A Medal For Murder (10 page)

Kate Shackleton

By the time I had finished writing, the sun had risen. My intention was to dress and hurry home. But tiredness hit me. I dropped back into bed, like a stone hitting bottom. The faces that floated before my eyes as I fell asleep were Mr Milner’s, and Captain Wolfendale’s. They were younger, and wore military caps.

 
 

Waking suddenly, I had no idea where I was. A dull, leaden sound reverberated in my skull. Then it came back to me. I was in Meriel Jamieson’s flat on St Clement’s Road, Harrogate. Light found its way through the low cellar window. The thudding was someone walking to and fro in the room above.

Had Harrogate woken to the knowledge that a murder had been committed in her genteel town centre? Poor Rodney Milner. His father might have been a boorish bully, a lecher and a show-off, but it was a terrible end – to be found in a shop doorway with a knife through the heart.

Outside, a street-seller wheeled his barrow across the cobbles, calling out his wares in a jumble of consonants I could not decipher. Bed springs creaked as I moved. The thin check curtains remained closed but I could see well enough. A cobalt-blue jug stood on the window sill, filled with wilting marigolds. Meriel had made an effort to turn this sad room, with its damp patches, into a cheerful refuge. The coconut mats formed stepping stones from the door to the chair by the stove. A crocheted blanket now covered the chaise longue.

The stove had been poked into life. A battered kettle slowly gathered steam. Plates had been set to warm.

As I swung out of bed, the memory of last night’s events slowed my movements. I shook off those thoughts. Soon I would get back to Leeds and visit the next person on Mr Moony’s list, a Mrs Taylor in Roundhay who had pawned a watch chain.

A note lay on the table.

Gone to buy eggs – M
.

A sliver of Sunlight soap sat on the draining board, along with Meriel’s damp, well-worn towel. She must have washed and dressed very quietly. The shallow sink, with its single cold tap, was chipped and pock-marked, but spotlessly clean. I washed quickly, and used the dry corners of the towel.

I had not unpacked last night. My fawn linen skirt came from the bag crumpled, but it would have to do. At least the cream blouse did not crease so easily and if today proved as warm as yesterday I would not need the costume jacket.

I combed my hair, peering into the cracked mirror on the window sill, and pinched my cheeks which were paler than usual. Next to the dresser stood a tea chest, its lid half off, piled with skirts and blouses. So she kept her clothes in a tea chest. That would explain her faint whiff of Darjeeling. Another thought began to form, but was banished by loud knocking.

At first I did not know where the sudden pounding came from. Then a shadow darkened the window. I put on my shoes without fastening them and clomped across to the door, turning the knob.

A hefty policeman glared at me. ‘Miss Jamieson?’

My heart thumped. Policemen do not batter the door on a Saturday morning at eight o’clock to tell you something to your advantage. Had there been an arrest?

‘No, constable. Miss Jamieson is not here.’

‘And you are?’ the constable asked, eyes narrowing.

‘Mrs Shackleton.’

Was Meriel under suspicion? She, along with everyone else from the production, had disappeared for a while towards the end of the evening to gather belongings. Could Meriel be the killer? No. She would have no motive. She would have steered me away from the alley so as not to see the body. Wouldn’t she?

The constable’s voice became stern. ‘Were you in the little park half an hour ago?’

His manner alarmed me. ‘No.’

The constable gave me a hard look. ‘Municipal flowers are for the enjoyment of the townspeople of Harrogate, not for personal use or gratification, not to be picked at will. Please advise Miss Jamieson she is required to report to the police station.’

I had all on not to burst out laughing, probably from relief that his visit was not connected with the murder. Harrogate municipal life must continue its even course whatever disruptions happen. If someone had the temerity to interfere with flowers, naturally the full weight of the law must be drawn down.

He was not the cream of the constabulary crop, not selected for the tricky task of helping investigate homicide.

I had a sudden mental picture of Meriel, plucking blooms. Like some mad lawyer for the defence, I fetched the vase of wilting marigolds from the table.

‘These certainly weren’t picked within the last half hour.’

Perhaps he was not so dim. Quick as a flash, he said, ‘No. Them’s some she plucked earlier on. It’s not the first time she’s been spotted.’

Poor Meriel. After all her hard work on the play, someone should have presented her with a bouquet. I could have kicked myself for not thinking of it.

‘I’m sure there must have been some mistake.’

‘Ah,’ he said slowly, as though having caught me out. ‘Then where is Miss Jamieson?’

This was tricky. She’s behind you, I could have said, because at that moment she appeared at the top of the steps that led to the basement. She carried a shopping basket, its contents covered with a small white square of cloth on top of which lay a bunch of Belladonna lilies, the soft pink flowers wafting their delightful scent around the waiting policeman.

‘Miss Jamieson is . . .’

Meriel is quick on the uptake. I expect one would need to be in order to mount plays, direct actors and produce miracles of drama while living out of a tea chest.

‘In the bathroom,’ she mouthed, jerking her thumb to indicate she would enter the house through the front door. She disappeared silently.

‘She is in the bathroom.’

‘The bathroom?’ The constable’s voice expressed incredulity. He glared beyond me into the poor room, his look betraying disbelief that the occupant of such a dingy cellar could lay claim to the possession of a bathroom.

‘Please step inside, Constable. I’ll fetch her.’

He trod cautiously into the room, as though expecting a trap, removing his helmet and holding it before his chest like a shield. I picked up Meriel’s note from the table and slid it into my pocket.

This drew a suspicious glance. ‘Constable, if you are going back to the station, would you oblige me by giving this envelope to Inspector Charles of Scotland Yard?’

I handed him my statement.

In an instant, his manner changed from near bullying to obsequious. ‘Well, yes, madam, of course.’

As he tucked the statement into his tunic, I snatched the well-worn towel from the sink. I hurried through the inner door and up the dark stairs to the ground floor. Meriel stood there, as if undecided whether to stay put or continue up to the next floor and disappear into the bathroom. She set down the basket.

I handed her the towel, saying, ‘Wind this round your head.’

‘Oh well done!’ She grabbed the towel and twisted it around her hair.

Kicking off her shoes, she whispered, ‘Did someone spot me taking the milk?’

‘Not the milk.’

‘The eggs then?’

‘Not the eggs.’

‘Well then for heaven’s sake . . .’

‘You were seen picking flowers.’

‘How bloody petty. Honestly you’d think they’d have better things to do. The flowers are going to die. I might as well have a bit of enjoyment out of them.’ She led the way down the stairs, muttering, ‘I don’t have time to stroll the parks, sniffing and admiring flora. I’m
a busy woman. If I’m to have any enjoyment at the ratepayers’ expense . . .’

‘Shh. He’s not deaf!’ I hissed, surprised that such a theatrical doyen did not have a better sense of stage whispering.

More loudly, she said, ‘Can’t a girl wash her hair these days?’

Entering her room, she beamed at the constable. ‘Good morning, officer.’

He stepped back from her tea chest as though he had burned his fingers. ‘Good morning, miss.’ His eyes narrowed with suspicion.

Meriel rubbed her hair.

For a moment I thought he would snatch the towel and feel her hair. His thoughts raced so fast that his eyelids twitched. Was he considering that females of his acquaintance usually washed their hair on a Friday night?

‘I’m Meriel Jamieson. This is an old friend, Mrs Shackleton, who kindly came over yesterday to see the last night of my play,
Anna of the Five Towns
. Did you get to see it yourself, officer?’

‘I did not see the play, but I saw the posters.’ The fog of suspicion began to clear from his broad face. A theatrical female could not be expected to wash her hair to the same timetable as other women. ‘A lady made a complaint regarding having seen an individual answering your description stealing flowers in Westerly Park this morning.’

Meriel sighed, rubbing her hair beneath the towel. ‘I’m afraid I’m not very remarkable. She must have mistaken me for someone else.’

The kettle began to boil. The constable considered Meriel’s offer to join us in a cup of tea.

I was nearest the back stairs, and conscious of a sound behind the inner door. Someone was listening.

‘The kettle’s nearly boiled,’ Meriel said.

Nearly was not good enough. The constable snatched his helmet, and left.

Only when the outer door closed behind the constable did there come a gentle tapping on the inner door. The captain stood in the gloom of the servants’ passage. He seemed smaller than the evening before. ‘Is everything all right, ladies?’

Meriel unwound the towel from her hair. ‘Come in, Captain.’

‘What did the constable want? I couldn’t catch his words. Hearing not what it was, you know.’

Meriel ran her fingers through her hair. ‘He wanted to know had I witnessed a person stealing flowers.’

‘Stealing flour?’

‘No, flowers, flowers that grow.’

‘And had you?’

‘Certainly not or I would have reported it at once.’ Meriel reached for a comb.

The captain shook his head. With a great effort he said, ‘Flowers, fuss and nonsense about flowers. Haven’t the constabulary anything better to do? I thought something must have happened to Lucy.’

Meriel paused in her hair combing. ‘Is anything wrong, Captain?’

‘No, no. Nothing wrong.’

He turned to go. On the first step he seemed to stumble, then regained his balance.

Meriel’s eyes widened. She pointed to the top of the stairs. ‘The basket!’ she mouthed. ‘I left it in the hall.’

I nodded that I would get it, and turned to follow the
captain up the steep stairs. He moved painfully slowly, his hand on the wall for balance. At the top he stepped into the hall but did not appear to be in a hurry to go back to his own flat. He turned, and looked at me. Did he wonder why I had shadowed him up the stairs? I picked up the basket, flicking the white cloth over the flowers.

Raising a shaky hand, as if to reach out to me, he said, ‘Before you leave, Mrs Shackleton, would you do me the favour of calling in for a confidential word?’

I hesitated, unsure what he could want to talk to me about.

‘Just between us. Nothing to do with Miss Jamieson . . .’ He nodded towards Meriel’s room. ‘Private matter, if you don’t mind.’

I slid the basket handle along my arm, carefully, remembering that it contained stolen eggs and milk as well as the flowers. ‘Yes, Captain. I shall come up after breakfast.’ I picked up the shoes that Meriel had kicked off.

And of course my thought was still that the captain would have something private to impart to me. Some news of Gerald. Although I knew that to be ridiculous.

He walked back to his own door slowly, like a man with a long way to go before nightfall.

I carried the basket and shoes downstairs, also moving slowly as though his creeping pace had infected my movements.

Meriel stood over a cast-iron frying pan of spluttering fat. I placed the basket on a chair and handed her the duck eggs.

She cracked the first directly into the pan. ‘Isn’t it huge? Shall we share?’

‘Yes. Will you scramble it?’