Murder in the Afternoon (37 page)

He bent and kissed my cheek. ‘Don’t you believe that, Kate. I wouldn’t miss it for the world. A man has to eat, and …’ He left out the fact that as far as he was concerned, this case was all but concluded. He drew me up from the chair and into his arms. ‘Try not to worry too much.’ He kissed me again. ‘Get some sleep, Kate. And bolt the door after me.’

I watched from the window as his figure disappeared into the darkness. The motor started, and the car drove off into the night.

Will the day’s journey take the whole long day?
From morn to night, my friend.

Christina Rosetti

The three children sat at the table, each with a basin of porridge. Harriet pressed the lumps in the porridge with the back of her spoon. Austin sported a lump of porridge on his chin, like a joke beard. Millie ate quickly, not taking her eyes off the food. When she finished, she licked the dish clean.

‘Millie. Tell me what happened on the night of the fire.’

She looked at her dish as if to read an answer.

‘It want me!’ Austin cried.

‘And it want me neither,’ Millie echoed.

‘I’m not blaming anyone. I just want to find out. Millie, where were you when the fire started?’

‘In my bed.’

‘She sleeps downstairs,’ Harriet said, ‘in a bed that pulls down from the wall in the kitchen.’

‘Tell me what you saw, Millie.’

Millie recognised a bargaining situation. ‘I want a sup of tea.’

Harriet poured some of her own tea into Millie’s porridge dish. Millie picked up the dish and began to drink. When she had finished, I asked her again.

She stared at the empty dish. ‘Mr Conroy brayed on the door. That waked me up. Mrs Conroy come down. She wouldn’t let him inside because he had drink on him. She went after him.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Making sure he went off from the door and didn’t mither her. I shut my eyes again. And I heard more noise and I didn’t want to look.’ She stared at Austin.

‘It want me,’ Austin wailed.

‘No it want him,’ Millie confirmed. ‘Austin’d woked up and was crying outside. Some flames was taking hold.’

Austin began to cry, as if he must illustrate this story with his actions. ‘I wa’ cold, right cold, and Harriet want there.’

Harriet shushed him. She turned to me. ‘Sometimes Austin sleepwalks.’

That did not explain how he came to be outside, unless the door had been left open, or Millie had taken him out there to lay the blame for the fire on him.

‘What happened next, Millie?’

‘I knew summat was up. I went and saw the flames. I let the cows loose.’ She turned red and looked away. I guessed that she had shown more care for the cows than for Austin.

I smiled at her. ‘That was very good, to set the cows free. You saved their lives. What then?’

‘Mr Conroy, rolling hisself on the ground. His clothes was on fire, and he rolled and rolled and he picked Austin up in his arms and run.’

‘Where was Mrs Conroy?’

‘She’d gone back to bed after shutting Mr Conroy out.’

A loud knock on the door sent all four of us into an attitude of statues. I watched as the string that held the key
began to move. And then I leaped across and grabbed it, and held the key.

‘Anyone home?’ It was Mrs Conroy.

I nodded to Millie to go upstairs, which she did, silently.

I opened the door, but only a fraction. ‘Mrs Conroy. I’m sorry but I can’t ask you in. The children are exhausted.’

‘Mrs Armstrong gave me care of them. I can’t let her down.’

I stepped outside, closing the door behind me.

‘You have troubles of your own, and the children are expected at their grandma’s today.’ I reached out a hand and grazed her arm. ‘I’ve heard about the fire. It’s beyond me to know what to say. My heart goes out to you. I shall tell Mary Jane how kind and thoughtful you were to come looking.’

My heart was beating fast. If she chose to force her way in, this could be a nasty scene.

‘My girl went missing too. The police have her in custody though of course they don’t say it in so many words.’

‘How dreadful. Go see Sergeant Sharp. I’m sure he’ll put your mind at rest. I would come with you, but the children’s grandmother will be here shortly.’

That did it. Perhaps I was not sufficient of a deterrent, but with the addition of an arriving grandmother, Mrs Conroy retreated.

I wished her goodbye, went inside, and shut the door. When I locked it and turned my back against it, I was trembling. What I was up to amounted to abduction, but Millie looked too frail to bear the brunt of blame for the fire.

Harriet went to the window and closed the curtains.

‘I don’t like it dark,’ Austin complained.

‘You have to have the curtains shut when someone died,’ Harriet said gently.

‘Who died?’

‘Dad died.’

‘But that was before. That wasn’t today.’

Harriet ignored him. ‘Is Grandma really coming here?’

It didn’t do to tell lies in front of children. ‘I think it will save a great deal of trouble if we go there. And it will take Millie’s mind off things if she comes with us.’

On the way, I would call home, freshen up and collect my outfit for the all-important family Sunday dinner.

Once again I found myself in White Swan Yard, the Wakefield courtyard where I was born. Mrs Whitaker’s old dog lay on the flags. It thumped its tail, without bothering to lumber up until Harriet and Austin reached the door and rushed inside.

Millie hung back shyly. I felt sorry for the child, having yet more strangers to contend with. ‘Can’t I come with you?’

I considered. Shortly I would be at my parents’ house in Sandal. Something told me it would be complicated enough, with Marcus meeting Dad for the first time; valiant Mr Duffield arriving for his teatime appointment with the well provided woman; and Mother’s friend along to make up the numbers at dinner, and give Mr Duffield the once over.

I was saved an answer. Mrs Whitaker came to the door and held a hand out to Millie. ‘Come on, lass. Don’t be left out in the cold. It’s Millie isn’t it?’

Millie brightened up straightaway and went inside, accompanied by Benjie the dog.

Mrs Whitaker turned to Harriet and Austin, told them to look after the little guest.

She stepped into the yard. ‘Hello, love.’

‘Hello.’

She wore a bright silky Sunday pinafore, printed with spring flowers. ‘Any news?’

I couldn’t call her mother. I couldn’t call her Mrs Whitaker; that would be too formal. ‘Mary Jane has been released by the police, for now. She’s staying with the Ledgers. Their solicitor is acting for her.’

She frowned at that. Perhaps Mary Jane had told her the secret about the Ledger children, or Ethan had confided his opinion of these particular members of “good” society. ‘What does your father … what does Superintendent Hood say about it all?’

That your former son-in-law was an agitator, under surveillance, and that your daughter may be a murderess
.

‘I’m going there now. Just as soon as there’s a development, I’ll let you know.’

She thrust her hands into the pocket of her pinny. ‘I feel that helpless. Would it do any good if I went to speak up for her? She wouldn’t …’ Mrs Whitaker could not bring herself to finish the sentence.

‘I’m sure we’ll get to the bottom of this and she’ll be back home.’

‘She won’t have a home though will she, without Ethan. The house goes with the job.’

‘Let’s take it a step at a time, Mrs Whitaker.’ It slipped out, the Mrs Whitaker, and that made me add something more optimistic than I felt at that moment. ‘I’m sure it will turn out all right.’

No I’m not. I have no idea how this will turn out
.

‘I hope so, Catherine. I pray so.’

‘Goodbye then. I’ll call back for the children.’

It seemed unkind to leave her so hastily, but I needed to get to my parents’ house. My stomach churned. I wanted Marcus to be too busy to come. I wanted him to arrive early and announce that he had charged Bob Conroy with murder, and Mary Jane was free to go.

I dreaded the solemn look, the gentleness in his voice if he said the words I feared. Banish the thought. Thanks to me, dear Mr Duffield would be foregoing his usual Sunday routine, straightening his tie and steeling himself to meet strangers, and the mysterious Mrs Alexander, placer of a small advertisement. She may well turn out to be a secret code. An anarchist, black bomb under her arm stumbling into the house on the stroke of four and blowing us all to kingdom come.

Whenever Dad knows I am visiting, he arranges with his motor-mad neighbour to check over the Jowett as he does not trust me to keep the tyres in good condition.

The next-door neighbour, a young man with wild hair and tidy beard, lives with his mother. He was waiting, watching out for me, like a fussy old lady. He called out, ‘Keep her running!’

He was beside me in an instant, listening to the sound of the engine, like a conductor who has detected a wrong note. ‘Have you checked the boiler lately, Mrs Shackleton?’

I confessed I had not.

‘Leave her to me.’

I smiled, thanked him, and picked up my bag. He is a man my mother once thought of in connection with her widowed friend Martha, but reluctantly concluded that Martha Graham did not have sufficient cranking parts to be of interest to an amateur motor mechanic. My Jowett
disappeared into his garage and, if cars can look pleased, it did.

Mother ushered me upstairs. While I washed away motoring dust and brushed my hair, she laid my dress on the bed.

‘This is lovely, Kate.’

It is a new wrap-around style in turquoise silk crepe, with narrow panels gaily embroidered in darker silk and metallic threads. I don’t like the metallic, but Mother disagreed.

‘What you need is my turquoise pendant with the matching bracelet.’

She only just had time to fasten the pendant for me when the doorbell rang.

‘Our first guest.’ She listened as Pamela the maid let him in. ‘It’s your newspaper librarian.’

‘Mr Duffield. Good. I should like to have a chat with him before the others arrive.’

‘The sherry is in the drawing room. Pamela will take him in there. I’ll let you greet him and give you five minutes.’

Mr Duffield shone with brushing and scrubbing. His face was pink from close shaving. The usually unruly eyebrows lay plastered in straight lines. His hair might have been parted with a sword. I wished he had chosen a more sober suit and a regimental tie of some sort but it was too late for that. Mr Duffield had dressed for the occasion, in his inimitable fashion. He wore a maroon bow tie and a long jacket that gave him the air of having stepped from a Wild West saloon. I could not place the era from which his footwear dated. A pixie could have admired its reflection in the sheen of his pointed toe caps. He smiled at me with a look of pure relief as though I was
the cavalry and had just ridden across the hill in the nick of time.

‘Thank you so much for coming, Mr Duffield. Will you have a glass of sherry?’

He accepted a dry sherry and immediately confided, ‘I arrived a little early because I feel most uneasy about this enterprise. The more I think about it, that poor lady coming to meet me under entirely false pretences … If you could go over what is required of me …’

‘Of course.’ Now was not the time to admit that I felt equally uneasy. ‘First there’ll be lunch, Mr Duffield, with my parents, Mr Dennis Hood, and my mother Virginia, Dad calls her Ginny.’ Mr Duffield visibly shuddered at the thought that I might suggest such familiarity. I did not add that Mother is also entitled to her Lady Virginia moniker.

‘I had the pleasure of meeting Mrs Hood yesterday when she called at the newspaper offices.’

‘Ah yes, of course.’

‘A charming lady.’

‘And there’ll be a friend of my mother’s, Mrs Martha Graham, a widow, and Mr Marcus Charles.’

‘And Mr Charles is …?’

‘A friend of mine.’ I took a breath. ‘He’s a chief inspector at Scotland Yard.’

Mr Duffield’s hand trembled. The sherry made waves. I watched, wondering would he crush the stem or spill the contents onto the rug. He did neither but carefully placed the glass on the mantelpiece, as though too distraught to see the occasional table next to him. He bit his lip. ‘Superintendent Hood, and Chief Inspector Charles, and I am here to partake of Sunday lunch, and then perpetrate a deception upon an unwitting lady. Surely …’

‘My father and Mr Charles are aware of this. It is part
of an investigation. You will have the gratitude of the West Riding Constabulary, and Scotland Yard.’

I may not, but you will
.

He waited for me to say more. This is the trouble with men who have been in the army. They either want to give orders, or take them. In his empire at the newspaper offices, Mr Duffield gave orders. But this, in his eyes, was my domain. I rose to the occasion.