A Medal For Murder (6 page)

Poor old Granddad. Part of her could not help but
feel sorry for him. But he should not have been so tight-fisted. He had lived his life. Now she must live hers.

She pulled the blanket tighter. To send herself back to sleep, she pictured all the fairy story towers that ever were.

She dreamed of cobwebs. She dreamed of silken hair flowing into the sky and intertwining with stars. She dreamed of a dwarf grandfather who tore himself in two. She dreamed of being Anna in the play, inheriting a fortune and yet not knowing how to live. Now she boarded a train.

The hoot of her dream train became an owl. She woke, paralysed.

Someone was standing there, filling the space by the staircase. Lucy wanted to speak, to move, to stand up and demand to know, Who are you? But no sound came. She could not move so much as a finger.

When she woke again, the figure had gone. She wondered was it one of those dreams, when you know for sure that you are awake and there is someone there, and yet you must be asleep or you would be able to move your hand. You would be able to speak.

She sat up.

‘Is someone there? Dylan!’

No one answered.

She drew on shoes, and called again, ‘Is anyone there?’ half expecting a dwarf to lasso her with a length of silk, a witch to cackle curses.

She climbed the rickety spiral staircase to the roof of the tower, and stepped out onto its battlements. Beyond the sulky moon a distant haystack made the shape of a witch’s house. The scent of clover floated in from another time, a distant century. Over by the
wood, something moved – perhaps a fox going about its stealthy business, or a deer feeling safe in the hour before dawn.

Soon, very soon, her life would begin, properly, for the very first time.

 
 

It was a terrible way for a life to end, in a shop doorway on a rainy night. For what seemed an endless time, I waited for Meriel to come back and say the police were on their way.

I walked from the alley to the road where Mr Milner’s car was parked. A couple passed by on the other side of the street, she laughing at his joke. He glanced across, murmuring something to her. She looked at me, a woman alone, loitering. They hurried on their way. It was obvious what they thought.

The night had turned cold. I returned to the alley, keeping my distance from the doorway. Future shoppers and shop workers might sometimes feel a chill as they crossed that threshold where the body lay. The doorway might hold a memory of the dreadful act, and of Mr Milner’s final moments.

It was no use. I had to look again at the lifeless man. He seemed to move. I forced myself to check once more for a pulse. Not a murmur of life, not half a breath. He was cold now. All that remained was a well-dressed shell.

The dagger had pierced his heart. It had entered so deep that only the hilt was visible. The dark bloody stain formed an almost symmetrical pattern. I turned away, and walked back down the alley. Why did no one come?

Mr Milner’s top hat lay on the kerb, beside his car. The slashes to the tyres seemed incongruous. Was it not enough to murder a man without attacking the rubber on his wheels? It struck me as an act of rage, or madness.

I began to shake, and to look all around. The murderer might still be here, in another doorway, out of sight. I should have hailed that passing couple. An odd thought struck me. The murderer was in the car, crouched and waiting, ready to pounce. A small cry startled me. The sound was my own.
Someone come. Someone come soon
. I had seen men die from their wounds in hospital, from fever, but not this. Not in a peaceful spa town, in a shop doorway.

I dared to look into the car for the lurking murderer. There was no one. In the gutter, near the rear wheel, lay some small glinting item. I bobbed down. It was a cufflink. Evidence. What a marvel our minds are that we can feel and think in so many ways at once. The world threatened to spin away from me. I walked back up the alley. My and Meriel’s bags were still where she had dropped them. I sat on mine.

I am not going to faint. Head between knees. What if he comes up behind me? I won’t faint. I don’t faint.

After what seemed an age, Meriel and the doorman appeared. I called to them. ‘Stay clear of the doorway. The police will want to examine the scene.’

The doorman peered at Milner’s body. Then the three of us walked to the road and waited.

A uniformed sergeant and police constable arrived first, striding into view like two creatures from the underworld, everything black, including their jackets with the night buttons. The constable was the younger of the two, pale-faced, clean-shaven and gangly. The older man wore a small neat moustache, and walked with his feet turned out. The sergeant strode into the alley. As we were giving our names and addresses to the constable, I heard the sound of hooves. A pony and trap came into view and drew to a halt. A portly figure, in top hat and tail coat, stepped onto the pavement.

‘Evening, doctor.’ The constable produced a flashlight, and led the doctor into the alley. I felt a sudden moment of panic. What if Milner had not been dead? Perhaps I had made a mistake. Immediate attention might have saved him.

Their slow, returning footsteps gave no sign of urgency.

The medical man’s breath smelled of whisky. He took out a tiny notebook and pencil from an inside pocket. ‘Can you tell me what time you saw the deceased, madam?’

I felt foolish at not having checked my watch. ‘We stopped to sort out an umbrella,’ I said lamely.

‘It was about half past eleven,’ Meriel supplied. ‘Mr Milner was still warm. You said so, didn’t you, Kate? Mrs Shackleton was a nurse. She checked for a pulse.’

The doctor jotted down the time.

Meriel let out a shuddering groan. ‘I can’t bear it. Poor man. I suppose the only consolation is that he saw a good play before he died.’

‘Do you think she’s in shock?’ the doctor asked quietly.

I was grateful that he did not seem to notice I had begun to shake again. In as calm a voice as I could muster, I said, ‘Probably.’

The sergeant commandeered the pony and trap, leaving the constable to guard the scene.

‘Are you taking us home?’ Meriel asked as he helped us into the trap.

The sergeant spoke to the driver: ‘Raglan Street!’

‘I live on St Clement’s Road . . .’ Meriel began.

‘If it’s all the same to you, ladies,’ the sergeant said in a gentle voice, ‘I’d like to take you to the station and give you a cup of tea.’

 
 

‘Shocking business for you ladies.’ The elderly sergeant led us into a bleak room at the back of the police station. We sat on benches, at a table marked with cigarette burns and tea stains.

‘You are shivering.’ He placed an old army blanket around my shoulders.

Meriel squeezed my hand. ‘Kate is the brave one. She stayed by the body.’

I envied Meriel in that moment. She seemed to have detached herself from what had happened, as though finding the body had become one more made up scene, an epilogue to her production.

The constable disappeared, returning with thick white cups of strong sweet tea. Shakily, I delved into my satchel for Gerald’s old hip flask. How I wished Gerald could be here now.

I unscrewed the top of the flask. There was a decent amount of brandy – enough for a good splash in each of our cups.
Here’s to you, Gerald, wherever you are. Lost in this world, or the next. Wouldn’t it be wonderful if, one day, you just walked back into my life?

The constable stayed in the room with us, saying in a friendly voice, ‘Don’t mind me.’

‘We’re not under arrest are we?’ Meriel asked.

‘Oh no, miss. It’s just that statements will be required.’

We sipped our drinks and waited, listening to the loud tick of the big round clock on the wall. With infinite slowness, the hands of the clock moved to midnight. Was that all? It seemed indecent to want to be out of there. But how much could there be to state in our ‘statements’? We would be unlikely to forget the horror of finding a body after just one night’s sleep, or wakefulness.

Meriel leaned towards me, picking at a thread on her cape. ‘This is horrible. It’s like one of those German films where everything . . . oh you know.’

That glimmer of fear I had noticed earlier returned, perhaps a fear of having been close to the dead. Straight away, she began to take deep breaths. After a moment, she said, more to herself than to me, ‘I made a good impression on Mr Wheatley.’

‘You did.’

‘He said to call him BW. Do you really think I made a good impression?’

‘Meriel, for heaven’s sake!’ I closed my eyes, momentarily not having the strength to find the right words, unable to tell whether this was crassness or insecurity. At least analysing Meriel took my thoughts from my own reaction. She escapes into the theatre, I told myself, in the way an inebriate drowns in the bottle.

‘Your face, Kate! I’m only trying to make conversation, to take our minds off things. Did I tell you he invited me to lunch tomorrow?’

She had. ‘Yes.’

‘He plans to do an Ibsen and asked me which one. What do you think to that?’

I was saved the need to answer by the sound of footsteps, and voices in the corridor.

Our guarding sergeant snapped to attention as the door opened.‘Ladies.’ The man was dressed in a good, dark suit, spotless shirt and dark-green tie. There was something familiar about him, about the eyes, hazel flecked with green. His light-coloured hair held a neat side parting and was cut short. Late-night stubble covered his chin. He looked a little tired.

‘I’m Inspector Charles, of Scotland Yard.’ He stepped forward and shook each of our hands in turn as we offered our names.

Everything about the moment felt unreal, as if it might dissolve and turn out to be as ephemeral as the drama played out on the stage only hours ago.

Meriel held onto his hand. ‘Goodness, you must be the murder squad. You can’t have appeared from London.’

He paused for a moment before he answered, as if deciding how much to say. ‘I would have been on the night train to London now. It’s not often I’m called North, but this will be my third investigation in Yorkshire recently. I hope it won’t become a habit.’

He looked at me when he said this, and I realised he was the same man who had appeared on the scene at Bridgestead when I was working on behalf of Tabitha Braithwaite. That was my first professional case, just a few months ago. I had investigated the mysterious disappearance of Joshua Braithwaite, a millionaire mill owner, and Tabitha’s much-loved father.

As I remembered, Inspector Charles had wanted me out of the way. I wondered afterwards whether he held me responsible for the local bobby being less than meticulous in securing the scene of crime.

The inspector nodded to the sergeant who hovered behind him. ‘Sergeant, take Miss Jamieson’s statement, please. Keep it short.’ He then turned to me. ‘Mrs Shackleton?’

‘Yes.’

‘If you’ll come with me, please.’

I followed him into the corridor and to a room where a fire had been lit. He drew chairs near the fire. ‘I’m sorry you were kept waiting.’

I felt too numb to respond. At this rate, the young, pale-faced constable who sat at a table by the wall, notebook at the ready, would have little to write.