A Medal For Murder (2 page)

‘It was a warm day. The chap dabbed at his brow with a hanky. And there was this smell when he pulled out the handkerchief . . .’ He frowned.

‘What kind of smell?’

‘Something heady.’

‘Hair lotion?’

‘No. Like polish and roses. The police took no notice of that. The officer who came had no sense of smell, said it could have been the polish on my counters. He claimed a person has a heightened sense of awareness when something unusual or bad happens.’

‘So you completed the transaction,’ I prompted.

‘Yes. I counted out the twelve shillings, put the chain in the bag . . .’

‘And then?’

‘We wished each other good day. He turned to leave the premises. As he did so, I moved to put the bagged item in the safe. The shop bell did not ring immediately. I glanced back, to see whether some item had caught his eye. That sometimes happens, you know.’

Mr Moony stopped, as though reluctant to bring the event back to life. His eye twitched and it took him a few seconds to bring it under control.

I said, ‘The police must have been gratified to have so good an account. And what happened next?’

Mr Moony gulped. A great sigh escaped before he could continue. ‘He was not by the door at all. He was behind me. Before I had time to close the safe, his hands were round my throat, he’d taken the chain back, flung me to the floor and grabbed everything he could from the safe. By the
time I recovered myself, he was gone. I telephoned the police. A constable was here within minutes. But they’ve had no luck finding him, or the missing articles. Naturally he gave a false address, in Headingley Lane. The police checked. I noticed you live in Headingley, Mrs Shackleton. I know it seems absurd, but my wife took that as a good sign.’

‘Let us hope so.’

Sykes looked up from his notebook. ‘Mr Moony, is there anything else that you can tell us, about his features, his colouring, manner, the way he talked?’

Mr Moony shrugged. ‘I’ve tried so hard to picture him that I may well be imagining. But there was something fine about him. I can’t put my finger on it. Something refined, so that when he pounced, I was taken completely by surprise. It feels ridiculous to say that and somehow I can’t expound on it. There was something of the clerk about him. Perhaps the stoop made me think that. I can’t be certain.’

‘Local accent?’ Sykes asked.

‘Well-spoken, in a neutral sort of way. Not local I wouldn’t say.’

‘And the police will have looked for fingerprints?’ I asked.

‘Yes, but they drew a blank. To tell you the truth, I have no great hopes of their finding him, or the pledges he took. And that’s the terrible thing. If he’d smashed the display case and taken new items, that would have been bad enough. This is worse. It’s the trust, you see. My customers will come back to redeem their pledges. What on earth can I say to them?’

Sykes and I exchanged a look. It seemed a slightly unusual job if we were being asked to provide the
jeweller with a suitable form of words for his disappointed customers. ‘Is that why we’re here, Mr Moony?’ I asked.

‘Well, it would be wonderful if you could find the blighter.’

Sounding more confident than I felt, I said, ‘Mr Sykes and I will do our best to recover the goods.’

‘The more days go by, the less likely it seems.’ Mr Moony reached onto the workbench and took a folder from under a pair of jeweller’s pliers. ‘This contains a copy of what I gave the police, a list of items taken: set of gold cufflinks and tie pin; three watch chains, two pocket watches, four rings and a bracelet. There’s a detailed description next to each item you’ll see. It’s a terrible thing to lose trust as a pawnbroker. Some of those pieces have great sentimental value. If I have lost them, then I need to inform their owners and make recompense. That calls for discretion. Two of the individuals involved are distressed gentlewomen who have utter confidence in me. One entrusted me with her late mother’s ring. I thought that if you, Mrs Shackleton, might be so good as to call in person on the ladies, showing the greatest tact . . . and . . . explain the situation . . .’

I could see why old ladies would trust Mr Moony – the gentle manner, old-world courtesy, his thoughtfulness.

I hid my surprise at being asked to convey messages to Mr Moony’s customers. Not exactly what a detective might be expected to do. ‘And Mr Sykes here would call on the gentlemen? Is that your wish?’

Mr Moony looked relieved. ‘Precisely. Then when they come here on the due date, I can arrange compensation.’

I glanced at the list of names and addresses. ‘They are not all local people.’

Mr Moony smiled. ‘I am the highest class pawnbroker in the vicinity of the railway station. Gentlefolk sometimes find it embarrassing to go to a local establishment.’

‘Then we can begin right away, Mr Moony.’ I looked to Sykes for his confirmation.

Sykes nodded. ‘Of course.’

‘Thank you. What will you think it best to say?’

I tried to imagine myself knocking on doors and explaining the situation. ‘Simply the truth about the robbery, without any extraneous details, and to say that if they will come to you with the ticket on the due date, some settlement will be reached, or a replacement item offered. Would that be the best approach?’

‘Yes, yes, I think so.’ He allowed a note of hope. ‘Of course if you or the police do retrieve the goods, then that would be the best outcome.’

‘Have the police come back to you?’ Sykes asked.

Mr Moony’s mournful sigh hit the floor and bounced back. ‘Only to say there is nothing to report.’ He lowered his head, as if overcome by the shame and embarrassment of his situation. When he looked up, I noticed a kind of desperation around his eyes. He ran his tongue across his thin lips. ‘These are the worst, the lowest days of my life. I cannot believe I was so lax as to let this happen to me.’

‘I’ll take a look around the shop, if I may.’ Sykes exited quickly, leaving me to reassure Mr Moony and urge him not to blame himself.

‘The watch chain the thief brought to pawn, was there anything distinctive about it?’

‘Didn’t I say? It had a gold coin attached. That’s not so very unusual, but this was a South African coin, a gold rand.’

‘That’s something to go on,’ I said, trying to sound encouraging.

Only several hundred thousand British men had served or worked in South Africa. That narrowed it down.

We discussed terms. Mr Moony had already written a generous cheque as a retainer. I tucked the cheque into my satchel and assured him we would do our very best. He walked us to the shop door.

When the door closed firmly behind us, the memory came back to me of my last visit to Moony’s jewellers. I went there to buy a gift for my husband Gerald, before he left for his army training. A surgeon, he had enlisted at the start of the Great War, in a blaze of patriotism and courage. He went missing, presumed dead, in 1918. His disappearance is the mystery I have never solved. He could be alive somewhere, ill or with loss of memory. Because he left me well provided, I can afford to solve other mysteries that barely touch my heart. I bought Gerald a silver hip flask. I carry his old one in my satchel.

Sykes interrupted my thoughts. ‘Shall I drive?’ he asked.

‘No you shan’t. Ignore the funny looks and smart remarks. It will be good for your character to glimpse what we women have to put up with.’

 
 

Following Sykes’s directions as he read the street map, I drove out of the town centre, onto Beckett Street and along Harehills Road. Dorset Mount was a respectable red-brick terraced street behind a block of shops. I parked by the shops, feeling a great reluctance to confront some poor woman about a very private transaction.

Sykes stayed with the car. I was just a little too well dressed for the area and felt self-conscious tapping along the pavement in my new strappy brown shoes. The back door seemed the more discreet option. As luck would have it, a plump, pleasant-looking woman stood in the yard, busy with a sweeping brush.

‘Mrs Simons?’

Her hand went to her heart. ‘It’s Solly,’ she said. ‘Something’s happened.’

‘No, nothing’s happened. No one’s hurt.’

She loosened her grip on the broom and came to the wall. ‘What is it?’

‘May I step into the yard a moment?’

She opened the gate. Standing by her coalhouse door,
I gave her the barest facts about the robbery at Moony’s pawnbrokers. She took the news better than I had expected.

‘Poor Mr Moony. If he makes it up to me, that is enough. Worse things happen.’

‘They won’t all take it so well, Mrs Shackleton,’ Sykes said glumly, when we were back in my dining room office. He looked at the newly delivered rosewood filing cabinet.

‘It is for our case files,’ I explained.

‘Well, I hope that you are not tempting fate, and that we will have more cases.’

‘Mr Sykes, do you have to be such a Job’s comforter?’

The truth is that the pawnbroker’s assignment is only my second professional case. Before that my missing person enquiries were undertaken as a kindness to other women who, like me, looked for answers at the end of the Great War.

We set Mr Moony’s list of stolen goods on the table between us. Mr Sykes frowned as he copied down the names and addresses of the men whose pawned items had been stolen, with the dates they were due to be redeemed.

I did the same with the women’s names, putting a tick against Mrs Simons, today’s date, and a note of her response. There were now four people left on my list, and six for Sykes. Pawning was clearly a democratic activity, with the sexes engaged almost equally.

‘What do you make of the fact that the thief gave a false address in Headingley, Mr Sykes? Does he know the area, I wonder?’

Sykes blew a doubtful sound. He is a man of many
non-verbal noises that convey a great deal. This particular exhalation seemed to suggest that he did not believe the thief lived in Headingley. ‘Hard to say. It’s likely he lives somewhere else entirely, and said Headingley to throw Mr Moony off the scent.’

At that moment my housekeeper, Mrs Sugden, came in with a tray bearing an early lunch of pork pie, tomatoes and cucumber, and a pot of tea. ‘You better eat, if you’re off to Harrogate, Mrs Shackleton.’

Specs on the end of her nose, Mrs Sugden glanced at my notebook. She is the soul of discretion, except when it comes to informing on me to my mother. ‘That was kept q.t.,’ she said with surprise. ‘I didn’t know old Moony had been robbed.’

Sykes scowled. This was not how he was used to working in the force.

‘It wouldn’t be good for his business if it got out, Mrs Sugden,’ I said, passing a plate to Mr Sykes.

When Mrs Sugden had gone, Sykes said, ‘It’ll be worth my checking with a pal of mine in Millgarth Station. He’s the desk sergeant. We were at school together. He’ll let me know if there are any leads on our refined gentleman jewel thief, or any attempt to sell on the goods.’

‘What about the assistant, Mr Hall?’

‘I’ll make enquiries. And after that I shall be off to Chapel Allerton, to see this Mr Bing, who’ll be expecting to redeem his watch chain next Tuesday.’

‘My next call will be in Harrogate, to Mrs deVries.’

Mr Moony had described her as a gentlewoman who, once a year, each summer, pawned her mother’s ring. Breaking the news of its loss was not a prospect I relished. But since it was due to be redeemed the
following Monday, there was no alternative. Fortunately I was going there anyway so could combine business and pleasure. I bit into the pork pie, which was very good.

‘Ah yes,’ Sykes said. ‘You’re off to the theatre.’ And then, trying to sound casual, ‘Will you be taking the motor?’

‘No. It’s all yours today. If you don’t mind waiting half an hour while I change my shoes and pack a bag, you can give me a lift to the station. There’s a train just after one o’clock.’

Sykes looked pleased at the thought of having the car. ‘I don’t mind waiting.’ He speared a pickled onion. ‘Harrogate, eh? It’s a pity our good gentlewoman didn’t pawn her ring closer to home. There’s never any crime in Harrogate.’