A Woman Unknown Page 4

  Mrs Fitzpatrick got off at St Paul’s Street. So did I.

  She crossed the street.

  Another tram, travelling in the opposite direction, hid her from view. When the tram disappeared, she was no longer in sight. I did not know which office building had swallowed her.

  I crossed, and looked at the nameplates. Each of the buildings she could have entered housed solicitors, accountants and commercial organisations. There was nothing for it but to wait.

  On a street of offices there is really nowhere to tuck oneself away, except in a doorway. Two men in striped trousers and black frock coats talked animatedly as they walked towards City Square. I took refuge in the entrance of a building, where heavy wooden outer doors stood open and the second set of doors stayed shut. My wait lasted fifteen minutes.

  Unfortunately, she appeared on the street during the seconds I had to move to let someone pass, so I was no wiser as to whom she had visited.

  Along Boar Lane, she did not so much as glance in shop windows. From there, she cut through streets and alleys. I wished I had worn flat shoes. She tap-tapped in her heels and I tap-tapped after her, Mistress Echo. But she did not appear to notice. Everywhere, women walked with baskets, men trundled along with carts and carried boxes into shops. On The Calls, an old soldier played a haunting tune on a flute. She dropped a coin in his hat, and spoke a few words to him. His face lit with delight.

  She walked along East Street, passing an iron works and a saw mill. The noise of the factories played a discordant symphony in the smoky choking atmosphere. After the saw mill, she turned left. A small group of unemployed men sat on the pavement, playing a game of toss. As she approached, an athletic type leapt to his feet to speak with her. There was an easy familiarity in how close together they stood. I slowed my steps so as not to get ahead of her. By the time she set off again, I had overdone my caution by exploring a yard that led only to middens, and found myself far enough behind to lose sight of her.

  As I came from the alley, I took a good sideways glance at the chap she had spoken to: shabbily dressed, a broken nose, ruddy complexion, fair hair. His amiable, lived-in face held an expression both vacant and suffering. Perhaps he was the world’s worst villain, yet there was something about his look and manner that might make a person want to say, Oh bless the poor fellow, without quite knowing why.

  Hurrying, trying to hazard a guess as to which street she had turned into, I spotted her by Steanders Iron and Steel Foundry. After that, the streets narrowed, making me feel even more self-conscious and ill-at-ease.

  A couple of half-naked toddlers sat on the pavement edge, poking fingers into the black, sticky gas tar that had begun to melt. The women here, on their doorsteps and pavements, talking to neighbours, were poorly dressed, in dark serviceable clothes and large pinafores. One woman was scouring a window sill. Another swept the street outside her house. Conscious of my short sleeves, good shoes and the plain satchel that now looked exceedingly flamboyant, only dogged determination kept me on Mrs Fitzpatrick’s trail. It struck me that we were the only women on these streets who wore shoes. Regulation footwear appeared to be down-at-heel slippers with holes in the toes.

  Between every group of eight houses yawned a dismal alley. The slightly sweet and sickly stench of human excrement from the infrequently emptied earth closets made me want to hold my breath. It was Thursday, and so not wash day, but a couple of lines of washing stretched across the street. Patched sheets, worn towels and grey undergarments billowed gently in the soot-filled air.

  The footsteps stopped. Deirdre entered a house on the right, but which one? A swaying sheet obscured my view. I felt a sneaking regard for anyone who could properly tail a person.

  Slowly, I walked to the end of the street, drawing the attention of gossiping neighbours, a curtain twitcher and a step scourer.

  No brilliant thought came to me as to what I should do next. Trying to look as if I had business to transact, I walked briskly to the end of Cotton Street and into the corner house shop. This at least would give me time to think. I bought a packet of Black Cat cigarettes from a stout woman with tight grey curls who wore a flowered pinafore.

  Slowly, I made my way back. Having followed Mrs Fitzpatrick’s rapid strides, I was uncertain as to how I would find my way out of this maze of back streets.

  And then something happened that had doors opening, and women and children falling over each other to look.

  A motor ambulance entered the street. It stopped at the first big sheet. A man wearing a navy serge uniform climbed from the vehicle and attempted to raise the sheet for the driver to pass, but this was not a one-man job. Here was my opportunity to perform the day’s good deed. ‘May I help you?’

  The man readily agreed that I may help him. We took either end of the sheet, raised it, and in this way, the ambulance slowly bumped its way along the cobbles until it reached number sixteen.

  Only then did the ambulance attendant give me a curious look and a thank you. The driver got out. Several women stood nearby in small groups. I stepped a little way off, watching as the ambulance driver knocked on the door. Once the door was open, the driver and his companion lifted a stretcher from the back of the vehicle and entered the house.

  We all waited.

  The watching group of women exchanged remarks in low, sympathetic voices.

  The two ambulance men carried out the stretcher. The sympathetic voices became louder as they wished the invalid well and called down blessings.

  Deirdre Fitzpatrick followed. She waited until the stretcher was placed carefully in the back of the ambulance, and then she squeezed in alongside.

  The vehicle set off. My sheet-raising skills were no longer needed as neighbours took on that task, lifting and lowering laundry to let the ambulance pass.

  ‘Where is she going?’ I asked an old woman who stood in her doorway.

  ‘The daughter’s tekin her to a nursing home, for what good it’ll do the poor soul.’

  There was nothing more for me here. Following the direction of the ambulance, I made my way to the end of Cotton Street. The roar of a passing train gave me my bearings.

  Following the line of the railway, I felt sure of my directions because the railway viaduct runs across the back of the Lloyds Arms, where I had arranged to meet Sykes.

  In the pub’s best room, Sykes was already cosily ensconced in a window seat, a pint on the brass-topped table. He stood up and budged along. ‘You all right, Mrs Shackleton?’

  ‘Yes and no.’ I sat down, glad to take the weight off my feet. ‘I followed Deirdre Fitzpatrick to Cotton Street, on the Bank, to her mother’s house.’ I took the packet of Black Cats from my bag. ‘It’s a dispiriting area, Mr Sykes.’ He lit my cigarette. ‘An ambulance came and picked up Mrs Fitzpatrick’s mother, to take her to a nursing home. Deirdre travelled with her. From the glimpse I caught of the mother, and what the neighbours say, I would guess that the poor woman is on her last legs.’

  Sam, our favourite waiter, came across and exchanged a few words before taking our order.

  When he had gone, I gave Sykes a brief account of the visit Deirdre had made to an office on St Paul’s Street, and the injunction that we would keep that to ourselves.

  Sykes drained his glass. ‘I wonder where Mrs Fitzpatrick got the money for a nursing home?’

  ‘That’s none of our business. As far as we know, she’s not shoplifting. Think about it, Mr Sykes. She was foolish and inept enough for you to nab her last year. I don’t think she’d hone her skills to such a degree that twelve months on she is a mistress of the art. Say nothing to Fitzpatrick about the ambulance. All he needs to know is that Deirdre went to visit her mother.’

  ‘That won’t satisfy him. What else do we say?’

  ‘Not we, you. Damp him down. The man worries me.’

  Deirdre recognised Mr Everett Runcie from his photograph. He was waiting for her at the entrance to the Hotel Metropole. Where else? This was the best. Grim humour came to her aid
. I’m going up in the world, she told herself.

  ‘Mrs Fitzpatrick?’ He spoke her name softly, so as not to be overheard by the uniformed doorman, all gold braid, swagger and flapping lugs.

  She smiled acknowledgement, wishing she had chosen another name. But the solicitor liked the name Fitzpatrick. He said it sounded just the right note, and that she would only be Fitzpatrick until the gentleman signed the register.

  At the desk, she stood beside Runcie as he signed. Deirdre watched the look of dismay spread over the clerk’s face as he saw Mr Runcie write Mr and Mrs. She turned away, so as not to be scrutinised, pretending absorption in her surroundings. From nearby came the strains of an orchestra. The place was all marble tiles, polished wood, palm plants and money.

  They walked arm in arm through the hotel foyer, the page boy already ahead of them, walking up the stairs, carrying her bag that looked suddenly shabby.

  She did not like Runcie. He was undressing her with his eyes. He was too confident. This one could be trouble.

  In the room, he tipped the page who set down their bags. She opened hers and took out her sponge bag, nightgown and dress for tomorrow. Stop staring at me.

  ‘Will I meet you downstairs in ten minutes?’ she asked.

  He sat on the bed. ‘Oh no. I shall wait with you until you’re ready. It wouldn’t do to abandon you when we are so devoted, my dear.’

  She washed her hands in the basin, and combed her hair, all the while conscious of Runcie’s eyes on her.

  ‘I always have this suite,’ he said. ‘There’s the bathroom that connects to the room next door. That other room is ours, too, but we shan’t need it.’

  He came up behind her, too close.

  ‘Will we be dancing?’ she asked, moving away from him.

  ‘Do you know, I’m not in the mood for dancing.’

  The meal went slowly. She had chosen cod, in a sauce of some kind. He ate carefully, cutting his lamb into small pieces.

  ‘Tell me about yourself,’ she said sweetly. ‘I believe you’re a banker.’

  He laughed. ‘Was a banker. Was lots of things, but not any more. I shall shortly be retiring to Italy.’

  ‘You look too young to be retiring.’

  She hated herself for this inability to keep from flattering.

  The waiter filled Runcie’s glass. Deirdre put a hand over hers, but Runcie took her hand, and kissed it, and indicated to the waiter to pour. It would be her third glass, and she had no head for drink. It will knock me out, she thought. I won’t have to deal with him.

  Having set down his knife, Runcie put his hand on her thigh.

  ‘Don’t do that, Mr Runcie.’

  ‘Call me Everett, my dear.’

  Something in Deirdre snapped, but no sign showed on her face. She lifted his hand and presented it back to him. ‘Mr Runcie, I am utterly reliable. The grand inquisitor himself wouldn’t winkle out a confession of collusion when your wife cites adultery and files for divorce. You could have asked your mistress or a streetwalker, but I am the perfect “woman unknown”, who passes as your wife and disappears again, without further demands or expectations.’

  And he could like it or lump it.

  This was the role as described to her by the solicitor on St Paul’s Street who gave her the assignations. Deirdre liked the matter-of-factness of the explanation. She took another drink, saying to herself, I could develop a taste for this.

  ‘How much do you want?’ he asked.

  She felt sick. ‘I am not for sale.’

  He laughed.

  It was ridiculous. She knew herself it was ridiculous, but he repulsed her, this handsome man.

  ‘I can tell you like me,’ he said. ‘Say you do.’

  She refused to argue. There was no point. ‘Do you want your divorce, or not?’

  ‘Not, as it happens. I did my best by my wife. She did not keep her part of the bargain. I think you understand me.’

  She concentrated on squashing peas against her fork.

  He took her silence for assent, and said, ‘We should have had an heir by now, an heir and a spare as they say. Do you have children?’

  It was such a simple question. She ought to be able to say no without some storm brewing up inside her. He wanted children, and so did she. Don’t pity him, she told herself.

  He waited for her answer.

  ‘No, I don’t have children.’ Something in the way she spoke closed the subject.

  They laboured through the rest of the meal, both choosing a milk pudding. Deirdre thought she must be losing her touch that she could not summon careless chat. It was all the fault of Joe, Joseph Barnard. She had let the singer get under her skin, and now he was gone, and she had no patience left for any other man, not Fitz, and certainly not for this conceited toff who tried to make her feel for him because he had no son. It made her want to scream.

  But something happened to keep her from screaming. As the waiter gathered up their desert dishes, Runcie waved to a man at the bar.

  He said to the waiter, ‘Ask the gentleman from New York to join us.’

  ‘Very well, sir.’

  ‘Be nice to this fellow, my dear. I met him at the Knavesmire this week and I plan to let him in on a little project of mine.’

  Here was Deirdre’s escape. She felt that her guardian angel had intervened. ‘I’m sorry.’ She stood. ‘I’d be bad company. My head aches. I’ll go to the room and leave you gentlemen to talk.’

  Looking neither left nor right, doing her very best to walk in a straight line, Deirdre made for the stairs. She held onto the banister. No one would guess I’m tipsy. In the room, she undressed and struggled into her nightgown. By force of habit, she hung up her gown. Take good care of your clothes. Put the bolster between you, the voice in her head commanded. The wine did the trick. Within moments of lying down, she was out for the count.

  Deirdre woke with a start. Early morning light filtered through the gap in the curtains. She must sit this out until the chambermaid knocked on the door with morning tea. She raised herself up and looked at Runcie, gratified that the bolster was still in place between them. He must have come up late, thank God, and had not disturbed her.

  Her head throbbed. Her mouth felt dry. She went to the bathroom and filled the glass to quench her thirst. Well, she had come safely through the night.

  Runcie was lying on his back, sleeping soundlessly, still as an effigy. She stared for a long moment. Something was wrong, strange. There was no rise and fall at his chest. His skin was taut and ghastly pale. The man looked repulsive. Deirdre knelt up on the bed. She did not want to touch him, but made herself lift his hand. One of the nuns at school had taught her how to feel for a pulse. Nothing.

  She pulled a feather from the eiderdown and held it below his nostrils. The feather did not stir.

  There was a knock on the door, a gentle tapping. A young voice said, ‘Your morning call, sir. Madam.’

  The door knob turned.

  Deirdre flung herself from the bed and across the room. No one must see her, in bed with a dead man.

  As I walked up to the old stables that I use as a garage, I wondered why Marcus had suddenly summoned me to the Hotel Metropole.

  ‘It’s work,’ he had said tersely. ‘I would appreciate your help.’

  I wondered did it concern the ‘businessman’ visitor from New York, here to buy vast quantities of liquor. If my photographer friend, Len Diamond, knew the man’s reputation, perhaps the hotel management had also found out and grown uneasy about their gangster guest.

  But Marcus was giving nothing away. There was an edge to his voice that I had not heard before. Usually, regardless of events, nothing mars his telephone air of professional politeness. Something had rattled him.

  No point in speculating. I drove onto Headingley Lane and headed towards the town. Within ten minutes, I turned into King Street.

  Two official-looking black cars were parked close to the hotel. I drew up behind the second one. A uniformed pol
iceman stood at the entrance. As I climbed out of the motor, the officer pounced.

  Before he had time to ask me to move the car, I said, ‘Mr Marcus Charles is expecting me.’

  Moments later, I walked along the third-floor corridor. Coming towards me was Mr Nettleton, the police surgeon. He tipped his hat and wished me good morning. ‘How is your father, Mrs Shackleton?’

  ‘Very well, thank you.’

  ‘Do give him my regards.’

  ‘I will.’

  My adoptive father is superintendent of West Riding Constabulary, which I suppose just may have influenced my choice of occupation.

  Marcus had left the door ajar.

  ‘Kate. Thank you for coming at such short notice.’

  He did not smile.

  The room was done out as a sitting room, with bucket chairs, cocktail cabinet and occasional tables.

  ‘What’s happened, Marcus?’

  ‘You’d better sit down. I’ll explain.’

  I took a seat in one of the bucket chairs.

  ‘I’m afraid that it is bad news concerning someone you know. Mr Everett Runcie was found dead in his room here this morning.’

  He gave me a moment to take in this information. I found it hard to believe. ‘Everett Runcie?’

  ‘The chambermaid found him.’

  ‘Has Philippa been told?’ It crossed my mind that Marcus must want me to break the bad news.

  ‘A detective inspector is on his way to speak to Mrs Runcie.’ He looked at his watch. ‘He’ll be with her round about now I should think.’

  ‘Poor woman. What a shock.’

  Marcus nodded. ‘I don’t envy the inspector, having to break that kind of news.’

  ‘I don’t understand. Everett only lives a few miles away. Why was he staying here?’

  ‘The manager tells me that he stays here when he has female company. Someone was with him but has disappeared. Usually the pretence is that his lady friend has a separate room and is signed in under her own name, all very discreet.’

  ‘Caroline Windham?’

  ‘Yes. You know her?’