Dying in the Wool (7 page)

Tabitha joined me on the window seat. ‘You can’t tell a
person’s character from the way she rides a horse.’

‘Perhaps not.’ I said.

Tabitha picked up the shawl. She shook it out – a swirling intricate pattern in the most exquisite shading, from lightest violet to darkest purple, with a delicate fringe.

‘This is Silesian Merino, it’s the finest wool in the world. The bulk of German sheep are merino crossed with native breeds, but the Silesian is highly prized. This shawl was a gift from Mr von Hofmann, a chemist who had his own dyeing company. Before the war, he and his family were our regular visitors. We used to go to concerts together. There’s an area in Bradford, off Leeds Road, called Little Germany. That’s where Germans had their warehouses and offices.’ She folded the shawl carefully. ‘Some people said Dad was too close to the German merchants, and especially too close to Mr von Hofmann. But they were friends. That’s all. When they all had to leave, go back to Germany, there was cruel talk. People said we were German sympathisers. Uncle Neville wasn’t included in the lies, but Dad was. I think all that talk, all those feelings might have got in the way of finding out the truth when Dad went missing. People were so fierce at that time. One old lady in Bingley dared not take her dachshund for a walk because it was a German dog. There were nasty scenes in Keighley, German shops burned.’

‘Do you believe someone might have harmed your father because of his friendship with von Hofmann?’

She screwed up her face in a look of horror and froze in the act of producing a packet of cigarettes from one of her many pockets. ‘That never even crossed my mind.’

‘It’s unlikely,’ I said quickly, ‘but I’m trying to look at the possibilities.’

Unlikely because, why would someone with a powerful grudge wait two years to act on that grudge?

She inserted a cigarette into the ivory holder. ‘All that
stuff about our being Germany sympathisers had evaporated by then. It was only ever tittle-tattle. The von Hofmanns left. We all plunged headlong into the war effort. Edmund enlisted the minute he was old enough. I’d signed on for the VAD. No one could say we’re not patriotic. We were producing army khaki in the mill, weavers working all hours.’ She lit her cigarette. ‘But this just goes to show that you can ask hard questions. I can’t. And even if I could, people wouldn’t tell me the truth. They’d talk behind our backs, but not to my face. And it’s all too personal to go to some anonymous private detective person who wouldn’t understand. That’s why I asked you, and why I’m telling you all this. If you hear nasty stories, don’t be shocked. I just want the truth, whatever it is. I need to know. I can’t move forward otherwise.’

I nodded. ‘I understand.’

She looked suddenly about to crumple into tears. ‘I’m not sure you do understand, Kate. I’m not sure I do myself. When we came back after the war it took me about two years to recover from a kind of emotional shell shock. Then for two years, Hector and I were dancing a minuet around each other. He’s so young. For us to dance to the same tune, I had to make myself different – play at being young again. Act as if there were no dark side to the moon. But I’m thirty years old. My father’s missing. I’ve done nothing to try and find him.’

The drawing room was a vision of cream, black and chrome, all sharp angles and geometric shapes.

Mrs Braithwaite sat on a curved black leather sofa, flicking through a copy of
Tatler
. She wore a calf-length day dress that would easily have doubled as a chess board.

‘Mother, this is Mrs Shackleton. Kate, my mother, Mrs
Joshua
Braithwaite.’

There was a barely perceptible change in the air between them. On hearing Joshua’s name pronounced so
deliberately, Mrs Braithwaite winced.

‘How do you do, Mrs Braithwaite.’

‘Pleased to meet you. I hope you’ll be comfortable with us. You two must have had extraordinary experiences in the VAD. And my daughter tells me you’re a keen photographer and will be taking photographs …’

Perhaps she noticed my dismay. If Tabitha could not come clean to her mother, we would not make progress. Mrs Braithwaite tailed off, as if expecting me to own up to my vice and say what I intended to snap. Tabitha had obviously made up a story about my visit. ‘An old friend from the VAD.’ True, I had taken photographs at the opening of the Cavendish Club but hadn’t made much of it. As far as I remembered I had never even talked about photography to Tabitha until today when she saw me unload the equipment.

‘There’s a little more to my visit than that, Mrs Braithwaite. I’m sure Tabitha was about to tell you.’

Tabitha blew a smoke ring. She narrowed her eyes. ‘Er, yes. I’ll ring for tea first, shall I?’

I could hear her brain whirring as she made for the bell pull.

‘Oh never mind that!’ Mrs Braithwaite walked across to the black lacquer cocktail cabinet. ‘I’m sure we’d all like a cocktail. Name your poison, Mrs Shackleton.’

We gathered ourselves around the low stainless-steel and glass table. I named my poison, and asked that Mrs Braithwaite call me Kate.

‘Then you must call me Evelyn.’

We chatted about the photographic opportunities in Bridgestead and surrounds. Not until Tabitha mixed a second lot of cocktails did she finally spit out the reason for my being there.

‘The thing is, Mother, the truth is I specially asked … well, you might remember my telling you that Kate had some success in finding that officer chap that everyone
thought was missing and he’d started a new life in Sidcup, abandoning his wife.’

Mrs Braithwaite raised her eyebrows to show how impressed she was. ‘Yes. You did mention that.’

Tabitha continued. ‘And when we were in London, staying with Kate’s aunt – she’s Lady Pocklington of course – this person, Turnbull …’ Tabitha gave me a meaningful look, intending me to go along with her story, ‘… Turnbull stole a diamond brooch. Kate got to the bottom of it.’

My mouth dropped. Poor Betty Turnbull had eaten two eggs, which since we were all on rations was considerably worse than snaffling diamonds. At least if Tabitha were going to boast about my achievements, I would have liked accuracy.

Evelyn narrowed her eyes and looked at Tabitha across her cocktail glass. ‘Have you lost something?’

Tabitha flushed with annoyance. ‘I said it last week and you completely ignored me. Don’t you think Daddy should be at my wedding?’

‘Well, no, Tabitha, I don’t, for the simple reason that a dead man would not make much of a positive contribution. I’m sorry to be so blunt.’

A tap on the door interrupted us. The dressmaker had arrived for Miss Braithwaite’s fitting. Tabitha shot to her feet, having forgotten all about the appointment.

‘I’ll ask her to come back another day.’

‘Not at all,’ I insisted, trying not to appear too relieved. ‘You must have your fitting.’

‘Yes, do go,’ Evelyn said impatiently. ‘Perhaps there’ll be alterations and so on, or extra lace to order.’

‘All right. But only if you’ll come up and see me, once I have the dress on.’

When she had gone, Mrs Braithwaite leaned back on the sofa and looked at me steadily. Her hair was almost black. Her eyes were brown and her face chiselled, like the
countenance on a china figurine. Fine lines around her eyes, mouth and throat gave away her age. She was the kind of woman who would look young, until seated beside a twenty-year-old. Her beauty would draw some photographers, yet her face seemed strangely empty and lifeless. A slight frown betrayed annoyance.

She set down the cocktail glass with a sigh, as if it had made her a promise and then disappointed.

I felt awkward about being a guest in her house and an investigator into something so painful and personal. Really, Tabitha had placed me in a difficult situation. I owed her an explanation. ‘Mrs Braithwaite …’

‘Evelyn.’

‘Evelyn, I’ve had some success in tracing missing persons since the war. As a result of that, Tabitha asked me if I would look into the mystery surrounding her father’s disappearance. But if you’d rather I didn’t stay here, or …’

‘Then Tabitha has taken leave of her senses. What little thought she has was entirely diverted into snaring a chap. Having achieved that, she now thinks all she has to do is want a miracle and it will happen.’

‘And you think it would be a miracle if your husband were to be found?’ I gave Evelyn an encouraging look. When she did not continue, I forged ahead, overcoming my discomfort at the situation. ‘Tabitha believes her father is alive.’

Evelyn rearranged her ankles. ‘How much did she tell you about Joshua’s disappearance?’

‘I know the date, and the barest of circumstances. I should very much like to hear about it from you.’

She rose and walked away from me towards the window. A great sighing breath seemed to let all the air from her body. After a moment she turned back, and opened the door of a black lacquer cabinet from which she produced a silver-framed photograph.

‘This was the two of us. Joshua and Evelyn – on our wedding day.’

I looked at a slender, elegant young woman with smiling eyes. She sat on a straight-backed chair, wearing a long white dress, her veil tossed back over her head. The man standing beside her looked proud and erect, yet not very tall. He had a wiry frame, a small moustache and smooth fair hair. They were a good-looking pair. People often appear so solemn in a formal photograph. These two looked as though they couldn’t wait to laugh.

‘You look happy, both of you.’

‘Oh we were happy, for a long time, when the children were small.’

She took the photo from me. ‘Tabitha looks like neither of us. She takes after Joshua’s late mother. She’ll turn frumpish in later life. Edmund was like me.’ She indicated another photograph, this time not hidden in the cabinet but holding pride of place on a hexagonal cocktail table. A fine-featured young man dressed in regimental uniform looked out at us with the kind of intensity that always unnerves me. Perhaps it is the way I look at a photograph, but when it is a young man, a soldier or a sailor, I can always tell whether he is dead. The eyes tell me.

Evelyn reached out a finger, as if to stroke his face. ‘He was taller than his father.’ She drew herself up. ‘I brought height into the Braithwaite family.’

The maid chose that moment to tap on the door.

Evelyn replaced the photograph on the table with great gentleness. ‘What is it, Clara?’

‘Miss Braithwaite has her gown on and would like you to come and see.’

‘Very well. Tell her we’ll be there shortly.’

It crossed my mind that Tabitha may have anxieties about her wedding, and rather than face them had decided to worry about her long-gone father. Perhaps the best thing I could do would be simply to let her talk, to be her
friend for a few days. Not much detection would be involved in that, but with so little to go on regarding her father it might prove the better course of action.

I asked was there a photograph of Mr Braithwaite that I could borrow. She took an album from a drawer in the cabinet, and handed me that along with the wedding photograph. ‘You’re a widow I believe?’

‘Yes.’

‘Tabitha can be somewhat insensitive at times. You’ve no need to go up to see her. She ought to be aware of how so many women have had to entirely rethink their lives.’

‘It’s all right. I can bear to see her in her wedding dress.’

‘No it’s not all right. Let her wait. I’ll tell you all you need to know, and then perhaps you’ll see why you’d be wasting your time looking for Joshua Braithwaite. There are a few simple facts.’

I waited. In my experience, simple facts can be baffling and mysterious, leading to more layers of ‘simple facts’ and complexities and intrigue that make Sherlock Holmes stories seem utterly straightforward.

She arranged herself carefully on the sofa, smoothing her dress. I slipped a couple of photographs from the album then took the opposite chair, and waited.

‘My husband attempted suicide. Why? I’ve given this a lot of thought – I’ve had plenty of time to do so. Possibly it was because he drove my lovely son into the army. My boy was killed one week after his posting. Joshua knew I would never forgive him.’

‘You must both have been distraught.’

‘I was distraught. He was full of self-pity. With Edmund gone, there was no one to take over the mill.’

‘Are you sure he attempted suicide? Could Mr Braithwaite have found himself in the beck as a result of a blackout, a stroke, something of that sort?’

‘His health was perfect.’

‘But men in perfect health do suffer heart attacks or …’

‘In the weeks leading up to that night, he had been moody, morose, not his usual aggressive self.’

‘Aggressive?’

‘He attacked life as though it were his enemy. He had to beat everyone, be top dog. Of course he kept that hidden, under a bluff, brash exterior. But he sized everyone up – business rivals, associates, workers. He manipulated the world to his advantage. I didn’t complain. It led to a satisfactory life for me and my children. But as I said, I’ll keep to the simple facts. Tabitha doesn’t like inconvenient information. She wants to be happy. She was always a child with unreasonable expectations.’

‘Did he give any indication that he meant to take his own life? From the way you describe him, he does not sound like a man who would fall into despair.’