A Medal For Murder (20 page)

It was a street of identical terraced houses not far from the railway station. Standing at the front door, I could hear the doorbell ringing inside the Geerts’s house. No one answered. I made my way round to the back. Pots of mint, chives, parsley and thyme stood in the spotlessly clean yard. I knocked on the door.

Geraniums sat on the window sill, turning leggy, some petals falling onto the scoured sill. The window blind was dropped. Through a small gap at the side of the blind, I could see into the neat kitchen with its square deal table and raffia-backed chairs. There was a cup, saucer and coffee pot on the table.

I knocked on the door again.

Stepping back into the yard, I looked up at the bedroom window. Was it my imagination, or did the blind move?

After one more knock on the door, I searched my satchel for something useful. There it was. Earlier in the summer, when I was on the Braithwaite case, Hector, Tabitha Braithwaite’s fiancé, had given me his old scout knife, as a keepsake. I flicked open the blade, slid it
under the window catch and edged it back. The sash window lifted easily. Carefully, I moved the pots of geraniums and climbed inside.

The kitchen smelled of coffee, Cherry Blossom boot polish and a faint odour of yeast, like dough left to rise. A sudden bump and a scream came from beyond the door that led from the kitchen. Crashing into the long string of garlic bulbs that swayed from the clothes airer, I crossed the small room in a few strides, kicking the tin bath whose water was still warm enough to be sending up a cloud of steam.

A figure lay at the foot of the stairs, doubled in pain, clutching herself, moaning.

I bent down beside her.

She looked up at me, her eyes full of tears, chubby round face filmed with sweat and distorted in pain. She was barefoot. Her nightgown was damp. Unpinned, her long hair stuck to her forehead and cheeks.

For a few seconds I did not recognise her, perhaps because I expected to see Lucy, or Madam Geerts. A tear fell, and the moaning turned into a sob.

‘Alison! What happened? Let me help you up. Can you stand?’

‘I think so.’

Aware of another presence, I looked up.

At the top of the stairs, Madam Geerts stood still and erect, frozen as a statue, beautifully dressed in a bias-cut blue linen skirt and white blouse, her hair immaculately coiffured in loops. ‘Poor girl,’ she said as, in her best dancer’s glide, she slowly descended the stairs. ‘She fell.’

Alison’s sobs turned to a whimper as I helped her to her feet. ‘
Did
you fall?’ I asked.

The answer sounded like oh, or no.

Madam Geerts drew herself up to her full height of about four feet eleven inches. She stood three stairs above us, which allowed her to glare down. ‘Of course she fell. You say I pushed her?’ Madam Geerts moved to Alison’s side.

The three of us stood in a tight knot at the bottom of the stairs, scarcely able to move.

Madam Geerts tried to edge Alison up the stairs. ‘Don’t speak. You must lie down.’

‘I hurt, I hurt.’

‘Where?’ Madam Geerts demanded.

‘For heaven’s sake, woman,’ I said. ‘She’ll hurt all over. She’s just taken a tumble down a dozen stone steps.’

‘Fifteen steps,’ Alison whined.

‘Then march back up fifteen steps,’ Madam Geerts commanded.

I ignored her, and helped Alison into the downstairs room that was kitchen and living room. Alison’s bare feet splashed into the water that had spilled on the floor from the tin bath.

Madam Geerts followed. ‘Who let you in, Mrs Shackleton?’

‘Myself.’

‘But . . .’

‘You must have heard me knocking.’ I led Alison to the Windsor chair by the hearth.

‘So the Englishman’s ’ome is not a castle. There is a law to answer the door?’

‘There is a law against pushing a girl down the stairs.’

‘Push her? Push her?’

‘She . . . she . . .’ Alison’s voice came out in choking
sobs. ‘She didn’t . . . I fell. I fell down the stairs and it didn’t . . . Did it . . .’

Madam Geerts brushed past me and faced Alison. ‘It is best you lie down, Alison.’

I stepped between Madam Geerts and Alison. ‘From the way things look here, I don’t believe you are in any position to say what it is best for Alison to do.’

Madam Geerts jutted her chin. ‘Oh? And what do you insinuate?’

‘A hot bath. Alison “falling” down the stairs. A powerful smell of brewers’ yeast, but no baking in evidence. What did you buy in Leeds yesterday? Cohosh? Slippery elm? Penny royal? Something to “restore female regularity”? Your visit was a secret from your husband because . . .’

‘You are wrong.’

‘ . . . he would have asked what you were doing there. He would have connected it with Alison’s stay, and why you are not at the dancing school this morning.’

Madam Geerts turned pale. ‘You know nothing.’

‘On the contrary, I know a great deal. I was in the V A D during the war. Soldiers were not the only casualties.’

‘Alison is in trouble. I try to help.’

‘Shut up, shut up both of you.’ Alison rocked back and forth in her chair. ‘I’ll lie down. I want to lie down.’

My instinct was to gather her up and take her home, but she was in no fit state for that.

Madam Geerts and I looked at each other across Alison’s bent head. It was almost a moment of truce, but I was determined not to let her get the upper hand. ‘You make some tea. I’ll take Alison upstairs.’

‘It is not tea that she needs,’ Madam Geerts barked back, but her bark was sulky. She would do as I said.

‘Strong tea, sugar for Alison, no sugar for me.’

Slowly, I led Alison up the narrow stairs. She plodded, as if hoping never to reach the top. To the left of the small landing a door led into the front bedroom.

‘I’m in here,’ Alison said weakly, turning into a small whitewashed room with a single bed, washstand, small cabinet and a straight-back chair. The room smelled of violets, spearmint and vomit. Its cream window blind was drawn down, but the strong sunshine outside broke through into the gloom and created an unreal air, like a stage set.

I helped Alison into bed. ‘Let me brush your hair.’

She had looked so pristine and jolly, playing her part in the play the evening before. Now her hair lay lank and straggling. I propped the pillows so that she could sit up. First I brushed one side of her hair, then the other, plaiting each side. With the plaits over her shoulders, she looked so very young.

Returning the hairbrush to the washstand, I asked, ‘What age are you?’

‘Twenty-one.’

‘Same as Lucy.’

‘I’m two months older than Lucy.’

‘Alison, I know it doesn’t seem like it now, but everything will be all right. Try not to worry.’

Her hands clasped at her chest. Her round moon face looked pale and drawn. She seemed utterly done in. Her breath was laboured but she had stopped crying. On the cabinet beside her bed was a dish of chocolate bon bons, and a glass of water.

‘I’m expected in work on Monday,’ she wailed. ‘What will I do if I’m like this?’

Carefully, I handed her the glass. ‘Take a sip. You’ll have your tea in a minute and you’ll feel better. Don’t worry about work for now.’

‘If I lose my job . . .’

‘Shush.’

Alison emptied the glass. I took it back from her carefully and slid it into my satchel. With a little luck there might be fingerprints and then I would know whether she had helped Lucy write the ransom note.

I pulled up the rattan chair and we sat in silence.

Moments later, Madam Geerts appeared with two cups of tea on a tray. She set the tray on the washstand and handed a cup to each of us. Alison made no move to take hers. Madam Geerts set it on the bedside cabinet. Making one more effort to pull the wool over my eyes, she said to me, ‘Alison ’ave too much cherry brandy last night and stay ’ere.’

So that was the way she wanted to play it. I took a sip of sugary tea. ‘This is yours, Alison. Take a drink. It will do you more good than Madam Geerts’s cherry brandy.’

For Alison’s sake, I would stay calm, although I felt like pushing Madam Geerts down her own stairs.

Alison began to drink the tea. I wanted Madam Geerts to leave, so I could talk to Alison. I caught her eye, and we retreated to the landing, closing the door behind us.

‘Well?’ Madam Geerts asked. ‘She drank cherry brandy. She fell down the stairs.’

When I did not answer, she led me into the other room, well out of Alison’s earshot.

Before she had the chance to tell more lies or try and justify her actions, I said, ‘You asked me not to tell your husband you were on the Leeds train. Now I know why. You were at some chemist’s shop buying what you needed. Monsieur Geerts might choose to believe your cherry brandy story. Don’t insult me with such a tale.’

For once, Madam Geerts seemed speechless. She wrung her hands in a rather dramatic fashion.

Why did I feel so angry? Calm down, I told myself. This is not my business. This foolish woman believes she is doing what is best. ‘You know that what you’ve done is a crime in England? It’s classified as an offence against the person, under an Act of 1861.’

She looked towards the window, as though she might be able to fly away. ‘For the best. I did it for the best.’

‘It’s lucky for you that it hasn’t worked.’ I said that with more conviction than I felt. After all, Alison might still miscarry. And I knew nothing of the circumstances. I thought of Alison’s mother, busy with her preparations for the church fair, disapproving of the fact that half the proceeds would go to fallen women. It would not be an easy matter for Alison to admit to being pregnant. And of course she would lose her job in the solicitor’s office.

Madam Geerts set her mouth in a stubborn line. ‘The young man will not marry her. This I know from ’is father who is against the match, and made this plain to me.’

In an instant I knew that the young man must be Rodney Milner. I could imagine that Lawrence Milner would oppose a match to a widow’s daughter who
worked for her living. That would not have suited his plans to rise in Harrogate society.

My feelings towards Madam Geerts softened, but for less than a moment. I wanted to tell her that Milner was dead, but remembered Inspector Charles’s prohibition. Not that it seemed to carry much weight since half of Harrogate now knew of the murder. But not Madam Geerts.

‘I suggest that you empty that bath and clear up any signs of “cherry brandy” . . .’

‘Thank you.’ She breathed a sigh of relief.

‘… because it is unlikely I will be your only caller today.’

She frowned. ‘What do you mean?’

‘Just do as I say.’

‘You will not tell?’

‘For Alison’s sake, not yours. Now tell me, please. Where is Lucy Wolfendale? She came here last night with Alison.’

‘She walked with us yes, and came in only for a moment.’

‘Who else was with you?’

‘Rodney and ’is friend, a fellow who was at the bar. I forget ’is name. ’is father keeps a public house and sometimes the young men play cards there when the place is shut.’

‘Did they come in?’

‘No. They just escorted us home.’

‘Did Lucy leave with them?’

‘She came in for a few moments. Drank a quick cherry brandy, far too quick. Then said she would catch up Rodney and this other fellow and ask them to walk her home.’

So I would need to call on Rodney Milner. That was not a task I relished.

The only person Madam Geerts had not mentioned was her own husband. That did not look good for him.

‘And Monsieur Geerts?’ I asked. ‘He did not escort you home?’

‘He came later.’

‘Alone?’

‘Why all these questions?’

She was right, of course. It was up to Inspector Charles to find out about Monsieur Geerts’s movements.

‘I don’t like being asked to convey lies. Last night, Lucy asked me to give her grandfather a message. Captain Wolfendale was meant to believe Lucy stayed with Alison, just as Alison’s mother believed she was with Lucy.’

Madam Geerts’s brow creased with puzzlement. ‘She say . . . I do not remember
exactement
. I swear I thought Lucy would go home.’

‘Unless she is found soon, there will be a major police search.’

Madam Geerts looked genuinely surprised. She shook her head. ‘Yes, I lie to you for Alison. But I do not lie now. If the police come . . . I empty the water.’

Without another word, Madam Geerts hurried down the stairs to empty the tin bath.

When I went back into the small whitewashed room, a cat had found its way onto the counterpane. Alison stroked its head. In a sudden instant, I felt that the words I had spoken to her before would come true. Everything would be all right. Alison’s gaze fixed on her
hands, and on the cat. Slowly, tears formed. One began to trickle down her cheek. I produced a hanky. She dabbed at her eyes and wiped her nose.