Murder in the Afternoon (18 page)

I parked in the Bull Ring, just as if I had come on the tram, swapped my motoring bonnet for a navy Sans Souci wide-brimmed hat, tucked my big coat in the back of the motor, and then walked to Cross Square, already ten minutes late, and Dad is so very punctual.

We had arranged to meet in Websters. That was the place Mother and I used to haunt before I was married,
when we were on one of our shopping expeditions. It seemed strange to be meeting Dad there, among the smartly dressed shoppers.

Dad waved to me, stood up, and drew out my chair. Heads turned discreetly in our direction. Dad, having shed his gabardine raincoat, looked striking in his West Riding Constabulary uniform. At six feet tall, he is not a man to pass unnoticed.

He smiled.

‘Sorry I’m late, Dad. I stopped for fuel.’

‘It’s all right. Our new Chief Constable is out and about today so there’s no one will be looking at a watch.’ He pointed to the menu. ‘I’ve ordered for us. Hope that’s all right. I knew you wouldn’t be much longer.’

‘What am I having?’

He looked a little sheepish. ‘I asked for the mince for us both. I’ve got a bit of a toothache and I don’t want to do much chewing. But if you’d rather …’

‘The mince will be grand.’

He leaned forward, his eyes twinkling with anticipation. ‘Now what’s all the mystery? You don’t usually ask Mrs Sugden to telephone me at work and arrange lunch.’

I unfolded my serviette.

‘Did she get it wrong?’ Dad raised an eyebrow. ‘Was I meant to ask your mother along as well?’

‘No. I wanted to talk to you. Well, both of you really, but I thought if I talked to you first …’

The more I muttered and prevaricated the worse it would be. I know Dad so well and I could see straight away that he thought I had news about me and Marcus Charles. I guessed that Aunt Berta had been talking to Mother about how much time I spent with Marcus during my week in London.

I could hear my aunt’s voice, loud and clear across the telephone lines. ‘Ginny, my dear, Kate was off with that policeman chappy of hers no end of times, and did I see him? No. Did I hear anything? No. But something’s going on, believe me.’

Dad says that if the constabulary were half as good in making use of the telephone as Mother and Aunt Berta, communications in the force would be greatly improved.

What he said next confirmed my opinion. ‘Your Aunt Berta tells us she was sorry not to meet Inspector Charles when you were in London. He sounds a good fellow.’

‘Yes he is.’

‘You know, you mustn’t feel obliged to carry on with your detective agency for the sake of Jim Sykes. I know it was my suggestion that you take him on in the first place, but he’d find another job. And so would Mrs Sugden.’ He looked at me and at once realised his blunder. ‘Am I jumping in with two left feet?’

‘Yes you are. Dad, I don’t know what Aunt Berta said, but you know what she’s like for matchmaking. I’ve no plans to give up my work, or leave my little house.’

‘Sorry, only …’

‘The reason I wanted to see you, Dad … I don’t know where to begin. It’s nothing to do with Marcus, or my visit to London.’

‘What then?’

No other way than to just begin, just say it. ‘Someone arrived on my doorstep in the early hours yesterday. There’s a mystery surrounding her husband’s disappearance. She’s got it into her head that I’m the person to find him.’

Dad nodded. ‘I can see why she would think that. You have had some success in that department.’

‘Her name is Mary Jane Armstrong. Her maiden name was Whitaker.’

For a moment, he looked puzzled, and then the penny dropped. ‘Whitaker?’

‘Yes.’

‘From Wakefield?’

I nodded. ‘She says she was brought up in one of the Yards off Westgate.’

‘White Swan Yard?’

‘That’s the one.’

‘Well then, she’s picked the right name and right yard. Do you believe she’s genuine?’

‘I think she’s my sister, yes. We don’t look all that much alike, but there’s something there, some connection. She has two children and, oddly enough, the girl reminds me of myself when I was her age. About ten.’

He picked up a knife with his right hand, passed it to his left hand and back again before returning it to the table.

‘I suppose there was always a chance this could happen. How did she find you?’

I gave a brief account of how one of my other sisters had kept track of me.

Dad leaned forward. He spoke quietly. ‘You don’t have to do it you know, if you don’t want to. You can pass the case to the police.’

‘I already have, or tried to, and so did Mary Jane. The local sergeant mounted a search on Saturday night but drew a blank.’

‘Where does she live?’

‘Great Applewick.’

‘Do you want to tell me about the case?’

‘Well yes, I think I should because it’s not as straightforward as it seems. There was another death yesterday, a
Miss Trimble, and I can’t help but connect them. There ought to be a post mortem to ascertain cause of death, but I believe the doctor will sign the death certificate without one.’

He began to look interested, immediately grasping what was unspoken. We could pick up the case and run with it through our meal and beyond. But for once what was uppermost in my mind was more personal, closer to home. ‘Before we get on to that, I’m hoping you’ll tell me something.’

The waitress brought our mince, potatoes and peas, nicely covered with suspiciously dark gravy.

‘What do you want to know?’ Dad asked, when the waitress had gone.

‘I’m not sure. Mother once or twice broached the subject of my adoption. I suppose she thought she had to. But I didn’t want to know at the time. Now there’s no choice.’

‘Wouldn’t you be better talking to your mother about it?’

‘Not yet. Only when I’ve sorted out my thoughts. You see, Mary Jane said
you
came to fetch me. She claims she tried to stop you.’

‘I don’t remember that. There were other children about.’

‘So she’s right. You carried me from the house.’

‘Your mother was outside. I’d borrowed a motor. Ginny wouldn’t come in. I’m not sure what she was afraid of. Perhaps she thought there might be tears, or a scene. Your mother upsets easily.’

‘That’s why I want to have everything clear in my mind. If you can answer my questions, then all I will have to do is tell Mother that I’ve finally made a connection with my
original family. I don’t want it to be some great drama.’

God knows there had been enough of those. Mother has not got over the loss of Gerald any more than I have.

Dad concentrated mightily on chewing mince, and crushing a piece of potato with his fork. He was trying to eat using only the left side of his mouth.

‘You need to see the dentist, Dad.’

‘I know. Only you know my opinion of those fellows.’

‘Make an appointment all the same.’

‘I will.’ He swallowed. ‘Heard about a new tooth wallah opened up somewhere off Kirkgate. Thought I’d give him a try.’

‘Do. Shall I come with you?’

‘That’d look fine wouldn’t it?’ He forked half a dozen peas. ‘What else do you want to know?’

‘Why that family? Why did the Whitakers give me up?’

Dad laid down his knife and fork. If we had not been in a public place, I swear he would have stood up and strode about the room – a combination of toothache and uneasiness. He frowned.

‘Your mother and I …’ He paused. This was how it would be now. Even the word mother would ring with a different sound. ‘We’d been married for three years. She was impatient for children. We’d never discussed adoption, but one day I arrived home early. She wasn’t there. When I asked where she’d been, it was to the Bede Home …’

‘The orphanage?’

‘Yes. They had these annual pound days, when people gave a pound of flour, a pound of sugar, and so on, and she’d taken part in that. Turned up with I don’t know how many pounds of this and that she’d collected from her friends. That was when I knew. We chaps don’t always see into a person’s heart. Well, it stayed with me,
the thought of her going to the Bede Home, and what she said about all the boys there. They were all boys. I kept half expecting her to suggest adopting one. But she didn’t. There came one of those cold, foggy days in October – I went home feeling very downhearted. One of my best men had died suddenly, a heart attack. He was just forty-five years old, with eleven children.’

‘Eleven?’

‘Kate, it was the last century. There was little or no knowledge of …’

I knew what he meant without his having to continue. If it had not been for Marie Stopes and her ilk, I would not have dared what I had with Marcus last week. But it did set me thinking. If my natural mother had been so damned fertile, why had I not managed to produce a child before Gerald was snatched away?

‘You were just a few months old. Mrs Whitaker was forty-four, and worn out. She had daughters old enough to take care of you, but they had to go out to work. I had not thought when I went home and told Ginny the story that she would decide to visit Mrs Whitaker. But that’s what she did. And that evening, she told me that she wanted us to adopt you.’

‘As simple as that?’

He hesitated, and in that moment I knew that it had not been at all simple. My mother would have weighed up all sorts of probabilities. Knowing her as I did, I guessed that she had inspected the other children to make sure they were physically sound and had their wits about them.

Dad said slowly, ‘The moment she saw you, she wanted to take you home. We talked about it, and … I’m sure your family didn’t want to part with you, but under the circumstances …’

I nodded. I would not help him with this. It was up to him to tell me what I wanted to know, and I would not divert him by questions.

‘Go on,’ I said, having picked up this little policeman’s phrase from Marcus Charles.

‘Your mother never kept it from you that you were adopted, as you know. But you were not curious as a child. Once the twins had arrived, you seemed more determined than ever to be of our family, and no other.’

That was true. I remembered well enough my baby brothers brought from the nursing home, and feeling protective towards them, and wanting them to hurry up and grow so that I could play with them, and boss them about.

Dad continued. ‘Your mother had several pretty speeches planned, in case you asked her questions, but you never did.’

Why would she have needed pretty speeches, I wondered, except to cover something sordid? ‘Did money change hands?’ I asked.

He shook his head. ‘No. I made sure that the family benefited from the police benevolent fund, and a collection was taken. Work was found for the older children. When two boys wanted to go to Canada, I wrote them a letter of introduction to the mounted police.’ He smiled. ‘They’d spent weeks learning bareback riding at a farm in Outwood. I believe they’ve done well for themselves.’

‘Do the family still live in White Swan Yard?’

He knew exactly who I was asking about, not “the family”, but my mother.

‘Mrs Whitaker lives in the second house on the right. I call on her from time to time. She asks about you.’

A sudden heaviness filled me so that I felt glued to the chair.
If a fire bell rang, I would have to be carried out.

The waitress appeared and asked brightly whether we wanted pudding. We did not, but ordered a pot of tea.

When she had gone, he said, ‘I expect you’ll want to meet Mrs Whitaker?’

‘I suppose I should. She must be getting on.’

‘Well into her seventies. I’m glad you’ve asked me about her. So often in life we leave something too late.’

Fortunately, he did not press me as to when I would go. Something told me it would be better to see my mother, and tell her, before I went to visit this other mother, in White Swan Yard.

We sat in silence for a while until the tea came. I stirred the pot, and then poured.

‘I shall have to let it cool,’ Dad said, rubbing at his jaw.

The toothache did not stop him spooning in plenty of sugar.

‘Tell me,’ he said, ‘this missing husband of Mary Jane’s. Did you make much headway?’

‘No. And it’s a very strange case. His children, his daughter at least, saw him lying motionless in the quarry. And now he’s nowhere to be found.’

‘Motionless?’

‘Dead. I believe he was murdered and that someone was still there, lurking nearby, and disposed of the body.’

‘The local sergeant, you said he had the quarry searched.’

‘Yes. I could be wrong. Harriet could be wrong, she’s the little girl, but somehow I don’t think so. The sergeant chooses to disbelieve Harriet – a fanciful tale. He thinks because Ethan’s tools are gone he’s left, after an argument with his wife. And then the death of the vicar’s sister, Miss Trimble. I’m sure there was something she could have told me. I know this sounds far-fetched.’

Dad stirred his tea. ‘The missing man, what’s his name?’

‘Ethan Armstrong.’