A Woman Unknown (24 page)

‘Yes thank you.’

Is this how we would be, Mrs Whitaker and I, polite, not quite knowing what to call each other?

Catherine, she called me.

‘Did you name me after someone in your family, Mrs Whitaker?’

Your family; I should have said our family.

‘Your father liked the name. Catherine if you were a girl. I can’t remember what we would have called a boy.’

So in spite all of their other children, they had thought carefully about my name. It gave me a different feeling towards this woman with the greying hair who looked so much older than her years.

‘And what is your Christian name, Mrs Whitaker? I never know what to call you, you see. I call Ginny Hood mother.’

‘So you should. And I don’t suppose you could say Ma.’

‘Ma.’ I laughed. ‘I’ve never said ma.’

‘Call me whatever you please. Ada, Ma, Mrs W. It
makes no odds. You’ll always be Catherine to me.’

There was a gentle knock on the door. Mr Cutler had harnessed his pony in quick time.

I said goodnight to Mrs Whitaker, still unsure what to call her, but with a feeling that I would see her again, and soon.

Mr Cutler helped me onto the cart. I waved to the woman in the doorway, and the pony trotted us out of the yard.

I hoped that by morning, my brief interview with Joseph Barnard would make more sense, and that I would wake with an inkling of what to do next, or whether to withdraw from this business altogether.

It was almost midnight when Mr Cutler called whoa to his pony. I paid him and clambered from the cart. My parents’ house was in darkness. Fortunately, my mother insists on my keeping a key, ‘just in case’. I let myself in as quietly as possible, but not quietly enough.

Dad appeared at the top of the stairs in his dressing gown and slippers. ‘I heard the cart. Is something wrong?’

My dream came back to me. ‘Is mother asleep?’

‘Fast asleep.’

Not dead then. So my anxiety-filled dream had indeed been all about Deirdre Fitzpatrick. I flicked on the hall light.

Dad came down the stairs. ‘Wondered when you’d arrive.’

He never ceased to surprise me. ‘I didn’t say I was coming.’

He tapped the side of his nose. ‘Do you want a cup of cocoa?’

‘Didn’t mean to wake you.’ I followed him into the kitchen.

‘You know I’m a light sleeper.’ He poured milk into the saucepan, turned on the tap and added water.

I sat down at the kitchen table, and watched the match flame bring the gas ring to flickering blue life.

He spooned cocoa and sugar into mugs, adding a drop of milk to each one, mixing to a paste. ‘Your mother rang and spoke to Mrs Sugden. She said you had come to Wakefield to see a Gilbert & Sullivan.’

‘It was all a bit last minute.’

‘That’s what I said. She would have liked to go with you.’

‘She would have enjoyed it. But I really came because I wanted to talk to one of the singers.’

‘I guessed you weren’t in Wakefield solely for the love of
HMS Pinafore
.’

‘How did you guess?’

‘You wouldn’t have chosen to go to the Theatre Royal on your lonesome unless you had some ulterior motive.’

He watched the saucepan as I told him about the Jowett having lost heart, and that I had been towed into Wakefield and left the car near police headquarters, where Dad works.

‘That was bad luck, but good thinking to leave it by the station. We’ll do something about it in the morning, first thing.’

‘And I called in to see Mrs Whitaker.’

‘How is Mrs Whitaker?’ Even he, especially he, did not say, ‘your mother’.

‘She seems very well. Mary Jane’s children are staying with her.’

He poured the milk and water into the first mug, stirring carefully. ‘Where’s that biscuit barrel?’

‘Where it usually is.’ I went to the cupboard and took out the biscuit barrel. It is an awkward thing, made of dull steel, dented, and with a lid that never wants to budge. There must be some sentimental reason why my mother keeps it. You have to edge up the lid bit by bit until it gives in.

Ginger nuts. My favourite.

Dad stirred his cocoa and sat down. ‘So, your chief inspector is in Leeds, investigating the death of the banker.’

‘He’s not my chief inspector, Dad, but yes. I would have liked to help but he keeps me on the edge.’

‘Perhaps not so on the edge as all that.’ He took a sip of cocoa. ‘Too hot.’ He put down his mug. ‘He sent you a message via the station. Mrs Sugden told him you might call here.’

I wish I was not surrounded by people with a sixth sense. It can be unnerving.

Dad pushed the note across to me. ‘Bit cryptic, but I expect it makes sense to you.’

The note read:
The C.I. presents his compliments and seeks your help in finding the woman unknown. Urgent. Fingerprints at scene match fingerprints in woman’s home
.

I stared at the note.

Dad said, ‘Apparently, they found a fingerprint on a shoe she left behind in the room, and on a glass in the bathroom.’

‘So I was right.’

‘Who is she?’ Dad asked.

‘Deirdre Fitzpatrick. She was with the banker on the night he was killed. Marcus has already told me to let him know when I find her.’

‘He’s making it official. He wants you to find her on behalf of the police, rather than whoever asked you to find her.’

‘I suppose that is a compliment to me.’

Dad dunked a ginger nut in his cocoa. ‘No one is better at finding people than you. How many widows and mothers did you help after the war?’

‘That was different. All I had to do was seek old comrades, and do a little digging around.’

‘And there was Braithwaite, and your brother-in-law. Mr Charles knows what he’s doing in asking you. You’ll find her, Kate, this woman unknown. Just make sure the Yard pay you for your services, as I don’t believe you’ll be doing it for love.’

So he had understood that Marcus Charles and I had no future together.

He sighed.

It is always a mistake to dunk a ginger nut after you have taken a bite. His biscuit disappeared into the cocoa. He fished for it with the spoon.

‘No, Dad, I won’t be doing it for love. Marcus and I are friends. That’s all. And I wish you wouldn’t sigh over me. I’m glad he’s asked for my help. I hate being on the edge, the spare part.’

He raised his eyebrows. ‘I suppose I couldn’t expect anything else but a sleuth for a daughter. If you’d known Mr Whitaker you would have admired him. He never made more than beat bobby, but not much passed him by. He could have had promotion but he liked being out in the open air, keeping an eye on the world. You have his blood in your veins and my example.’

What neither of us said was that I had so far failed in
my search for Gerald. It was now five years since the war ended. I had no answer as to what had happened to him and whether he was alive somewhere, with disfiguring injuries or loss of memory.

‘Do you have much to go on regarding the woman?’ Dad asked.

‘Yes. She is Deirdre Fitzpatrick, daughter of the late Mrs Hartigan, sister of a New York “businessman”, Anthony Hartigan, a murderer and bootlegger. She’s married to a strange chap who works on the local paper. I’m not sure of the ethics of this situation as I’m already looking for her, on behalf of her husband.’

Best not mention the trio that came a-calling, the husband, the brother and the lovesick swain.

‘Any leads?’

I believe she stayed in hotels, with at least two different men, acting as co-respondent. Someone put her in touch with them, probably a solicitor on St Paul’s Street. I believe she worked for him. That solicitor could be giving her somewhere to lie low. Or she may have proved an awkward person to have around. I need his name.’

Dad gave his cocoa another stir. ‘Tell me about it.’

My parents’ neighbour, Arthur, is a Jowett fanatic, with a fully-equipped garage. He and Dad brought my poorly motor back before breakfast. Dad disappeared to work. Arthur, who is in a position to set his own hours, called to me to come and look. We stood in his garage that smelled of oil, rubber and manly competence. Arthur was seriously kitted out in dark blue mechanic’s overalls, his moon face showing distress.

‘Kate, there were only forty-eight of these motors made up to 1916, and you have this beauty. It’s a sacred trust.’

‘Well I didn’t know she was going to spring a leak.’

‘The radiator hose has gone. You’ve damaged the pistons and the big end.’

‘I thought it was topped up.’

In the dim light of the garage, I could not tell what shade of puce he turned. ‘Didn’t you notice anything amiss?’

‘Well yes, obviously, with the smoke and the rattling.’

‘Before that?’

‘Are you saying I can’t drive home?’

‘Leave her with me for a couple of days.’ He shook his head. ‘You were lucky a Jowetteer came along and towed you last night. If you’d driven any further, I dread to think what you might have done to her.’

I looked at the Jowett fondly. Sometimes that motor seems alive. I could have sworn in that moment she transferred her affections to Arthur. I half expected her to speak and warn me to expect a charge of neglect.

It seemed heartless to turn and walk away.

Fortunately, Pamela, my mother’s maid, called to me from the garage doorway, giving me an escape route.

‘Thanks, Arthur. I’ll talk to you about it later.’

I went indoors with Pamela.

‘Mrs Sugden telephoned to you, Mrs Shackleton. I wrote down exactly what she said. And your father sent a note from the office. It all happened at once when I was seeing to the kitten.’

I thanked her and picked up the two notes. Mrs Sugden’s message was from Aunt Berta, informing me
that a solicitor by the name of Walter Lansbury on St Paul’s Street might be able to help. What a grand name for a shady man of the law. Well, Mr Lansbury, you can expect another visit, very soon.

Dad’s note was more cryptic, that he had sent a message to the chief inspector naming a legal person who would be worth talking to.

This was very good because it gave me a reason to speak to Dad. I picked up the telephone and was soon connected to him.

‘Dad?’

‘Katie?’

‘That legal person, does he begin with an L and end in a Y?’

‘Your Aunt Berta beat me to it?’

‘She had a start. And, Dad.’

‘Yes?’

‘May I borrow your Morris, just for a couple of days?’

‘I suppose so. But be careful.’

‘I will.’ I returned the telephone receiver to its cradle.

My mother usually sits in bed reading until ten o’clock. I had taken her an early morning cup of tea.

As I was on my way up the stairs to see her, she called, ‘Is that you on the phone, Kate? I’m coming down.’

‘It’s all right. I’ll come up.’

She has a special arrangement of pillows when she reads, and a cushion under her knees.

Smiling, she set her book aside. ‘It’s the latest Arnold Bennett, very good indeed.’

‘I must get around to it.’

‘You should. It’s about this bookseller and a woman who takes a shop opposite him, and they are both very
thrifty. I don’t know whether they are going to pair up or whether it will end in tears.’

I sat on the edge of the bed. ‘It was all a bit spur of the moment last night, and to do with work, that’s why I didn’t ask you to see
The Pirates of Penzance
.’

She sighed. ‘I didn’t like to think of you going alone. Marcus is up on an investigation isn’t he?’

‘Yes, but we haven’t got back together, not in the going out way.’

‘I thought not. Are you sure you’re doing the right thing in turning him down?’

‘Yes.’

‘And it’s not out of loyalty to Gerald, because I’m sure Gerald would want you to be happy.’

‘I am happy. Don’t worry. Everything is fine.’