A Woman Unknown (41 page)

Sykes studied the mourners closely. ‘Mr Sykes, you’re not on duty.’

‘I’m never off duty, any more than you are, Mrs Shackleton.’

‘Well I hope I’m not making it so obvious.’

We walked up the path in the direction of Fitzpatrick’s family grave. A man in an astrakhan coat sidled up beside me and cleared his throat. ‘Mrs Shackleton.’

It was the solicitor who had come to Deirdre’s aid. ‘Mr Cohen.’

He smiled as affably as one dare on such an occasion. ‘Thank you for asking me to represent Mrs Fitzpatrick.’

‘It was Mr Brasher, the boxing promoter, who made the suggestion.’

‘Yes, but you took Mrs Fitzpatrick to Brasher’s gym when you could have acted differently. She is most grateful, and so is her brother. If I can ever be of service, Mrs Shackleton, you only have to ask.’ He produced his card and handed it to me.

‘Thank you.’

‘And I am asked to give you an envelope, from Mr Hartigan.’

It was difficult to refuse as he did a reverse pickpocket action and thrust the envelope into my pocket. I could feel its width and knew its contents would be used notes.
I looked at the nuns in a small group by the foot of the grave and chose one that I would hand it to. It may be that the money was clean as newly fallen snow, or it may be splattered in blood. I would not keep it.

Deirdre stood at the graveside, her friend Rita beside her, linking her arm. It struck me that Rita was one of the few people who knew the nature of Fitzpatrick and Deirdre’s marriage. Eddie supported the two aunts, who looked most distressed, despite not being close to Fitzpatrick, or perhaps because of that.

I was glad when it was over. I went to Deirdre and shook her hand, murmuring a few words of sympathy.

Her eyes were red-rimmed, and her nose sore from the friction of too much wiping. She said, ‘There’s a breakfast at the Lloyds Arms.’

‘That’s kind of you, but I won’t this time.’

That was a silly thing to say, because it hinted that if she laid some future husband to rest, I might come then. But I hope she understood that I meant I would find it awkward to be a stranger amongst the relatives and friends at such a time.

Sykes whispered, ‘I’ll go. You never know when it might come in handy to have a friendly face on the Bank.’ Given the number of nuns and clergy that would be in attendance, it surprised me that Sykes would feel at home at such a repast. He read my look and said, ‘The landlord at the Lloyds is a left footer.’

That was my moment to give the money to the Little Sisters’ Mother Superior, with a whisper that it was from Anthony Hartigan, for the poor of the parish. Which I suppose included absolutely everyone.

I drove both Sykes and Joseph Barnard into town.
After I dropped Sykes by the Lloyds, Mr Barnard stepped out from the dickey seat and came to sit beside me.

‘I read about Mr Fitzpatrick’s death in the paper,’ he said. ‘I wanted to pay my respects to the poor man, and show Deirdre that I care.’

‘And do you care?’

‘I do indeed. I shall be writing to her and asking if we can see each other again. And if there is ever a show you wish to attend, please let me know and I shall be happy to arrange tickets for you.’

‘Thank you.’

Somehow, I did not feel in a hurry to see and hear Mr Barnard singing his heart out. For a long time, Gilbert & Sullivan music would serve to remind me of terrible deaths, and of smoke rising from an overworked Jowett.

‘Mr Barnard, what is happening about your divorce? Has it been put in jeopardy by events?’

‘Fortunately not.’

I was glad of that, having heard that his solicitor, Mr Lansbury, had escaped with a stern warning.

We were at the station. Barnard thanked me for the lift and hurried to catch his train.

There would be two more funerals for me to attend.

Leonard Diamond was buried in Beckett Street Cemetery. Three of us said our last goodbyes: me, Mr Duffield and young Tom Ashworth, who had taken Diamond’s place as newspaper photographer.

By contrast with Diamond’s muted funeral, Everett Runcie’s last goodbye was exceedingly grand, as befitted a minor member of the aristocracy, the second son of a long-established family of bankers. He was laid to rest in
the family vault. The day dawned cold and blustery. Philippa Runcie drew no odd looks for being swathed in a voluminous sable coat. At the funeral breakfast, a cleverly designed black velvet dress concealed her pregnancy. In a few more weeks she would sail for New York, smuggling in her womb the rightful heir to the Runcie name and ancestral home. He would be born on the other side of the Atlantic, and live an altogether freer life.

Marcus had travelled north for the funeral. We exchanged a few words before entering the chapel, and I felt glad that we would always get on with each other.

During the service, he sat with an elderly man who sported a colonial style moustache and carried a cane with a gold horse’s head knob.

Aunt Berta whispered, ‘I see your old friend Mr Charles is getting to know the right people. Is he chasing a knighthood?’

‘I shouldn’t think so. Who is the man he is with?’

‘My dear, you must get to know your dukes. I’ll introduce you later. He owns an immense chunk of the Highlands. Your uncle won’t buy anyone else’s whisky.’

The pair left the chapel before us. As they walked along the aisle, they glanced in my direction.

Aunt Berta said, ‘They are talking about you.’

It was on the walk back to Kirkley Hall for the funeral breakfast that the bewhiskered duke engaged Aunt Berta in conversation.

Marcus fell into step with me. ‘Kate, you’ll hate me for saying this, but I want to know that I can rely on your discretion regarding that little deal between Hartigan and the distiller.’

The sun had put in an appearance when we left the chapel. But for me, brightness fled from the day.

Marcus did not trust me. He would never completely trust me. As far as he was concerned, he was inside the establishment tent and I was outside, slightly dangerous, a person to watch.

The two women in Runcie’s life stayed apart from each other at the funeral, and at the breakfast that followed. Caroline Windham remained in the orbit of Lord and Lady Fotheringham. My aunt spoke to her, but I did not, not until it was almost time to leave.

We were on the veranda, with glasses of sherry. She was standing alone, near a potted plant, and waved to me.

Not a person to take time coming to the point, she said, ‘Rupert asked to see me, a condemned man’s last request.’

I did not know what to say.

‘I broke his shoulder, you know, when I hit him with the poker. I’m not sorry. He said he wished I’d hit him on his skull and killed him.’ She took another sip of sherry. ‘I don’t know how he did it, but he had a will that pre-dated his arrest or something. All his work comes to me.’

It seemed an unusual outcome. I would have expected a condemned man’s assets to be seized by the Crown. Perhaps one of the Viking Queen’s ancestors had fought alongside the ancestor of an Important Person in probate. Would she try and flog me a sculpture?

Mercifully, not.

‘I don’t know what to do about any of it,’ she said.
‘Fotheringham has no idea either. He says no one in England will want Cromer’s work for a generation or more. You wouldn’t, would you?’

‘No.’ I thought of the bust of Philippa that she had sent me. It remained in its wrappings. Then I spotted King. A brilliant idea occurred to me. ‘Go to Paris, Miss Windham. Sell the work there. You could open a gallery.’

Her eyes widened at the possibility.

Having come up with the idea, I warmed to it. ‘I will photograph the work for you, anonymously. That would help make the pieces more widely known. It will give you a fresh start.’

‘I should hate to leave England.’

‘But you were going to Italy.’

‘That’s different. I’m not sure about France, but I suppose I might take to Paris.’

‘Paris would take to you.’

‘Something will have to happen. Otherwise the sculptures stay on Fotheringham’s estate and he thinks there’s something ghoulish about it all. I would not be surprised if he had them smashed up for gravel. There has always been a philistine streak in that family.’

‘Then do it.’

‘I could certainly talk about the work, be enthusiastic about it.’

‘And knowledgeable.’

‘But I’d be hopeless at the business side.’

‘Not if you had the right partner. There’s someone whom I believe would be very good. He is going to Paris, and with no particular plans that I know of.’

‘Who?’

I nodded towards King. ‘With your flair and Gideon King the third’s business acumen, you’ll go far I should think. Do you get on with him?’

‘I’ve never had much to do with him. He is Philippa’s secretary don’t forget.’

‘Not any more.’ I waved to Gideon. ‘Go into the maze, Caroline. No one will see you. I’ll tell him to follow, and you can talk it over.’

Since my niece Harriet had let slip that her mother would be asking to stay with me to establish residency for marriage at Leeds Register Office, I had expected to hear from Mary Jane. A brief letter had followed, asking could she stay in my spare room, and that she would visit me soon.

For once, her timing was impeccable. She knocked on the door the day after Everett Runcie’s funeral, bringing the children with her.

Never previously having contact with my birth family, I did not know of Mary Jane’s existence until the spring of this year. It was then that she sought me out to ask for help, when her husband disappeared. Meeting my new family had come as something of a shock.

She and I sat in the back garden. Harriet and Austin played in the wood, looking for the best trees to climb.

‘Don’t fall and break anything!’ Mary Jane called to them. ‘I’m not spending hours sitting in that dispensary.’

‘They’ll be fine.’

We had made a picnic and brought it outside, taking advantage of the fine day.

‘Catherine, you know you said I could stay here for residency until my banns have been called.’

‘Yes.’

She glanced towards the house. ‘This is a really nice spot, and such a lovely house.’

A chill ran through me. She had relinquished her tied house. She and her children had been camping out with her mother, or I should say ‘our mother’. Mary Jane did not like the tongue-wagging that resulted when she and the children moved into the farm with her fiancé. And since the farm was being sold and furniture auctioned off, it was not the most comfortable place to be.

‘The children have had such a lot of disruption,’ she said.

Their voices floated from the wood. Harriet was shouting, ‘Coming, ready or not!’

‘Well you know your spare room that you said I could stay in?’

‘Yes,’ I said cautiously.

‘The thing is, Catherine, I know it’s a bit soon but the people selling us the newsagent’s shop and house in Helmsley want to bring the sale forward. It will suit us down to the ground. Of course it means early mornings for the papers and so on, but Roland is used to that. And Harriet is quite keen on the idea of serving on in the shop.’

‘She’s a bit young isn’t she?’

‘Oh only at weekends and after school. But the thing is, we don’t want to delay. We want a totally fresh start and to turn up in Helmsley as man and wife, all official.’

‘Yes I can see the sense of that.’

‘Otherwise, I wouldn’t have thought of re-marrying
so very soon. I would have let a year go by, out of decency.

‘But you’d already set the date for November.’

‘And now we’re bringing it forward to October.’

‘October?’ I heard the panic in my voice. Was she planning to move in today?

‘Roland is so particular about keeping to the rules. You’d be surprised. So if we could just move in here, quite soon. You won’t notice us. Roland has various bits of business to attend to before we can leave Great Applewick, but we’re thinking of a date early in October, then I’ll be a clear six months widowed and it won’t seem so appalling.’