A Medal For Murder (38 page)

‘But the cufflink . . .’

‘That could be the killer’s, or it could have lain there unnoticed for a week.’

The inspector’s eyes locked mine. ‘When you look for Lucy Wolfendale, Mrs Shackleton, if you find out where she is, or even where you think she may be, please tell me. I know you think it unlikely, or even impossible, but she may be dangerous. May I rely on you to do as I ask?’

‘That sounds more like an order than a request, inspector.’

His look had an unsettling, searching quality as though he were throwing out another kind of challenge.

‘If she hears that we want to interview her, she may well become alarmed and disappear.’ He returned the dagger to the bag, placed it in the drawer and locked it. ‘We have fewer men on the case than I would wish, but if you need assistance, ask. Do not take risks. Please.’

It was the please that did it, and his smile. It struck me that he would have a whole battery of ways of achieving exactly what he wanted.

‘I don’t believe Lucy has anything to do with the murder,’ I said, with more confidence than I felt. Yet having taken such an instant and powerful dislike to the late Lawrence Milner, I now felt a sudden surge of pity for him. ‘I shall do my best to find Lucy.’

I had said the same words to Captain Wolfendale a little over twenty-four hours earlier, and look where that had got me. Precisely nowhere.

 
 

Dylan had not returned, even though he must know she had nothing left to eat or drink. Lucy refused to give in. He would come this morning, she had felt sure. He would see she was not at church, and he would come.

Now all the church bells were long silent. Her ankle hurt worse than ever. It was the size of a balloon. Her tongue felt swollen. Her head ached. It was too bad of Dylan, mean, cowardly.

Somehow, she must get to the top of the tower and attract attention. There must be a person walking along the road who would see her petticoat waving. This was like a nightmare. It could not be happening. But it was.

More than once she had thought she heard a noise. It turned out to be the wind, or the old tower groaning at her folly.

She reached the parapet by going up the stairs backwards, sitting on her bottom. Once at the top, she felt exhausted, hardly able to stand. She leaned against the wall, pushed herself up and stood on one leg, to look out towards the road. Deserted.

She needed to rest. Sliding down the wall, she sat
with her back against the cool stones, gently bringing herself onto her bum bones, shifting her position as best she could.

She stared at the sky for inspiration. Tiny fluffy clouds that might have been painted by a child went racing by. The clouds were her dreams, speeding away.

Taking off her petticoat, a flag of surrender, took an age. She cried tears of frustration and rage at the stupidity of it all. If only she had put the key on a ribbon around her neck. As the petticoat reached her calves and she had to raise an ankle, she started to laugh. It was so ridiculous, completely ridiculous. How had this ever seemed a good plan?

Once again she pushed herself up, trying to keep weight off her throbbing ankle. Her leg hurt. Her whole body hurt.

And there he was, before she waved the white petticoat, the answer to a prayer, striding across the field.

She cursed him for keeping her waiting, for leaving her all this time. He had better have a good excuse.

As he came closer, she saw that it was not Dylan. It was Dan Root. Was he out for one of his famous walks? If he did not look up, he would miss her.

Forgetting that she was supposed to have been kidnapped, a person being held for ransom, she waved her petticoat and called to him frantically. ‘I’m locked in. I’ve lost the key!’

He did not answer, merely raised a hand in greeting as he came nearer, and then reached the door. She listened to thumps and bangs, as he fought the lock. It would be so humiliating if a locksmith had to be called.

The noise stopped. Once more he came into view, stepping back from the door, giving her the thumbs-up
sign. She heaved a sigh of relief, and then came the light tread of his footsteps on the stairs.

‘Hello, Lucy.’

‘Hello, Dan.’

She dreaded questions. He asked none, but handed her his water bottle. Never in her life had she felt so glad to see a familiar face.

She took the top from the bottle and drank greedily.

Bobbed down beside her, Dan shot her that look of his, a crafty glance he had used when he played the miser. He was the only person in the cast whose talent came close to her own. What was the matter with him that he looked at her so strangely? She must look a sight.

‘It’s lucky you came along. Or did you know I was here?’

‘You took some finding. But I remembered where you came to rehearse, and how you talked about the tower.’

She licked a drop of water from her lips and replaced the top on the bottle, but did not return it to him. ‘Good thing you did. Dylan has deserted me.’

‘He would never desert you. He was knocked down, not far from here.’

Her hand flew to her mouth. ‘No! Poor Dylan. Is he badly hurt?’

‘I don’t know yet. He is in the infirmary. When I found out where he came off his bike, I knew my guess was correct. What did you do to your ankle?’

‘I tripped on the stairs.’ She started to shiver. ‘But Dylan. He wanted me to give up . . .’

‘Wait!’ Dan said. He leapt to his feet and disappeared down the stairs.

‘Don’t leave me!’ she called, all courage deserting her.

He came back with one of her blankets. ‘Here, wrap yourself in this.’

‘Are you sure about Dylan? How do you know?’

‘I saw one of the assistants from Wood & Tophams. He had heard from his manager who had heard from Mr Croker.’ Dan put his hand in his inside pocket and brought out a teacloth, unfolded it and produced a sandwich. ‘It’s potted meat.’

‘You’ve saved my life.’ She began to devour the sandwich. ‘I should give up, because of Dylan being hurt. But I won’t, not now, not after everything. I can hold on, until tomorrow.’

‘Lucy, I have something to tell you. I have a lot to tell you.’

‘Do you? I want to listen, Dan. But my ankle throbs. My throat’s dry. My head spins. And you haven’t asked why I’m here.’

‘I know why.’ A little involuntary twitch happened at the side of his mouth. He had used that twitch as the preacher. Lucy copied the gesture. When she did, some feeling she couldn’t name caught her chest and stopped her breath. She wondered whether he looked in the mirror as many times in the day as she did herself.

‘How did you know?’ Dylan was supposed to have kept her secret.

‘Something I overheard, leave it at that,’ Dan said. ‘Everything has changed,’

‘Will you stop being mysterious, and just tell me?’

‘Your ankle needs bandaging. Let’s get you to the stream. Cold water will help. We can use your petticoat.’

So that was his game. He was trying to get her home, make her give up. First the stream, then the road, then
the back of his bike and a return journey: defeat.

‘I’m not going back. If you really do know why I’m here, then you’ll know that in just twenty-four hours, I will collect some money . . .’

‘You need to go home.’ He sighed. ‘It’s complicated.’

His words made Lucy anxious. ‘Has something happened to Granddad?’ Her mouth fell open, her breathing became erratic. ‘What are you not telling me? I’ve killed Dylan. And my note gave Granddad a heart attack.’

‘No. Nothing has happened to him.’ He turned his glance from her and looked at the opposite wall of old grey stones, and seemed to look through them to some distant place.

‘What then?’

‘I saw the captain first in my own land, in Africa.’

‘That’s not what I asked you. And how could you have?’ Lucy said sharply. ‘That was years ago. And you’re not African.’ She took another sip of water. Something about Dan began to frighten her. He was so good looking, but strange. Girls came to the theatre hoping to get to know him, but none of them did. He always went home straight after the performance. On Sundays, his one day off, he went out walking alone for hours. Then she realised. So many men who had fought in the war were damaged, not always on the outside with a shorter leg or a missing arm, but inside, in their minds.

That would explain why Dan could sit hour after hour after hour mending clocks and watches. It would also explain why he was so good at pretending to be other people on stage. Because he was not happy being himself.

‘Listen, Lucy. I have something to tell you.’

 
 

Alison was sitting in her garden. She was not alone. Rodney Milner sat beside her, shooing away a wasp that buzzed near Alison’s hair and made her squeal. He gave me a quick smile as he stood up. ‘I’ll fetch another chair. Take mine, Mrs Shackleton.’

‘Save me from this wasp!’ Alison shrieked, ducking her head as it returned.

I waited until Rodney was out of earshot. ‘How are you feeling, Alison?’

Far from the wan worn-out creature of yesterday, she looked a picture of health. ‘I ache all over,’ she complained. ‘Mother thinks I’m tired from the play.‘ She glanced quickly at the house, as though half expecting her mother to be spying through the window, and lip reading.

‘Any . . . repercussions from your episode with Madam Geerts?’

‘None.’ She gave a sigh of relief. ‘So I suppose that means . . .’

‘It means you need to see a doctor without delay.’

The wasp returned. Alison flicked a handkerchief at
it. When it flew away, she beamed at me. ‘I’ve told Rodney,’ she whispered quickly. ‘He says confound the mourning period. He’ll marry me by special licence.’

I smiled. ‘There you are. What did Gypsy Kate predict? And you didn’t even have to buy my lucky heather.’

She returned my smile, reached out and gave my hand a squeeze. ‘I haven’t told my mother yet. We’re going to wait until after Mr Milner’s funeral, to show respect. But I’m glad you called. It was so good that you came to the Geerts’s yesterday. When I think what could have happened . . .’

‘Try not to think about it. Write to me when you have a bouncing baby. One of the photographic magazines has a happy family competition. I will do you a family portrait, and use it as my entry. How does that suit?’

Alison gave a pretend pout. ‘Oh dear. I should hate for us to lose, or get the booby prize.’

Rodney appeared from the back of the house, carrying two more deck chairs. ‘Your mother will be out shortly.’ He looked questioningly from Alison to me as he unfolded the canvas chair.

‘Alison’s told me,’ I said. ‘I wish you both much happiness.’

‘Thank you.’ He placed his chair next to Alison, and reached for her hand.

‘Now I need your help. Lucy is still missing. You must have some idea where I could look for her.’

‘Gosh,’ Rodney said, biting his lip. ‘I don’t know where she could have got to. Does Meriel know?’

‘I have a feeling Meriel will have taken the train to Manchester yesterday evening.’

‘Lucy is invincible,’ Rodney said, ‘I’m sure she’ll be all right, wherever she is.’

‘Rodney, she has not been seen since she left the Geerts’s house late on Friday evening. It’s now Sunday. The police want to talk to her. Everyone else has been interviewed . . .’