A Medal For Murder (3 page)

As the guard blew his whistle for the train to leave Leeds station, I took out my book. The carriage door flew open. A waft of smoke from the platform mingled with the scent of violets. Murmuring relief at having caught the train, a slim, familiar figure, about forty years of age, set down a cream silk parasol. She undid the top button of her green satin jacket. ‘So ’ot, so vairy ’ot today.’ She was speaking to herself in a breathless voice, setting down her bag and packages, spreading her belongings across the seats opposite.

She sat down with a heavy sigh, drew a Venetian fan, ivory and silk, from her bag, flicked it open and put it to instant use. The train let out a hoot of steam.

Of course! That perfect profile, the sleek upswept hair, and those dainty shoes. The Belgian woman was one of the performers in the amateur production I was to see that evening. The play’s director, a flamboyant woman I met at a party, had coaxed me into taking photographs of her cast. It was an enjoyable task. The camera fell in love with them.

This Belgian woman and her husband played an
English alderman and his wife. She padded out for the role, in order to look like a stout Potteries matron. Meriel, my director acquaintance, said she had coached them mightily, and sometimes their diction was excellent.

The woman felt my gaze as I tried to remember her name, recognising me as she did so. ‘Ah, the photographer, Mrs . . .’

‘Shackleton. And you are the alderman’s lady in the play, but in real life . . .’

‘Ah, real life, real life. Far too much of it. But yes, I am Madam Geerts. Olivia Geerts. Please, take a Parma Violet.’

I prefer pear drops but one should enter Harrogate with a fragrant tongue. ‘Thank you.’ Would it be rude to ignore her, and read my novel? She smiled, and answered the question for me.

‘You read the book of the play, I see.
Anna of the Five Towns
.’

‘Yes, just one more chapter. And I’ll be intrigued to see how Meriel adapted this story for the stage. Not an easy task I shouldn’t think.’

She wafted her fan. ‘I shall not disturb you. Please to read. I look out of the window.’

As we neared Harrogate, I snapped the book shut. ‘How awful! It’s the wrong ending. It was bad enough that one of the characters hanged himself.’

‘That scene, it is cut. We do not now see this man cut down from the rope by ’is son.’ Madam Geerts sighed. ‘An ill-fated man. But this heroine of the story, such a tiresome girl. I want to shake her. Say, Speak! Stand up for yourself!’

She made me laugh. I knew exactly what she meant.
Anna of the Five Towns
is a Cinderella story without a fairy godmother. Anna is the daughter of a miser. She inherits a fortune on her twenty-first birthday. But the miser holds power over his daughter. She hardly dare draw a crooked sixpence. Anna makes a good match, with the town’s up-and-coming businessman. Too late she discovers her heart belongs to young Willie Price, the doomed son of her ruined tenant. The older Mr Price hangs himself in despair. My brief telling makes the story sound melodramatic. It pulses with real life. Anna’s kingdom is her sparkling kitchen. Her feelings are fine and sensitive, with a natural distaste for hypocrisy. She cannot give her thoughts words, even to herself. Not the most promising material for a stage play.

Madam Geerts tucked away her fan and fastened her jacket. The train rattled to a halt. She leaned across the carriage and took my hands in hers. At first I thought this some expression of sympathy regarding the heartbreaking end of the novel.

She gave me a piercing stare. ‘Please. Do not mention to a soul that I am on this train.’ Although we were alone in the carriage, she dropped her voice to a whisper. ‘As a married lady, you know it is best female medical matters stay secret. My ’usband Monsieur Geerts. If ’e know I am on the Leeds train ’e will get the wrong end of the pole. ’e is a jealous man. Always where ’ave you been, who seen, what done. Ahhh! You cannot imagine.’

I smiled. ‘I wouldn’t dream of mentioning that I saw you. It won’t arise.’

She leaned confidentially close. ‘You are a woman of the world. To you . . .’

Mercifully, a guard opened the carriage door at that moment, saving me from her medical details.

‘We will see you tonight?’ she asked as we parted at the barrier. ‘You come to our final performance?’

‘Wouldn’t miss it for the world.’

I handed in my overnight bag to Left Luggage. Turning up on the doorstep of the unfortunate Mrs deVries to break the news of the loss from the pawnbroker’s shop of her mother’s ring would be hard enough. I did not want to create the impression that I had come to move in with her.

Making my way through the crush of arriving and departing visitors, I went into the station bookstore. Amid guides to the Spa, I found a street map of Harrogate. By coincidence, Mrs deVries lived on the same road as my theatre director acquaintance, who had offered to put me up for the night.

Consulting the map, I estimated that St Clement’s Road was about a mile from the station. The map deceived me. In the heat of the afternoon, sun blazing in a cloudless sky, I felt myself begin to wilt as I walked up West Park. A silk crepe outfit is not the best choice for a hot afternoon. I had changed my strappy brown shoes for a pair of black buckles with Cuban heels, to double for this evening’s visit to the theatre. Now they were crippling me. You are not here to sit under the shade of a tree on The Stray, I told myself. But it was tempting. The expanse of green, the scent of grass and the tiny daisies, stirred happy memories. Mother and I came to Harrogate before she had the twins, my brothers. Dad was attending a police conference and mother and I tagged along for the enjoyment. Dad must have
escaped for an hour. I remembered the three of us sitting on the grass together. I had rolled over and over down an enormous hill, in a great adventure of watching the sky and the earth change places, as the grass prickled my arms and legs. Now I saw no enormous hill, only a gentle slope.

By the time I reached St Clement’s Road, my feet felt twice their size. I ignored the pain and instead pictured myself, in a few more moments, knocking on the door of number 92. Even with Mr Moony’s business card to wave under Mrs deVries’s nose, the interview could prove awkward. Ideally, she would be alone, ask me in and I could rest my poor feet while tactfully explaining the sad situation regarding the loss of her pawned ring.

Just my luck that the numbers started at one. Not until I had walked the length of the street did I realise that there was no number 92.

I paused by Meriel Jamieson’s garden wall. The house was a four-storey semi-detached of red brick, probably built around the middle of the last century. Some of the houses on the street were well cared for, with glossily painted doors and window frames, elegant drapes at the windows, tubs of geraniums, petunias in window boxes and the small front gardens immaculately manicured.

Meriel’s house had peeling paintwork. One of the steps leading to the front door was cracked. Nettles and thistles grew in the garden where two neglected rose bushes fought for space.

In the hope that Meriel might still be at home, and I could rest my feet, I climbed the seven steps to the front door. There were two bells and two name plates:
Capt. Wolfendale
and
Miss Fell
. No Miss Jamieson. From the bay window, a suit of armour looked out at me. By
taking two steps down, I could glance into the room without being seen. Two men were seated at a low table in front of the fireplace, heads bent over what could have been a game of chess. This must be the Captain Wolfendale of the name plate. Better not disturb him and his fellow player. Meriel had not lived in Harrogate for long. Perhaps she did not have a name plate.

The door opened suddenly. A Pekinese thrust its small head out. As the door opened wider, I saw that the leash attached to its collar was held by an elderly lady with a round, pleasing face. Her left hand flew to her heart. ‘Goodness! You startled me.’ She closed the door behind her.

‘Sorry if I made you jump. I’m looking for Miss Jamieson.’

‘Miss Jamieson has the lower ground floor flat.’ The woman’s voice was cultured, even a little affected. ‘She is not at home. I saw her leave earlier.’

So much for dreams of resting my tortured feet. ‘Oh well, never mind.’ The Pekinese sniffed at my shoes, as if it knew they were too tight. ‘I’ll be meeting her later. I’m here to see the play.’

‘Ah, then we shall perhaps bump into each other. I shall be there myself. You are in for a treat, Miss . . .’

‘Mrs Shackleton. I took the photographs.’ ‘So you did! I have heard all about you.’ Her voice now took on a much more friendly tone.

We came down the steps together and stood for a moment on the pavement.

‘I had better get myself back to town, to meet Miss Jamieson.’ I bobbed down and patted the Pekinese’s small silky head, suitably ingratiating myself and softening up its owner for my question. ‘Miss Fell, before you
go . . .’ The dog tugged at its lead. ‘A friend of my mother’s lives somewhere nearby, only I don’t have the address. Her name is Mrs deVries.’

Miss Fell stared at me, unable to hide her surprise, or was it shock? She knew Mrs deVries, I felt sure of that. The dog began to pull. Miss Fell let herself be dragged across the street at speed, turning briefly to call back to me, ‘Sorry! Never heard of her.’

She was lying. But why? Then an odd thought struck me. This was number 29 St Clement’s Road. Mrs deVries lived at the non-existent 92. The number transposed.

Pulling in my skirt to avoid being accosted by a giant thistle, I decided to take a look at this lower ground floor flat where I was to spend the night. I stepped onto the narrow path and down three steps to a basement door. This, too, had a name plate: “Root – Watch Mender”.

This was the strikingly handsome young man who was in the cast of
Anna of the Five Towns
. By bringing him onto the stage from the shady obscurity of his basement room, Meriel had done the female population of Harrogate a great favour. I passed by his door. At the rear of the building, Meriel had her own entrance, but no name plate. Looking through the window, I saw a dimly lit cellar room with narrow bed and chaise longue. Miss Fell was right. Meriel had already left.

As I walked back, I noticed Dan Root. He sat with his back to me, facing the fireplace, like a boy waiting for Father Christmas to come down the chimney. He was a broad-shouldered, solitary figure wearing white shirt, dark trousers and waistcoat.

I remembered him as extremely charming and very
photogenic. His good looks would not have been out of place on the London stage or in the picture palaces, though heroes there were invariably dark. This Adonis was blond, but with honey-coloured skin and a smile to set hearts racing.

He turned suddenly, as if he had felt my eyes on him. How embarrassing, to be caught staring through his window. He came to the door as he was, still wearing his watch mender’s apron.

Think quickly, I told myself. ‘Sorry to be staring. I thought I might spot Meriel. We’ve arranged to meet in the Valley Gardens, only I thought I might have caught her before she left.’

At least he remembered me. ‘Mrs Shackleton, not here to take another photograph then?’ He drew a watch from his waistcoat pocket. ‘She set off half an hour ago. Said something about calling at the theatre first.’

The gold coin on his watch caught my eye but his movement was too quick for me to identify it. I could hardly ask him, Is that a South African rand and did you rob a pawnbroker this week?

He gave a charming smile. ‘I’m sorry. I would ask you in, or offer to walk you there, but I have a mass of work to get on with.’

‘That’s all right.’

‘Goodbye then,’ he said, somewhat abruptly.

‘Goodbye.’

Now I felt a complete idiot. He probably had females beating a path to his door all the time. “This watch has lost three hours in the last ten minutes. I’m sure you can fix it for me, handsome Mr Root.”

Annoyed with my lack of success, I hobbled back to
town and by twists and turns found Crispin’s Boot Company on Cambridge Street. Reluctantly, I bought a pair of low-heeled lace-ups that an old lady would be proud of. The assistant, a young woman of about my age, looked tired and seemed glad to have made a sale. When I asked directions to the Post Office, she walked me to the door. ‘You’re practically there, madam. It’s just round the corner there.’

She had wrapped my own shoes, and I walked to the Post Office looking decidedly less elegant.

The street directory showed no deVries on St Clement’s Road, or the adjacent streets. Nor was she in the secondary index of telephone subscribers. This did not surprise me. Not everyone takes to the luxury of the telephone, especially if their economic circumstances lead to pawning precious possessions.

Picking up a telegram form, I composed my message to Sykes.
No luck St Clement’s Road STOP Confirm correct address

At the counter, I paid the elderly clerk for my nine words, giving Meriel’s address for the reply.

I bumped into Meriel close by the Valley Gardens. She greeted me with an extravagant hug. Her large oval face and expressive eyes lit with delight. I wear my hair bobbed. Hers is long, loosely pinned and fixed with combs. Her floating skirt, voluminous sleeved blouse and a waistcoat embroidered in purple silks gave her an exotic, gypsy look.