A Woman Unknown (28 page)

After the endless service, the mysterious Latin, and the touching pieties from the pulpit, the coffin was
carried out. Mourners followed. Those of us who were simply there to pay respects, or to conduct an investigation, politely hung back, watching as people with blood ties and long-standing connections left the church, headed by Anthony Hartigan, who turned to acknowledge the nods, outstretched hands and whispered words. Priests and nuns followed close behind.

Being close to the door, I slid out and watched from the church steps.

Four patient, black-plumed horses waited while the bier was placed on the hearse, ready for the perilous trot along the cobbled streets. The chief mourners were helped into two waiting carriages.

As the carriages set off, some of the congregation stayed to watch, others slipped away, but many began to walk behind in procession.

Marcus’s sergeant stood behind me. He prodded me in the back. I ignored this invitation to ride in the car that had been parked nearby for the purpose of taking us to the cemetery. If a thing is worth doing, do it properly. I fell in behind the procession, snaking out of the Bank, towards York Road, keeping clear of the plain-clothes men who stuck out like sore thumbs.

All the way along the route, men and women stood respectfully with bowed heads while the funeral passed, moving only to cross themselves, and the men to remove their hats. After what seemed an endless trek, the cortege passed through the gates of Killingbeck Cemetery.

Proceedings had a brisk, practised quality. I manoeuvred my way around the crowd so that I would have a view of the chief mourners. Behind me, a woman sniffled.
A voice with an Irish lilt whispered to comfort her, ‘Save your sniffles, Bridie. Isn’t she in a better place? And there’ll be no shortage of masses said.’

‘True enough. I know there’s an arrangement for perpetual participation in the Capuchin Seraphic Masses.’

We who were on the edge did not have to observe the same high degree of solemnity as those closer to the graveside. Bridie said, ‘Well there you are. Sure with that number of nuns and priests in the family she won’t be spending half eternity in Purgatory.’

Time stands still at a funeral, each instant packed with centuries of other similar moments when emotion swells and it is too soon to say goodbye. Time also races, and that is something I can never understand, as if the earth spins faster, determined to move on to whatever comes next. And here’s something that always brings me close to tears at a funeral. I think that it might one day be Gerald’s, and that I will find him, or his body. He will no longer be a soldier known only to God, he will be known again to me.

The throng of mourners by the graveside began to disperse, and still Deirdre Fitzpatrick was nowhere to be seen. Cyril Fitzpatrick blew his nose loudly.

He hobbled over to speak to me.

‘Good morning, Mrs Shackleton. Thank you for coming’

‘Good morning, Mr Fitzpatrick.’

He nodded, his lips tight. ‘Poor Mona. Rest at last.’ He shook his head sadly. ‘There’s so much I want to say to Deirdre, when I find her.’

‘Let’s hope there’ll be news soon.’

‘If she’s not here, where could she be?’ He shook his
head miserably. ‘I was awake all night, hoping she would come, listening for her footsteps along the street.’

‘Not everyone reacts to death in a way we might expect. Perhaps she has found a place to hide with her sorrow.’

The tip of his crutch dented the ground as he leaned on it. ‘Deirdre came here with me shortly after we first met. My mother had died. She’s buried over there, with Dad.’ He waved a crutch towards the west wall of the cemetery. ‘Deirdre was such a comfort to me then, and now I can’t do the same for her.’

‘She’ll be back in her own good time.’

Now was not the moment to tell him that Marcus had arranged for her photograph to be sent to every police station in the West, North and East Riding, and that the Scarborough police had called on Mrs Redhead to see whether she was giving houseroom to a lady visitor.

‘You’d think she would want to say goodbye to her brother. He’ll be off back to New York soon. He has business to attend to.’

I guessed Mr Hartigan would need to be back on the other side of the Atlantic to arrange collection of his liquor from a Canadian port.

Said brother was now moving from the graveside. A small group of nuns came towards the grave. ‘The Little Sisters,’ Fitzpatrick said. ‘How people on the Bank would have lived without them I don’t know.’ He gave one of his heartfelt sighs.

‘Will you be going to the funeral breakfast?’ I asked, knowing that Marcus wanted to question him again.

‘I have to get back to work. I said it was a family
funeral, but they won’t put up with another day’s absence.’

‘How will you manage when you can’t stand?’

‘I shall manage. I …’

Fitzpatrick stopped. He stared at the Little Sisters, a faraway look in his eyes, and I guessed he must be remembering his own mother’s funeral. Suddenly, he swung his crutch into action, saying, ‘Excuse me, Mrs Shackleton.’

I watched him go, mourners considerately making way for him. When he stumbled, it was Eddie, Deirdre’s childhood sweetheart, who put an arm around Fitzpatrick and supported him.

There was nothing more for me to do here, but still I lingered, hoping that Deirdre might appear from behind a tree and make her solitary way to her mother’s resting place before it was filled in by the gravediggers.

I hoped that when everyone else had gone, she would be here.

I walked slowly along the path towards the chapel. A tram would take me back to town.

‘Kate!’ Marcus walked towards me. He was frowning. ‘Have you seen Cyril Fitzpatrick?’

‘He’s gone. He was going to work.’

‘I had a man on the gate looking out for him.’

‘Perhaps they missed him, or there may be another way out.’

‘No. He would have gone through the main gates if he intended to go back to work. He must still be here.’ Marcus heard a sound, turned, and saw a few people emerging from the chapel. ‘That’ll be where he is.’

Looking for the big man, he watched the black-clad
mourners. Not one of them was tall enough to be Fitzpatrick.

‘I have an idea where he might be.’

Marcus called, ‘If you see him, bring him to me!’ He walked towards the chapel.

I started out on the path where Fitzpatrick had indicated. The poor man was perhaps talking to his dead mother, and had lost all sense of time.

I picked my way across the ground. There is something about cemeteries. I have to look at names, dates, sentiments, as if I am reading a compelling book where every syllable counts. Fitzpatrick had pointed in this direction. I was looking for the name when I saw the man.

Fitzpatrick lay prone across a well-tended patch of earth. A stray dandelion kissed his ear. His crutches lay on the ground on either side of him.

Either grief had laid him low, or he had tripped.

‘Mr Fitzpatrick? Are you all right?’ Fitzpatrick did not reply. Something about his stillness alarmed me. I bobbed down and took his hand, felt his wrist for a pulse. There was none.

A trickle of blood stained the stone edging that surrounded the grave, where his head rested.

And there were the names on the stone: Aloysius Fitzpatrick, Mary Fitzpatrick, his wife.

Jimmy came hurrying from further up the cemetery. ‘Bless us and save us. What’s the matter with the man?’

‘He’s dead.’

‘Bejesus. I was just up there praying and talking to my brother.’

*

The three of us sat in the cemetery chapel, Marcus, Jimmy, and me.

Marcus had examined the scene, and left a constable to stand over the covered body until the doctor arrived. The ground was dry, and marked only where the pressure of Fitzpatrick’s crutches had made small round holes as he propelled himself to his parents’ grave by the wall.

‘You say you are Mona Hartigan’s uncle by marriage?’ Marcus asked.

Jimmy perched on the edge of the pew, holding his knees as if they were the most precious part of him. ‘I don’t just say it, I am. And never a sweeter woman walked God’s earth. She married my brother’s son and got the worst of the bargain. We Hartigans are saints or sinners, there’s no one treads the middle line excepting myself, sir.’

‘Why did you stay behind here when the rest of the mourners left for the funeral breakfast?’

‘That’s just what I was by way of doing. Only I had to go across to my brother’s grave and tell him where we all stood now, and how I’d always said she shouldn’t have married him.’

‘Who shouldn’t have married?’

‘Why Mona of course. She should never have married my nephew. He led her a dance.’

‘You were there a long time, Mr Hartigan.’

‘The dead can’t be doing with indecent haste.’

‘When were you aware of Mr Fitzpatrick’s presence?’

‘Some sort of rustle made me look up and see him swinging across on them crutches of his. Then he was out of my sight on his knees. I could have heard a small
cry, but my attention was on reciting a prayer.’

‘Was there anyone else nearby?’

‘Not a soul. They were all making their way to the gates and looking forward to the funeral breakfast, which I’ll miss completely, unless it lasts longer than you might expect.’

‘Did you approach Mr Fitzpatrick?’

‘Not at all, not until the lady here was by him.’

‘Mr Hartigan, do you know where we can find Mr Fitzpatrick’s widow, your great niece, Deirdre?’

He shook his head sadly. ‘If I knew where she was, I would go to her like a shot, the poor girl.’

‘Does Mr Fitzpatrick have any other relations?’

‘None that I know of.’

Marcus looked at me, inviting me to ask another question, but I could think of nothing more to say.

Old Jimmy said, ‘I’m weak with the shock of it all. What more can you be wanting from an old man?’

‘Thank you, Mr Hartigan. You can go. We’ll want a statement from you and you may be asked to give evidence at the inquest.’

‘Where will they take him?’

‘You will be informed.’

Jimmy grabbed his cap, sniffed and said, ‘Well I’ll be off on the tram, sir, or I would be if I had the fare.’

Marcus put his hand in his pocket and gave Jimmy a coin.

When he had gone, Marcus said, ‘An accident then, if Jimmy Hartigan is to be believed.’

‘Poor Fitzpatrick, he was such an unfortunate man.’

We walked in silence out of the chapel. Marcus replaced his trilby. ‘All we need now is to find out that
Deirdre Fitzpatrick drowned herself. This is turning into a Greek tragedy.’

‘Do you think she may be planning to go to America with her brother?’

‘She’s not going anywhere until I’ve spoken to her.’

Sykes woke with a powerful idea. He wheeled the Clyno from his downstairs room, where everyone bumped into and tripped over it, and rode from Woodhouse onto Headingley Lane. He was not a man given to wild imaginings, yet could not shift the uneasy feeling that lodged in his guts. He wanted to know if Mrs Shackleton shared his unease.

Some deep instinct told him that Deirdre Fitzpatrick was in danger. The chief inspector and Mrs Shackleton, who were on the spot, might choose to believe that Fitzpatrick’s death was an accident. Sykes, who had the disadvantage of not being at the cemetery, imagined the incident differently. In his mind’s eye, he saw Fitzpatrick’s crutches knocked from under him. When the man fell, big red hands – whose hands Sykes could not say – raised Fitzpatrick’s head and gave it that extra crack against the gravestone edging. Were these the same hands that had tightened around Everett Runcie’s neck?

Mrs Shackleton was still in her dressing gown. In the few minutes between his resolution and his arrival, Sykes decided against voicing his theory. Instead, he said
that it would not hurt to check the house on Norman View.

‘It’s a feeling,’ he said. ‘If Mrs Fitzpatrick has heard about her husband’s death, she may have gone home.’

To his surprise, Mrs Shackleton agreed. ‘It won’t hurt to look. Give me ten minutes and we’ll go together.’