‘Look at that. Just look at that.’

  Her bony finger accused an item headed “The Varsity Boat Race Name the Crews”. ‘Typical,’ she said. ‘They can name a bunch of young rowers, but did they name my cousin and the other firemen who lost their lives? They did not. Didn’t even say where the explosion happened.’

  ‘We had censorship. You couldn’t read a weather report, in case it helped the enemy.’

  ‘Dozens of working people lose their lives, no names no pack drill. One toff goes off the rails and we hear about that all right.’

  If Mrs Sugden could edit The Times, she would make it very clear what was news and what was not.

  She opened the kitchen drawer. ‘But if the lass wants you to find her dad …’ Rooting among the bottle openers, string, tape, sealing wax and tape measures, she found a jotter and a stub of pencil. ‘I better scratch out details of where you’re going. Just to be on’t safe side. No doubt your mam’ll be turning that telephone red hot.’

  ‘I don’t see how I can help Tabitha, at least not before her wedding. She’s getting married in …’ I consulted the letter. ‘Five weeks.’ I watched Mrs Sugden copy down Tabitha Braithwaite’s address and telephone number. ‘Obviously I’d like to help her. But people must have looked for him at the time. The trail will be stone cold.’

  What I didn’t add was that it terrified me to be thought of as a professional sleuth, accepting payment and expenses. Now I half regretted boasting to Tabitha that I traced the errant officer to the Kent bank when a professional investigator had failed.

  It would be fraudulent to take money from Tabitha. I’m not a proper investigator, just stubborn, and sometimes lucky. My usual contacts for tracing missing soldiers were through the regiments. Officers and men were always willing to help. This was different. Yet the challenge of Tabitha’s request pleased me. If I could find out what happened to Joshua Braithwaite, a civilian with no regimental links to exploit, a trail gone cold, it would be a real achievement. It might change me in some way. I’d have an entitlement, would earn respect. As it is, I’m a sort of lady bountiful of the dead end. The person a wife or mother turns to when she does not know how to find something out for herself, or when all lines of enquiry turn cold.

  So why shouldn’t I take on a difficult task and accept money?

  It might at least excuse me from short-notice dress-shopping trips.

  Mrs Sugden raised her high forehead, creating a perfect set of horizontal lines. ‘You’ve said yes already.’

  ‘No I haven’t.’

  ‘I can see it in your eyes. You can’t resist.’

  I tucked Tabitha’s letter into the inside pocket of my jacket. ‘It won’t hurt to look into it. Since you remember reading about Joshua Braithwaite in the newspaper, I’ll go to the Herald and see whether I can unearth that article you mentioned.’

  And any others that there may have been, I thought to myself. I would grab a notebook, and cycle to the newspaper offices. Touch of swift pedalling and I could be there in twenty minutes.

  Mrs Sugden brightened. She likes me to be out of the way for an hour or two. It leaves her free to lavish attention on the dung heap, which receives the contents of her chamber pot.

  ‘What do I say if your mam rings?’ she asked.

  2

  Man in a Homespun Suit

  I cycled onto Headingley Lane. No one had told the month of March to skedaddle and give way to April. A chilly gust blew against the back of my neck, so cold it tickled. Sails on a bicycle would be a good idea, to be hoisted in a favourable breeze, providing extra power.

  On Woodhouse Lane, by the edge of the moor, a telegram boy took it into his bonce to race me. For a while we were neck and neck, earning a curse from the rag and bone man we overtook. That curse slowed me down, but not the boy. He streaked ahead before pulling in front of me, daring me to brake or swerve. He turned his head, raising his too-small cap and grinning at me like a gargoyle. I waved defeat.

  Go on, spotty lad. Something has to cheer your day before you end up under a tram.

  I slowed down at the top of Albion Street. Sandwich boards on the kerb, and posters in the window proclaimed the day’s headline news. “Irish Bill Becomes Law – Mr Churchill and the New Agreement.”

  All of a sudden, I had misgivings. The folly of my mission seeped through me, like when you have sat too long on a damp stone during the break in a walk and not realised until you arise that your skirt is wet. I would need to be discreet about my enquiries. Tabitha would not thank me if some reporter guessed my task and her father’s story found its way back into print.

  The doorman suggested that I park my bicycle round the back of the building. I wheeled the bike through an alley to a flagged yard where men in shirtsleeves and waistcoats were heaving tied bundles of the second edition onto a bogie to be pushed through the alley, ready for loading and delivery to the sellers and newsagents throughout the city.

  I leaned my bike against the railings and made my way to the front office. A florid-faced porter chewed his pencil over a diamond-shaped crossword puzzle. He didn’t look up, having that air of regarding the general public as too much trouble altogether.

  If I were a bona fide investigator, I would have a card and some justification for poking my snitch in.

  ‘Hello. I’d like to see copies of the newspaper from the summer of 1916 please.’

  ‘Public library, madam.’ He did not look up.

  ‘I want to buy some back copies.’

  He chewed on the pencil, as he raised his eyes and gave me a cool glance. ‘If you want to buy a back copy, you have to know the date.’

  ‘I’ll know the date when I’ve looked for what I want.’

  ‘Public library. Our library here, it’s the company’s archive, for access by the reporters.’

  I knew very well that I could consult papers in the public library, but hoped that somewhere during the course of my visit I might be able to dig out that extra revealing titbit of information about Joshua Braithwaite.

  I did a Mrs Sugden and read one of the porter’s crossword clues upside down. ‘Are you stuck on 4 across?’

  His eyes met mine, with a hostile glare.

  What was the matter with him? Perhaps he’d got out of the wrong side of bed, or didn’t like women. I pressed on regardless, saying somewhat apologetically, ‘I’m a bit of a crossword fan myself.’

  We had to solve four clues together before he melted a little. I took advantage of the crack in the ice to push him a little further.

  ‘I’m researching for a friend who’s writing a play set in the summer of 1916. I need to get some local flavour of what was going on, just for background, and to take him some newspapers to have handy.’

  The lie sounded reasonable enough to me, and also to the porter. He put down his pencil.

  Pushing my advantage, I smiled sweetly. ‘My playwright friend says how the press is our country’s fifth estate, neglected at our peril.’

  ‘True enough,’ granted the porter. He lost his slouch and sat upright.

  ‘I expect you’re regarded by your friends and family as something of an expert on current affairs?’

  ‘There’s summat in what you say,’ he said in a wistful voice that made me think there was no truth whatever in what I said. ‘No one but the editor and the printers see the headlines afore I do.’

  ‘And you’re the gatekeeper for this great newspaper. In medieval times, you�
��d have worked the portcullis.’

  I’m sorry to say that resorting to smarmy flattery is not a new skill. A detective’s card might eliminate such a requirement.

  A light went on in his eyes. ‘I know who might be able to help you.’

  ‘I thought you might.’

  ‘Our Mr Duffield.’

  Five minutes later, the porter returned with a courtly gentleman, aged about sixty, wearing a well-boiled white shirt, a dark-green silk bow tie that would not look out of place on a stage magician, a worn tweed jacket and baggy flannel trousers. Corpse-white of skin, he had a mane of suspiciously black hair that swept his forehead like the rush of an incoming tide.

  He extended a hand in greeting. ‘Eric Duffield, newspaper librarian.’

  ‘How do you do, Mr Duffield. Kate Shackleton.’

  ‘I remember you from a benefit do at the Infirmary. Dr Shackleton’s widow. Superintendent Hood’s daughter.’

  I felt myself blush, with both pleasure and annoyance. For once, couldn’t I simply be Mrs Kate Shackleton?

  Mr Duffield smiled, showing a tombstone row of yellow fangs. ‘Well then, Mrs Shackleton, if you’ll come this way we shall see whether the Herald may be of service to the daughter of the West Riding Constabulary. You’re researching for a playwright I understand?’

  Did I detect disbelief? Possibly. I muttered something that sounded like agreement.

  Mr Duffield escorted me without further words along a corridor with offices to our left, and on to a still narrower corridor leading to a lift. On the second floor, the lift creaked to a stop. We stepped onto the landing.

  ‘Have you worked here long, Mr Duffield?’ I asked as he led the way to a pair of heavy double doors.

  ‘Thirty-five years, starting out as office boy.’

  ‘You were not attracted to reporting?’

  ‘Far too frenetic an activity for me, Mrs Shackleton. I prefer to dwell with the ghosts of yesterday’s stories.’

  The large room was full of shelves stacked with binders, along the walls and across the centre of the room. Under the high windows were a couple of old oak tables and straight-backed chairs. The librarian took pride in explaining his index system, then turned to me with a penetrating glance. ‘What precisely interests you?’

  I wanted to ask him did he remember the case of Mr Joshua Braithwaite of Bridgestead. It would save me time but I did not want to risk bringing the Braithwaite case to public attention.

  ‘Really, it’s more background than specifics. I’d like to see copies of the paper for July and August, 1916, please.’

  I chose a spot at the woodworm-eaten table under the high window. After a couple of moments, Mr Duffield returned, bearing a heavy binder, and placed it with a thud on the oak surface.

  I opened the binder and began to look at the newspapers, reading of Bradford City Council’s debate on the government’s appeal to postpone the August Bank Holiday, which did not meet with approval from the people of Bradford. I read of war honours, air raids, the Wesleyan conference, wages in the dyeing trade and the death toll in the Canadian forest fires.

  The story appeared on Monday, 21 August. It bore no relation to the information in Tabitha’s letter.

  Under the heading “Mill Owner Saved by Boy Scouts”, the article read:

  Mr Joshua Braithwaite, 50, respected mill owner of Bridgestead, was saved from drowning on the evening of Saturday, 19 August by intrepid boy scouts. A first-rate troop under the leadership of Mr Wardle was camping out in Calverton Woods.

  At about five p.m., three bold lads strode to Bridgestead Beck to fill their billy-cans. They were surprised to see Mr Braithwaite, a teetotaller and stalwart of Bridgestead Chapel, lying unconscious in the water. It is thought that Mr Braithwaite suffered a dizzy turn while out walking.

  The younger of the scouts ran to raise the alarm. Two older boys showed great presence of mind in pulling Mr Braithwaite to dry land. Thanks to the speedy intervention of the resourceful young chaps, Mr Braithwaite was brought to himself. In a weakened state, he was carried on a makeshift stretcher to the home of the local doctor who insisted that he remain there overnight, under close observation. Mrs Braithwaite was sent for and hastened to be at her husband’s side where she remained through a night-long vigil.

  I made notes, not wanting to ask for a copy of the paper and reveal my true interest. There was nothing in the following day’s paper. My hands were now black with printer’s ink. I turned to 23 August. There was the piece about the explosion “at a munitions factory in Yorkshire” that had so annoyed Mrs Sugden because of its lack of detail and failure to mention her cousin. It was issued by the Press Bureau, authorised by the Ministry of Munitions, and seemed to me a fair account. 24 August. Still nothing more about Braithwaite. To keep up my pretence of being generally interested in the whole of summer 1916, I made random notes about the King’s surprise visit to soldiers in France, the extension of government control over the wool and textile trade, and why there is no substitute for Horlick’s malted milk.

  Immersed in his index cards, Mr Duffield looked up as a young messenger boy brought in more papers, placed them on the counter and beat a hasty retreat. I wondered whether the librarian ever felt overwhelmed by the sheer weight of cataloguing everything that ever happened.

  ‘Find what you wanted, Mrs Shackleton?’

  ‘May I see September please?’

  For the whole month of September, there was no reference to Mr Joshua Braithwaite. I closed the binder.

  ‘You look puzzled,’ Mr Duffield said as I stood up to go.

  ‘Strange what counts as news,’ I said, ‘and how some stories don’t appear at all and others peter out. I suppose editors were so very preoccupied with the progress of the war, and sensitive about what not to say.’

  ‘You’re thinking of the munitions explosion,’ he said gravely.

  I was not, but chose to agree with him. ‘Yes, a big explosion like that in which so many people lost their lives.’ Mrs Sugden would be glad to hear herself quoted as if she were scripture. ‘All those firemen dead in the course of their duty, and not a pip of acknowledgement.’

  ‘We did have one reporter who picked up on the Low Moor story. He wrote a good account as I remember, but it was spiked. The editor could only use official sources. The reporter gave me a copy. If you leave me your address I’ll look it out and send it on to you.’ Mr Duffield looked entirely satisfied with himself having, as he thought, sniffed out the true subject of my interest.

  It suited me to let him think that he was right. ‘The reporter won’t mind?’

  ‘He’d be delighted. Poor chap died in 1917 – apoplexy if you ask me, fury at wartime censorship and not being allowed to do his job as he saw fit. He covered that area around Bradford and Keighley.’

  ‘Thank you. I’d like that.’ I took a deep breath and put on my most throwaway voice, with only a touch of interest. ‘I expect he wrote up that strange story about the mill owner, dragged from Bridgestead beck by boy scouts.’

  He frowned, as though trying to remember. ‘Ah yes. That was a rum do. That was August too – and usually such a quiet month on the domestic front.’

  We stood by the table. He turned to the article about Joshua Braithwaite and scanned the piece, running fingers through his black hair. If the dye came off, it would blend with printing ink. He struck me as a complex man. The dramatic green silk bow tie indicated a devil-may-care chap who did not mind what others thought of him. The dyed hair suggested something contrary, vanity or a desire to fit, not to be thought too old for the job.

  He looked up from the article. ‘Will this stay within these four walls, Mrs Shackleton?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘We didn’t hear any more about Mr Joshua Braithwaite because it wouldn’t have been very good for morale to report that someone of his standing hadn’t the spunk to face up to losing his son.’

  ‘Are you saying he was trying to drown himself? That it was an attempted suicide?
’

  ‘Same reporter, rest his soul, Harold Buckley. Used to complain that if a story wasn’t spiked it was in danger of being “smoothed out” by the editor. Bit of an old die-hard radical, anything political, anything to challenge the bosses and Harold was there. He covered the founding of the Independent Labour Party, that’s how far back he went. It was just up his street to spill the beans on a Bradford millionaire, a bloated capitalist.’

  ‘How was his story “smoothed out” as you put it?’ I asked, as Mr Duffield escorted me back to the lift.

  He looked round quickly to ensure we were not overheard. ‘Apparently, and this was according to old Harold, our millionaire mill owner wanted to be left to die. There was talk of a prosecution for attempted suicide. Then Braithwaite disappeared into thin air. The man must have had enemies or Harold wouldn’t have heard about him.’

  The lift clanked me down to the ground floor. Why hadn’t Tabitha mentioned the beck, the boy scouts and the stories of suicide? She must be saving that treat.

  I cycled home from the newspaper library, leaving the smog of the city behind. April sunshine streamed through the trees on Woodhouse Moor, creating a pattern of branching shadows. I wondered who, back in August 1916, had gone to the newspapers with the Braithwaite story.

  A familiar car sat outside my gate – one of the sleek black Alvis saloons favoured by West Riding Constabulary HQ. It could mean only one thing. Dad had decided to pay me a visit. Either he had psychic powers, which would not in the least surprise me, or Mother had telephoned and winkled my fledgling plans from Mrs Sugden.

  I wheeled my bike into the garden with a sudden dread that something might be wrong. Dad didn’t usually visit me during the day, not when on duty.

  ‘Dad!’ I called as I opened the front door.

  He emerged from my tiny drawing room, lowering his head so as not to bump it on the door frame. He smiled. ‘Hello, love.’ He was wearing his smart superintendent’s uniform with gleaming buttons. His easy manner quelled my anxieties. ‘My sergeant’s in the kitchen, having a cup of tea with Mrs Sugden. We’ve been at the Town Hall for a meeting. Just did a bit of a detour to speak to a chap at the cricket ground regarding an inter-force match.’