A Medal For Murder (46 page)

I laced up my new, sensible walking-about-Harrogate shoes. ‘I guessed they would be.’

As I walked into the sitting room, mother stared at my feet. ‘What on earth are those?’

‘I had to have a pair of comfortable shoes.’

‘Why?’

‘I’ll change later.’

Mother eyed the two brandy balloons and raised an eyebrow. ‘You haven’t told me yet how you got on with that nice inspector last night.’

‘His name is Marcus Charles . . .’

‘What a wonderful name! He sounds like a Roman senator.’

‘We hit it off admirably.’

‘How splendid!’ Mother unscrewed the top on the brandy bottle. ‘Do you know, I think if we are going to drink what sounds like fairly disgusting water for the good of our health, we ought at least to fortify ourselves. I mean we only have these medical men’s words that this water is any good, and they’ll say anything to line their pockets. Whereas we know for certain that brandy is efficacious.’ She poured two tots of brandy. ‘Here’s to Marcus Charles.’ We clinked glasses. ‘I am so pleased you hit it off. And is he, is he all right? I mean if a man gets to that age, what is he, forty?’

‘Yes.’

‘And he is still available at forty, it could indicate a peculiarity or two.’

‘He is available, and I did not notice any peculiarities.’ Far from having peculiarities, Inspector Marcus Charles seemed to me to personify near perfection in a man.

To ward off further questions, I sank the brandy, stood up and offered my mother a hand.

In good spirits, mother clutching her furs against the early-morning chill, we set off for the Royal Baths Pump Room.

Only later, as I gave myself up to the Dowsing Radiant Heat and Light bath, did my mind go blank and all thoughts vanished in a weirdly combined sense of discomfort and wellbeing. Perhaps this was how to grow a second skin: have long moments when nothing at all mattered, except your own physical self. But as I stepped out and began to dress, the thoughts flooded in. Like the police, all I wanted was to say case closed. Questions that I hoped to keep at bay popped up, demanding answers. What had Lampton, or the captain as I was used to thinking of him, tried to tell me? There could be some Lampton relation he wanted me to search out, and give that person the award that should have gone to the captain’s batman.

I dismissed the idea as unlikely. All his actions had been directed towards keeping quiet, keeping secrets. The confession had convinced the police. Perhaps they had wanted to be convinced, including my estimable Marcus Charles.

As I laced up the sensible shoes, something clicked. The batman, Lampton, should have got the VC in the first place. It came into his hands when he killed his captain, along with the captain’s identity and inheritance. In other words, the medal came to him because he committed murder.

I tied my shoelaces in a double bow.

That same man, Lampton, had gone on pretending to be the captain, had falsely confessed to murder, and taken his own life. He did not believe Lucy to be the killer, or the
medal would have stayed with his effects and gone to her. He thought that I alone would be able to work out who really should get the VC. Who really killed Milner.

But why? I could not fathom his reasoning. I had outmanoeuvred him, and now he was setting me a challenge.

When we returned to our suite, a powerful scent of roses greeted us. An enormous vase of red and white blooms sat on the occasional table by the sofa. A small card read simply,
To K from M.

‘Well,’ my mother said, breathing in the scent and sighing deeply. ‘You did make an impression on Mr Marcus Charles. When will you see him again?’

‘He has asked me to London, promised to show me Scotland Yard.’

‘I hope he’s interested in you for yourself and not in your . . . I don’t know, fingerprinting technique.’

‘I don’t have any fingerprinting technique.’ I slit open the envelope I had picked up at reception.

Mother asked, ‘Is that from him, too?’

‘No. It’s from Alison, one of the actresses in
Anna of the Five Towns
.’

Dear Mrs Shackleton

I thought you would like to know that Mr Milner will be buried on Friday at 9.30 a.m. at Christ Church, High Harrogate, and a funeral breakfast at the Queen Hotel. Rodney respectfully hopes you will accept this invitation.

Yours sincerely

Alison Hart

Good for Alison. She had wasted no time in getting her feet under the table. After the funeral, it would be a short step to the special licence and a wedding.

I decided to attend the funeral, to pay my respects. I told myself that I was not carrying on any investigations.

But if I were correct, Lawrence Milner’s murderer could still be at large, going about his or her business, perhaps even attending Milner’s funeral.

I passed Alison’s note to Mother. ‘I’ll stay on in Harrogate until the end of the week.’

She beamed. ‘That is just perfect. As it happens, I took the precaution of asking Emmatts to include some suitable outfits for a clement-weather funeral.’

At eleven-thirty, we took our seats to watch two hapless young assistants from Emmatt & Son parade their wares. This was not something I would ever have arranged myself, and I felt that mother hoped fervently one of her old cronies had caught sight of the shop assistants making their way to our suite. But it did result in my putting on account a wide-sleeve long shawl collar dress with a low waistline, along with a modest hat, suitable for Mr Milner’s funeral. It was not all I bought and when the assistants had gone, mother was delighted.

‘You will have some good pieces for your visit to London. But don’t go to Scotland Yard, dear. I have been there myself. It’s a very dusty place. The cleaners would not last two minutes if they had a woman in charge. Now – about shoes . . .’

By mutual consent, we decided one day taking the waters had been quite enough. The mental relaxation they had afforded lasted for at least another couple of hours. Only as I sat in Applebys, trying on shoes, did my
thoughts return to the question of who really killed Lawrence Milner. As I paced the floor, testing the fit, I had an unaccountable feeling that somewhere in the dramatisation of
Anna of the Five Towns
lay a clue to the murder of Mr Milner. But what was that clue?

Part of me simply did not want to know. And since there had been some connection between my putting on shoes and my mind going over clues and possibilities, I seriously considered going barefoot.

I replayed the drama of
Anna of the Five Towns
in my mind’s eye. I thought of every character, every actor, every scene. And then I remembered that some scenes had been cut from the play. Madam Geerts had said so when we were in the train together. Mr Wheatley had admired Meriel’s skill in knowing what to leave in and what to cut. And someone – I racked my brains to think who and when – had said that the scene where Mr Price, Willie’s despairing father, hanged himself had been left out, so that he was not seen being cut down from the noose, but the event was reported. If originally, in rehearsals, he had to be cut down, someone must have had a knife among their props.

 
 

Sitting in a rear pew on the pulpit side of the church, I glanced through my discreet veil at the arriving mourners. Mr Croker was among the businessmen, flicking dust from his top hat. Caps in hands, mechanics and Owen the labourer, from Milners’ motoring firm, filed into a pew. Mrs Gould, the Milners’ housekeeper, in a black felt hat and serge coat, far too hot for the day, was accompanied by a ruddy-faced man, and a young woman smartly dressed in a dark costume.

The Geerts, neat and trim, stepped with graceful dancers’ movements down the side aisle, looking neither right nor left. They glided into a pew at the halfway point.

Miss Fell, head held upright, carrying her missal, looked even tinier beside Mr Root. He had slowed his steps so that she could keep up with him.

The surprise mourner was Meriel Jamieson, in flowing black dress, full veil and elbow-length lace gloves. She spotted a place beside me, and squeezed in as the organist struck up.

‘Bloody train driver. Over-stopped in Todmorden to
wait for some farmer. We had a German in the carriage. He looked at the station sign, muttered in these horror-stricken tones, “Todmorden? Death, murder?” Well I had all on not to say, better go to Harrogate if that’s what you’re after.’

Bearers entered the church in solemn procession. Rodney followed the coffin, head bowed, Mrs Hart and Alison behind him. People turned to look, not just out of respect for the dead but in surprise at the living. This was Rodney’s public statement of loyalty to Alison, and I admired him for it.

The craggy-faced clergyman conducted a dignified service, eulogising an enterprising man, an asset to the town, a loving father, cut down in his prime, gone to join Jesus, and his own late wife.

‘Lucky her,’ Meriel whispered.

The service over, Meriel and I hung back, letting the rest of the congregation make their way to the churchyard.

In the porch, I said to Meriel. ‘I didn’t expect to see you back here, Meriel.’

‘Nor did I expect to be here. But Rodney was such a good chap in the play, and Mr Milner backed us to the hilt. I felt I had to pay my condolences.’

‘What was the other reason?’ Knowing Meriel, I felt sure there must be something in this for her.

‘Oh Kate. I wish you didn’t see through me. I’m to direct
A Doll’s House.
Both Mr Wheatley and I think Lucy would make a perfect Nora. I thought she’d be here.’

Outside, the sun shone, noisy birds serenaded us mourners, a bright and cheerful day. We fell into step with Dan Root and Miss Fell.

‘Where’s Lucy?’ Meriel demanded, as we four formed a slightly self-conscious band of outcasts – representatives in some odd way of the confessed murderer.

‘She sprained her ankle,’ Miss Fell said, a little defensively.

‘I shall visit her,’ Meriel announced.

Miss Fell shot her a suspicious glance.

We took our positions at the edge of the group around the grave. Through a gap in the mourners, I watched Alison dab at a tear. The housekeeper blew her nose.

Being on the back row, we were not offered earth to sprinkle on the coffin.

‘Meriel.’ She stiffened as she turned to me, perhaps still expecting to be apprehended for robbery.

‘What?’

We edged a little further apart from the other mourners. ‘On Saturday morning, when you went to pay your condolences to Rodney, did you tell him the details of how we found the body?’

‘I might have done,’ she said warily. ‘Why do you want to know?’

‘Please. It’s important.’

‘I told him that you and I found his father. He asked me about it, naturally. I know the police said not to say anything, but I thought he should know.’

That answered one of my questions. Meriel had told Rodney about the dagger, the tyres, the cufflink. Rodney’s next caller that day was the captain, his father’s oldest comrade. What more natural than to pass on the information; information that would clinch a confession.

‘Excuse me.’ Meriel moved gracefully through the throng, made a beeline for Rodney and shook his hand. The poor boy looked surprised and gratified. I supposed I should do the same and walked over. Meriel tried to shake Alison’s hand. Alison ignored her, and turned to me.

‘Don’t let Meriel Jamieson come to the breakfast, please,’ she said in a low voice. ‘It’s too upsetting.’

‘What is?’

‘She only wants money. And I’m glad Lucy’s not here. It would be so awkward.’

Alison and I moved aside, as Mrs Hart and Mrs Gould flanked Rodney, his twin guardian angels.

Alison glared at Meriel. ‘I can’t forgive her. Apparently she came last Saturday, told Rodney every gory detail about the death, and then touched him for twenty guineas. And in his distress, my poor lad left the safe unlocked and the captain, who called next, robbed him, helped himself to a wad of notes from the safe while Rodney was out of the room.’

‘Has Rodney told the police?’

‘He won’t. Honestly Mrs Shackleton, I shall have my work cut out taking care of him.’ We shook hands as Alison was approached by another mourner.