A Woman Unknown (21 page)

As my eyes grew more accustomed to the gloom, I saw that someone had more than touched this room. Someone had been searching. Photographic plates were scattered across the floor. Drawers had been pulled out. Yet an expensive camera hung on a hook in the doorway, next to a tripod. It had been opened but was undamaged. Whoever rampaged through Mr Diamond’s makeshift studio had not been intent on a random act of robbery. They had been looking for something.

I took one more glance at the scene before we stepped outside. Mr Duffield was pale and trembling. I persuaded him to sit on the low back garden wall, and keep guard.

The nearest police station was Stanley Road, and that was where I headed, and reported what we had found.

‘What was your business there, madam?’ The sergeant asked as he took my name and address.

Good question.

Mr Duffield and I had given our statements to a constable. Still shaken, we detoured to the Cemetery Tavern on Beckett Street. It is aptly named, being close to the cemetery, and opposite the old workhouse.

I was glad of the smoky atmosphere of the lounge bar, but it did not dispel the stench of chemicals, and death. We chose a seat in the corner. The brass edging on the table felt smooth and reassuring to the touch. The waiter quickly brought our brandy.

‘What on earth made him smash up his own rooms?’ Mr Duffield gazed into his brandy balloon.

‘Do you think that’s what happened?’

‘It has to be. If someone was bent on robbery, they would have taken his cameras.’

The explanation did not sit well with me. Poor Diamond. The balance of his mind must have been deeply disturbed for him to destroy his own photographs, leave them scattered across the floor. He had seemed so calm, so himself, when I saw him yesterday morning in Schofields café. I could not imagine that, whatever his state of mind, Diamond would destroy his own work.

‘It’s a shock,’ Mr Duffield said, ‘a terrible shock to be so close to death. We none of us know when our turn will come.’

We ordered a second brandy.

‘It must have been the drink,’ Mr Duffield said, staring into his glass. ‘He must have drunk himself into a state of hopelessness.’

‘I didn’t know he drank to excess.’

‘Oh yes, and gambled.’

I asked, ‘Does Mr Diamond have relatives that you know of?’

Mr Duffield shook his head. ‘He never mentioned anyone, only a sister he lost touch with years ago. She migrated to Canada with her husband before the war. I must get back to work and tell the editor about this.’ He looked at me steadily. ‘What was it that you hoped to find among Mr Diamond’s photographs?’

‘I’m not sure. Possibly a photograph of the singer Giuseppe Barnardini, and a lady not his wife; photographs of the shoot, showing who in particular Everett Runcie may have hobnobbed with that day.’

I kept my theory about Caroline Windham’s injury at the grouse shoot to myself.

Mr Duffield took another sip of brandy. ‘Are you
interested in Mr Diamond because you suspect he may have been blackmailing someone, to get money for his drink and gambling? He always had his nose in other people’s business.’

Up to now, that thought had not occurred to me. But it made sense. If I were right, and someone had ransacked the room, then I was not the only person interested in Len Diamond’s photographs. What did he have that may have cost him his life?

Mr Duffield stared ahead, unseeing, to the bottles arranged so artistically behind the bar. ‘He was in trouble, financially, more than usual. He had a winning streak in the spring, and was patting himself on the back over a clever investment. He tried to interest me, but I’m not a betting man and I don’t trust stocks and shares.’ Mr Duffield stood up. ‘Circumstances call for another brandy, and then I must be back to the office.’ He caught the attention of the waiter. When he sat down again, he said, ‘Do you know, I believe we are being watched. Perhaps the gentleman in the tap room is envying me my charming company. Don’t look now.’

I waited until we had finished our drinks and were leaving. Only then did I look across the bar, into the tap room, and glance at the familiar figure staring glumly into his beer. It was Eddie Flanagan, the unemployed ex-boxer, Deirdre’s faithful friend.

‘I won’t be a moment, Mr Duffield.’

I went into the tap room and stood over him. ‘Hello, Mr Flanagan. Are you following me?’

Eddie looked at me sullenly, as if he wanted to argue over the word hello. The poor man had a permanently puzzled face, as if the world presented itself to him through a fog. He
said, ‘Deirdre slept in a glasshouse last night.’

‘A glasshouse?’

‘I went looking at sunrise. I could tell she’d been there.’

‘Where?’

‘That place, the place she took her mam. I know Deirdre, heart and soul. She went to the park, I know. Roundhay Park. I looked. But now she’s gone. I could tell she’d been in the glasshouse.’

It struck me that he was probably right, because the man loved her, and he had no hopes for himself where she was concerned. There was something touching about him, like a faithful dog.

‘How do you know she was there?’

I expected him to say that he sensed her presence, a lingering trace of her scent.

He put his hand in his pocket and produced a small white handkerchief which he spread on the table, smoothing it carefully. He pointed to a letter
D
, embroidered on the corner. ‘It’s hers.’

‘Thanks, Eddie. I’ll do my best, believe me. It might not look like it, but I’m searching for her now and I’ll go on searching.’

He looked at me steadily, as if deciding whether to believe me. I passed the test. ‘What did they say your name was?’

‘Mrs Shackleton.’

He repeated my name softly, as though committing it to memory.

‘What brought you here?’

The Cemetery Tavern was a long way from home for him.

‘Searching. I thought she mighta been hurt and taken to the Workhouse Infirmary over there.’

‘Have you been to ask?’

He nodded. ‘She’s not there. Not anywhere.’

When I dropped off Mr Duffield at the newspaper offices, I had to ask him a question, even though he was late, and flustered, and upset at the thought of having to break the news to the editor.

‘There’s no tactful way of saying this, Mr Duffield, but I want to know if one of the compositors was in work last night, Cyril Fitzpatrick.’

He stared at me, and blinked. ‘Why?’

‘I can’t say, but please trust me. It is important that I know.’

He nodded. ‘I’ll look at the clocking-in cards for the print works.’

Why was it important that I know? I had no idea, except that Diamond had given a hint to Fitzpatrick that he had photographed his wife on Leeds Bridge, and now that photograph had disappeared, and Diamond lay dead among the debris of his craft.

Moments later, Mr Duffield emerged. He leaned into the motor and whispered, ‘He was in last night, and the night before. He is on the night shift all this week.’

‘What time does the shift end?’

‘Seven a.m.’

‘Thank you.’

He nodded. ‘And now I have to tell the editor that Len Diamond has committed suicide.’

‘No, Mr Duffield. We don’t know that, and I don’t believe it. Len would not have destroyed his work, his
cameras. Someone else has had a hand in this.’

Mr Duffield said sadly, ‘The outcome is the same. We’ll not see such a good photographer on this newspaper again.’

He turned, and I watched him walk away.

Perhaps Diamond’s death had no connection whatsoever with the demise of Mr Runcie, but I decided to tell Marcus anyway, and drove the short distance to the Hotel Metropole.

After that, I would visit Philippa. Even though I had little to report, talking to her might give me some new lead.

Word of my arrival was sent up to Philippa while I waited in the drawing room at Kirkley Hall. I hoped she would not expect me to have worked miracles, and to be here bearing vital news.

I took a seat by the window and looked onto the garden, so green and tranquil. It seemed incongruous that in one morning I could have witnessed a scene of death and destruction in Len Diamond’s lodgings, and now looked out on this manicured yet somehow timeless view.

The footsteps in the hall were not Philippa’s. I looked up to see a smiling Gideon King.

‘Mrs Shackleton, good morning.’

‘Good morning, Mr King.’

‘Philippa sends her apologies. She is a little unwell this morning.’

‘I’m sorry to hear that.’

‘But she is glad to hear of your visit. If you have any news, I should be happy to pass it on.’ He walked across to join me. ‘I have sent for coffee.’

‘Coffee would be good.’ It might neutralise the brandy
I had drunk after finding Len Diamond’s body.

Did King know that Philippa had engaged me, I wondered. It seemed likely, given that he was her trusted secretary, but I did not want to assume. After all, Caroline Windham had first accused Philippa and King, and had then said, on learning that Runcie had been strangled, that it must have been King.

I noticed how still and contained he was; no gestures or unnecessary movements. He had a powerful build, and strangler’s hands. He talked to me about having had a very pleasant walk that morning.

‘Last time we spoke, you said you had not had time to consider whether to return to Boston. It sounds from your love of the walks roundabout that you will miss this place.’

He smiled. ‘I shall. But I won’t be sorry to leave. And Philippa wants to go home.’

I had seen for myself how protective he was of Philippa. Protective enough to kill for her?

We made polite conversation until King looked up at a noise from the doorway. ‘Ah over here, Simpson.’

The elderly butler brought a tray of coffee and set it down between us. I was pleased that Simpson took on the task of pouring. It had been the kind of morning to leave me clumsy and uncoordinated. I would end up spilling coffee over King, and ruining my attempt to get the measure of this odd, self-contained man.

When the butler had left, King said, ‘Well, Mrs Shackleton, do you have news for Philippa? It’s all right. She did tell me that she had asked for your help. She was a little perturbed by the police lines of questioning.’

‘I remember you were somewhat concerned yourself, Mr King.’

He rubbed his chin. ‘Yes, that is true. The police want to know so much, whether relevant or not. My title of secretary contains the word secret. One has one’s loyalties.’

I took a sip of coffee. ‘To Mrs Runcie, of course.’

‘Yes, but also to the family she has married into. I have been working with Harold, Baron Kirkley, to try and make sense of Everett’s papers. Any disgrace that falls on one member of a family leaves a shadow over the rest.’

‘And what about Philippa’s family? You are a school friend of her brother’s, I believe?’

‘Yes. I’ve known Philippa all my life. We always got on.’

‘You are very protective towards her. You would do anything to help her, I think.’

He spooned sugar into his coffee, and laughed. ‘Not murder. I told you before that I was a student of theology. I am no longer a very religious man, but the sixth commandment is not one I would break.’

It was time to admit that so far my efforts had come to nought. ‘Unfortunately, Mr King, I have nothing definite to report to Philippa.’

He nodded. ‘I thought it would be a little soon. Then you must have come with questions. Is there anything you want to ask me?’

‘Yes there is, regarding Lord Fotheringham’s shoot. You were there I believe?’

He spilled the tiniest drop of coffee into his saucer.

‘Yes. Philippa is kind enough to ensure that I am
included in such invitations, being a friend of the family as well as an employee.’

‘There was an accident that day.’

‘Oh the first day, yes that is correct. You mean Miss Windham’s drama.’

Was it my imagination, or did he seem relieved at my line of questioning? Perhaps he had expected something quite different.