A Woman Unknown Read online

‘Keeps it more discreet this way. Just you and me, enjoying a day at the races.’

  ‘Marcus, I know you’re working.’ He could be extremely irritating, as if I would give the game way, whatever the game was. ‘I’m surprised that someone who has reached your great heights is on an assignment like this. Isn’t it usually detective constables who are given the task of keeping an eye on suspected wrong ’uns?’

  He thought for a moment, calculating what he would and would not say, before deciding to throw me a crumb.

  ‘Our American cousins have an interest. We need to appear helpful. Now no more fishing.’

  Eventually, we joined the racecourse traffic – a long line of cars, charabancs and coaches, a solitary old-fashioned carriage, ponies and traps, and a few riders on horseback, all heading for the Knavesmire.

  As we drew closer to the racecourse, a small group of anti-gambling protestors held up posters: Prepare to Meet Thy Doom; The Wages of Sin is Death; All Race Tracks Lead to Hell.

  ‘Whether it leads to hell depends who’s on the track and what they’re doing,’ Marcus muttered.

  At the entry to the motoring enclosure, he handed over a half crown to the steward who waved us through. A second steward directed us into a spot next to a Morris.

  For a couple of moments, we stayed put. Marcus picked up his binocular case and studied the clasp, as if it would give him inspiration.

  The racecourse would be teeming with plain-clothes men looking out for pickpockets, three-card tricksters and bookmakers with fast little cars that would enable them to speed away after a race and welsh on paying out. Some of the plain-clothes men may have been alerted to be the extra eyes and ears for the investigation branch.

  I took out a mirror and checked my hat.

  Marcus hung the binoculars around his neck.

  As I stepped out of the car, my heels sank a little into the grassy ground. Marcus put on his hat. ‘The owners’ and trainers’ enclosure will be a good starting point. Did you really pick your horse with your eyes closed and a pin in your hand?’

  ‘Of course. His name is Flint Jack.’ Marcus need not know that the tip was given to me by my neighbour, the professor, who studies racing form.

  He laughed. ‘I’ll wager you were poring over the Sporting Pink last night. Admit it! You were checking form, weight carried, jockey …’

  ‘Marcus, I didn’t know you were such an expert racegoer. Your work doesn’t keep you as busy as you pretend.’

  The day already had a festive atmosphere. We followed the top hats and posh frocks to the owners’ and trainers’ enclosure where the steward checked our badges. The first race was about to begin.

  ‘Let’s watch this one from the rail,’ I said.

  It is not such a great view, but I like the atmosphere. We leaned into the rail, watching the horses thundering towards us, and practically feeling the breeze as they charged by, hooves pounding

  When the first race ended, lads led sleek horses into the ring, to stretch their legs in the half-hour lull between races.

  Marcus fell into conversation with a race card seller. (Probably a plain-clothes policeman).

  That was when I saw the two men from the hotel, the ones who had attracted Marcus’s interest. They were admiring a rich chestnut horse that bore Flint Jack’s number.

  ‘There’s my horse. Back in a sec, Marcus.’

  If he would not give me any clues about whom he was following and why, it would amuse me to work it out for myself.

  A weather-beaten old ex-jockey led Flint Jack into the pre-parade ring. When the Scot from Marcus’s hotel spoke to him, he replied that Flint Jack was ‘ready for his big day’.

  The Scot, definitely a Highlander, was now commenting on the course. He had never been to York before. His companion in the grey silk top hat spoke softly. His favourite race course was in Virginia, he said. The man spoke with a touch of a New York accent, but he was English, and local. He intrigued me. His clothing, shoes and manner were top drawer. His voice was not.

  By the time I worked my way back round the ring to join Marcus, my eavesdropping on this talkative pair prompted a slightly Sherlockian jump. It was not enough information to come to a conclusion, but at a guess I would say that the Highlander was selling something. His bluff, confident manner gave that impression. What did I associate with the Highlands? Haggis, bagpipes, Highland Games, Bonnie Prince Charlie, and whisky.

  Marcus had said, ‘Our American cousins have an interest.’

  America had laws against the importation and sale of liquor. Those prohibition laws were being flouted on the grandest possible scale. The man in the grey top hat favoured a Virginian race course; so he was from America. By the cut of his jib, he had called at Savile Row to be tailored; a man with money.

  ‘Well?’ Marcus asked when I joined him. ‘Is it still to be Flint Jack?’

  ‘Definitely, having seen him.’

  We explored, winding our way through the busy throng of small-time punters and York factory workers whose firms had closed for the day.

  Band music played in the distance. From one of the food stalls floated the tempting whiff of sausages. A man by a small tent held up a sign that said ‘Gentlemen’s Convenience, one penny’.

  When Marcus suggested we go to the grandstand, I said, ‘I’m going to place my own bet, Marcus, for luck. Let me catch you up.’

  I had spotted a photographer friend, one of those people who know Absolutely Everything and Everyone.

  Marcus sighed. ‘If you insist.’ He put his hand in his pocket. ‘Put two bob on the favourite for me. I’ll see you in the grandstand.’

  I chose a bookmaker called Willie Price, a rotund, cheerful fellow with a face the colour of a strawberry. A tall, well-built young man, his clerk, stood on an upturned box beside him, signalling to someone further along the course. Boldly, I wagered a guinea to win, with a shilling each way on Little Marten for Marcus.

  ‘Kate!’ The voice came from behind me. Good. I had allowed my newspaper photographer friend to spot me first.

  ‘Len, hello!’

  Len Diamond and I have been on good terms since he came to talk to my local photographic society about his work. He is the most talented photographer I know, and I suppose that is why I snootily put him in the category of friend rather than acquaintance. ‘Shouldn’t you be down by the course, waiting to snap the winner?’

  He winked, which I was never sure was intentional or a nervous twitch. ‘Oh I will be. But you know my love for taking candid pictures. We have a minor royal here today as well as the usual creamy crop.’ Even as he talked to me, his eyes flitted about. When he gave his talk at the society, he said how he liked to capture his subject unawares. I supposed that a great coup for him would be to snap a pickpocket in action.

  ‘Who do you have your eye on today?’

  ‘You know me, Kate. Can’t keep away from the great, the good and the bad, especially the bad. We’ve a fellow from New York here today, fits the last category nicely, a so-called businessman.’

  ‘Not the man in the grey top hat?’

  ‘That’s what I like about you. We’re two of a kind. Never miss a trick.’

  ‘Who is he?’

  ‘His name is Hartigan. He’s a Leeds chap from Irish stock, taken to New York by an aunt and uncle as a child. He’s supposedly here to visit family whom he hasn’t seen since he wore short pants, doubtless with his bum hanging out. Meet me in the Lloyds one day and I’ll tell you all about him.’

  ‘Tell me now. He’s a good-looking fellow. Nice to hear he’s all heart.’

  With a frown of concern, Len said, ‘Don’t even think about it, Kate. Word from my chum on Fleet Street is that Hartigan was arrested for a vicious murder, in broad daylight, on a New York streetcar. Shot a love rival through the heart. But the police and the courts couldn’t make it stick. Not a single witness stayed around to tell the tale.’

  ‘And who is the man with him, the Scot?’

  Len smiled broadly. �
��Oh he’s all right. Produces the second best malt whisky in Scotland. What’s the betting he’ll be travelling home with a big order to ship to Canada, and it will mysteriously find its way across the border into America.’

  So my Sherlockian deduction had been right. I smiled indulgently, and ventured a change of tack. ‘Hartigan and his chum are putting their money on the same horse as me.’

  Len raised an eyebrow. ‘Go on then.’

  ‘Flint Jack.’

  ‘Thanks for the tip. Given that money finds its way home, I shall put my tanner on Flint Jack. Now can I give you a tip?’

  ‘I’m all ears.’

  ‘There’s a sculptor in the grandstand, Rupert Cromer.’

  ‘I’ve seen his work. He had an exhibition last year.’

  As he moved away, Len called, ‘If you come up trumps on your horse, buy something from him. It’ll be the best investment you ever make.’

  I caught up with Marcus in the grandstand. As he handed me a glass of champagne, he whispered, ‘I can relax now, Kate, and pay you the attention you deserve.’

  From that I understood that he had handed over the observations to someone else, probably the race card seller. I whispered in reply. ‘Your man in the grey top hat and his distiller friend completed their deal then?’

  Marcus frowned. ‘Who? What deal?’

  I took a sip of champagne and lowered my voice to a whisper that an onlooker might mistake for a lover’s intimacies. ‘Hartigan and the distiller. I assume that’s why the Americans want you to watch him, to prevent the importation of naughty drinks.’

  Marcus tensed. ‘How did you work that out?’

  I tapped my lips. ‘Don’t worry. Sealed.’

  He sighed. ‘This is very sensitive. We have members of both Houses of Parliament with strong interests in distilleries who don’t want to discourage sales. The message we want to send back across the Atlantic is that the gentleman in question came here solely to visit his family.’

  ‘And has he visited them?’

  ‘Not yet.’

  And of course, no police force in the country would want Hartigan back on British soil permanently.

  We wandered to the balcony, and that was where I spotted a familiar face, Philippa Runcie. I caught her off guard in a look of such sadness that it brought me up short. Philippa is an American, a golden girl, who was sponsored by my aunt for her London season in 1913. She made what was supposed to be a dream match: American money and British aristocracy. She married the most eligible man in London, some said in England, the suave and charming Everett Runcie.

  And there he was, but not beside his wife. Everett Runcie, still good-looking as he approached fifty, stood a little way off from Philippa. He was chatting to his long-term mistress, Caroline Windham, universally known by her nickname of the Viking Queen. They were with Rupert Cromer, the sculptor, whom I knew only from his photograph. Runcie and Caroline Windham were laughing at something Cromer said.

  The thick-set young man who acted as Philippa’s private secretary was trying to make conversation with Philippa, to distract her from being so studiously ignored by her husband. With his broad flat head, thick neck and compact body, the secretary perfectly fitted my mental image of Attila the Hun.

  Philippa saw me and waved.

  I waved back. ‘Marcus, are you all right for properly socialising?’

  ‘Proper socialising sounds just the ticket.’

  In that moment, some movement disturbed the private secretary. He turned, in time to see Len Diamond raise his camera and point it at Philippa, with Runcie and the Viking Queen behind her. It was well known that Philippa and Runcie were to divorce. At that moment, I could have cheerfully hit Len over the head with his Thornton-Pickard Reflex. His own paper would never print such a picture. He must be selling to a London-based scandal rag.

  Philippa’s secretary, King, moved quickly for such a lump of a fellow. He took Diamond by the arm and propelled the taller man to one side.

  Philippa steadfastly ignored the scene. I introduced Marcus as a London friend, in Yorkshire for a couple of days. At the sound of a new voice, Everett Runcie pricked up his ears. Runcie is the kind of man you could not help but like, on first meeting: affable and witty. He is always on the look-out for some new investor to inveigle into one of his schemes. He collared Marcus while Philippa and I talked.

  ‘Don’t let your friend be drawn in,’ she said, making no attempt to lower her voice.

  ‘Into what?’

  ‘A peanut farm, that’s Everett’s latest money pit.’

  I smiled. ‘I don’t think that would be up Marcus’s street at all.’

  She and I moved towards the balcony as the voice came over the loudspeaker that the horses were being led out.

  ‘Have you backed anything?’ I asked Philippa.

  She said softly, ‘I don’t bet. But I’ve bought a horse to ship back home to the States to stud.’

  So it would not be long now till the golden couple parted. I had first heard the rumour of divorce a month or so ago.

  ‘Which horse are you cheering?’ I asked.

  ‘Not telling yet.’ She raised her binoculars in the direction of the starting gate.

  ‘My money is on Flint Jack.’

  ‘You better have these then. I’m not a betting man.’

  I turned to see who had spoken. It was Rupert Cromer, the sculptor. He was a giant of a man with a fine head of fair hair and a beard in need of trimming. He held out his binoculars.

  ‘Thank you.’

  He smiled. ‘That’s all right. It’s all one to me who passes the finishing line, so good luck.’

  They were off to a clean start, Little Marten and Flint Jack running neck and neck. Everett Runcie called for Little Marten, I for Flint Jack.

  I kept the binoculars trained on Little Marten and Flint Jack. Come on Flint Jack. And just as if he had heard me, he pulled ahead and was suddenly leading by a length.

  From behind, Marcus asked, ‘Did you put my two bob on Flint Jack?’

  ‘No! You said you want to back the favourite.’

  The race ended to cheers and groans.

  The viciousness in Everett Runcie’s voice sent a shiver through me. He tore his betting slip and dropped it to the floor. Staring at Philippa with something like hatred, he said, ‘I backed the wrong horse. Again.’

  She coloured up, and turned away. I was grateful to Marcus for starting a conversation with Philippa. He grabbed the waiter’s attention and passed her a drink.

  I returned the binoculars to Cromer. ‘Thanks. They brought me luck.’

  He smiled. ‘Always happy to oblige.’ He offered his hand. ‘Rupert Cromer.’

  ‘Kate Shackleton. I came to your exhibition last year.’ Perhaps the thought of scooping winnings turned me giddy. I had never thought of buying paintings or sculpture.

  ‘What did you like best in the exhibition?’

  Now I’d done it. I muttered something about his mother and child and tried to remember my impressions. The piece that caused the greatest stir was an abstract nude, rumoured to be modelled on the Viking Queen.

  Whatever I said must have either been satisfactory or given the impression of solvency.

  He said, ‘Come out to my studio sometime.’

  ‘Thanks, I’d like to.’

  ‘Bring your friend.’ He nodded in the direction of Marcus who was still engrossed with Philippa.

  Poor Philippa. And poor Everett. What would he do without Philippa’s money?

  Philippa and Everett. Fitzpatrick and Deirdre. Perhaps one day an enterprising insurance company would come up with a policy to cover fire, theft and marital breakdown.

  There could be no more putting it off. I had agreed to tail Deirdre Fitzpatrick and that was what I must do.

  Sykes and I sat in the parked motor on Abbey Road, a hundred yards or so above Norman View, where the Fitzpatricks lived. Now it was just a matter of waiting; waiting in the morning fog.

  For a
lmost an hour, we watched the up and down trams, the rag and bone man’s horse and cart, a coal wagon, and a window cleaner, his ladders on a bogey. We agreed to meet, around midday, in the lounge bar of the Lloyds Arms. If I had not finished my surveillance by one o’clock, our comparing of notes would have to wait until this evening. Just as I began to think the surveillance would not happen at all, Sykes nudged me. ‘There she is.’

  As if recognising a greater force than itself, swirls of fog parted for the figure in the silver-grey dust coat.

  She wore black heeled shoes and carried a dolly bag. That was reassuring. With such a small bag, she would be unlikely to travel far, or elope with her fancy man.

  ‘Just the coat for a shoplifter,’ Sykes murmured. ‘Loose and with big pockets. She’d easily leave a shop wearing three frocks under that.’

  The long wait had done nothing for my patience. ‘For heaven’s sake, it’s a coat, not a weapon for destroying the retail trade.’

  Deirdre walked briskly, making a bee-line for the tram stop. A woman with a shopping basket waited there already and spoke a word or two, looking up Abbey Road, as if she might make the tram appear.

  ‘Drive to the next stop, Mr Sykes. I’ll board before her. That way she won’t notice me.’

  Within a couple of minutes, we were at the previous stop. I hopped out of the motor just in time to catch the town centre tram.

  I settled for a seat midway on the left of the lower deck, facing the rear. At the next stop Deirdre Fitzpatrick climbed aboard. She was slim, with a good figure, a pale, heart-shaped face, high cheek bones, and a wide mouth. Black curls escaped from under her cloche. She laughed at something the conductor said, before trotting up to the open deck.

  An earlier occupant of my seat had enlivened the journey by squashing tiny insects with a tram ticket. The window was decorated with slaughtered baby flies. I looked through them at row after row of terraced houses, dye works, factories, and a tannery that gave off a powerful stench. As we neared the town centre, I moved closer to the tram stairs. The conductor coughed deeply, caught something interesting in his hanky and took a good look. We passed the tramway depot, and Wellington Foundry. A little way along, the tramline curved.