A Woman Unknown Read online

  ‘He was an idiot to go back to her after he married you.’

  ‘Go back to her?’ She blew a smoke ring. ‘How naïve I was. He never left her, never gave her up. Oh he swore that he had.’ She smoothed a non-existent crease from her dress. ‘When we were on our honeymoon in Florence, he arranged for me to have singing lessons, painting lessons, Italian conversation. And I was glad to do all this, because I was trying to be the most accomplished wife in the world. It was years after that I discovered she was in Florence at the same time, and he was going to her. I’m surprised she let someone strangle him. She’s built like the prow of a ship. Why didn’t she throttle them, whoever it was?’

  This was awkward. No one had told Philippa who was with Everett at the hotel. She was assuming it had been Caroline.

  The ash on Philippa’s cigarette lengthened. She let it fall to the ground, and then turned to look at me, picking up on my silence.

  ‘He was with her?’

  ‘Probably I shouldn’t be saying anything about this. I shouldn’t have come.’

  ‘What? You can’t hold something like that back from me. I’ve a right to know.’

  ‘The woman he was with didn’t answer Caroline’s description.’

  ‘How do you know?’

  ‘The chambermaid was in a state of shock. The one woman PC not being available, Marcus asked me to talk to her. I was at the hotel this morning, and I picked up the description of the woman, not at all matching Caroline.’

  ‘Then I hate Caroline Windham even more than I did before. Who was he with? Someone she fixed him up with probably. I might have known she would not be named as co-respondent. Unless …’

  ‘Unless what?’

  ‘Unless he was being unfaithful to her. She would have killed him for that. I put up with his cheating and his lies. She wouldn’t.’ She became flushed with a kind of wild excitement. ‘It was her. I bet she wanted to marry him as soon as he was free. If he said no, or put her off, or betrayed her … My God, Kate, it was her. A crime of passion.’

  In a maze, it is not always possible to know where a call comes from. A deep voice shouted Philippa’s name.

  ‘Go away. Leave me alone,’ she said, half to herself, but stood up, and began to lead us out of the maze, with the slow step of a person taking in her surroundings as if for the last time.

  I wondered whether she would shut up this house immediately after the funeral and leave for home. Here was someone who, financially at least, would be better off with a dead husband than a living one.

  The voice called again.

  Gideon King entered the maze, a worried frown on his face.

  ‘Philippa!’

  ‘What is it, Gideon?’

  ‘There’s a chief inspector here to see you.’

  Philippa touched my arm. ‘They’ve got someone. Would they be this quick?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  King said softly, ‘He has some questions, for you, and then for me.’

  ‘All right.’ She moved away with a sigh. ‘Kate, come again soon.’

  We watched her walk away. King said, ‘How did you come here, Mrs Shackleton?’

  ‘By shanks’s pony.’

  ‘I’ll walk with you to the gate.’

  There was no need, but something in his manner told me this was more for his benefit than mine. He took slow steps, looking at the ground and then suddenly at me, as if about to speak. He did not.

  I considered whether I should wait, prompt him, or start a conversation. The latter might put him at his ease.

  ‘It’s good that Philippa has you to rely on at this time.’

  ‘Yes. But it’s horrible that this has happened, when everything was going to be dealt with in a civilised way. Now the police will comb through all Everett’s dealings. It will be a great embarrassment to the family.’

  ‘I’m sure they’ll be discreet. They’re looking for a killer, not skeletons in the attics.’ We wended our way through an avenue of high tress that turned the world dark. He was taking me a long way round to the gate. ‘You’re not looking forward to being questioned, Mr King. Nobody does.’

  ‘I don’t want to say anything about their private life. It’s no one’s business. What are they going to ask me?’

  He was acting like a person about to take a test and wanting to know the gist of the questions in advance. They would ask him where he was last night and this morning, that much must be obvious even to him. As Philippa’s secretary, he had also appointed himself her watchdog and guardian angel. ‘I expect they’ll ask general questions, to try and build a complete picture of Everett’s life in recent days, and to find out about his associates, and any enemies.’

  ‘Do they think Everett was being blackmailed?’

  His question took me by surprise. ‘Why would they? I’d say it is too early for theories. Do you believe he was being blackmailed?’

  ‘It crossed my mind.’

  ‘If you think there is any possibility of that, you must mention it to the chief inspector.’

  He nodded. ‘I studied theology. Perhaps law would have stood me in better stead. What I knew of Everett’s enterprises I judged in terms of right and wrong, not lawful and unlawful. But say he had some dealings that broke the law, something that might land him in court, even in prison.’

  ‘How would that connect with murder, Mr King?’

  ‘If he refused to pay a blackmailer.’

  ‘If a person being blackmailed refuses to pay, then the blackmailer’s bluff is called. He either makes public what he knows or crawls away with his tail between his legs.’

  Had King been blackmailing Runcie? He stopped. I went on walking and had to turn back to look at him.

  He thrust his hands in his pockets. ‘Anyway, it was just a thought, something that struck me. If he was being blackmailed, and threatened to expose the man, or woman, then that could have signed his death warrant.’

  ‘I suppose that is possible.’

  ‘Which is worse in the law here, blackmail or some other crime?’

  ‘Blackmail is a heinous crime everywhere. It must be the same in your country also.’ We left the avenue of trees. I saw the gate a few yards off. ‘Mr King, is there something you want to tell me?’

  He gave a small smile. ‘No. Just thinking aloud. Puts the wind up me, the thought of being interviewed by the police. They’re a different breed. I don’t speak their language.’

  ‘If it is Chief Inspector Charles, you’ll find him impeccably proper, and keen to listen.’

  ‘I wasn’t a good student of theology because the concepts of evil and damnation gave me considerable difficulty.’

  This was the first time I had talked to King. He was an interesting man and my judgement of him as looking like Attila the Hun now seemed shallow and unkind. He was a complex person and I hoped I might get to know him a little better. ‘Thanks for walking me, Mr King. Better not keep the law waiting.’

  He smiled. ‘I won’t.’ He made a helpless gesture. ‘We were so on course, to go back to Boston. Now that we’ve been thrown off course, I suddenly realise that I never gave myself the opportunity to consider whether I do want to return. Goodbye, Mrs Shackleton.’

  ‘Goodbye, Mr King.’

  I walked slowly back to the road, wondering whether Marcus would fathom King, and elicit from him the actions that would have left Everett open to blackmail.

  I had come here with the intention of asking Philippa about the shooting party incident, and had found no tactful way to do so. There was one person who would be able to answer my question on that score: Caroline Windham herself.

  As I walked home, I thought about Philippa, and about Caroline Windham. Philippa had been shaken by the news of her husband’s death but remained calm, almost unruffled. Caroline had not yet learned of her lover’s death. If the Runcie family were keeping quiet about it, she would be in the dark all weekend. Would that be a blessing, or would she rather know?

  According to my Aunt
Berta, who is the fount of all social wisdom, Caroline Windham had loved Everett Runcie since she was twelve years old. It did not seem fair for her to be left out.

  If Marcus arranged for Miss Windham to be interviewed today or tomorrow, then she would hear the news from the police. Otherwise, she would learn of the death on Monday, at the breakfast table. Doubtless there would be something in The Times.

  That would be cruel. She should be told before the whole world knew.

  Shortly after I arrived home, I placed a call to Marcus at the hotel. Unsurprisingly, he was not available. Nor did he return my call.

  By the time my head hit the pillow, I had decided that tomorrow I would visit the Viking Queen in her lair.

  Lacking genuine connections and the ability to talk long and lucidly about horses and dogs, I usually stay clear of grand country houses. Now here I was, the morning after visiting Philippa Runcie at Kirkley Hall, driving along the broad approach towards Somersgill. This was the seat of Lord and Lady Fotheringham whose noblesse oblige obliged them to give penniless but well-bred Caroline Windham house room.

  A group of young deer looked up from their grazing as my car wheels scattered gravel. Grand and solid, Somersgill occupies a dip in the valley, east of the town, a situation that gives the estate protection from the worst of the elements. Imagine a capital L, put an extra tail on top, and turn it on its side, then you will have the shape of three-storey Somersgill. The front of the house faces south, towards extensive parklands and hunting grounds. Eastward and westward lie farmland and the moor.

  As befits a policeman’s daughter, I approached from the side.

  Had I attended finishing school, or paid more attention to Aunt Berta, I should have known the protocol for paying a visit not to Lady Fortheringham but to one of her houseguests. The last thing I wanted was to explain myself to a Fotheringham. Even facing Caroline Windham struck me as a daunting prospect. But I felt I was right. It was only fair that she should be told about Runcie’s death before it became common knowledge.

  I circled round to the back of the house and drew up near the stable block. No groom or stable lad sprang into action, or came to enquire who I was and what I wanted.

  Searching my bag, I found a card that mercifully had just my name and not my occupation. It would be too alarming to send up a card announcing me as a private investigator. Given the size of the house, there must be some nook or cranny where I could be hidden until Caroline Windham put in an appearance. Sheer boredom and curiosity must ensure that she would come to see what I wanted.

  As I knocked on the door, it struck me as absurd that I should be the one to break the news of her lover’s death. But I did have the ulterior motive of hoping to slip in an enquiry about the injury she sustained on the first day of grouse shooting, and whether there was a possibility that the shot that grazed her arm had been intended for Runcie.

  A butler opened the door. Entering, I handed him my card and glimpsed the interior, feeling a slight shock at the shabby appearance of the place. Like Kirkley Hall, Somersgill had been requisitioned as a hospital during the war. Unlike Kirkley Hall, which thanks to Philippa’s coffers had been restored to more than its former glory, Somersgill still showed the signs of requisitioning, and of subsequent neglect. Floor tiles were cracked. Paint peeled from the walls. A rail had been added to the wall by the broad staircase, and one of its attachments had become loose.

  The butler showed no surprise when I asked for Miss Windham.

  ‘Miss Windham is out riding.’

  Why didn’t I think of that? Of course the Viking Queen would be out riding in the mornings. Later, she would be casting lines, setting mantraps for poachers and nailing their carcasses to the stable door. ‘What time does she usually return?’

  He looked at the cracked face of the ancient grandfather clock that had not given the correct time since 1912. ‘I should say at about eleven o’clock, madam.’

  ‘It’s such a fine day. I’ll walk in the grounds and come back later.’ I retrieved my card.

  ‘Very well, madam.’

  The butler limped me to the door. Like the house, he was worse for wear.

  A stone seat had been placed on the terrace, to give a view over the parkland. I sat there for a while, taking in the blue sky, cotton wool clouds and the changing shadows across the broad undulating stretch of green.

  It was a good hour before Caroline Windham appeared on the horizon, and she was not alone. As her black stallion trotted closer, I understood why her riding was so highly praised. Side saddle, she sat tall, as though born to ride. She wore a dark skirt, jacket and hat, with a white silk muffler at her throat. I walked round the house, towards the stable block, arriving just in time to watch her dismount. The groom came out, but she led the horse into the stable herself, and was there for several moments before reappearing, hat in hand, a long strand of flaxen hair falling to her shoulder.

  Another rider, a man, arrived moments later, calling to her in a bantering tone. Needing to move quickly and speak to Caroline Windham alone, I paid him little attention as he rode to the stable door.

  And here she came, stately as the royal coach. ‘Miss Windham?’

  We had been in the same company on more than one occasion but she is a person who chooses not to notice anyone socially unimportant to her. She turned to look at me, cautiously, as though I might have come from the butcher to ask her to pay for the crown of lamb. Not having riding clothes and height put me at a disadvantage.

  She brimmed with life and energy after her ride. ‘Do I know you?’ She stared at me.

  ‘We’ve met, through my aunt, Lady Rodpen.’

  ‘Oh, so you are one of us?’ She meant the establishment, an old family, the aristocracy, the charmed circle.

  ‘Not really. My mother uses her title only occasionally. She married a police officer.’

  She need not know that I am adopted.

  She relaxed. ‘Of course. Now I know exactly who you are, but not why you’re here.’

  I dreaded speaking what must be said. ‘I have some news for you.’

  ‘From Lady Rodpen? Will you come inside?’

  ‘I’d rather not. Is there somewhere else we can talk?’ It seemed absurd, given the size of the house, to want to remain outdoors. But I disliked the thought of bumping into other people and being introduced, or explained.

  ‘How mysterious you are.’ She looked around as though deciding where we might park ourselves, then set off at a march.

  I fell into step, and saw that she was walking towards a domed bandstand. ‘How is your arm, after the shooting accident, Miss Windham?’

  ‘Oh that. Wish I could have found the chump who misfired. It’s still a bit sore when I throw things or cast a line. How is Lady Rodpen?’

  ‘My aunt’s very well, thank you. She may be coming up this way before too long.’ I did not say that it would be for Runcie’s funeral.

  ‘Good. I’d be glad to see her.’

  Don’t give up on the injury, I told myself. ‘I read about your mishap in the paper. The newspaper article said that Mr and Mrs Runcie came to your assistance. There was a photograph.’

  She looked down at me, and there was suspicion in her voice when she said, ‘Newspapers never trouble to get their facts right.’

  ‘What were the facts?’

  She did not answer. So much for my on-the-hoof interviewing technique.

  We reached the bandstand. She entered first, taking off her hat and flinging it onto the stone seat that circled the inside of the structure. We sat down, a little way apart. She pulled a couple of loose cigarettes from her pocket and put one on the seat between us. I searched for my lighter.

  She said. ‘What can I do for you?’

  I lit her cigarette and gave her time to inhale. ‘I’m sorry, but there’s bad news concerning Mr Runcie.’

  She tensed. ‘What is it?’

  ‘He stayed in a hotel in Leeds on Friday night …’

  She showed no surp
rise at this information. No doubt she knew about the divorce, and what evidence would be required by the courts. ‘I’m sorry to tell you that he was found dead in his hotel room on Saturday morning.’

  ‘No. Oh no.’ She closed her eyes. ‘That can’t be true.’

  ‘The police informed Mrs Runcie yesterday morning.’

  ‘Yesterday morning?’

  ‘It was decided by his family, and the directors of the bank, not to make an announcement until tomorrow.’

  Her eyes narrowed with disbelief. ‘And you, how do you know?’

  Good question. If I knew, who else knew, she must wonder.

  ‘I was at the hotel. I know the investigating officer, but believe me the death is not widely known about.’

  ‘Investigating officer?’ She ran a hand through her hair. ‘What can you mean? He was so well. What was it? How did he die?’

  Having told her of the death, I could not say nothing, and have her beating her brains out with imaginings. ‘The death is suspicious.’

  She sat very still. ‘Suspicious?’

  ‘There will be an inquest.’ I did not have either Philippa’s or Marcus’s permission to give out more information.

  ‘What do you mean, suspicious?’ She stared at me in disbelief. ‘He would never top himself.’

  ‘He did not take his own life.’

  The enormity of what I was saying hit her slowly. She gave a low anguished cry, like the yelp of a hurt animal. Her eyes brimmed with tears. She turned away from me with a shudder. It was distressing to see her. As if she read my thoughts, she flung out a hand, ordering me to keep away from her.

  After a long time, she turned to me, her voice unnaturally steady by force of will. ‘You mean he was murdered?’

  Having come this far, I could not go back. ‘Yes.’

  ‘They did for him. The bastards. They did for him.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Precious Philippa and her private secretary, Gideon King. They killed him.’

  ‘There’s no reason to suppose …’