A Medal For Murder (7 page)

‘I appreciate that you kept the scene clear once you found the body. And thank you for spotting the cufflink. I had a case a few weeks ago where the fool of a village bobby and some female photographer marched all over the house. It’s a miracle there was a scrap of evidence left.’

Oh he remembered me all right. My hackles rose. ‘If you’re referring to Bridgestead—,’ I said, about to remind him of one or two points.

‘But that was then, and this is now,’ he said quickly. It made me wonder whether he had thrown out the challenge to rouse me from my half-stupid state.

He picked up a small evidence bag and tipped a cufflink onto a sheet of paper. It was just over half an inch square, with a gold edge and a banded agate centre in white, black and brown. ‘In good condition, no scratches, but some wear on the back.’

‘It’s quite distinctively marked,’ I said. ‘You think it might belong to the killer?’ The cufflink was not expensive enough to be Mr Milner’s. It was of a type that could be bought in any gentleman’s outfitters, or a jewellery store at the lower end of the market.

‘It’s possible, and it may indicate a scuffle,’ the inspector said. ‘Is it familiar?’

I shook my head. It struck me that one only notices cufflinks if they are particularly flashy, or if you are in love with the man.

‘Did you know Mr Milner before this evening?’

‘No. I sat next to him for the first act of the play, and then moved to the rear stalls.’

He raised an eyebrow. ‘Because?’

‘I don’t like to sit on the front row, and he was not an ideal theatregoer. His son was in the production. Mr Milner gave a running commentary.’

‘What sort of commentary?’

When someone is a bore and their comments unwelcome, it is suprising how much one shuts out. But I could still hear some of Milner’s words in my head.

‘He was critical of his son’s performance. He said that at Rodney’s age, he was serving in South Africa.’

‘Anything else?’

‘Tonight was the last night. Mr Milner had seen the play several times. I’m afraid he rather put my back up, so I wasn’t very sympathetic to the poor man. He said he hoped Rodney would not be treading the boards again anytime soon. That he was better at selling motor cars.’

The young constable eagerly scribbled this down. He was not sufficiently experienced to feign lack of interest.

I produced the programme from my bag and opened it at the page of Mr Milner’s advertisement.

MILNER & SON’S MOTOR WORKS

(Established 1903)

Summerfield Avenue

Harrogate

-----------------------------------------

Sole District Agent

Austin De Dion Ford Wolseley

Any make of car supplied

Official Repairers to Royal Automobile Club, etc.,

Agents A.A.

Tyres – Petrol – Accessories

Telegrams “Motor” Telephone 417

The inspector took the programme. ‘Do you mind if I keep this?’

‘Please do.’

Inspector Charles turned to the cast list. ‘This must be his son, Rodney Milner, playing Henry Mynor.’

‘Yes. Rodney plays the up-and-coming businessman, the chap who gets the girl.’

There was something reassuring about the inspector’s presence. He was thoughtful, unhurried as he looked at the names.

‘Do you suspect one of the cast, or a theatre patron?’ I asked.

He stretched his legs. ‘It’s far too soon,’ he said gently, as though I had not asked a stupid question. ‘One must keep an open mind. It’s not theft. His wallet was not taken.’

‘Oh,’ I said rather stupidly. Mr Milner struck me as a man who would carry a wad of money.

He made a steeple of his hands. ‘Mrs Shackleton, if Mr Milner was not at the theatre because of his son’s less than scintillating stage performance, why was he there?’

The voice in my head said, Never speak ill of the dead. ‘To sell cars in the bar afterwards? I’m not sure.’ It seemed treacherous to damn Milner for a lecher as well as the worst kind of theatregoer. But it had to be said. ‘He admired Lucy Wolfendale, the young leading lady. He offered to escort her home, but she joined her friends.’

Scratch, scratch went the constable’s pencil.

‘Go on.’

‘Mr Milner struck me as a man who would persist. I felt sorry for Lucy and kept him talking. I was relieved when we were joined by Madam Geerts.’

The inspector interrupted me. ‘Madam Geerts?’

The constable, busy at his notes, had pricked up his ears. He looked at me, expectantly. I know that the police are meant to keep information confidential, but this fellow looked a little too keen for my liking. Something made me hold back the fact that Madam Geerts, with the subtlety of a hungry shark, had clutched Milner’s arm and whisked him away.

‘She and her husband are in the play,’ I said, in a voice that sounded to me over-prim. ‘I left Mr Milner with Madam Geerts, and that was the last time I spoke to him.’

The inspector picked up on my insinuation immediately. It was the last time I had spoken to Mr Milner, but not the last time I saw him.

The inspector turned to the constable who had paused in his note-taking. ‘That will be all. Call a cab will you?’

‘Right, sir!’

When the constable had gone, the inspector gazed at me candidly. ‘Mrs Shackleton, you are an observant woman
and your impressions will be valuable. It would be unfair to keep you here any longer after your ordeal. But would you be willing to give me a written statement tomorrow, regarding what took place after the performance?’

‘Of course. Only I have no wish to embarrass people . . .’

‘Like Madam Geerts?’

‘Yes.’ He did not miss a trick. A man to watch.

He sighed and said gently, ‘If something is not relevant, believe me I won’t waste valuable time on it. Please tell me now.’

Relieved that the constable had left the room, I took a breath and began. ‘They went off together, Mr Milner and Madam Geerts. She first, he following a few moments later.’ I felt myself blush in case he thought I had followed them, which I had not. ‘Afterwards, I went to a dressing room, to collect my overnight bag that had been brought from the station Left Luggage. It’s a bit of a maze backstage. I opened the wrong door, and saw Mr Milner and Madam Geerts. Fortunately they did not see me. They were too busy.’

‘Go on.’

‘I think the legal term is
in flagrante delicto
.’

I was pleased with that – so much better than saying they were at it.

He leaned forward. ‘Might anyone else have come across them?’

At that moment, the constable opened the door. ‘Transport’s here, sir.’

The inspector escorted me into the street where the pony and trap waited. Meriel was already seated, and our bags in place.

‘Mrs Shackleton, may I?’ With great gentleness,
Inspector Charles took my arm, helping me into the trap.

A constable climbed into the vehicle with us. Perhaps we were considered important witnesses, in need of police protection.

 
 

A single light burned in the ground floor flat at 29 St Clement’s Road.

‘Coming home under constabulary escort,’ Meriel murmured. ‘My blithering nuisance of a landlord is going to love this if he’s looking out of his window.’

‘Here you are, ladies. I’ll wait while you’re inside.’ The constable jumped from the trap and took our bags before handing us down.

I suddenly remembered that I was supposed to be passing on a message.

‘Meriel, Lucy Wolfendale asked me to tell her grandfather that she’d be staying with . . . I forget the name, one of the other actresses.’

‘Alison?’

‘That’s it. I’m sure it would be better coming from you.’

‘And I’m sure it wouldn’t,’ Meriel said emphatically.

‘I’ve never met the man.’ I felt exhausted and wanted more than anything to fall into bed.

On the ground floor, a window flew open, flooding the garden with light. A face appeared, under a Wee Willie Winkie nightcap.

Meriel groaned and dashed into the garden out of sight, saying ‘You better give the old boy Lucy’s message. I’ll leave the door on the latch.’

She had already begun to walk round the garden, towards the back of the house.

‘Meriel!’ I pleaded.

She paused, keeping close to the wall, shaking her head. ‘Lucy asked you to tell him because she knows what he’s like with me. He’s got very petty about the rent. I’ve told him I’ll catch up. He only has to look at me and pounds, shillings and pence signs light up his eyes.’

The face at the window took on a voice and called, ‘Lucy? Is that you?’

My mind had gone blank. ‘I’ve forgotten his name.’

‘Same as Lucy. Wolfendale. Call him Captain, give him a salute and he’ll eat out of your hand.’

The old man watched as I mounted the front steps. Without waiting for me to knock, he opened the door. At the same moment, the driver gee-upped his pony which trotted away, the regular clip-clop of hooves breaking the silence of the night.

There was no light in the hall but a pale glow came from the flat. The elderly gent who peered at me had discarded his nightcap. He wore a shabby army great-coat over striped pyjamas and a pair of ancient brown leather slippers. He was in his seventies, with a short, bulky figure but upright and military in his bearing, and with a twirling moustache. He brushed a hand over his totally bald pate.

In a light-hearted tone I did not feel, I said, ‘I’m so sorry to disturb you, Captain Wolfendale. Message from the front line for HQ. Lucy is bivouacking at her
friend Alison’s this evening. I promised to remind you.’

‘It’s one in the morning! Why is she sending me a message at this hour?’

We had been asked by the police to say nothing about the murder. I floundered for a reply. ‘I apologise for the lateness of the hour. I was at the play earlier this evening and I stayed on to help. There’s a touring company coming in tomorrow. You don’t notice the time when you’re striking camp.’

I like to think that the military jargon impressed. He tilted his head to one side. ‘And you are, madam?’

Not having rank and number put me at a disadvantage. ‘I’m Mrs Shackleton.’

‘Lucy asked you to come here?’

‘I’m staying with Miss Jamieson downstairs, just for this evening.’

‘Shackleton you say?’

‘Yes.’

‘Then I have something for you. Please step inside.’

What could he possibly have for me, I wondered. As I entered his flat, with some trepidation, the Pekinese on the floor above began to bark.

The captain looked about for a moment, as if trying to recall where he had put the something he wanted to give me. Then he picked up an envelope from the sideboard. ‘Took delivery hours ago. Telegram. Nearly turned the boy away. Didn’t recognise the name.’

‘Thank you.’

It would be Sykes’s reply.
Please let me not have made a mistake writing down the address of the unfortunate Mrs deVries
. Sykes would think himself too clever by half if he had to put me right on that. ‘Do you mind if I read this straight away?’

‘Would you like to sit down?’ he asked courteously. ‘Sit under the lamp.’ He was solicitous. For so many, telegrams and bad news went hand in hand.

‘Thank you.’

He moved a few feet off, but hovered expectantly, as though I might suddenly collapse from shock and be in need of reviving. Sykes’s message was brief: ‘Address correct.’

So the pathetic gentlewoman pawning her mother’s diamond ring had given a false address. Perhaps a false name, too. Why?

‘Not bad news I hope?’ He spoke with a slight rasp, as though recovering from a sore throat.

‘No, thank you, Captain. I’ll leave you in peace.’

Opening a sideboard drawer, he said, ‘Don’t go stumbling about outside looking for Miss Jamieson’s entrance. Have a torch here. I’ll show you the back stairs that lead to her quarters.’ He managed to make Meriel’s quarters sound disreputable. She would like that.