A Woman Unknown (40 page)

Night had fallen by the time I drove away from the Fotheringhams’ estate. Sykes insisted on giving me a motorbike escort, riding the motorbike a few yards behind me, along the dark, moonlit road, as if he thought I might have some terrible mishap on the way home.

Mrs Sugden, having returned from her typewriting class, had placed a page of letters, mostly f, j, d and k, on the hall table for my perusal. The effort must have exhausted her for she had retired for the night. She had also left a note:
Arthur has fixed the Jowett. He will bring it across first thing
.

Goody, goody. Now I could look forward to a lecture, and would probably have to endure demonstrations involving oil and water, tyres and big ends

Sykes hovered. ‘Shall I put the Morris away?’

‘No, leave it there. Arthur will be across at the crack of dawn, returning my Jowett and taking the Morris back to Wakefield.’

‘Right then, I’ll be off.’

‘There is one thing you could do for me, Mr Sykes.’

‘Of course.’

‘Gideon King went into the hotel to add something to his statement. Would you find out if he has been allowed to return home?’

Sykes nodded. ‘Yes I’ll do that.’

‘Please say I ask that he be released. But I’ll give you a spare toothbrush to take to him, just in case.’

I went up to the bathroom and took a toothbrush from the cabinet.

Sykes put the toothbrush in his pocket. ‘I expect this will be the end of our involvement.’

‘Yes.’

‘It’s been interesting, being a special constable, and having the bike.’

‘Come round in the morning, Mr Sykes, not too early. We’ll put our heads together about where we go from here.’

I listened until the motorbike engine hummed into life, and then faded as Sykes rode away.

No matter what the hour, Philippa would want to know that Everett’s murderer had been apprehended. I picked up the telephone. It was a relief to me when King answered.

‘Mr King, I’m glad you’re home.’

‘So am I, Mrs Shackleton.’

‘Would you please tell Philippa I have some news and will come now, if it’s not too late.’

‘I’ll be waiting for you.’

And he was waiting. As I drew up outside the house, he approached the car, and opened the door for me.

‘Was it terrible, Mr King?’

‘Gideon. And, yes. But thankfully, Philippa did not realise I had been and gone, thanks to her own preoccupations,
and because dealing with the inventory takes me into far-flung corners of the house.’

‘Well I’m glad you didn’t need the toothbrush.’

We walked towards the doorway that was lit by the looted Chinese lanterns. ‘I haven’t told Philippa, about Diamond and the money, and so on.’

‘Then I won’t either. You can rely on me.’

‘Thank you.’ He paused by the steps. ‘I’m not going back to Boston with her. I haven’t told her that either.’

‘What will you do?’

‘I thought of Paris, somewhere I can start again.’

‘Well that sounds a good idea. There are lots of Americans in Paris. But Philippa will miss you.’

‘No she won’t. She won’t need me any more.’

‘What will you do there?’

He shrugged. ‘I’m sure someone will want a private secretary, and I daresay I shall have a testimonial from Philippa.’ We walked up the steps towards the front door which stood open. ‘She knows you are coming. I’m to take you up.’

I followed him up the broad staircase.

He tapped on Philippa’s door, and then discreetly vanished.

A fire glowed. Philippa sat at her table, a pile of papers in front of her. She stood and came to greet me. ‘Kate, come and sit down. What is it? You look quite pale.’

‘It’s been quite a day, quite an evening.’

As we sat by the fire, I told her that Cromer had been arrested for Everett’s murder, about how the newspaper photograph and the ‘accidental’ shot at Caroline had roused my suspicions, about the photograph of Rupert Cromer, pointing his gun.

‘I didn’t even know he was at the shoot.’

‘He wasn’t supposed to be.’

‘What did he have against Everett?’

This was the hardest part, to tell her that Cromer loved Caroline Windham, his muse. He more than loved her, he was protective of her and obsessed by her.

Philippa stared into the fire. ‘Do you know, I can see why Cromer would care passionately for Caroline. She would be his type. It’s a pity she did not see it that way. It would have saved us all so much heartache.’

‘And Everett his life.’

‘Yes. Poor Everett. In many ways, he was such a stupid man. He couldn’t see where his own true interests lay.’ She went back to her table and opened a drawer. ‘I’ll write you a cheque now, Kate. My brother-in-law will be very relieved that the spotlight has turned from the bank and Everett’s business associates.’

It was a more than generous cheque but I did not demur. I had earned this.

She said once again, ‘Rupert Cromer. To think he was at the races, and to think some people call him a genius. What a waste, Kate.’

‘I know.’

For me that was almost the hardest part, two artists of the highest calibre, Diamond and Cromer, both damned to hell for their crimes.

The next morning, as I ate a late breakfast, a large package arrived, brought by one of the men from Kirkley Hall. I opened the accompanying envelope first.

Mrs Sugden said, ‘Shall I unwrap this object?’

‘Not yet. I’m not quite ready to look at it.’

There was a knock on the door. ‘Put it out of the way, or Mr Sykes will be curious to see it, and he can wait.’

Sykes joined me for a cup of tea and a slice of toast.

‘I see you’ve got the Jowett back.’

‘Yes, thanks to Arthur. And we have a surprise journey, Mr Sykes. You can map read. I’ll drive.’

‘Where do I map read to?’

‘Five Lane Ends in Idle.’

‘Bradford?’

‘Yes. You’ll see the map on the dining room table.’

‘Right-o. I shall peruse it now and commit to memory.’

Half an hour later, we were well on our way in the Jowett, which looked spruce after Arthur’s attention, me driving, Sykes navigating. He tapped the map. ‘It’s a right here.’

I turned right onto a twisting road. ‘I’ve been thinking, Mr Sykes.’

‘Oh?’

‘Cyril Fitzpatrick earned three pounds eight and six. I’m not paying you enough.’

‘If you say so.’

‘I do.’

He cannot help but argue, even when it is against his own best interest. ‘I have my special constable fee, and a few bob more, here and there.’

‘Yes, well the less said about that the better. You shouldn’t need to be selling swimsuits and stockings in public houses.’

‘It can be a good cover.’

We reached a fork in the road. ‘Do you want a rise in pay or not?’

‘Turn left, and yes. It wouldn’t go amiss.’ He looked up from the map and stared ahead. ‘Why are we visiting a slag heap?’

‘It’s not just a slag heap, there’s a works here.’

And as we turned, there it stood: the Jowett Motor Manufacturing Company.

Sykes let the map slide to the floor. ‘So what are we doing here? Don’t tell me someone’s nicking their motors?’

‘I have an appointment with Mr Benjamin Jowett, to test drive a new car.’

For once, Sykes was shocked into silence.

Such had been Philippa Runcie’s generosity that I could pay one hundred and sixty pounds outright for the motor, plus ten pounds extra for the electric starter, and still have enough left to pay Mr Sykes and myself handsomely for another eighteen months.

As we drove into the massive yard, Sykes found his tongue. ‘Can we get a black one? I’ve nothing against pale blue for frocks, but I come in for some funny comments when I drive this.’

‘Keep your voice down. Don’t offend her.’

He tapped the dashboard. ‘She’s not listening. She’s looking at her cousins.’ By the far wall, standing elegantly in a row, were half a dozen gleaming motors.

‘So what sort of comments do you get when you’re driving?’

‘Unrepeatable.’

‘Oh go on.’

‘I couldn’t possibly.’

‘Can’t be worse than what I have to put up with. Tell me or I’ll get blue again.’ I stopped the motor by the factory’s big doors.

‘Oh, all right. Last time I was out in this, some stupid bloke shouted, Do you pee sitting down?’

I started to laugh. Sykes climbed out, in one of his huffs. I slid out after him. ‘Well I don’t want to drive a black car, Mr Sykes. But you can have this one painted any colour you like.’

‘What? I’m to have this one?’

‘Unless you’d prefer a motorbike?’

He picked up the map from the passenger seat and started to fold it carefully, to hide his emotion. ‘This one will be just grand, once she’s painted black. I’ll do it myself.’

‘You will not. They’ll do it here for you.’

A smiling man in a good suit emerged, walking towards us. ‘Mrs Shackleton?’

We shook hands. I introduced Mr Sykes, who gladly
agreed to have a senior mechanic give him a tour of the works while Mr Jowett and I went across to the dark blue Short-Two, with black mudguards, that we had discussed on the telephone.

‘You’re testing a popular motor, Mrs Shackleton. We made five hundred of these last year and we’re set to double production this year.’

‘Lots of Jowetteers on the road then?’ I remembered my kindly rescuer, and all the salutes I had given and returned over the years.

‘Yes indeed. And what’s going to happen to your present motor?’ he asked.

‘Mr Sykes will have it.’

‘That’s the ticket. Old Jowetts never wear out, they’re inherited.’

He opened the door. I slid into the driver’s seat, my coat squeaking across the new leather.

‘I say, if you don’t mind my asking, are you the Mrs Shackleton who solved the murder of the banker?’

‘Well, it was really Scotland Yard.’

‘That’s not what I heard.’

At this rate, I would be as famous as the Jowett.

Sykes surprised me by announcing that he would attend Cyril Fitzpatrick’s funeral. He even visited the Roman Catholic cathedral to acclimatise himself so that he would be prepared for the popish surroundings. It was to take place a week and a day after Mrs Hartigan’s funeral, hardly allowing time to press the black skirt.

Sykes and I sat halfway down the church. There was a good turnout for the Requiem Mass. A couple of sombre-looking chaps took round the collection plate, the task once undertaken by Fitzpatrick himself.

What intrigued me was the hymn singing. One voice soared above all others and this was most marked in the final hymn,
Faith of our Fathers
.

The mystery was solved as we watched mourners file along the aisle behind the coffin. Deirdre walked with her aunts; Uncle Jimmy led a posse of relations. Here came the singer. Alongside faithful Eddie Flanagan, in his well-brushed dark jacket, stepped Joseph Barnard, wearing an impeccably tailored black suit and cravat, carrying a homburg.

I felt a reluctance to attend the interment, in case of
further accidental deaths at the cemetery, but Sykes urged me to see it through, for poor Fitzpatrick’s sake. Consequently we made for the motor. Had my new Jowett been black, I would have followed the cortege, but having chosen dark blue I thought it proper to drive separately, which meant that we arrived first and were able to wait by the cemetery gates.