A Medal For Murder (45 page)

At five minutes to nine, a hotel page knocked on the door of our suite to tell me that Mr Charles waited on Mrs Hood and Mrs Shackleton’s convenience in the hotel lounge.

What I love about my Delphos tunic is that it seems to let me float in a touch of magic, caressing and propelling as I walked down the stairs to the ground floor.

The inspector stood as I entered the lounge, and for a moment gazed at me wide-eyed. ‘Mrs Shackleton, you look wonderful.’

‘Thank you, Mr Charles. My mother sends her apologies. She has a headache and decided to have an early night.’

If he guessed that it was a diplomatic headache, he gave no sign. ‘Some other time, perhaps?’ His look was suitably, but not too, regretful. ‘Shall we go in to supper, or would you like an aperitif?’

‘Let’s go in.’

Our table was by the window, at some distance from the string quartet and shielded by a potted palm. The waiter gave us menus. I glanced at Mr Charles while he ordered wine. Wearing an evening suit emphasised a quality in him I had half noticed when we first met. There was something about him that made me intensely aware of him, aware of the movements of his body under his clothes, the sense of something powerful being contained, not just physically but in other ways too, mental, emotional. It was a rare quality.

We both chose lobster bisque. I went for the venison, he for jugged hare. The wine waiter hovered as he poured, waiting for an opinion. When he had gone, the inspector asked, in a solicitous yet professional tone, ‘How are you feeling, after everything? It’s been an ordeal for you.’ He looked at me with grave concern and total attention that could have been disconcerting if it were not so broadly edged with kindness. I would not have liked to be on the receiving end of an interrogation by him.

‘It was a shock, hearing about the captain’s confession, and that he shot himself. It did leave me shaken.’ I did not tell him that I had also made sure Lucy Wolfendale was shaken, by me.

‘I’m sorry that I dashed off like that. Did you stay long with Miss Wolfendale and the old lady?’

‘No. They had each other. And Mr Root gallantly came to my aid.’

Mr Charles gave an unexpected laugh. ‘Good for him,’ he said ruefully. ‘It almost prompts me not to charge him with leading us up the garden path with his false confession.’

‘Will you pursue him on that?’

He shook his head. ‘I made it my business to call him in and give him a ticking off. He was suitably chastened.’

‘I suppose you soon realised that he was not telling the truth.’

‘It has been known for an inaccurate confession to be made by a killer – inconsistencies and so on – only to throw the hounds off the scent, but usually in detective stories rather than in life.’

‘He was protecting Lucy Wolfendale because he thought she was the murderess.’

‘That girl does elicit powerful emotions,’ he said, with a puzzled look.

‘You’ve seen her only in the dragged-through-a-hedge state, with a swollen ankle and dirty face. She polishes up in spectacular style. And Scotland Yard better watch out. She will be coming to London to study drama this autumn.’

The inspector mockingly put his head in his hands. ‘That’ll give my boys something to look forward to.’ He suddenly gave me a serious look that made my heart skip a beat. Was I to be berated for not saying what Lucy was getting up to? ‘I do not blame you for covering up for her,’ he said kindly. ‘She is young, ambitious, and foolish. And she did take some smoking out of her hidey-hole . . .’

‘But?’

‘You should have told me about what she was up to.
As it turned out, there was no connection between her disappearance and the murder, but there might have been.’

‘I suppose you’re right. But I was fairly sure one had nothing to do with the other.’

He leaned across the table and took my hand in his. The events of the last three days had set emotions racing. It was a little like wartime, when we lived in a heightened state of tension. ‘If ever we work together again, promise me you’ll keep nothing back.’

I avoided making any such promise. ‘That sounds like the offer of a job at Scotland Yard. I did not realise I had applied.’

He smiled. ‘All right. I give up. For now.’

When he let go of my hand, I could still feel his touch.

During the soup, we deliberately left behind the subject of the murder, and got on first-name terms. I learned that Marcus Charles was forty years old, and a widower. He had joined the CID at the age of twenty-two, after a year as a beat bobby.

My question surprised me. It must have been lurking there all along. I was thinking about having let Meriel off for thieving from the pawnbroker – an action that threatened my professional relationship with stalwart Jim Sykes.

‘Have you ever,’ I asked in what I hoped was a throw-away manner, ‘ever turned a blind eye when an offence has been committed?’

‘If it is some minor infringement, there may be discretion. At other times we are left with no choice in the matter.’

‘Say, in a robbery or something of that sort,’ I said,
immediately regretting my choice of example. It would not surprise me in the least if he had heard that I was in Harrogate to investigate Mr Moony’s pawnshop robbery.

There was a pause while the waiter gathered up our soup plates.

‘It’s my job to enforce the law, and that is what I do.’

I had the feeling that he was reluctant to go in the direction I was leading. The waiter set our plates of venison and jugged hare on the table, and dished out potatoes, carrots and cabbage.

I poured some gravy onto the venison. ‘Do you not sometimes feel pity for the perpetrators? An understanding of what drove them to the act?’ I turned the handle of the gravy boat towards him.

‘Oh yes, of course. All sorts of emotions come into play. Shock, as with this crime here in Harrogate – particularly in such a tranquil setting; anger and, yes, pity. The captain was a frail old man.’

In as light a tone as I could muster, I asked, ‘So his confession convinced you?’ I glanced at Marcus’s hands, his shirt cuffs, his cufflinks, which were gold, with a tiny embossed pattern in one corner. It made me think of that other cufflink, lying in the gutter. It suddenly struck me that it was not the kind of cufflink I would expect an old man to wear. And if it indicated a scuffle, then there would be no doubt who would come off best. Milner was younger, heavier, fitter.

‘Without doubt I believed the captain’s confession,’ the inspector said, in a gentle, reassuring voice. ‘He could not have made it up.’

I remembered that Meriel and the captain had both
called on Rodney to offer condolences on Saturday morning, Meriel first. ‘Miss Jamieson could have let slip to Rodney some details about finding the body, and about the motor when she called to see him on Saturday. I know she shouldn’t have, but it’s possible. And then the captain called. For all we know, Rodney may have told him some details.’

Again, he took my hand. ‘Kate, Kate. Don’t worry. You were right when you said I should pay attention to the captain. Believe me, he was the man. It was his knife. He described it. Now can we change the subject?’ It was as if he were saying ‘Don’t worry. There is no mad murderer loose on the streets of Harrogate.’

The string quarter struck up a waltz. By the time our plates were whipped away, I had talked of my passion for photography. Marcus confided that he enjoys sketching, when he can find the time. This comes in useful at the scene of a crime when he can make a speedy visual record of whatever may catch his eye. Committing it to paper helps him make sense of what he sees. I learned that he lived in North London, walked on Hampstead Heath and swam in the pond there early in the mornings, and that this helped him think when he was stuck on a particularly difficult case.

Over dessert, we conjured a romantic notion of swimming together one day soon. It would be a fine day in September or early October when we decided that there would be a spell of good weather, and we would take a picnic and set out a blanket like two people without a care in the world.

‘Would you care for brandy?’ he asked as we left the dining room.

‘Good idea.’

The lounge was crowded. One or two people cast glances in our direction as we hovered for a moment in the doorway, looking for a free space. Were the glances because we were a striking couple, or because some of the guests had recognised the police inspector? We turned away.

‘I have a better idea,’ I murmured. ‘My mother never travels without brandy. Will you come up to our suite?’ I said the words calmly, without betraying the inward tremble.

‘There’s nothing I would like more,’ he said softly.

We climbed the staircase side by side, not speaking. There was a touch of madness about what I intended, what I hoped would happen. This may break the spell my missing husband still held over me. Marcus touched my hand very lightly as we walked along the landing. At the door, I fumbled for the key.

He had a boyish, almost hesitant look as he stepped inside. ‘Won’t we wake your mother?’

‘Not unless you plan to be very rowdy. That’s her room.’ I waved to the door on the right of our sitting room.

‘And yours?’ he asked gently.

We forgot about the brandy. It was still there the next morning when Marcus had gone, leaving on the bedside cabinet a small thick envelope.

The short letter, if such it could be called, was on hotel notepaper. It contained no endearments, but he had whispered enough of those in the small hours for that not to matter. Then we had slept soundly, or at least I had, curled in his arms and feeling safe from the haunting images of Milner’s staring eyes and the even
more horrifying picture of what I had not seen: the captain, blowing his brains out.

The reason for the thickness of the envelope was that it contained a medal – Captain Wolfendale’s (the real captain Wolfendale’s) Victoria Cross. Marcus’s note was written in a way that would withstand scrutiny should it fall into the wrong hands. It read:

Dear Mrs Shackleton

Thank you for your assistance. I am in two minds about leaving this VC with you. By rights it should go to the late Captain Wolfendale’s next of kin. However, after he signed his confession, the captain said to Sergeant Walmsley that this medal must come to Mrs Kate Shackleton, and that she alone would know who to give it to.

I did not hand the medal to you yesterday evening. It was not the right moment. If you do not accept the burden of this responsibility, please return the enclosed to the Harrogate police.

If you are inclined to take up my invitation to visit Scotland Yard, I should be pleased to show you around by appointment. I can recommend a very good place to stay in Hampstead.

Yours sincerely

Marcus Charles

I read the letter, once, twice, three times, and weighed the medal in my hand.

My mother was moving about in the next room. We had an enjoyable day planned. Nothing would get in the
way of that. I put the letter and the medal in the back of a drawer and slammed it shut.

Captain Wolfendale, Sergeant Lampton, whoever you are and whatever hell you are in, I do not want to know. Leave me alone.

 
 

Mother is not exactly a stickler for following directions. She appeared to be making an exception in relation to the Harrogate waters. It was 7 a.m. I was bleary-eyed, exhilarated and exhausted in equal measure, and still reeling from being given the dubious honour of taking charge of the captain’s Victoria Cross.

Every action seemed clumsy. I could not find the heel in my stocking. A garter was missing. While I dressed, or tried to, in my bedroom, mother sat in our shared sitting room, reading to me from a guide book.

‘All the hot sulphur waters ought to be drunk quickly, or else the sulpheretted hydrogen blah-di-blah escapes. What is sulphuretted hydrogen, Kate?’

‘Don’t know.’

‘Ah, wait a minute, listen to this. “It is better to drink all the iron or chalybeate waters through a glass tube.” Which will we be drinking, chalybeate – how do you pronounce that? – or iron?’

‘Don’t know.’

‘Let’s see. Oh, it’s all so complicated. Did you know the waters were unpleasant?’