A Medal For Murder (35 page)

‘I hate seeing criminals get away with it.’

‘Mr Moony wants his pawned items back. He didn’t ask us to make an arrest. Meriel won’t do it again in a hurry.’

‘Not in a hurry, no. She’ll take her time. People don’t change, except to get worse.’

A bale of hay on the wagon swayed precariously.

‘She has huge ambitions. Once she’s a respected person in British theatre, she won’t risk falling foul of the law. With her talent . . .’

‘With her talent it’ll be the Bank of England next. There’s no doubt in my mind she’s corrupted young Lucy Wolfendale. Do you think there would have been a ransom note if . . .’

And so it went. The hay wagon turned off. We had a clear road as far as Harewood. A dark-red sun hovered on the horizon, threatening to disappear from the world.

‘Mr Sykes, do this my way. We return the goods, and then see. I don’t believe Meriel did throttle him. I think she really did intend to redeem one item and pledge another. Let us get the truth out of Mr Moony. Did she use violence? He’ll admit that to you, but not to me. I’m sure you can coax that out of him.’ I thought that was a good ploy. Give Mr Sykes something to probe.

‘Whether she was violent or not? You mean . . .’ Sykes asked.

‘The Harrogate side of the case was my operation. I had the success.’

Sykes braked suddenly to avoid an elderly clergyman who had stepped into the road without looking. Contemplating tomorrow’s sermon and collection, he continued to the other side without a second glance. It was close. My heartbeat increased. I thought of poor Dylan Ashton, lying pale and injured in the infirmary.

‘Go on,’ Sykes said with some bitterness. ‘You take over the driving then. You make it plain you’re the boss.’

‘Don’t be silly!’

He got out and set off walking. The idiot. I had half a mind to speed past him, let him walk the rest of the way. I watched him for a hundred yards. He looked every inch the bobby on his beat. I set off and drew alongside.

‘Get in!’

He did so. Making sure I put on enough speed that he could not jump out, I said, ‘Mr Sykes, would you please not behave like a schoolboy.’

‘I am behaving like a police officer who knows the law.’

‘You are not a police officer now.’

‘My circumstances have changed, but the law hasn’t. Police officer or not, what’s right is right.’

A black horse raised its head on the other side of a wall and looked at us with great interest.

‘You have said “police” twice in the last thirty seconds. Why do I have a feeling that you are fighting some old battle?’

That remark hit the spot. He shut up. I did not know for sure the circumstances of his departure from the police force, but I knew there was a principle at stake and that he had become very prickly. So nothing new this evening.

After a long time, he said, ‘I got back in the motor because I don’t want to walk back to Leeds. Not because I will ever come round to your way of thinking.’

‘Very well. You have made your point.’

Sometimes I know for sure he is the ideal partner for me. Other times, the man turns handcuff mad. I admire his passion for justice. It is his obsession with comeuppance that I find hard to take. The worst of it is I know
he is right, and I am being far too lenient towards Meriel Jamieson. On the other hand, there are so many ways in which women have to find their feet in the world, claw their way into some kind of life. Who am I to send Meriel hurtling back onto her knees?

Believing Mr Sykes would not appreciate that point of view, I kept it to myself.

When we were five minutes from his house, he said, ‘Your friend won’t wait patiently to be arrested. She’ll have done a bunk by now.’

He was right of course.

‘Stop calling her my friend. And she won’t do a bunk. She hopes for a sparkling career in the theatre. I’ve told you, if she leaves Harrogate, I shall know where to find her.’

‘It galls me to think she could skip away scot-free.’

I felt too tired to argue.

It was almost nine o’clock when we reached Woodhouse. The sun had set long ago. A small group of girls still played out, turning a rope under the street lamp.

I pulled up outside Sykes’s house. ‘It’s too late to call on Mr Moony tonight. I’ll telephone him when I get home and lock the stuff in my safe, make an appointment to see him.’

‘Very well. You’ll let me know?’

‘Yes. I’ll get a message to you.’

Poor Sykes. He wanted the job. He liked working for me, and the freedom it brought. The fly in the ointment was me. This journey home was the nearest we had come to a parting of the ways, and the day was not over yet.

One of the girls left off waiting her turn to jump rope
and came running to the car, calling ‘Dad!’

Sykes clambered out of the car. ‘This is Irene. Say hello to Mrs Shackleton, Irene.’

Irene turned suddenly shy. I knew she was twelve, but looked younger with her curling light-brown hair and bright eyes. As though to distract my attention from herself, she said, ‘Our Thomas has summat for you, miss.’ She ran into the house.

Sykes paused on the kerb. ‘Thomas is my eldest. He’s thirteen and our visit to Robin Hood’s Bay is the first time he saw the sea. He connects it to you – my working with you.’

A studious-looking boy stepped cautiously from the house, carrying a parcel. He was gawky, all elbows and knees. Sykes said proudly, ‘The cabinet maker in Robin Hood’s Bay took a shine to him. Thomas got it into his head to make something for you.’

Faces appeared at windows. Half a dozen other youngsters, some in their nightshirts, came out of their houses to admire the car. Thomas pushed his way through. He handed me a brown paper parcel neatly tied with string. ‘A present from Robin Hood’s Bay,’ he said solemnly.

‘Thank you very much. May I open it now?’

‘Yes.’

A dozen children crowded close, peering. Thomas stood very straight, shoulders back.

I undid the knot. The flat of my hand touched smooth wood, cool to the touch.

‘It’s English oak,’ Thomas said.

It was a block of light-coloured wood, about six inches by nine, and an inch deep. In the top left corner he had carved out a tiny bat, stained brown. At the
bottom right corner, a dark green ivy leaf looked to have been blown to a halt by the wind. Across the centre of the block of wood was the carved name,
Pipistrelle Lodge
.

For a moment I did not know what to make of it, and glanced at Thomas, not daring to ask what it was supposed to be. Then it dawned. ‘You’ve named my house.’

‘I told him he should have asked you first,’ Sykes muttered.

‘No. It’s perfect. Thank you so much, Thomas.’

Thomas gave the most perfunctory of nods and something like a smile played on his lips but he tried not to let it. ‘I’ve been in the woods behind your house when it’s coming dark. Them pipistrelle bats go fluttering about in droves.’

‘They do,’ I agreed. ‘One flew through the window the other evening. I had to catch it and set it free before the cat got it.’

Thomas forgot himself and laughed. All the children laughed, though the younger ones did not know what they were laughing about.

‘Well, clear the way,’ said Sykes. ‘Let the lady go.’ The children moved away, though I knew they would run after me when I set off.

I looked at Sykes to say goodbye, but he turned and went into the house without speaking.

 
 

My housekeeper, Mrs Sugden, is in her mid-forties. She wears her long salt-and-pepper hair in plaits, wound around her head, dipping below her brow as though her tresses become embarrassed by the height of her forehead. Metal-rimmed reading glasses slid down her long nose. ‘Kettle’s on,’ she said. The kettle is always on.

She admired the house nameplate which I set on the kitchen table. ‘Well, I think that’s just grand. Mr Sykes has a talented lad in young Thomas. I’ll have Ernest put it up.’

Ernest was the wizened old chap for whom Mrs Sugden dashed out to collect manure whenever some passing horse left its gift in our road. I used to think he had an allotment, but with the amounts gathered I began to suspect some other purpose. Perhaps he was a secret alchemist and had discovered a spell for turning horse muck into gold.

‘I hadn’t expected you back tonight.’

‘It’s a long story. We’ve recovered Mr Moony’s stolen goods. I know it is late, but I shall telephone him now and arrange to see him in the morning.’

Mrs Sugden tilted her head enquiringly. ‘That was fast work.’

‘Yes.’ I suddenly realised how exhausted I felt.

‘You look to me as if a Robin Hood’s Bay kipper and a slice of bread and butter wouldn’t do you any harm.’

‘Well it might not.’

‘Right. I shall see to it.’

I picked up the telephone and after a moment spoke to Mr Moony. His silence when I broke the news, in as discreet a way as possible so as to fool any listening operator, made me believe he had suffered a heart attack.

Finally he said, ‘Am I to believe, Mrs Shackleton that the goods are safe?’

‘Yes. And tomorrow morning, I shall return them. Unless you prefer me to wait until Monday and come to the shop?’

‘The sooner the better. Tomorrow will be admirable.’

‘What time would suit you?’

We arranged that I should call to see Mr Moony in the morning at nine o’clock. By the time I hung up the receiver, Mrs Sugden had supper on the table. She sat opposite me at the kitchen table while I dealt with kipper bones. ‘You said you’d stop at the Grand Hotel in Harrogate tonight,’ she said accusingly.

I groaned. In the haste to return Mr Moony’s goods, I had forgotten all about my booking at the hotel. ‘I had better telephone and cancel.’

‘Your mother was on the phone. I told her you were booked in there. She has it in mind to come over and join you tomorrow. She’s booked into the Grand.’

‘Did you not tell her that I was working?’

‘I suppose I might have done. But as she says, you can’t work all the time. She says she has fond memories of Harrogate. Besides, there was a murder there you know.’

‘Yes I know.’

‘She’ll be worrying for you. It’s in tonight’s paper.’

She looked at me over her glasses and I knew there would be no peace until she heard at least something of the story.

Forty minutes later, after my telling of the tale, I pushed back the kitchen chair and stood up. ‘Well, must get on. I have a report to write.’

‘It’s nearly eleven o’clock.’ If Mrs Sugden were a member of parliament she would make it her business to regulate the working day. She devotes each evening to her pastimes of reading, knitting, crocheting and writing letters to her daughter and cousins.

‘You’re right. But I just want to jot down one or two points, to sort out my thoughts.’

The dining room doubles as my office. I have a new cherrywood filing cabinet, index card filing system and month-by-month engagement calendar. Having only two truly professional cases under my belt, it occurred to me that there may never be another job for Kate Shackleton, private investigator. It is not the money I would miss, but the work, and the excuse to be nosy, to swan into others’ lives and make a difference. A couple of months ago it may not have mattered a sheep’s shimmy whether another job came my way for months. Now it mattered. It would be one thing if Mr Sykes left my employ because his scruples would not allow him to stay. It would be quite another if I had to let him go because of lack of work.

Seeing his children reminded me of the great responsibility of taking on an employee.

First I wrote out a bill. The cheque given to me on Friday morning would suffice as payment. Next I wrote a brief report to Mr Moony, naming the people visited and the arrangement made that they would come to enquire about their items on the due date. It was slightly tricky to describe recovery of the goods in a way that did not name either Lucy Wolfendale or Meriel Jamieson. I did not want to incriminate Lucy without speaking to her. And although I knew Sykes was right, and Meriel ought to answer for her actions, I could not bear the thought of her going to gaol. Never having done anything like this before, I was not sure what might need to be said to the insurance company and the police. It would be useful to speak to my dad, who is superintendent of the West Riding Constabulary. This was not something that could be done over the telephone. Oh for the simple days when I tracked down missing men for mothers, sisters and deserted wives.