Murder in the Afternoon (39 page)

Dennis nodded to a railway guard.

Ginny swelled with pride. She’d done it; been a help to Dennis, and to Kate. Lapsang Souchong and sponge cake were consigned to ancient history.

Marcus and I had said little to each other while we waited, side by side on the sofa. The moment the doorbell rang, I leaped to my feet and went into the hall to meet a gloomy Mr Duffield, returned from the station. He took off his hat, refusing to step into the drawing room, intending to catch the next tram. ‘I feel such a cad regarding that lady. Just for a moment, Mrs Shackleton, she touched my heart. It briefly came to me that we would marry, that she would delight my life and that of an evening we should sit either side of the fire, me reading Trollope and she with the Good Book, or a pair of knitting needles.’

‘I could be wrong, Mr Duffield. Perhaps Mrs Alexander is who she says she is. I am only going by a feeling, and by her reversible cape.’

‘No,’ he said sadly. ‘She would not give me her address but will contact me. Something about a sister who disapproves, and something else …’

‘What else, Mr Duffield?’

‘I watched her walk into the station. She waved. I waved, and turned, but then looked back. Her gait had changed. Don’t ask me how, but something altered in her step, and the way she held her head. I know we are all a
different person when alone, but this was something else, and I can’t say what, but I knew. These things are perhaps instinctive, as you hinted, Mrs Shackleton.’ He sighed. ‘Instinct, you know, whether a life spreads out just as it did before, or with some subtle change. My life spreads out as it always has.’

He smiled bravely, hiding disappointment.

Marcus had stepped into the hall and was listening. ‘Thank you very much for your assistance, Mr Duffield. It’s most public spirited of you to help us in this way.’

I smiled at Marcus, glad that he now at least pretended to treat my wild scheme with such sober appreciation. The change in Mrs Alexander’s gait might be accounted for by her knowledge that she had made a conquest, or her relief at being able to escape from an eccentric.

Mr Duffield replaced his hat. ‘Well, good day to you both.’

I watched him slowly walk away, head bowed.

‘Don’t feel too bad about all this, Kate.’ Marcus placed a hand on my shoulder. ‘Who knows but that you may have given the old chap an idea or two? Perhaps he’ll be placing his own personal advertisement for a wife before too long.’

‘Or brushing up on his bridge to please Mrs Graham.’

Back in the drawing room we sat beside each other on the sofa, a little way apart this time. ‘Kate, when this business is settled, I have something to ask you, and I hope you’ll say yes.’

I knew what the question would be, or at least thought I did. A Scotland Yard chief inspector does not have Sunday dinner with a West Riding Constabulary superintendent and his wife while planning to ask their daughter to live in sin or continue a clandestine affair.

Marcus is a dear man, but we were treading warily around each other. He wasn’t saying so, but he believed my scheme to have Mr Duffield answer the letter had come to nothing and that because of a reversible cape, I had sent my mother and father on a wild goose chase. Like a finely adjusted set of scales, something hung in the balance between us.

‘Pamela!’ I ran into the kitchen. The woman wore artificial silk stockings. So did a thousand other women.

Pamela turned from stacking dishes. ‘Pamela, did the lady wear jewellery?’

She thought for a moment. ‘Earrings, a ring on each hand.’

‘A ring on each hand, one a wedding ring?’

‘Yes.’

‘And the other, a buckle ring?’

‘I think so.’

‘What kind of earrings?’

‘Pierced. I don’t come across many ladies with pierced ears, and I expect they was gold.’

‘Pear-shaped hoops, smallish?’

‘Yes. If they’d been any bigger you’d call them vulgar, gypsy like.’

‘Thank you, Pamela.’

‘That kitten, what colour is it if it’s not entirely ginger?’

I pictured the peculiar little creature. ‘It’s ginger, tabby and white.’

‘Oh.’ She could not hide her disappointment. ‘Mrs Hood said it was a ginger tom.’

‘I’ve no idea what sex it is.’

Marcus was listening in the hall. We went back into the drawing room before he spoke. ‘So who is the mysterious Mrs Alexander?’

‘Georgina Conroy.’

He sighed. ‘You have a limited choice of suspects.’

‘That’s not the reason. It’s her jewellery.’

‘Pamela is suggestible. You gave her the information.’

‘Georgina married Bob Conroy in January, 1922. I remember seeing the date in the church register and thinking that he took his time to find a wife. Bob and his brother Simon jointly owned the farm. Four months later, Simon was dead – an accident, tumbling into the quarry while trying to rescue a lamb.’

‘Yes, an accident.’

‘With Simon out of the way, the farm is owned by Bob, and when he dies, in another accident, it will come to her. She’ll move on. I asked her about the advertisement that was in Ethan’s pocket. She claimed to know nothing about it.’

‘Did you ask Bob about it?’

‘Yes, but by then she’d told him to say nothing, probably claiming she would be embarrassed to own up to her method of finding a man. He was holding something back. I should have pressed him.’

‘I’ll interview him. But he was drunk when the fire started, Kate. She didn’t arrange that.’

‘She’s clever, takes advantage of whatever opportunity comes her way.’

Marcus reached for my hand and said softly, ‘And she lets Mary Jane off the hook because she has a reversible cape? I don’t think so.’

There was no point arguing. If I did, it would only fix him more firmly on Mary Jane. So I simply tried to offer him another idea. ‘Ethan went to see Georgina, supposedly to confide in her about his marital troubles with Mary Jane. What if he went to see her because he knew she had schemed to have Bob sell the farm? Ethan had found the
latest advertisement, the exact same wording as her previous one, and he knew she was behind it.’

‘There’s an awful lot of supposition there, Kate.’

I had said too much. A hint should have been enough. If Marcus would not investigate Georgina Conroy, then Sykes and I would. But his doubts dented my confidence.

The telephone rang.

Pamela got to it first.

A moment later, she opened the drawing room door. ‘Mr Charles, it’s the station master at Leeds, wishing to speak to you.’

‘Thank you.’

Marcus went into the hall. I did not follow him, to watch him pick up the speaking device, to listen to half a conversation. I waited.

Either this was nothing to do with the well provided woman, Mrs Alexander, or I was right and she and her advertisement amounted to something. Only it could not be Georgina Conroy. Even the voice was wrong.

Pamela stepped into the room and closed the door on Marcus’s conversation.

She looked sheepish. Had she come to tell me that the kitten would not be suitable?

‘What is it, Pamela?’

‘That lady visitor, when I said about her hands.’

‘Yes?’

‘She has a wart on her right middle finger. Was I right to notice it? No one can help warts can they?’

‘No, I suppose not. Thank you, Pamela.’

‘Do you think …’

‘What?’

‘I could take the tram to where you live, and I could look at the kittens.’

Wakefield must be teeming with unwanted cats, but Sookie’s strange hybrid intrigued. ‘What a good idea,’ I said, trying to make myself sound convincing.

She looked pleased with herself. ‘I’ll talk to your mother about it.’

When Marcus came back, his face was unreadable. He looked at me as though I had hailed from another planet, and then he said, ‘It looks as if you may have been right.’

‘Oh?’

‘Mrs Alexander took off her wig and spectacles in the ladies’ room at Leeds railway station. She emerged blonde and rather well less well endowed than the person who called here, and with her cape reversed to bottle green. She may not be connected to the murder, Kate, but she’s up to something. Your father had the ticket collector report on her destination. Great Applewick.’

‘Georgina Conroy.’

‘It’s possible. I’m not jumping to conclusions. Sergeant Sharp will meet the train.’

I felt a sense of panic. Sergeant Sharp would frighten her off. She’d bolt.

He read the look on my face. ‘I want him only to confirm that she gets off the train, and make a note of the time, in case we need that information for evidence. I’d like some answers from that lady.’

‘About Ethan’s murder?’

‘Not yet. Personation is a misdemeanour but only if it’s for the purpose of fraud or to obtain property.’

‘Personation! Marcus, she killed Ethan.’

‘I’ll speed up the search warrant for the farm.’

‘Marcus, I have an idea.’

‘Go on.’

‘That farmhouse and the outbuildings will be devilish to
search. There’s one person who’ll know every nook and cranny of the place.’

‘Bob Conroy? He’s in no fit state and he’s still under suspicion.’

‘The little girl, Millie. She’s browbeaten and scared of Mrs Conroy, but little girls look into everything. Let me go there with her, and see what we find.’

Marcus frowned. ‘And have Mrs Conroy deny all knowledge of whatever you find, say that Mary Jane’s sister went to the house to incriminate her? No. We’ll do this in the usual way, Kate, no unorthodox methods.’

‘All right. But I have one small suggestion.’

Austin stayed with his grandma, in the second house on the right in White Swan Yard. Safety in numbers, that seemed to be Millie’s feeling. She would only come with me to the farm if Harriet came too. The two girls sat side by side in the motor, sharing Gerald’s motoring coat, and with a blanket around them. The goggles were too big, but they did not seem to mind.

I stopped the motor on the lane that led to Conroys’ farm, outside the farm cottage. Arthur opened the door, but it was Mrs Sharp, the police sergeant’s wife, who stepped forward to meet the children. Billy, the sheepdog, pushed past her and leaped at Millie, licking her face, wagging his tail.

Harriet shot me a glance. ‘When can I see Mam?’

‘Soon.’

I hoped it would be soon.

When they had disappeared into the tiny cottage, I drove on, finally leaving the Jowett by the farm gate.

Carrying my satchel and brown paper carrier bag, I stepped into the yard.

Mrs Conroy took a long time to come to the door. While I waited, it struck me that a pie and a fruit cake
might be overdoing the commiserations, and one would have been enough.

She smiled with something like relief on seeing me. ‘Come in. I feared it would be bad news about Bob.’

‘Haven’t you seen him yet?’ I followed her into the spotless kitchen.

‘They keep promising. You know hospitals, never tell you a thing.’

I handed her the carrier bag. ‘I thought you might not be up to preparing food.’

She took the bag from me, and lifted the cake and pie onto the table. ‘Thank you, but I’ve no appetite.’

I noticed the tea chest at the side of the table. She had been packing. When she saw me looking, she said, ‘No point in shillyshallying. Now the farm’s sold we shall move on just as soon as Bob’s well enough. The livestock is sold.’

‘Mrs Conroy, I want to ask you something.’

‘Sit down then.’ She sighed. ‘I’m sorry I haven’t put on the kettle since this morning. But you’ll have a drink of something?’

‘Yes, if you’ll join me in a slice of cake.’

‘You’ve talked me into it.’

She disappeared, returning with glasses, a bottle, plates and a sharp knife. ‘Ask away,’ she said as she cut into the fruit cake.

For a few seconds, I couldn’t avert my eyes from her hands. A ring on each hand, one of them a buckle ring. From somewhere the words popped into my head. By our deeds will you know us. By our hands will you know us. ‘She has a wart on her middle finger,’ Pamela had said.

She poured a glass of homemade wine.

On the middle finger of her right hand, Georgina Conroy had a wart.

‘Mrs Conroy, when Ethan came to see you, what was that about?’

She handed me a slice of cake. ‘I don’t suppose there’s any harm in telling you now, though I would hate to hurt Mary Jane.’

I sipped the wine, a little sweet for my taste. ‘I can’t imagine what would make things worse for her than they are already.’

‘He came to me because he was unhappy, and he asked for my advice.’

Poppycock. Why had Ethan really come? Because, voracious reader of newspapers, he had spotted her personal advertisement and linked it with a previous one that Bob Conroy had replied to.