A Medal For Murder (31 page)

The best way to find Lucy Wolfendale would be to shake the truth from Dylan Ashton. Now that I knew for sure that his prints were on the ransom note, he would not be able to deny having helped in the scheme to fleece her grandfather.

I had expected Croker & Company to have the sign on the door turned to ‘Closed’, and it was. But Mr Croker was still there. We stared at each other through the glass door. His frown deepened as he looked at me, one hand on the ‘Closed’ sign. Would he remember me as a prospective client?

‘Mr Croker,’ I mouthed. ‘I was here earlier.’

He opened the door a fraction. ‘I’m so sorry. We’re closed.’

‘I’m Mrs Shackleton. Is Mr Ashton available?’

My questioned deepened his frown. ‘Sadly, no.’

‘Do you know where I may find him?’

‘He’s in the infirmary. Goodness knows what state he’s in.’

‘Poor boy! What happened?’

A snake-oil salesman would have been proud of the
way I got my foot in the door. Mr Croker gave me his businessman’s eye for spotting a time-waster.

‘Has he been taken ill?’ I asked.

‘Involved in an accident. He was knocked off his bike by some blighter who didn’t stop.’

His words left me feeling light-headed. It seemed too strange that something had happened to Dylan so soon after Mr Milner’s murder. Perhaps his reluctance to talk this morning had been because there was something he needed to keep quiet about. And now someone had tried to silence him, and make it look like an accident.

Mr Croker picked up his hat. ‘So now not only am I without my assistant but the police insist I go over to the infirmary, to make sure it’s him, so if you don’t mind . . .’

‘Is he dangerously hurt?’

‘By the sounds of it, yes. He can’t muster himself to say who he is.’

I felt responsible in some vague way I could not define. ‘Let me do this for you,’ I said. ‘I know Dylan well, through my friend Miss Jamieson who directed the play. If you’ll allow me, I shall visit him and report back to you on his condition.’

Relief flooded Mr Croker’s face, but almost immediately he thought better of his near capitulation. ‘No, no. This is my responsibility.’

‘Are they sure it is him?’

‘Our business card was in his pocket. And he has been missing for hours, and such a busy day, and I have an appointment on my way home and . . .’

It seemed treacherous to sow seeds of doubt. ‘It may not be him. Your business card is in my bag, and I daresay in many other pockets.’ The thought gratified
Mr Croker. I pushed my advantage. ‘I’ll come back directly and tell you if it’s him, and glean what I can about his condition. I was a VAD nurse.’ The number of times I bandy that about, I ought to be ashamed. We weren’t even proper nurses if the truth be told. Lightly trained and heavily worked.

Mr Croker weakened. ‘The thing is, I have a call to make and the chap does not have a telephone. It will go badly if I do not keep the appointment. And . . .’ He almost checked himself. I gave my most sympathetic nodding smile to encourage him to go on. ‘It is my wedding anniversary and we have a motor booked to take us to the Café Imperial, and on to a concert at the Royal Hall and a theatre supper afterwards at the Prospect.’

‘You must not let your wife down. What anniversary is it, may I ask?’

‘Silver. Normally, I would not dream of taking up your offer, and really no. I must not.’

‘Please. I can assure you that I will carry out the task with great delicacy and let you have the information straight away, if you’ll give me your address, or a telephone number.’ I produced my card:
Kate Shackleton, private investigator
. ‘Tact is my stock in trade and I would be happy to do this for you, Mr Croker, and for such an obliging young man as Dylan Ashton.’

I had him. Relief flooded his face. My private guess was that relations with his wife were less than perfect and to let her down on her wedding anniversary would be a step too far.

‘Agreed?’ I held out my hand. He took it.

Mr Croker opened a drawer and produced a letter heading. He scribbled a note. ‘Show this if there is any
reluctance to let you act on my behalf.’ He turned the page and wrote his address on the other side. As he held the door open for me, concern gave way to something approaching annoyance. ‘If it is Dylan and if he is conscious, you might ask him where had he been, to be riding back along Stonehook Road when he was supposed to be calling at a property in Cowling Avenue.’

Approaching the solid stone-built infirmary brought back memories of wartime, and injured men trying to be brave. This conjured up my sense of hopelessness, at being able to do so little for those men. My steps slowed. I pictured Dylan in the play, as the doomed youth, Willie Price. His stock in trade a lost and yearning look; loving his hopeless father; hopelessly loving Anna. Pincers of fear gripped my belly. You don’t know him, I told myself. He’s nothing to you. It wasn’t true. He mattered. Don’t worry, I told myself. Wait. Every event is worse in the thinking about.

The porter on the door looked up expectantly. Weekly visiting hours were clearly signed on the notice board. This was not a visiting time.

I introduced myself. ‘I’m here on behalf of Mr Croker, Dylan Ashton’s employer. He was admitted after a road accident and I’ve been asked to confirm his identity.’

‘Are you a relative?’

Idiot. If I were a relative, I would be here on my account, not the house agent’s. I produced Mr Croker’s note. That did the trick.

A moment later, the porter returned with a young policeman.

‘You’re sure you’ll be able to identify the chap, madam?’ He spoke with a Leeds accent, and must have been drafted in to help in the murder investigation.

‘I will if it is Dylan Ashton.’

The constable seemed relieved not to be the only fish out of water. ‘I’m here for when the young chap regains consciousness. We’d like to . . .’ He stopped himself from saying the word interview, which would connect his presence with the murder investigation. ‘I have to get some details from him.’

‘So he hasn’t spoken yet?’

‘Not anything that makes sense. He had a Croker & Company business card in his pocket. Of course, that could be there for any number of reasons, that’s why I went round to the house agent.’

Walking the infirmary corridor towards the ward felt so familiar from my VAD days, almost like a slip in time. A nurse went by carring a bed pan covered with a cloth. The constable led me along the ward to a bed with screens drawn around, which made me fear the worst.

The ward sister gave a disapproving glance as she strode towards us purposefully. We cluttered the top end of her ward. She kept her annoyance barely under control as she said, ‘Still here, constable?’

‘Until ordered otherwise, sister,’ the constable answered mildly.

‘And I’m Kate Shackleton.’ I tried to put on my best nursing manner. ‘Here to confirm the patient’s identity. His family would wish to be informed of the accident as soon as possible.’

‘Just so,’ the policeman said.

His back-up proved unnecessary. The ward sister nodded to me to go around the screen.

Poor Dylan. He lay there pale as alabaster, his head bandaged. One arm was tucked under the sheet, another lay bandaged on top of the cover. His eyelashes flickered.

‘Dylan? It’s Kate Shackleton. Can you hear me?’ I reached for his hand. ‘Squeeze if you can hear me.’

Did his fingers move? I could not be sure.

The ward sister touched my shoulder. ‘That’s enough for now.’

Feeling heavy and useless, I slowly walked back to the ward office, deliberately not looking at the sick men on either side of the ward.

‘Well?’ The policeman looked up expectantly.

‘He’s Dylan Ashton, employee of Croker & Company. He lives in the upstairs rooms at the house agent’s premises.’

He took out his notebook, and licked his pencil.

‘Do we know his next of kin?’ the ward sister asked.

‘Mr Croker will have that information. I’m sure he’ll telegraph Dylan’s family,’ I said. ‘What’s his condition?’

The ward sister seemed easier now that we were off her ward and in the office. ‘He’s concussed, and has a broken wrist and bruising. It might not be as bad as it looks. We gave him a sedative.’

It seemed heartless to pass on the next request, but I needed to know for myself as much as for Croker. ‘Did Mr Ashton have details of a property in his pockets, or keys that should be returned?’

The ward sister consulted her notes. The policeman did likewise.

‘No,’ said the sister.

‘No mention of any keys here,’ said the constable.

‘Pockets empty bar a comb, a handkerchief, two cigarettes and a couple of matches. There was a broken bottle of tea on the road. He must have had his lunch with him. Birds had finished off most of his sandwich.’

‘Do we know what happened?’ I asked. ‘Were there witnesses?’

‘Another cyclist heard a crash bang. When he rounded the bend, there was the cycle and rider in the ditch. A car had stopped but the blighter must have got in and set off again without staying to help.’

‘How do we know he’d stopped?’

‘Cyclist chappy said. He rounded the bend and the car was stopped – next thing it was pulling away. We do have his statement. He had the presence of mind to attempt first aid and go for help. Might have saved young Ashton’s life.’ The constable looked hopefully at the ward sister. She remained non-committal.

‘What sort of person would just leave him there?’ I wondered aloud.

‘Some sort of person who drove a De Dion motor,’ the constable answered before snapping his notebook shut. ‘Now if I may use your telephone, sister, I can confirm the lad’s identity to my sergeant. And Mr Croker needn’t worry about notifying the relatives. We’ll be in touch with the nearest local station and send someone round.’

‘Where precisely did the accident happen? For Mr Croker’s information,’ I added quickly.

‘A mile out of Harrogate, along Stonehook Road. The lad’s bike was in a ditch.’

‘Do we think he was cycling to or away from Harrogate?’

The constable frowned. ‘Most likely on his way back
to Harrogate. Bike was on the easterly side of the road.’

Only as I left the infirmary grounds did it hit me between the eyes that there might be some connection. The two young men most likely to have helped Lucy were Dylan and Rodney Milner. Rodney Milner and his father held the dealership for De Dion motor cars. Rodney had driven away from the showroom in a De Dion this morning. But he was going to collect Alison from the Geerts, wasn’t he? Had Rodney gone out driving to distract himself, to seek out Lucy, and accidentally or on purpose run down Dylan Ashton? The idea seemed too preposterous, and yet it stuck.

Madam Geerts came running towards me as I left the infirmary. One thick strand of her hair had come undone and fell over her left eye. She was without her handbag and her arms seemed not to know what to do with themselves. She charged at me and I put my hands up to grab her and stop her knocking me to the ground.

‘Madam Geerts, what’s wrong?’

‘Is it true? Is it true that Dylan is in this ’ospital?’

‘Yes.’

‘Then I must speak to him.’

‘Why?’

‘’e alone can save my Loy, my ’usband.’

‘What on earth do you mean?’

‘The inspector . . . ah, Mrs Shackleton, you do not know the anguish. My Loy would not ’arm a soul. Many lovers I ’ave ’ad and not one ’as my sweet Loy murdered. Now they say it is a
crime passionel
and ’e kill Mr Milner. They ’ave arrested ’im.’

She was shaking. I gripped her shoulders. ‘The police
have to take everything into account. If your husband is innocent, he’ll be released.’

‘We foreigners, we take the blame for everything. This is what it is like. The police they ’ave set up question station at the Prince of Wales Hotel. All Harrogate will point the finger at the foreigner.’

‘Surely not. You’re very highly regarded here.’ I did not know whether this was true so gave my words great emphasis. ‘And where does Dylan come into this? Why is he so important?’

‘Dylan and Loy leave the theatre together. Loy is with Dylan until midnight. I must see Dylan.’

‘They won’t let you see him. He’s unconscious.’

She threw up her arms in a gesture of despair. ‘Tell them. Tell them my man is innocent.’

‘Madam Geerts, I have no connection with the murder investigation.’

I did not tell her that my own statement had led to suspicion falling on her husband. It was cold-hearted, but my main concern was to go on looking for Lucy.