A Woman Unknown (18 page)

‘Around six. I can’t promise. But if I don’t dig them out today, I shall be onto it first thing tomorrow.’

‘Thanks.’

‘Don’t mention it. And if I succeed in helping you track down the elusive Mrs Fitzpatrick, I shall tell her husband I’d like her to sit for me.’

We parted by the door. I made my way back to the car. His words made a little connection in my memory. Deirdre Fitzpatrick was the sort of woman that a photographer would like to capture, or that a sculptor would like as his model.

I remembered the sketch on Rupert Cromer’s drawing pad, and the startling resemblance between the Venus figure on the bottom of the page and Deirdre Fitzpatrick. Modelling was a tried and tested way for a person to make a little extra cash. It seemed unlikely, and yet the resemblance had been uncanny.

I would pay a visit to Rupert Cromer, and make another double-edged enquiry.

If Cromer had been at the shoot, he might be able to tell me who else was there, and perhaps let slip who may have accidentally on purpose discharged a shot in the direction of Caroline Windham and Everett Runcie.

On this bright September morning, Lord Fotheringham’s estate was at its green and glowing best. My sturdy Jowett, ‘the little engine with the big pull’, bounced along the bumpy track towards the cottage and outbuildings occupied by Rupert Cromer. This was a tucked-away place. I wondered how many more such spots the Fotheringhams had on their vast estate. A few sheep scattered at my approach. A deer looked up from its leisurely grazing. I could not help but picture the overcrowded streets of the Bank, and the lack of amenities and sanitation. Sometimes it amazed me that we came through the war without a revolution.

As I came closer, it occurred to me that Cromer may be in the middle of some hugely important job and would not wish to be disturbed. That of course would not stop me, but he was a man who took his art with high seriousness.

As I reached the end of the track, his sculptures loomed into view, as if growing from the landscape. One piece cried out to be photographed: the tiny centaur. I stopped the car short of the house and took out my camera.
Coming close, I looked for the best way to frame the piece. Taken from below, the creature had a menacing appearance, from above it looked lonely. I could imagine the centaur finding a shady nook in Batswing Wood behind my house. In the wood there is a natural stage where children play. Sometimes a theatre company will put on a performance of Shakespeare.
A Midsummer Night’s Dream
works best. The stone bench formed by the figures in togas would make a fitting seat. Being Headingley, we have a residents’ committee that oversees the well-being of the wood. Next time the committee met, I would raise the question of acquiring a piece of sculpture.

I put off my interview with Rupert Cromer by spending a little while getting just the right angle for my photographs, and checking the light. The Romanesque figures cast satisfyingly strange shadows.

Putting the camera back in the car, I walked towards the cottage. Sounds came from the barn that Cromer used as a studio, but I decided to knock on the cottage door, so as to announce my arrival in the usual way.

The housekeeper was slow in answering. If she would let me in, I could take another look at the pad on the easel, and satisfy myself whether Cromer’s sketch of a woman’s head really did bear a likeness to Deirdre Fitzpatrick.

This estate would be a perfect bolt hole for someone avoiding the world’s gaze.

‘Yes?’ Cromer’s housekeeper snapped at me. There were traces of dough on her fingers. She did not appreciate being torn from her baking. ‘What do you want?’

‘I’m here to see Mr Cromer.’

‘He’s over yon.’

‘Shall I come in and wait?’

‘You’ll have a long wait.’

‘Right. I’ll go across then.’

‘You do that.’ She gave a toothless grin. ‘He won’t thank you for disturbing him.’

She shut the door.

I could see why this particular employee of the great and good was exiled to a far-flung corner of the estate.

Retracing my steps, I approached the barn. One of the big doors stood slightly ajar, giving me a view of the interior. At first sight it was one great disorder of work benches, tools, buffets and pieces of wood and stone waiting their turn for the Cromer treatment. There was a stove, a pile of logs beside it, and a kettle on the hob. Oil lamps hung from the ceiling. Cromer wore a brown smock, like a workman. He did not hear my approach, intent as he was on chiselling at a large rock.

Nearby, a young assistant was busy at a bench. The assistant turned, looked at me, and then at Cromer, uncertain what to do. I took a few steps forward. Cromer looked up. I expected a frown, but he seemed pleased to see me.

‘Hello, Mrs Shackleton.’

Something about his look told me instantly that he expected to make a sale. Oh dear. Well at least I could truthfully say that I would suggest one of his sculptures for our wood.

He came across, beaming.

‘Mr Cromer, I’m sorry to disturb you while you’re working.’

‘Don’t worry about it. We were just about to have coffee, weren’t we, Bernard?’

The young assistant nodded and made off in the direction of the stove.

Cromer led me outside to a stone bench that stood against the wall of the barn. We sat down companionably, side by side.

‘How is Miss Windham?’ I asked.

He spread his hands on his knees. ‘She went back to the house this morning. Sent me a note that there’s a piece in
The Times
about Everett’s death.’

‘Yes I saw it. I expect there’ll be a lot more.’

‘Caroline’s devastated. I don’t think she’ll ever get over it.’

‘They were going to Italy I believe.’

‘Yes. Runcie has a villa there. I hope he had the decency to leave it to Caroline in his will. If he managed to hang onto it.’

‘You think he may not have?’

‘Who knows? Everett’s financial affairs were convoluted to say the least.’

‘Yet he was a patron of the arts.’

He gave a short laugh. ‘True, he commissioned work. He was inspirational in that regard. But he was a good friend to me and I’ll hear nothing said against him.’

From the rueful tone, I guessed that Runcie enthusiastically commissioned work, and then failed to pay for it. That would fit the Runcie approach to life and art.

I changed the subject at that point, owning up to photographing his work.

‘So you’re a photographer?’

‘When I have time, and after my fashion.’

It would be immodest to say I won second prize in the
Amateur Photographer
magazine competition last year.

‘What sort of camera do you have?’

I listed my cameras.

‘I’d like to see the pictures you took of my work. I’m hoping for an exhibition and it’s always difficult to get good material for the catalogue.’

‘I’d be happy for you to see them. If they’re up to scratch you must let me know if you want me to do more sometime. But I took them because I intend to show them to my neighbours. I want to suggest we buy one of your pieces for the woodland we jointly take care of.’

He brightened. ‘Thanks, Mrs Shackleton. That’s jolly decent of you.’

‘I would like to have one of your pieces for myself but my house is small, my garden smaller, and I don’t put myself in the collector bracket.’

He smiled. ‘You should. It’s not as daunting as people think. Make an offer, if there’s something you like.’

‘Thanks. I’ll bear that in mind.’ With my cheque from Philippa, such a purchase might not be out of the question. Of course I would need to succeed and find Everett’s killer if I were to earn my fee. So I must raise the topic of grouse shooting, in a roundabout way.

‘Talking of photography, you had an excellent photographer on the estate not long ago, taking pictures of the shoot.’

‘Oh, who was that?’

‘Probably no one you would know. Len Diamond from the local paper, never without his cap. You might have spotted him.’

‘Now that you mention it, a journalist came to interview me last year and brought a photographer in a check cap.’

‘That will have been him. He came to speak to our photographic club and was as eloquent as he is artistic.’

Being an artist, Cromer was likely to shift the conversation back to himself and his work at any moment, so I pressed my point.

‘Mr Diamond was up here for the first day of grouse shooting. I saw one of his photographs in the paper, the one of Miss Windham, nursing her arm.’

‘For which she’ll never forgive him. She doesn’t like to be shown in a weak moment.’

‘No I suppose not. Were you at the shoot yourself?’

He gave me an emphatic no. ‘There’s no thrill for me in shooting such stupid birds. I would rather get on with my work.’

So much for my tactful broaching of the subject. At this rate, Scotland Yard would have an arrest, a conviction and a hanging before I found a single clue as to what had happened to Everett Runcie.

The apprentice, a pale serious young chap, brought our coffee. We edged away from each other so that the mugs could be set down on the bench between us.

Cromer said, ‘Thanks, Bernard. Take a break yourself.’

When we had sipped our coffee, I took the photograph of Deirdre Fitzpatrick from my satchel.

There was still hope. If I could find Deirdre, not only would I earn Fitpatrick’s undying gratitude, but if my strong suspicions were confirmed, she would turn out to have been at the hotel, and could have valuable information.

‘Mr Cromer, there’s an ulterior motive to my visit. Would you take a look at this photograph, please? Just the
bride, not the groom. I’m searching for someone who’s gone missing. She may have worked as an artist’s model.’

He took the photograph from me, looked at it carefully, and shook his head. ‘I can see why she might work as a model, but no. She’s not familiar.’

I took the photograph back. ‘Thanks.’

‘Who is she?’

‘She’s married to a compositor on the local paper. He is very worried at her disappearance.’

‘Poor fellow. She looks the kind of woman to drive men mad. If you find her, and she does want to pose, let me know.’

‘I doubt if her husband will let her out of his sight once he finds her. She is in enough trouble.’

‘What kind of trouble?’

‘I’ll know the answer to that when I find her. Only what made me ask, when I was here last, I looked at the sketch pad in your parlour, and I thought the face on it so much resembled Mrs Fitzpatrick.’

‘Oh? Now you’ve intrigued me.’ He stood up. ‘Come on, we’ll take a look.’

We carried the mugs with us and walked towards the cottage. As he opened the door, the smell of baking filled my nostrils. The housekeeper may lack social graces, but her buns smelled good.

In the parlour, he went to the sketch pad. ‘Turn the pages. Show me the one you mean.’

The top page was full of recent sketches of the housekeeper, half human, half gnarled tree. There was a drawing of Caroline Windham. She sat in the battered armchair, right leg tucked under, her head tilted to one side, a picture of grief and loss.

The page below was the one I had seen, with man and motorbike, and a Venus figure, the one I thought had Deirdre’s face. Now I saw that it did not. There was a similarity but seen side by side with the photograph, it was not her.

‘Sorry. It’s me. I’m seeing her everywhere.’

Cromer was by the window. ‘It’s all right. It happens to me all the time. Our eyes and hearts play tricks, thank God.’

I left shortly after, and was glad I did. From the bend in the track, I saw Caroline Windham riding across the parkland towards the cottage.

Stopping the car, I called good morning.

She spoke to her horse, and veered over to exchange a word with me, an honour indeed. I wondered did she want a lift to Edinburgh, or the loan of a fiver.

From the great height of her mount on the stallion, she looked down. ‘I have something for you, Mrs Shackleton.’ She put her hand in her pocket. ‘I shall want it back. It’s my lucky bullet.’ She placed the cartridge in my outstretched palm. ‘While I was out riding, Lord Fotheringham had a visit from the police, asking who was in the shooting party. They seem to be chasing the idea that someone shot me deliberately. I wonder where they might have got that from.’