A Step Too Far (40 page)

     Had Eldon expected her to weep? Had he expected her to cry on his shoulder when he had begun to offer help? On the floor beside the bed, Katrin laughed.

     ‘
Don’t pretend concern for me, we both know that emotion has never lived in you!
’ Once outside of the lawyer’s office, she had spat the fever of anger built inside her.

     ‘
Katrin
—’

     She had repeated as he had spoken her name, ‘
Even now it is Katrin, not Ellen, not the name my mother gave me, you allowed even that to be taken from me
.
It was easy for you, wasn’t it? Your son was too precious to part with and you already had a daughter, what use was there in keeping another
?’

     Eldon had robbed her of her true family, had taken what should have been hers from marriage with Arthur Whitman, but he would not deny her the hatred that had lived in her heart from finding that birth certificate; Isaac Eldon would not deprive her of showing him that loathing.

     ‘
That was it, wasn’t it, father?
’

     She laughed at the distinct flinch, at the indisputable sadness darkening his eyes.

     ‘
The choice was obvious, the child was something you didn’t want, so why keep it?
’

     ‘
It wasn’t what you think,
’ he had said quickly. ‘
I loved you, but at barely thirteen and Rob not yet twelve months, caring for another child would have been too much for Miriam
.’

     ‘
So it was give away Ellen!
’

     He had looked at her for a long moment, as if searching for something in her eyes, then had said quietly. ‘
I loved you, I have always loved you
.’

     ‘
Love!
’ she had snorted the rebuke. ‘
Oh I saw that love the day Arthur Whitman asked you be fetched to his office, I heard it when you said, “Is it Robert, is it my son?” There was no thought of “Is it Ellen, is it my daughter?” But then have you ever once thought of your daughter, the child you gave away?
’

     Katrin did not hear the tap at the door but looked up to see the woman who had fared better from Arthur Whitman’s will than she.

     ‘Excuse me, Mrs Whitman – eh! Be you all right?’ A look of concern crossed the cleaning woman’s face as she saw the clothing strewn around the normally perfectly tidy room.

     Katrin rose to her feet, saying sharply she would leave the house when
she
was ready.

     ‘Ain’t that I come about!’ Huffed at the tartness of her reception the woman’s reply was resentful. ‘Be to tell you there be somebody downstairs a wantin’ to speak wi’ you.’

     Clearly understanding the former mistress of Woden Place was no longer in a position to dismiss her for answering without the usual show of respect, the woman added, ‘I’ll tell ’im y’ be comin’ down.’

     It must be Eldon! Catching sight of herself in the dressing mirror, Katrin touched the lavender scarf still looped about her shoulders. ‘You know the saying, mother,’ she said grimly, ‘“where there is life,” your brother will find I am not finished yet.’

‘Do you recognise this, Mrs Whitman?’

     Katrin stared at the object held in the hand of the Police Inspector who had once interviewed her at the house in Hollies Drive. It had been a surprise to find him to be the ‘somebody’ waiting to talk with her.

     ‘I would have thought a young child could tell you that is a button!’

     ‘Yes, a button. Perhaps I should have asked do you recognise the piece of cloth attached to that button?’

     Drawing on strengths which had assisted so well in the past, Katrin answered calmly, ‘No, I do not recognise either button or cloth, now I must ask you to leave.’

     ‘All in good time, but first perhaps you might help with something else.’

     Following his nod to the uniformed constable, the cleaning woman entered.

     ‘Thank you, Mrs Briggs.’ The Inspector nodded again to the constable, who took the folded bundle from the woman’s arms holding it so its full length opened.

     ‘Please look carefully, Mrs Whitman, do you recognise this garment?’

     The coat! Katrin’s brain screamed. The coat she had been wearing the night she had stabbed that bottle into Jim Slater’s neck! She had intended to burn it when chance allowed but then had forgotten it until that day she had been sorting unwanted items to be given to the Welfare Centre. She had found the coat hanging at the very back of the wardrobe and put it aside to get rid of when she was alone. Briggs must have thought it part of the clothes put ready for donation and taken it with the rest.

     ‘Do you recognise the garment, Mrs Whitman?’

     He was watching her closely for any sign of recognition. Katrin steeled herself to answer mockingly. ‘Once again, Inspector, a young child could tell you that is a coat.’

     ‘Precisely Mrs Whitman, it is a coat. Did it belong to you?’

     Katrin cast a seemingly unconcerned glance at the coat, then with a brief toss of the head replied. ‘It may have done, but then it could have belonged to someone else. Coats are manufactured in large numbers – unless of course for the very wealthy and they, Inspector, would require a much better quality.’

     ‘Mrs Briggs, is this the coat you took from this house?’

     ‘Yes, sir.’ The woman nodded vigorously.

     ‘Is it the coat you wore when you called at my home to go with my wife to help sort clothing at Wednesbury Welfare Centre?’

     ‘Yes but . . . well, Mrs Whitman weren’t a wantin’ of it an’ it be a good coat ’cept for that little rip of the pocket so I kept it for m’self, I d’ain’t mean to steal.’

     ‘It was not stealing,’ the Inspector assured the trembling figure. ‘But tell us, Mrs Briggs, the coat you see the constable holding, the one you brought at my request to the police station, is it the one you brought from this house?’

     Assuring the woman once more she was in no trouble, and waiting until she had left the room, the Inspector began again. ‘Mrs Whitman, you say this coat, the coat taken from this house, did not belong to you, is that correct?’

     Katrin snapped, ‘How many times do I have to answer that question?’

     ‘None. However there is one question you might care to answer; how, if this coat did not belong to you, do you explain this?’

     He lifted the lining which had been freed of stitching, then folded back the fabric to which it had been attached. Katrin could not prevent a quick indrawn breath. The name tag! Violet always sewed a name tag where no one would expect it to be!

     ‘As you can see,’ the Inspector held the button with its remnant of cloth against the tear in the coat, ‘the match is indisputable. This,’ he glanced at the button, ‘was discovered clutched in the hand of James Slater when his body was examined at the mortuary; I must also tell you we have a witness.’

     A witness! Katrin’s senses reeled. Someone had seen her kill Jim Slater!

     Pausing while the constable helped her to a chair, the Inspector went on, ‘Perhaps I can answer a question for you Mrs Whitman, why did the witness not come forward at the time? He was on active service. It was not until he was repatriated that he learned of Slater’s death. The two had spent time together that same evening, and though Slater had taken some drink he was still far from drunk when they parted company at Spring Head, Slater saying he was to meet a woman he named as Kate Hawley. The man came to the station and there, before a lawyer as witness, he signed a sworn statement.’

     Returning the button to his pocket, he went on firmly. ‘Katrin Whitman, I arrest you on a charge of suspicion of murder.’

     Rising to her feet, the constable’s hand at her elbow, Katrin touched a finger to the lavender silk draped about her shoulders. A laugh bitter as aloes preceded her murmur, ‘Where there is life  . . .’

About the Author

Meg Hutchinson lived for sixty years in Wednesbury, where her parents and grandparents spent all their lives, but now has a quiet little cottage in Shropshire where she can indulge her passion for storytelling. It is a passion that has reaped dividends, with her novels regularly appearing in bestseller lists.