A Woman Unknown (19 page)

‘I can’t imagine.’

‘Naturally, Lord Fotheringham is furious. He personally vouches for every shooter.’

‘But you are not so sure?’

She shrugged her magnificent shoulders. ‘I’m sure of nothing, Mrs Shackleton. But you were the one who thought of it first, so I’m passing this to you for safe
transit. I believe the police can do very clever things regarding matching guns and cartridges. Tell them they might want to start with Philippa Runcie’s gun, or that secretary of hers.’

It had been twenty-four hours since Philippa asked for my help. So far my only gain was the spent cartridge given to me by Caroline Windham, and the knowledge that both she and Marcus took seriously my theory that the so-called “stray shot” could have been meant for Runcie.

At going on six o’clock, I arrived at the newspaper offices, hoping that Len Diamond might have left me photographs he had taken on the day of the shoot, along with his picture of Deirdre from last year.

It is very useful to have good contacts on the local newspaper, and this included old George, the porter who sits on the front desk. I keep on his right side, and exchanged a few words before asking him whether Len Diamond had left an envelope for me.

George checked through the papers and envelopes in his tray. ‘No, sorry, Mrs Shackleton. Mr Diamond left nothing for you.’

It is infuriating when you have something to do that feels really urgent, but urgent to no one except oneself. It was too much to hope that Len Diamond should have
troubled to dig out photographs when he was busy with what mattered to him today. Len was a man always looking around the next corner.

‘Thanks for checking, George. I’ll call again in the morning.’

‘I’ll tell him you were in, if he turns up before I go home.’

When I first met George, I thought him surly and uncooperative, but it is surprising what a little bribery can achieve. A couple of tickets to the cricket, a packet of smokes before pay day (‘Someone gave me these and I don’t smoke them’), and he is my friend for life. He hated to see me go away disappointed.

‘Can’t Mr Duffield help you today?’

‘I wish he could.’

And then I had a brilliant idea. It was because the thought of bribery had entered my head: small offerings, sweeteners, generous tipping.

Both Sykes and I had at first assumed that Joseph Barnard and Deirdre Fitzpatrick were lovers, or out for a fling. Sykes had reported that Mr Barnard was remembered at the Adelphi as a good tipper, which he attributed to the singer wanting to be liked. What if there was a different interpretation? He had tipped to be remembered. If I could discover whether he was there to gain evidence for a divorce, the next step might become clearer.

If Deirdre was meeting men for the particular purpose of being a co-respondent, someone must be behind it. It was hardly the kind of service to advertise in a shop window.

Without some brilliant lead, like a finger pointing
from the sky at a guilty party, I would concentrate on something small, a re-tracing of steps.

‘George, you’ve just given me a good idea. Mr Duffield may be able to help. What time does he finish work?’

‘Six o’clock.’

I looked at my watch. Five minutes to go. ‘Is it all right if I telephone up to him?’

‘I’ll do it for you.’

He made the connection and handed me the receiver. ‘Mr Duffield, Kate Shackleton. Are you rushing straight home?’

He was not, and would meet me by the entrance in five minutes.

Mr Duffield is a gentleman in his sixties. I first met him when I was looking into the disappearance of a mill owner, and wanted to read back copies of newspapers. He was most helpful, then and since. Some people always spark off ideas, and he is one of them. The perfect escort to take a lady into a lounge bar.

He is tentatively courting a friend of my mother’s. This was a good opportunity to be brought up to date on the courtship dance.

It surprised me to see him looking so smart. He is always reasonably well turned out, but slightly shabby; a worn-cuffs look about him. That had vanished under the influence of my mother’s friend, Martha Graham.

He readily agreed to come with me for a glass of sherry, and we set off walking, rightly thinking that at this time of the evening it would be quicker to go on foot.

I asked about his bridge lessons from Mrs Graham.

‘I am doing very well indeed,’ he said. ‘Mrs Graham kindly calls me a natural.’

My mother always discouraged me from playing bridge, saying it got in the way of life, and people took it too seriously.

The narrow pavement was busy with people hurrying home from work. For a moment we were separated as an office boy, running for a tram, charged between us.

As we crossed Leeds Bridge, Mr Duffield said, ‘Excuse my suspicions, Mrs Shackleton, but is there an investigative motive behind our visit to the Adelphi Hotel?’

‘What if I said that the sole purpose of our visit is to imbibe sherry, Mr Duffield?’

‘I would be most flattered to hear that, and somewhat disbelieving. I hear your friend, the chief inspector, is investigating Mr Runcie’s murder.

‘He is.’

‘So am I helping in an investigation?’

‘You could say that.’

‘Good.’

I had not minded talking to Len Diamond about Deirdre’s disappearance, but Mr Duffield is such an old Victorian. Something told me that Cyril Fitzpatrick would not want him to know.

Once inside the Adelphi, I had sudden misgivings. We walked the corridor, looking into the different bars. The key person would be a chambermaid. In a large hotel, chambermaids would clean rooms, make beds in the morning, turn down sheets in the afternoon, and then do I knew not what. I hoped that in a small hotel, there would be a doubling up of tasks.

‘Which room?’ Mr Duffield murmured.

‘One with a barmaid.’

In the first room, a confident middle-aged couple held forth with a couple of regulars.

‘The landlord and his wife,’ Mr Duffield murmured.

In the busy tap room, a barman presided.

Smoke Room 1
seemed to be the likeliest choice. It had the advantage of quiet. The woman behind the bar had a round, friendly face, and looked up from polishing a glass as we entered.

We sauntered up to the bar together, with the excuse that I wanted to look at the names on the sherry bottles. I lingered while Mr Duffield placed our order for amontillado.

‘Isn’t this the place where the Gilbert and Sullivan singer stayed the other week?’ I asked.

The barmaid smiled as she poured the sherry. ‘He did and gave me a signed photo.’

‘How marvellous.’

She produced the photograph, signed
To Gloria
.

I sighed with envy.

Mr Duffield rallied. ‘You could have that framed.’

‘Oh I shall. I wish I could have gone to see him, but I was working all day and all night that week.’

This sounded promising. ‘Well I’m a great admirer of his.’ I lowered my voice. ‘My firm acts for him now and then, in legal matters.’

Mr Duffield cleared his throat.

Gloria said, ‘Such a lovely man, didn’t have show business written all over him like some of them do. I’ll fetch your drinks across.’

I nudged Mr Duffield. He took the hint. ‘One for yourself, Gloria.’

‘Thank you, sir.’

We took our seats at a corner table. Mr Duffield tried to give off a wave of disapproval. ‘Don’t you ever feel guilty at being underhand with people, Mrs Shackleton?’

‘Mr Duffield, stop pretending you would have been better off at home with a cup of tea and a boiled egg.’

When the barmaid brought the tray across, I waited until she had placed our glasses on the table and then lightly touched her arm. ‘Gloria?’

‘Yes?’

‘Don’t look alarmed, but we have a question regarding Mr Barnard’s stay at the hotel. You would be willing to vouch for his and Mrs Barnard’s stay, I believe, and that they were in all respects man and wife?’

She glanced over shoulder, and answered most impressively as if she were half-expecting the question. ‘Yes I would. I took their tea in two mornings running.’ She perhaps may have said more, but a glance at Mr Duffield prevented what might have been some saucy elaboration.

I reached for my purse. ‘Thank you.’

She leaned towards me. ‘Might I have to go to the court in London?’

‘It’s a possibility. If you are summonsed, you would have your fare and expenses paid.’

She nodded.

‘Did one of my colleagues see you beforehand about that?’

I put a half crown on the table.

She slid the coin in her pocket. ‘Oh no, just what Mr Barnard said, you know.’

Mr Duffield stared studiously into his sherry as she returned to the bar. She looked at herself in the ornately
lettered mirror behind the rows of bottles and touched her hair into place.

‘She might not have been the chambermaid.’

‘Well then, I was lucky.’

It was about time something I did turned out lucky.

‘What is all this about?’

‘Scout’s honour on your silence, Mr Duffield?’

‘My lips are sealed, only my ears are open.’

‘You’ll know all about the new Matrimonial Causes Act.’

He did. Mr Duffield keeps a closer eye on newspapers than he does on the weather. He knew that the act had come into force on the 18
^th
of July this year. ‘Which particular part are we thinking of here?’ he asked.

‘The part that allows women uncontested divorces on the grounds of a husband’s adultery, without the additional cause of cruelty or desertion.’

Mr Duffield sipped his sherry. ‘And from what you say, a certain amount of collusion may be involved.’

‘Yes, which I suppose could invalidate proceedings. But I’m not interested in putting a spanner in the works of Mr Barnard’s divorce. I want to find a woman who is missing, and see what connection there might be to the murder.’

‘Do you suspect the woman has come to harm?’

‘It’s smoke and mirrors, Mr Duffield. I don’t know what to think.’

I was now convinced that Deirdre Fitzpatrick had not only spent a weekend with Joseph Barnard, but a night with Everett Runcie. What I did not know was how to confirm this conviction. Nor did I know who paired her up with these two very different men, and was that
person involved in Everett Runcie’s death?

I would have liked one more glass of sherry, but thought it better to make this a fleeting visit and hope that Gloria would not have time to reflect that Mr Duffield and I made an unlikely pair of solicitors.

He was of the same mind.

Five minutes later, we crossed the bridge, walking towards Mr Duffield’s tram stop.

‘Mr Duffield, you have extensive connections.’

‘I do.’

‘You worked on a national newspaper in your youth.’

‘I did.’

‘Might you be able to discover what chambers acts in the matter of Barnard v Barnard and Runcie v Runcie?’

‘I suppose that might be possible, though not in good taste.’

‘Murder has a nasty taste, Mr Duffield.’

We had reached his tram stop.

He hesitated.

‘I could come back to the library with you, if a telephone call might help.’

‘It might.’

‘And I could give you a lift home afterwards.’

‘Is this bribery, Mrs Shackleton?’

‘Mr Duffield, what a shocking thing to say.’

By seeking snippets of detail from different people, one keeps the whole package of information discrete. When I arrived home after dropping off Mr Duffield, I telephoned my Aunt Berta in London. She is my mother’s elder sister, Lady Rodpen. Aunt Berta has sons but no daughters. She and I have always got on.

Like everyone else, she had read the piece in
The Times
about Everett’s death.

‘Has there been news?’ she asked.