A Medal For Murder (36 page)

Sookie, my black cat, rescued while I was in Bridgestead on the Braithwaite case, was a scribe in a previous life. She watched closely as I dipped my pen in the ink. I had the feeling that if my writing was not up to scratch, she would send the inkpot flying.

It was almost midnight when the telephone rang. Mrs Sugden had gone to bed. I did not immediately recognise the confident masculine voice.

‘Mrs Shackleton?’

‘Yes.’

‘Inspector Charles here. I’m sorry for the lateness of my call. Did I wake you?’

‘No.’

‘I did not know you intended to return to Leeds today.’

‘Should I have informed you?’ My words came out more sharply than intended.

‘No, of course not. We had your details.’

It was bad enough having my mother checking up on my whereabouts without a police inspector. ‘Can I help you with something, Inspector?’

He hesitated. We all knew how difficult it was to talk on the telephone.

‘Possibly. Are you planning to return to Harrogate?’

‘Possibly,’ I said, echoing his cautious tone.

‘Then perhaps you would be good enough to call at the Prince of Wales Hotel, at about eleven tomorrow morning, if that is convenient.’

‘Noon will suit me better. I have an appointment in the morning.’

‘Very well.’

‘Can you give me a clue?’

There was a pause. ‘It is regarding a third party whom I have yet to locate. I hope you may be able to help.’

So he wanted to find Lucy Wolfendale.

‘I see.’

‘Tomorrow, then,’ he said with an air of finality. ‘Good night, Mrs Shackleton.’

‘Goodnight, Inspector.’

 
 

Bees buzzed in and out of the hollyhocks in the Moonys’ garden on Street Lane. Sykes and I strolled up the path together, still a slight awkwardness between us. He cleared his throat. As I rang the door bell, we exchanged a look. He met my gaze, and glanced away, knowing that he must leave the talking to me.

Mr Moony opened the door, smiling a good morning, eyeing the attaché case that Sykes carried.

We followed him into his study. The velvet drapes were hooked back from the bay window and weak sunlight played through the stained glass.

He bounced like an excited child as he watched Sykes set the attaché case on the desk. ‘It is only forty-eight hours, and you have . . .’ Mr Moony’s words failed him as Sykes clicked the back the catches and lifted the lid to reveal the objects within.

Mr Moony stared. ‘Remarkable. Such relief!’

‘Would you please identify these items, Mr Moony?’ I asked.

He did not hear me, but stood, gazing down at the contents, his mouth open in astonishment. ‘I never
thought . . . This is a miracle.’ When he turned to look at me, his eyes were moist. ‘My wife said to come to you. She was right. Mrs Shackleton, how can I ever . . .’

‘We did our job, Mr Moony, and had a little good fortune on the way.’

Slowly, his hands trembling, Mr Moony checked the contents of the case against his list. ‘The diamond ring?’ he said finally. ‘Everything is here except Mrs deVries’s ring.’

Sykes did his best to suppress a triumpant smirk. Returning the goods was the easy part. Explaining could take a little longer.

‘That is back in the owner’s possession.’ It suddenly occurred to me that it was in the possession of Miss Fell, and Mr Moony had not received the money loaned on it. ‘You’ll want to know all the circumstances,’ I said. ‘Do you have a safe to . . .’

‘Ah yes.’ He seemed reluctant to lose sight of the items, but after another moment’s amazed gazing, he opened a safe and locked his prized goods away. ‘And I’m sure you’d like some tea. My wife longs to meet you.’

The four of us moved into the drawing room. Mr and Mrs Moony sat side by side on a well-stuffed couch. Sykes and I sat opposite them. The low table between us was set with a teapot, small square china plates and home-made biscuits.

I gave a touching account of ‘Mrs deVries’ and her deception in adopting a false name. ‘She entrusted the pawn ticket to a young friend, who then entrusted it to another who intended to pawn a watch chain. It was that person, a young woman, previously of good character, who momentarily succumbed to temptation and snatched your pawned goods, Mr Moony.’

‘A woman?’ He began to choke on his oatmeal biscuit. Mrs Moony hurried to tap him between the shoulder blades and urged a sip of tea.

‘A woman?’ he repeated.

Sykes concentrated heartily on the pattern in the rug.

I continued, trying not to sound either lame or fantastical. ‘She disguised herself by wearing gentlemen’s clothing. And she has now left Harrogate.’

This was a little disingenuous, but probably true.

‘The cold-hearted minx!’ Mrs Moony’s cup trembled in its saucer. ‘My poor dear Philip. Such a shocking ordeal.’

Mr Moony could not take in the story without a second and a third explanation.

‘And now you must decide, Mr Moony, what is to be done. You have your goods returned, and restitution will be made for the amount you loaned against Miss Fell’s diamond ring. I have not revealed the name of the perpetrator.’ Mr Sykes looked at me across his cup. I ignored him, or tried to. ‘This young woman is at your mercy if you wish to press charges.’

Sykes could contain himself no longer. He picked a crumb from his trouser leg. ‘She committed a felony.’

Mr Moony looked from me to Sykes and back to me. ‘Would it reach the newspapers if I go to the police about this?’

‘It would,’ I said in a definite tone.

Sykes was about to speak when I sent a severe thought wave in his direction.

‘It is an awful lot to take in, my dear,’ Mrs Moony said quietly to her husband. She looked at me. ‘My husband believes it better to think things over. It is Sunday after all. I am sure he will want to take the
matter to church with us later, perhaps to evensong.’

Mr Moony agreed that this was exactly what he had in mind.

This seemed a good moment for me to make a move and depart. Yet there was a feeling of unfinished business hanging in the air. Something more needed to be said, and I was not sure what.

Mr Moony tilted his head and looked at Sykes. ‘You were about to say something, Mr Sykes?’

Sykes looked at me. ‘No. Nothing, sir.’

Mr Moony gave a noisy expelling of air that you could not call a sigh. ‘I am very grateful for your success, and for your speed.’

I took the envelope from my bag. ‘Here is a brief written report, and the settled account.’ I set it on the table. ‘Apart from ourselves and the police, the only people who know about the robbery are three of your lady customers and the gentlemen Mr Sykes visited. I am sure they will be discreet, for their own reasons.’

Mr Moody nodded. ‘I am very grateful for everything that you have done. I shall report to the police and the insurance company that the goods are recovered.’

For a few moments, the conversation became circular. The desire for prosecution of the perpetrator was weighed against the bad publicity of a trial.

Making a valiant attempt at changing the subject, I looked through the drawing-room window into the long back garden, crowded with flowers and vegetables. ‘You have an industrious gardener, I think.’

Mr Moony smiled. ‘I like to be in the garden. Plants makes a refreshing change from jewels. If ever I retire, I shall take on more myself. As it is I have an old chap who gets his hands dirty for me.’

‘I’m growing marrows,’ Sykes said, glancing with envy at the serried rows of vegetables. ‘Just taken on an allotment.’

Mrs Moony said, ‘Show Mr Sykes your marrows, dear.’

When the men had excused themselves and left the room, Mrs Moony gave me a challenging look. ‘You don’t wish for a prosecution against this . . . this person,’ she said with distaste.

I felt myself become suddenly warm. Had it been so obvious?

She went on, ‘Why is that, may I ask?’

‘Sometimes I think it is better to draw a line. It has been a terrible experience for Mr Moony and to go to court would be to relive it. From what little I know of him, I believe it would be mortifying if news of this got out.’

‘Surely there could be some confidentiality for him, some protection.’

‘That is not how the legal system works, Mrs Moony,’ I said with all the conviction that comes from having read Charles Dickens on the matter. ‘Once the law begins to roll along its relentless course, there is no protection of that kind for anyone. There would have to be a trial, a jury, reporters would be present in the court.’

‘So it is entirely for my husband’s benefit?’ she said coolly.

She was far more astute than I had expected. There was nothing for it but to be frank. ‘Mr Sykes disagrees with me, although he is loyal enough not to say so.’

She nodded, hands folded carefully in her lap, waiting for me to continue.

‘The decision will be Mr Moony’s. But if you are
asking why I feel as I do, although I hate what this woman has done, and it was an appalling crime, I understand how she came to do it, out of desperation.’

Somehow I did not think that an account of Meriel Jamieson’s prospective brilliant career in the theatre would hold much sway with Mrs Moony.

‘You make it sound as though she is previously of good character. I believe that is the phrase sometimes used in mitigation.’

Whatever Meriel’s qualities, I did not for a moment entertain the thought that being of good character was one of them.

‘She is a most personable and intelligent individual with sharp insights into human nature.’

‘Then it seems incomprehensible that she could stoop so low.’

‘It does indeed.’ Looking over Mrs Moony’s shoulder, I could see Mr Moony in the garden pointing with pride to what was probably a giant marrow. Sykes glanced through the window at me and Mrs Moony. He knew exactly what I was doing. ‘I believe there are occasions, Mrs Moony, when even a person who has committed a wicked act deserves a second chance.’

‘Is she sorry?’

‘Oh yes.’

Meriel Jamieson would be very sorry to end up picking oakum and sewing mailbags.

‘I do not believe Mr Moony will want to prosecute,’ Sykes said gloomily as he drove back to Woodhouse, having claimed he needed more motoring practice.

‘Oh?’ I said in as neutral a voice as it is possible to utter that syllable.

Sykes had become very confident at driving along a straight clear road. ‘I left the force because I didn’t fit. When they got something wrong, I said so. I stuck my neck out.’

‘Yes I know.’

‘You’re the boss, you pay my wages. But know this, Mrs Shackleton . . .’ He veered onto the edge of the pavement as he turned a corner.

‘Careful. Mind the lamppost.’

Sykes returned his attention to the steering wheel and his eyes to the road.

‘What did Mr Moony say, while you were inspecting marrows, that makes you think he will not prosecute?’

‘Nobody throttled him. He was just too slow. While she snatched his bagged items, he was too open-mouthed to do anything about it.’

‘Poor Mr Moony.’

‘He is embarrassed by his actions – or lack of action.’

‘Thank you for not trying to influence him, when you were in the garden together.’ It struck me how large a part embarrassment had played in this case. Miss Fell’s at her poverty. Mr Moony’s at being robbed.

Sykes shrugged. ‘All I have to say is, I can have no truck with compounding felonies.’

I sighed. ‘No. I don’t suppose you can.’

Sykes’s driving had improved to the point where it surprised him that he had reached his destination without having to think about it.

He got out. I climbed into the driver’s seat and set off for my appointment with Inspector Charles.