A Medal For Murder (11 page)

‘I will. Drop of milk, I think. Will you pour?’

I retrieved the milk and poured a drop into the pan, listening to it sizzle as Meriel stirred.

‘Thanks for dealing with our local bobby, Kate. It would have been awkward to explain myself before the bench just as I have my great opportunity with Mr Wheatley. You saved my bacon.’

‘There was no need to go out stealing, Meriel! We could have gone out for breakfast. I would have bought you a bunch of flowers.’

‘All too, too bourgeois,’ Meriel said, with a wave of her hand. ‘You are my guest. You must have a good breakfast. I’m honest as a rule, but all my ready cash was eaten up by the production. The theatre’s a glutton, Kate. It will swallow my heart one of these days.’

I set plates and cutlery on the table. The faded marigolds bowed their dying heads. I changed the water in the vase and replaced the marigolds with fragrant Belladonna lilies, courtesy of Harrogate Corporation.

‘You know BW has invited me for lunch today?’ With a look of total concentration, Meriel shared the scrambled duck egg between our two plates.

‘You did mention it last night. Twice.’

Meriel pulled a face. ‘I could say something in my defence, but you won’t want to know.’

‘What? What could you say?’

‘That life is short and art is long. I must make my mark in the theatre, and if that means being a little, well, ruthless, I suppose, that . . .’

‘You were totally insensitive. And now you’ve been out thieving and I have covered for you. More fool me. It is not something I should do, given my occupation.’

‘Oh yes. I’d forgotten about your sleuthing. But, Kate, we had to have
something
for breakfast. I don’t want to arrive at the Grand Hotel famished. You behave very oddly if you’re hungry, don’t you think?’

What am I doing here? I asked myself, as I tucked into the scrambled duck egg and listened to Meriel as she gave me tips about how you shouldn’t wash a frying pan but wipe it round with a piece of newspaper.

Her conversation turned to famous people she had met. Wiping her bread round the plate, she said, ‘Did I tell you that I once met George Bernard Shaw?’

‘No.’

‘It was at a buffet supper, and I hoped to talk to him. He could have been helpful in my career. But I couldn’t stop thinking about food. I was so hungry that day. He saw me stuffing a cooked chicken into my bag. I wanted to die! He’s a vegetarian you know.’ She sighed at the lost opportunity. ‘He did explain Frederick Alexander’s technique – not to me personally, but to the whole room, rising from the sofa, saying you had to imagine a piece of string going through the top of his head all the way down his spine. Have you heard of it?’

‘No.’

‘It’s a method of releasing physical and mental tension from the body through awareness of posture. By re-educating your muscle system, movements become light and easy. The technique would benefit you, Kate. You looked very tense earlier, when you came down the stairs.’

I liked her nerve! Why wouldn’t I be tense? It was enough to find a body, without then lying to protect her from arrest for stealing.

She moved from the chair, threw a blanket from the
chaise longue on the floor and laid herself flat. ‘You see, with Mr Alexander’s technique, you become aware of every part of your body, and the tension floats away.’

‘I’ll leave you to it, then. Your landlord has asked me to have a word.’

In an instant, she sat bolt upright. ‘What about?’

‘I think it’s about his wartime experiences.’

‘Well, while you’re up there, I shall practise my Alexander. But I’m surprised if he wants to talk about the war. He doesn’t normally. He just marches an awful lot, especially at night when I’m trying to get to sleep.’

I paused at the foot of the stairs. ‘It’s odd for an old man to bring up a young girl. What happened to Lucy’s parents, and the captain’s wife?’

Meriel expelled her breath with a whoosh, and closed her eyes. ‘Story is they died in darkest Africa. Old granddad up there is the only survivor, worse luck for Lucy.’

 
 

Captain Wolfendale opened his door cautiously. He peered over my shoulder. ‘Did you mention to Miss Jamieson that I asked you to come up?’

‘She believes you’re going to talk to me about the war.’

He nodded. ‘Thank you. I thought you would be discreet. Do come in, Mrs Shackleton. Forgive the cloak and dagger.’

I followed the captain into the high-ceilinged drawing room with its elaborate cornices, and small chandelier.

To the right of the doorway stood two large fumed oak cabinets stocked with small arms and medals. A pair of carved Zulu warrior figures guarded the whisky decanter on the sideboard.

On either side of the Adam fireplace stood easy chairs, one of leather, one of worn velvet. Between these chairs, across the hearth, lay a tigerskin rug, the head of the tiger caught in a permanent snarl. Its hard glass eyes glared malignantly at no one in particular and everyone and everything in general. Intricate carved Indian stools and tables were dotted about the room. Swords and animal trophies decorated the walls,
including the head of a sad-eyed deer and the tusks of a mighty elephant. Captain Wolfendale stood by the leather chair and motioned me to take the opposite seat. Beyond his shoulder, on top of a cabinet, were more specimens of the taxidermist’s art: a mongoose and a curled cobra.

On one side of the bay window, a suit of medieval armour stood guard. On the other side of the window, a boy-sized tailor’s dummy wore breeches, a jacket and a bush hat. A gun, that was sure to have a special name, had been taped to the dummy’s hand. The armour and the dummy were divided by a flourishing aspidistra in a brass pot.

I took a seat, and waited for him to speak.

It took him a long moment to settle himself, placing his hands cautiously on the chair arms as though this may, after all, be a trick chair. ‘My granddaughter told me that as well as taking photographs, you are a private investigator.’

‘Yes. She asked me what I do with my time, besides taking photographs.’ It was unusual. Often young people are so caught up with their own lives that they do not enquire about their elders. But Lucy Wolfendale was twenty-one, and so old enough to be curious about how other women live their lives.

The captain continued by telling me something I already knew. ‘Lucy came of age this month. My job ought to be done now. She should be married.’

Where was this leading, I wondered. I hoped he would not ask my advice.

‘Did I say this conversation is in confidence, Mrs Shackleton?’

I hate it when people repeat themselves, and insisting on confidentiality is an insult. ‘You did, and it was not necessary.’

‘Sorry. Take a look at this.’

He stood up. From the mantelpiece, he took a white envelope which he handed to me. It was postmarked Harrogate, with yesterday’s date stamp. Name and address were written in block capitals.

C
APTAIN
R. O. W
OLFENDALE
VC

29 S
T
C
LEMENT’S
R
OAD

H
ARROGATE

I was impressed. ‘Victoria Cross? You are one of the gallant few, Captain.’

He waved his hand dismissively. ‘I want you to read the note.’

I slid out the sheet of paper carefully, holding it by the corner.

In letters cut from a magazine, the message read:

ONE THOUSAND POUNDS TO HAVE LUCY

BACK ALIVE

AWAIT INSTRUCTIONS

CALL POLICE SHE WILL DIE

My first reaction was that this looked like a schoolgirl prank. It seemed too preposterous to be real. But then, so did finding the lifeless body of a theatregoer in a shop doorway. There could be no connection. Lucy had been in a huddle with her young friends. No one could have snatched her, could they?

‘When did you receive this note?’ The chair was soft
and deep. Holding the note, taking in the situation, forced me to try and sit up straight.

‘It came with the first post, at seven thirty.’ He sat down again, looking across at me. Only the drumming of his fingers on the chair arm betrayed a hint of agitation. ‘What do you make of it, Mrs Shackleton?’

‘I have no idea what to make of it, Captain Wolfendale.’

He nodded sagely. ‘I ask for two reasons. First, because you were the person who brought me the news that Lucy would stay with Alison last night.’ The pause that followed hung in the air like an accusation.

‘And the second reason?’

‘Because you are a private detective.’

‘You say I brought you “the news” that Lucy would stay with Alison. Lucy said she wanted me to remind you that she would do so.’

‘Reminder!’ He shook his head. ‘I’m not senile yet. If Lucy had said she was staying with a friend, I would have remembered. When you gave me the message, I expected she would be back this morning, saying “I could have telephoned to you if we’d had a telephone installed.” She accuses me of refusing to hobble into the twentieth century. Been after me to get a telephone for months, as though a telephone is one of life’s necessities.’

‘I can only repeat what she said. I don’t know what to make of this note. Do you?’

He shook his head.

‘Captain Wolfendale, there’s a simple way of checking whether this note, this demand, should be taken seriously. Find out if Lucy is with Alison.’

He pushed himself to his feet. ‘And what if she is
not there? What then? By the very fact of asking, I would be announcing to Mrs Hart, and Alison, that Lucy did not come home last night. Something like that could shred her reputation. She’s sought after you know, will make a good match. But this . . . What’s the meaning of it? Has some blighter taken hold of her? Is it to torment me?’

‘I’m sorry but I don’t know what else to suggest. I brought you the message, but that’s all. I hardly know Lucy, or Alison. Kidnap seems most unlikely.’

But so did murder seem unlikely.

He picked up a framed photograph from the table beside him. It was the one I had taken of Lucy, as a publicity picture for the play. ‘Look at her,’ he said. ‘She’s a beauty. Her mother was a beauty, but Lucy . . . She really does shine in this photograph. What did you do to make her so . . . translucent?’

When people ask about photographic technique, they rarely want to know the technical details. ‘I took the photograph on the day she was wearing her halo,’ I said.

He smiled.

‘How long have you been Lucy’s guardian, Captain?’

‘Since her parents died.’

‘Has she ever gone missing before?’

‘No,’ he said emphatically. ‘Most certainly not.’

‘You’ve asked my advice. A little background would help.’

He placed the photograph back on the table and sat down. ‘Her parents died before she was two years old. She doesn’t remember them. Her mother died of influenza, her father in a motor accident in the African veld. A nursemaid brought her to Britain. I was already a widower, so coming to Harrogate when my aunt died
and left me this property worked out well. It gave Lucy stability. Miss Fell, my tenant on the floor above, was very helpful. She’s a spinster but had brought up younger brothers and sisters.’

‘The nursemaid did not stay?’

‘Not for very long.’

The envelope and letter remained in my lap. ‘Do you take this threat seriously?’

He jumped to his feet as though unable to contain himself. ‘How else am I to take it?’ He began to pace. ‘I can’t come up with a thousand pounds. It’s absurd.’

‘Then put your mind at rest. Walk round to Alison’s house, say you were passing. Congratulate Alison on her role. You did see the play?’

And here was my chance for a rapier thrust, because I still wondered why he had been so cagey when I mentioned Mr Milner last night. It would have been natural to say he had been here that afternoon, when I had seen them playing a board game. ‘Were you at the performance last night?’