Dying in the Wool (36 page)

‘She probably called Stoddard at the mill?’

‘No. She didn’t use the telephone.’

‘Tell me, Gregory, in what direction was Joshua Braithwaite running?’

‘A south-westerly direction.’

‘Towards …?’

‘I suppose generally in the direction of Bradford.’

Towards Worstedopolis. Where else would a mill master run?

‘And Kate, it’s embarrassing to admit this, but given that I delayed reporting it and so on, I didn’t tell Constable Mitchell that I’d seen Braithwaite.’

We sat for a while in silence. I thought about what Sir Arthur had said last night when I had recounted Hector’s
description of how Joshua Braithwaite did not recognise or remember him when dragged from the beck, and that he appeared disoriented and confused. Up to now we had all assumed it was because Braithwaite had been attacked. Now I wondered could there be another explanation.

‘Was Mr Braithwaite on any medication – for some ailment or illness?’

Gregory took out his cigarette case and offered it to me.

He lit our cigarettes. ‘I should be able to answer that question, but I can’t. Why do you ask?’

‘It might explain why he was not his usual self – and why he was found in such odd circumstances.’

‘He wouldn’t let me examine him. I did offer. I thought he may have had a hangover, but apparently he was teetotal. It could be that he had taken something. I assumed that he’d been roughed up, or overexerted himself in some way.’

‘Yes, that’s what I thought.’

‘I’m sorry. I realise that’s not much help.’

There was no ashtray on our table. Gregory reached across and took one from a nearby table.

‘Gregory, I don’t know when I’ll see you again, and I really would like to get to the bottom of this mystery for Tabby’s sake. Is there anything else, anything at all you can tell me?’

He concentrated hard on his cigarette. I was asking him what Evelyn Braithwaite may have divulged.

‘I had heard he was not the most faithful of husbands. You have a theory don’t you?’

‘I have a straw I’m clutching.’

‘If I knew what you were thinking I might be able to help.’

‘I’m conjuring with the possibility that he never intended to commit suicide, just as he said. That he had a plan to go away with another woman, but that someone tried to stop him, perhaps the woman’s husband.’

‘So he could be alive somewhere, living a bigamous existence?’

‘There is that possibility.’

He tapped the ash from his cigarette. So many emotions seemed to cloud his face that I could not make out his thoughts. Regret for ever being involved? A sense of guilt because of letting Braithwaite run off across the moors?

‘I hope you find him, Kate, though I’ll tell you this without breaking any confidences. Evelyn wouldn’t have him back at any price.’

‘It’s not Evelyn who asked me to find him. If I find him, it will be for Tabby.’

The VAD waitress cleared our plates. She smiled at me, not that I had ever met her but we all knew each other.

Gregory put on his Homburg. We shook hands in the lobby.

‘Promise me we’ll have lunch again next time you’re in London, Kate.’

‘Yes, we shall. And by then I hope you’ll reintroduce me to Josephine Tuffnell.’

He took out a card. ‘You can contact me at Professor Podmore’s rooms on Harley Street. I’m based there for the time being, until we’re set up at the Maudsley.’

I watched from the window as he set off with a spring in his step, heading for the tube. He had offered to share a cab, and drop me off while he went on to resume work at the hospital. But Mother and Aunt Berta would be coming to meet me, with a shopping trip in mind.

Before they arrived, there might just be time for me to make a telephone call to Tabitha that would push my investigation forward.

The receptionist gave me permission to use the office telephone. I put through a call, keeping my fingers crossed that Evelyn or her maid would not pick up the receiver.

I could tell by the way Tabitha answered that she expected it to be Hector. When she realised it was me,
she adjusted her voice by an octave, so that she sounded her age.

‘Where are you calling from, Kate?’

‘The Cavendish Club.’

‘Oh how wonderful! I ache to be in London. I would love to be lunching at the Cavendish. Did you have the one and thrupenny lunch and are all the waitresses in our uniform?’

‘Yes and yes. But Tabitha, I hope you can help me. There’s something I want you to find out, and some information.’

‘What is it?’

‘The information first. Did your father have any complaints about his health immediately before he went missing? Dr Grainger couldn’t help me on that. Does anything occur to you?’

‘Nothing huge, like heart attacks or anything.’

‘What about other ailments?’

‘Well yes, I do remember now as it happens. Hector’s father had a painful shoulder, couldn’t raise his arm, and that reminded me that Dad once had that too.’

‘Immediately before he went missing?’

‘Oh no, just one year when we were on holiday at Grange and he was trying to finish a painting. But the shoulder made me remember. You see Hector’s mother had neuralgia last week …’

I sighed, prepared to listen to a health report on Hector’s entire family before Tabitha would get to the point and answer my question.

‘And …?’ I urged.

‘Well, Dad had neuralgia as well. I remember thinking it might make my birthday dinner even worse than it would have been – what with not having Edmund there – if Dad’s neuralgia played up. Do you think that might have had something to do with his going missing?’

‘Not directly, no. Was he taking anything for it?’

‘Oh yes.’

‘Do you remember what?’

‘No, but I could enquire. Mother might remember, or the housekeeper might. You see, we’ve had no doctor in the village for ages. I suppose he might have gone to Bingley or Keighley and seen someone there, a doctor or a chemist. Perhaps there’ll be something in the bathroom cabinet still.’

‘See what you can find out for me. But there’s one other thing I’d like you to check, and to do this first please. Where did your father keep his art materials?’

There was a long pause. I could hear her brain ticking. ‘I can’t remember.’

‘What I want to know, Tabitha, his paints, brushes, his easel, did he take them anywhere before he left for good, perhaps a week or so before? If you can find out for me, that might be one more clue.’

When I spoke to Tabitha, I felt like a girls’ adventure storyteller. But it worked.

‘I say! That’s something we didn’t think of. He didn’t take any of his suits, only what he stood up in, but that would …’

‘Don’t get your hopes up, Tabitha. Just find out as soon as you can. Ring me back. I hope I’ll still be here and not whisked away on the shopping trip.’

‘Oh I do wish I could come with you.’

‘Soon as you can, eh?’ I gave her the number.

I heard Mother and Aunt Berta before I saw them. They sailed into the lobby in a swish of chiffon and linen, Mother in lilac and Aunt Berta in blue, each with a tiny veiled hat and the grand manner that increases by several octaves when they are together.

‘It is so modern to be in a club that’s for women,’ Aunt Berta pronounced. ‘Who would have thought it when we were Kate’s age?’

‘It’s all very convenient for girls who need this sort of thing,’ Mother said doubtfully. ‘Girls who don’t have a home and family behind them.’

I could see that they were ready to surge into Bond Street, Regent Street and Oxford Street, but attempted to delay them in the hope of hearing from Tabitha.

Fortunately my aunt and mother agreed that a pot of Darjeeling and a slice of Madeira cake would fortify us for the shopping ordeal that lay ahead. We made ourselves comfortable on the chintz chairs in the drawing room.

‘The pace out there is so hectic,’ Aunt Berta said. ‘There’s far too much rushing about.’

‘Goodness me.’ My mother glanced disapprovingly at my notebook. ‘You’ve been at it again, haven’t you? What a strain you put on yourself, my dear.’

For my mother, a strain consisted of arranging far too many anemones or interfering in housekeeping of which she understood nothing.

‘I don’t find it a strain. It interests me.’ That sounded lame, even to me.

Fortunately, the tea arrived.

No sooner had I poured than the porter came to the drawing room to tell me I had a call.

I excused myself and took the call. ‘Tabby?’

‘Yes it’s me. What a connection we have, almost as if you’re in the next room.’

‘Yes. All the better to hear what you have to tell me.’

‘Well, I didn’t know where Dad kept his painting stuff. Mother’s out riding, so I asked our housekeeper. Well, she did know. Dad used the summerhouse, out beyond the veg plot. Mrs Kay and I trotted along there. She’s the soul of discretion, and very reliable.’

‘And?’

‘This is the good part. There is nothing. Not a paintbrush, not a palette, not an easel – except for a broken
one that he wouldn’t have wanted. Oh, and some empty paint pots and a couple of brushes with their bristles chewed away.’

‘Do you think his art materials may have been thrown out, or given to someone?’

‘This is where it’s encouraging. Mrs Kay has both keys. No one has been in there for an age. My mother never goes into the summerhouse – though she says now and again that she keeps meaning to have the place bottomed out.’

‘Right. Well, that’s interesting. Thanks, Tabby.’

‘Do you think it’s significant, Kate?’

‘I’m not sure.’

‘You must or you wouldn’t be asking. If Dad took his art materials, then he intended going off to paint – like that what’s-his-name Gauguin. He was the one who escaped to the South Sea Islands and left everyone behind wasn’t he?’

‘Kate!’ The voice boomed from the drawing room. ‘Your tea is getting cold, my dear.’

‘And, Tabby, did you find out, was your father taking any medicines?’

‘Oh, I forgot, hold on …’

‘No, it’s all right. Just let me know when you can. We’ll talk again soon.’

When Mother, Aunt Berta and I stepped outside into the April afternoon, fortified with tea and heading for the stores, I felt pleased and optimistic. It was spring, after all, and two people were in love: Tabitha Braithwaite with Hector and Gregory Grainger with Josephine.

In spite of everything, the world would keep on turning.

Perching: When a cloth comes off the loom, it is thoroughly examined for faults. Defects which can be repaired in the next stage of manufacture are marked with chalk. Faults which cannot be mended are marked with a piece of string in the selvedge.

It was Good Friday. There would be no return home before Tuesday because we were engaged to stay with Aunt Berta and Uncle Albert over the Easter weekend, with Dad due today. He’d be pleased to know that Sykes was a great help.

After breakfast, I escaped to Uncle Albert’s library to open the two letters that had come - Sykes’ first. It made me smile to read his admission that he was wrong about Stoddard or, as Sykes cryptically referred to him, “the gentleman in question” – murdering Lizzie Kellett.

Dear Mrs Shackleton

You were right and I was wrong about the gentleman in question. Size nine boots he may have, but his are bespoke. The pattern of sole left on the bank by the cottage is that of a workman’s boot – bought in the nearby town and repaired by a local shoe mender who has provided the police with a list of names of individuals who wear that boot which is popular.

As to the cricket bat, fingerprints were taken. These do not resemble those on the bobbin you provided – again clearing the gentleman in question.

Sykes’ disappointment was evident. He had taken a strong dislike to Stoddard. I suspected this was because he felt bad about letting me into the mill and standing by while Stoddard discovered me there. It was a matter of pride. If he could have found Stoddard guilty of more than outwitting us, he would have been a happy man.

Sykes’ letter continued.

Mrs Sugden sent word for me to come and see the cleaned oil painting. (The restorer had done his work and left when I arrived.) We were correct in surmising that the smudges constituted an act of concealment, even vandalism. The grey smear on the bridge being removed, there appears a petite, dark-haired woman aged about twenty-five, painted as something of a beauty in a flowered summer frock. At the foot of the waterfall, an infant floats in a Moses basket. Mr Winterton, the restorer, gave Mrs Sugden to understand that the woman and infant had been added to the scene at a later date. They were subsequently painted over inexpertly, not by the artist, but well enough for an unobservant person not to notice anything odd at first glance.

Is this Braithwaite’s “other family”? I shall pursue this line of enquiry.

Yours respectfully

J R Sykes