Dying in the Wool (32 page)

‘What about the patent that was applied for?’ I asked.

Mr Murgatroyd shook his head so vigorously that the folds of fat on his throat wobbled.

‘Patent?’ The lines around his small eyes creased with suspicion. ‘I made no reference to an application for a patent.’

‘It’s among the papers.’

‘Oh that.’ He gave a dismissive gesture, as if all in front of him counted for nothing and the only matters of importance were the dried fruit details lodged in his own currant bun brain. I wondered why he had asked for the papers to be brought since he had no intention of divulging the contents of any of them.

Some day I would write a textbook on how to be a
female detective in a man’s world. Rule Number One: try not to let your animosity show. Your career as an investigator will be short lived if you cannot hide your feelings when you dislike, distrust or despise your interviewee.

‘When Mr Braithwaite went missing, can you think of anyone from that time – friend, associate – he may have turned to?’

Mr Murgatroyd creased his forehead in pretence of thoughtfulness. He shook his head. ‘He would not have wanted to lose face by going to a business associate. I cannot speak for any friends he may have had.’

The answer surprised me. Perhaps he really was trying to be helpful.

‘Is there any lady outside the family that Mr Braithwaite made provision for in the event of his death? You would be the obvious choice for such a confidence.’

He actually blushed, as if I had added a teaspoonful of cochineal to the mix of his pastry face. At last, I had struck home.

‘If there were any such document, and I am not at liberty to say whether there may or may not be, then it would be attached to the will, as a codicil, and Mrs Braithwaite would no doubt have seen it.’

‘She would?’

‘Yes. Mr Braithwaite kept a copy of his own will, naturally. Perhaps not a codicil if he lodged it with me and perhaps …’

A wave of thoughtfulness stopped his speech.

Here was the moment for my wooden spoon to stir his pudding. One of the letters in front of him told me the name of the Braithwaites’ bank. ‘Perhaps the copy of his will is in his safe deposit box at Thackreys’ Bank?’

‘Possibly,’ he said cautiously.

‘We know that Mr Braithwaite had possession of the safe deposit box key when he disappeared,’ I asserted confidently. For all Murgatroyd knew, Mrs Braithwaite
may have opened her cracked heart to me. ‘It was his intention to visit the bank.’

I sighed, hoping this attitude signified my profound sympathy for Tabitha and Evelyn, rather than deep ignorance of whether Braithwaite ever did get his mitts on the key and if so, what then?

Murgatroyd scratched the back of his neck where the stiff collar rubbed. ‘Yes. Banks are very cautious when it comes to their boxes. Mrs Braithwaite perhaps made the correct decision in choosing to wait. Seven years is a reasonable time for all sorts of dust to settle.’

The box could have been opened by the police during their search for Braithwaite, had they known of its existence. So Evelyn had not wanted the police to be at the bank and discover any dark secrets.

From the office next door came the steady tap tap and clank of the secretary’s typewriter.

Murgatroyd shifted a little in his chair which was too small for his chubby frame.

I copied Sykes’ trick of turning my hand at the wrist and finding the palm empty. ‘I do hope I’m going to be able to help Tabitha and Mrs Braithwaite. Mrs Braithwaite has been so very patient.’ I spoke as though she was my erstwhile friend whose stoic endurance I had witnessed at first hand for years. ‘Many women would have sought to have a husband declared dead before the seven years.’

‘Yes. Without a death certificate she would have had to show evidence of presumption of death. Family members do sometimes prefer to delay petitioning for a death decree. It might have been a different situation had there been financial hardship, say.’

Evelyn Braithwaite was the exemplary widow, playing the patient Penelope awaiting the return of her Odysseus.

‘Mr Murgatroyd, are you aware of any particular friendship Mr Braithwaite may have had? Another woman, to be blunt. Miss Braithwaite believes her father is still
alive and if he is, then having started a new life elsewhere would be one explanation for his continued absence.’

He drummed his fingers on the desk before giving his lawyer’s answer. ‘I am not in possession of information which would help you in your search to be of assistance to Mrs and Miss Braithwaite.’

‘Do you believe Mr Braithwaite may have begun a new life, either with another woman, or perhaps to follow new pursuits? He was a painter after all. I believe he hadn’t intended to go into the mill as a boy. There are precedents for businessmen to become tired of their life and seek a change.’

His lip curled in disapproval. ‘Indeed, though not so many round here. We are a hard-headed lot in this part of the world.’

‘Were his affairs left in order?’

The blue eyes held a look of startled reproach. ‘Entirely in order.’

‘Do you suppose he would have put his affairs so entirely in order after his son’s death had he not expected some huge change in the pattern of his life?’

‘That I cannot say. Suppositions are outside my realm, Mrs Shackleton.’ There was a finality in his voice that said he had all but given up his hopes of writing a will for Kate Shackleton. ‘Please do telephone us, Mrs Shackleton, if we can be of further help in the future. I’m afraid I’m due in chambers in a very short while. Miss Conway!’

The secretary wafted smokily into the room.

He waved her to take away the Braithwaite papers. ‘Mustn’t leave the office with the wrong set of documents.’

He stood as I rose to go. In the doorway, I turned.

‘Mr Murgatroyd, why did you not go to Milton House when Mr Braithwaite asked you to, on the morning of 21 August?’

He hesitated for just too long. ‘That was the week of our family holiday in the Lake District.’

Behind him, Miss Conway turned, surprise showing on her face. She took a breath as if about to speak, then thought better of it and returned to her own office.

I thanked Mr Murgatroyd for his time and found my own way out onto the bustling thoroughfare. What was it my father had said? If you ask the right questions you can get information even from a professional whose intention it is to withhold it. So much for my great technique! But one inspired guess had proved correct. Joshua Braithwaite tried to enlist his solicitor’s help in his hour of need, and did not get it.

Sykes was waiting for me in the Forster Tea Rooms as arranged. Sitting at a table facing the window, he folded his newspaper, and motioned to the waitress to bring tea.

‘Well?’ he asked. ‘What did you think to our Mr Murgatroyd? I’ve seen him in court once or twice.’

I pulled a face that was meant to show I found him devious, inefficient, crooked and boastful, but probably showed my defeat.

‘Mr Braithwaite put in a call to him from Milton House, and he did not respond. On holiday, supposedly, but I don’t believe him.’

‘It could be that he didn’t want to risk his reputation by being involved in a case of attempted suicide.’

I sat with my back to the window. ‘Tell me if he leaves the building. He claims to be due in chambers shortly, but I think that was just to be rid of me. Braithwaites did take out at least one patent on an invention. If that’s for the loom picker and it’s been a financial success, Wilson has some cause to feel aggrieved. He’d be angry with Braithwaite. There’d be a motive.’

‘Possibly, though a bit drastic to kill over an underpayment.’

‘People can simmer with resentment at life’s unfairness, Mr Sykes.’

He nodded. I could see that he knew that well enough.

We agreed that he would stay on top of the investigation, and keep me abreast of the progress of the police enquiries and the results of the post mortem on Mrs Kellett.

I gave him my address in London. ‘Do write to me. I want to keep up with everything. I wish there was more to go on regarding the postal orders, and Mrs Kellett’s relatives. Someone must know where her brother and sister are.’

He walked me back to the railway station, for the train to Leeds.

‘I hope you enjoy your trip to London, Mrs Shackleton.’

I walked through the barrier towards the steam and noise of the platform. When I turned to wave, Sykes was still standing there. He smiled and raised his hand in a salute.

My mother reached out a hand to steady herself as we walked back from the dining car to our carriage. ‘There’s something about eating on a train that cheers me up, I don’t know why. The unexpectedness of it perhaps.’

Our fellow travellers had left the train at Grantham. We had the compartment to ourselves. Mother took out her compact, looked at herself critically and powder-puffed her perfect nose, smiling at her miniature self in the small round mirror.

I sat with my back to the engine, watching the landscape we left behind, aware of my mother’s delight in the journey. She travels not simply from Wakefield to London, from a house rented by the West Riding Constabulary to a grand house in Chelsea. The journey gives her title an outing. Leaving behind her role as Mrs Hood, police superintendent’s wife, she metamorphoses into the elegant Lady Virginia, daughter of the late Lord and Lady Rodpen. Her sister Ethelberta married a mere baronet and so the delicious irony for Mother is that in spite of marrying a commoner, she takes precedence over her sister. They make a joke of it, but I suspect mother finds it more amusing than does Aunt Berta.

Mother leaned across. She wore a striped velvet two-piece costume in royal blue with calf-length fringed-hem skirt. The long jacket, over a creamy silk blouse, reached just below her hips. The jacket was open to the waist, with three silver buttons at hip height. Her hat, in a slightly
lighter shade, took the shape, of an elaborate upturned jelly on a plate. Her shoes were elegant buttoned-up black patents with Cuban heels and ornamental bows. Everything was new.

I was glad to be wearing my skirt and cardigan set, which at one year old is the newest item in my wardrobe, barring the borrowed gown from Tabitha.

‘That’s a very well-cut costume,’ Mother said approvingly, ‘but it’s that “ghost of khaki” no-colour colour again.’

‘I like these shades, Mother. And if it’s good enough for Coco Chanel, it’ll do for me.’

‘You should have come over with your trunk yesterday. We could have made sure you don’t need tucks in your clothes.’

‘I haven’t lost weight.’

‘Looks like it to me.’ She sat back, hands folded in her lap, gazing at me steadily as if she had to find out all over again who I am.

‘I want to talk to you, Katie.’

‘All right.’

Was this to be a mother-daughter chat about why I didn’t come home more regularly, or move a little closer to her and Dad? I braced myself for questions.

Her mouth made a little smile, but her eyes looked sad. ‘You were my lucky charm. When you came to us, I’d given up all hope of children. I thought I’d be one of those sad women for whom it just didn’t happen. There is a certain amount of barrenness in the animal kingdom, you know, so why should we humans be different?’

‘I’m glad you think I was your lucky charm.’

‘I hope I didn’t scoop all the luck from you. I hope there’ll be some left.’

The conductor, strolling along the corridor, paused to look in at our compartment. He touched his cap. Mother inclined her head, and waited until he had passed.

‘It only happened when I’d given up hoping, or even thinking about it. You were seven.’

‘I know. I remember very well. It was when I saw the baby clothes in the drawer that I realised.’

‘You were wonderful. Such a good little helper.’

‘I’d never seen twins before. It felt like a fairy story.’

Mother reached over and this time did take my hand. ‘It’s like your own personal miracle when you have a child, Katie. I can hardly bear the thought that you’re closing your mind to that possibility.’

I let her hold my hand just a moment longer, not to be unkind. ‘There’s nothing I can do about that.’

‘You mustn’t give up. It’s how long since Gerald was killed … four years?’

‘Since he went missing’ – I could not bear that word killed, not in the same breath as Gerald’s name – ‘it’s four years on Saturday.’

She spoke softly. ‘He’s not coming back, Katie.’

‘I know that.’

Whistle blowing, our train sped through a local station. On the platform, a woman and a small child were seated on a bench. The child waved. A man on crutches in a demob suit stared dully at the train.

‘Berta has invited someone who …’

‘Mother, I’m not interested, not after last year.’

‘Don’t jump to conclusions.’

‘Honestly, you’ve no idea what the men out there are like. They’re the most total rejects, atrocious. Last year … that old lecher …’

‘He was a mistake.’