Dying in the Wool (38 page)

‘Won’t that take ages?’

‘Probably. Shall I do that before or after I hike to Spenborough?’

Sookie swished her tail. She looked accusingly at Sykes. I wondered if she was thinking the same as I was, that if Sykes were a dog, he’d be a bloodhound.

Leaving Bradford for an outlying village is like travelling from the centre of a spider’s web up one of its narrow threads, through fumes and smoke.

A massive mill on our left belched out steam. The roaring sounds through its vents made an awesome symphony of sound. Gerald used to say that if he were a composer, he would capture the throb and whine of industry and set the sound to percussion and strings.

All the lanes and roads had a similar look: mills with many windows, grimy cottages huddled next to each other, some with their windows converted to display goods and a shop sign above the door.

Sykes sat beside me in the passenger seat of the Jowett, bristling with so much unease he made my skin prickle. It occurred to me that having an ex-policeman in the car would come between me and my motoring reveries. Surely his constabulary sensibilities should not make him squirm at a mere two miles over the speed limit.

‘What’s eating you, Mr Sykes?’

‘We’re attracting attention, Mrs Shackleton, in case you hadn’t noticed.’

‘I often attract attention.’

‘I’m sure you do. Only I am used to blending in, looking inconspicuous so as not to draw attention to myself.’

I glanced at his black boots.

It would take a while for me and Mr Sykes to become used to each other. However it did impress me that he knew the way to Chapel Fold, Wibsey, where we hoped to find our casher of postal orders.

‘Turn left at the top of the hill.’

I gave an exaggerated hand signal and turned. A knot of out of work men tossing a coin on the street corner paused in their game to stare at us.

Mr Sykes sighed.

‘Is there something about my driving that’s upsetting you?’

‘You know what they’re all thinking?’

‘I’m afraid my powers of detection don’t extend to reading minds.’

‘They’re thinking, “Why isn’t the chap driving?”’

‘Then I’d better have two signs made, one for each side of the motor. “
BECAUSE IT’S HER CAR
”.’

With that constabulary air of suspecting everyone in the
world of felonies, Sykes gazed at two men waiting to cross the road.

‘And he can’t drive,’ he said glumly.

‘Why on earth not?’

‘It just never came my way to learn.’

‘Anyone can learn to drive, Mr Sykes.’

‘Call me Jim. I’m working for you and being given a moniker by a lady boss makes me uneasy.’

‘What if it makes me uneasy to call a man of your standing and experience by his first name? And you’re four years older than me.’

‘Jim’s easy to say.’

‘All right. I’m Kate.’

‘I can’t call you Kate. It’s Mrs Shackleton.’

‘To say I’m “the boss” as you put it, you seem to be the one who’s laying down the law.’

‘It has to be proper.’

‘I’m sure “it” will be. And why didn’t you drive in the force?’

‘Not one of the chosen.’ He turned to look at me, staring at my hands on the wheel. In a gloomy voice, he said, ‘You see, you can talk and drive. How many people can do that?’

‘I don’t know. Are you going to tell me?’

‘It was a rhetorical question. You need to stop by that lamp post. Chapel Fold might be a bit tricky for the vehicle.’

We walked down a steep cobbled street past ramshackle workshops, a severe chapel and well-kept graveyard. Chapel Street gave way to Chapel Fold.

The door to number ten was propped open. A stout grandmotherly woman, with greying hair and pale skin deeply lined, was standing at a table, her hands in a large earthenware bowl, kneading bread dough.

I tapped on the door. ‘Mrs Horrocks?’

‘Who’s askin?’ Her pale watery eyes searched mine.

‘I’m Mrs Shackleton, and this is Mr Sykes.’

‘You’re a policeman,’ she said accusingly.

Sykes took off his hat and nodded. ‘Ex-policeman. How did you know?’

‘The boots. It’s all right. I’ve nothing against you. My uncle was in the force.’ She looked suddenly anxious. ‘Has summat happened to one of my lassies?’

Sykes left it for me to answer. ‘No. We’ve come from Bridgestead, where I believe you have a connection.’

The transformation was instant. The sudden wariness made her physically draw back. She looked as though she would like to slam the door shut, but thought better of it.

‘You better come in.’ She placed a white tea cloth over the earthenware bowl of dough and set it on the hearth.

A jug of water stood by the sink. ‘Let me!’ Sykes picked up the jug and poured it over her hands which she held over a basin. She peeled off a lump of dough that had attached to the back of her hand.

At the table we sat on three tall buffets, Mrs Horrocks lowering herself cautiously with stiff movements.

My first impulse was to jump in and begin to ask questions, but I waited, seeing what she would say.

Without the dough on her hands, she became bolder and stared at me. ‘Bridgestead. It’s out Keighley way.’

It was a good try at ignorance. When searching for missing soldiers, I had come across people who would say nothing until they knew what you were after.

I wanted to be absolutely sure we had the right person. ‘Before I say anything more, would you please confirm to me who it is sends you the postal order and in what amount?’

She set her mouth in a stubborn line. ‘I’ve nowt to say about that.’

‘Mrs Horrocks, this is only to make quite sure that we are bringing this news to the ears that should receive it. Are you Nancy Horrocks?’

‘Yes.’

‘And do you receive a postal order every week?

When she didn’t answer, Sykes said, ‘We could ask the Wibsey post mistress.’

‘All right, so it’s for ten bob. And it’s spent as soon as it’s got. I’ve nowt to give back if that’s what you’re askin’.’

‘Could you tell me why Mrs Kellett sends you a postal order?’

‘That’s between me and her.’

‘Have you known her long?’ I needed to know how close they were. For all I knew, Mrs Kellett could be a relation of Mrs Horrocks.

‘I don’t know her. Never met the woman. Now what’s this about?’

Sykes was looking at the table, and I guessed he must be trying very hard not to join in, which I appreciated.

‘Mrs Horrocks, I’m very sorry to tell you that Mrs Kellett has died.’

A great sigh came from her. ‘Poor woman. There was never no note about being sick. I had no notion.’

‘She wasn’t sick. She met with an accident.’

‘In the mill?’ A look of horror crossed her face. She closed her eyes as if to shut out scenes of hair or hands caught in machinery, a flying bobbin acting as lethal shot.

Quickly, so as not to prolong her imaginings, I said, ‘No. In her own home. She was found at the bottom of the stairs. Just a day after her husband was killed in an accident at work. The police are investigating.’

‘Will they be coming here?’

‘I couldn’t say. I don’t believe they know about you, not yet.’

She took a hanky from her pocket and blew her nose.

‘I’m sorry to press you, but if I don’t someone else will. Could you please tell me why she sent you the money. What was your connection?’

‘She was a good friend to my daughter Agnes. That’s all I can say.’

‘May I speak to Agnes?’

She shook her head.

‘We could come later. Is she at work?’

‘My other daughters are at work, Beatrice and Julia, and Julia’s husband. They’ll all be back later. We’re not short. We’ll manage without the ten bob. There’s an end of it.’

‘And Agnes?’

‘Mrs Kellett will have her reward in heaven, poor creature.’

‘If Agnes is no longer living here, and she was the person Mrs Kellett knew …’

‘They worked together at mill. Agnes lodged with her.’

It came back to me. Now who had said it, who had mentioned that Mrs Kellett had a lodger, ‘the bonniest lass in the mill’. Ah yes. It was Marjorie on the night of the Gawthorpes’ party.

‘Mrs Horrocks, where is Agnes now?’ I spoke as gently as I could. Her lower lip trembled and her voice seemed shaky.

‘Agnes died. Mrs Kellett said she’d help me. And she’s been good as her word. Right up to the beginning of this month.’

I looked across to Sykes. He didn’t meet my gaze. There was a child’s black rubber ball by the fender. A child’s drawing was pinned on the wall.

Mrs Horrocks saw me look at them. She clenched her fist. ‘No one is having the child. He’s mine now.’

‘The money was for the child?’

‘Mrs Kellett was godmother. She said she’d help. Don’t ask me why. Maybe she felt guilty that Agnes got herself in that way while she was under the Kelletts’ roof.’

‘Do you know who the child’s father is?’ Could it have been Kellett, I wondered. I pictured him as he was in the
photograph, cocky, full of himself, someone who might well have taken advantage of a young lodger.

Mrs Horrocks stood up, too angry to sit still, knocking over the buffet with the suddenness of her movement. ‘I Fdon’t know and I don’t care. And whoever he is, they’re not having him back. When it all happened, I’d gone back to Manchester to nurse my sick mother. Agnes wrote to me that she’d married, was with child, and then again that she was a widow. All in the space of a twelve-month. Of course she wasn’t wed.’

Sykes picked up the buffet and stayed on his feet until Mrs Horrocks sat down again, the gentleman, but also the policeman.

‘How did Agnes die?’ I asked.

‘Of a broken heart, I say. The death certificate said brain haemorrhage.’

‘When?’

‘1917.’

Reluctantly, I retrieved the photograph I had taken of the figure in the painting, the young woman on the humpback bridge.

‘Is this Agnes?’

A small cry came from Mrs Horrocks. She reached out and took the photograph by the corner, lifting it towards her. The print fluttered as her hand shook. She closed her eyes tightly. An angry tear escaped onto her lined and wrinkled cheek. ‘She doesn’t look real.’

‘It’s from a painting. There was a Moses basket in the picture too, with an infant, Agnes’ child I think.’

She slapped at her tears. Her mouth trembled. ‘What do you want with us? You’re not having Frederick.’

‘What age is Frederick?’

‘Coming up seven.’

‘Mrs Horrocks, you didn’t meet Mrs Kellett, but did you ever meet her husband?’

She shook her head. ‘No. I never met neither of them.
That’s what was so strange and kind that Mrs Kellett kept to her vow to help the child. I allus meant to get the train out there one day and say a thank you. Now it’s too late.’

‘What will you do now? Will it make a big difference to you, not having the postal order?’

She shrugged. ‘Since we was better off, I been putting a few bob by for Frederick. He’s a clever lad, might make summat of hisself if he’s a mind.’

‘Here’s where you can get in touch with me.’ I gave her my card, thanked her and we went outside.

She followed us to the door. ‘When’s Mrs Kellett’s funeral? It would be right for us to pay respects.’

‘We’ll let you know the date,’ I said.

We walked back to the High Street, where the Jowett had gathered a circle of admirers.

‘Why don’t you try your hand at driving, Mr Sykes?’

‘Not round here. Too many horses and carts.’

He climbed into the car first and slid across to the passenger seat.

‘We’re making a guess that Braithwaite was the father, because he painted the lass.’ As he spoke, Sykes watched me coax the car into motion. ‘Kellett could’ve been the father. She stayed in their house.’

‘That crossed my mind. It’s possible. But he was off with the army for a year from 1914. If Frederick is coming up seven, he would have been born in … 1915. I think Mrs Horrocks knows very well who the father is. She said it was strange and kind that the Kelletts sent money. There’d be nothing strange about it if Kellett was the father.’

‘Stop!’ Sykes shouted suddenly.

I braked, so that he jerked forward and the map fell from his hands.

‘What on earth’s the matter?’

‘It just occurs to me. If we turn round and drive in the other direction, we’re heading for Cleckheaton and your
article in the Clecky and Spen
Guardian
. Office is on Northgate.’

I glared at him. ‘You planned that all along. You’re pretending it’s only just struck you.’

He smiled that superior smile. ‘Would I do that, Mrs Shackleton? Boss?’

As I did an about-turn, earning a rude yell from a van driver, he said smugly, ‘In the force, the cars all had rudders.’