A Woman Unknown (11 page)

It was a good hour before Caroline Windham appeared on the horizon, and she was not alone. As her black stallion trotted closer, I understood why her riding was so highly praised. Side saddle, she sat tall, as though born to ride. She wore a dark skirt, jacket and hat, with a white silk muffler at her throat. I walked round the house, towards the stable block, arriving just in time to watch her dismount. The groom came out, but she led the horse into the stable herself, and was there for several
moments before reappearing, hat in hand, a long strand of flaxen hair falling to her shoulder.

Another rider, a man, arrived moments later, calling to her in a bantering tone. Needing to move quickly and speak to Caroline Windham alone, I paid him little attention as he rode to the stable door.

And here she came, stately as the royal coach. ‘Miss Windham?’

We had been in the same company on more than one occasion but she is a person who chooses not to notice anyone socially unimportant to her. She turned to look at me, cautiously, as though I might have come from the butcher to ask her to pay for the crown of lamb. Not having riding clothes and height put me at a disadvantage.

She brimmed with life and energy after her ride. ‘Do I know you?’ She stared at me.

‘We’ve met, through my aunt, Lady Rodpen.’

‘Oh, so you are one of us?’ She meant the establishment, an old family, the aristocracy, the charmed circle.

‘Not really. My mother uses her title only occasionally. She married a police officer.’

She need not know that I am adopted.

She relaxed. ‘Of course. Now I know exactly who you are, but not why you’re here.’

I dreaded speaking what must be said. ‘I have some news for you.’

‘From Lady Rodpen? Will you come inside?’

‘I’d rather not. Is there somewhere else we can talk?’ It seemed absurd, given the size of the house, to want to remain outdoors. But I disliked the thought of bumping into other people and being introduced, or explained.

‘How mysterious you are.’ She looked around as though deciding where we might park ourselves, then set off at a march.

I fell into step, and saw that she was walking towards a domed bandstand. ‘How is your arm, after the shooting accident, Miss Windham?’

‘Oh that. Wish I could have found the chump who misfired. It’s still a bit sore when I throw things or cast a line. How is Lady Rodpen?’

‘My aunt’s very well, thank you. She may be coming up this way before too long.’ I did not say that it would be for Runcie’s funeral.

‘Good. I’d be glad to see her.’

Don’t give up on the injury, I told myself. ‘I read about your mishap in the paper. The newspaper article said that Mr and Mrs Runcie came to your assistance. There was a photograph.’

She looked down at me, and there was suspicion in her voice when she said, ‘Newspapers never trouble to get their facts right.’

‘What were the facts?’

She did not answer. So much for my on-the-hoof interviewing technique.

We reached the bandstand. She entered first, taking off her hat and flinging it onto the stone seat that circled the inside of the structure. We sat down, a little way apart. She pulled a couple of loose cigarettes from her pocket and put one on the seat between us. I searched for my lighter.

She said. ‘What can I do for you?’

I lit her cigarette and gave her time to inhale. ‘I’m sorry, but there’s bad news concerning Mr Runcie.’

She tensed. ‘What is it?’

‘He stayed in a hotel in Leeds on Friday night …’

She showed no surprise at this information. No doubt she knew about the divorce, and what evidence would be required by the courts. ‘I’m sorry to tell you that he was found dead in his hotel room on Saturday morning.’

‘No. Oh no.’ She closed her eyes. ‘That can’t be true.’

‘The police informed Mrs Runcie yesterday morning.’

‘Yesterday morning?’

‘It was decided by his family, and the directors of the bank, not to make an announcement until tomorrow.’

Her eyes narrowed with disbelief. ‘And you, how do you know?’

Good question. If I knew, who else knew, she must wonder.

‘I was at the hotel. I know the investigating officer, but believe me the death is not widely known about.’

‘Investigating officer?’ She ran a hand through her hair. ‘What can you mean? He was so well. What was it? How did he die?’

Having told her of the death, I could not say nothing, and have her beating her brains out with imaginings. ‘The death is suspicious.’

She sat very still. ‘Suspicious?’

‘There will be an inquest.’ I did not have either Philippa’s or Marcus’s permission to give out more information.

‘What do you mean, suspicious?’ She stared at me in disbelief. ‘He would never top himself.’

‘He did not take his own life.’

The enormity of what I was saying hit her slowly. She gave a low anguished cry, like the yelp of a hurt animal.
Her eyes brimmed with tears. She turned away from me with a shudder. It was distressing to see her. As if she read my thoughts, she flung out a hand, ordering me to keep away from her.

After a long time, she turned to me, her voice unnaturally steady by force of will. ‘You mean he was murdered?’

Having come this far, I could not go back. ‘Yes.’

‘They did for him. The bastards. They did for him.’

‘Who?’

‘Precious Philippa and her private secretary, Gideon King. They killed him.’

‘There’s no reason to suppose …’

Her lower lip trembled. ‘There’s every reason. How was the deed done?’

‘He would not have felt anything. He died while sleeping.’

‘How? Gun, dagger, poison? What did the bastards do to him?’

‘He was strangled.’

‘Then it was King, under her orders.’

‘Why would they? Mr Runcie was doing what Mrs Runcie wanted, agreeing to a divorce, giving her grounds.’

‘At a price. She didn’t like his price. She’s had grounds for years, if she wanted to make use of them.’ She took a deep drag on her almost burned-out cigarette before letting it fall to the ground. One arm crossed her middle. She lifted the other hand to her brow and rubbed at the slight frown mark on her forehead.

She looked at me, her bright blue eyes large with horror. ‘Is that why you were asking me about the shoot?
You think someone may have tried to take a pot shot that day, and kill him?’

The clouds flitted across the sky with such speed that I felt half dizzy. She was so quick to pick up on my suspicion. She did not shift her gaze, but waited for my answer.

‘I saw the photograph of the two of you together at the shoot. I was merely …’

‘You were not merely doing anything. I know you now. You’re a policeman’s daughter and you do investigations and things. I’ve heard about it. And now you think Philippa killed Everett.’

‘No!’

She was nodding rapidly. ‘That’s it. That’s what happened. Everett and I were in the same butt when I was shot. I made a joke about it at the time. I said Pipsqueak Philippa had me in her sights, but she’d missed my heart.’

It seemed ironic that the first person Miss Windham accused was Philippa Runcie, and that Philippa Runcie had accused Caroline Windham.

She rested her elbows on her thighs and put her head in her hands. ‘I can’t believe it. I can’t believe it’s true. How dare someone kill him?’ She looked up quickly. ‘Who, apart from me, knew he was at the Metropole?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘She knew.’ She made a bitter sound, like a catch in her throat. ‘Everett was finally giving her what she wanted, but it wasn’t enough.’

‘Miss Windham, do you know whom Mr Runcie was with at the hotel on Friday night?’

She shrugged. ‘Someone of no importance. Was the woman there? Did she see anything?’

Now it really was time for me to shut up, but I said, ‘So you have no idea who might have been with him?’

She shook her head. ‘I wish it had been me. If anyone had tried to hurt him, I’d have killed them myself.’

I looked at her hands. She would have been capable of that, I felt sure.

‘Do you know how he came to meet the woman he was with in the hotel? Might she be part of your circle?’

She shook her head. ‘I have no idea.’

‘Is there anything I can do?’ I had a sudden thought that the news could be all around Yorkshire within the hour. ‘Will you confide in Lady Fotheringham?’

‘Certainly not!’

I stood up. ‘I’m very sorry, Miss Windham.’

She did not answer. I had walked a hundred yards or so from the bandstand when she called to me to wait.

With the stride of a colossus, she caught up. ‘Where are you going now?’

‘Home.’

‘Did you come in a carriage?’

‘A motor.’

‘I saw it. A blue affair.’

‘Yes.’

‘Take me somewhere will you? You’ll have to wait until I change, and make my excuses for Sunday dinner.’

As the clock on the stable block touched half past noon, a harassed young maid appeared, viciously swinging a carpet bag.

‘Mrs Shackleton?’

‘Yes.’

‘Miss Windham asks will you come to the front of the house.’

The cheek of the woman! I did her a service and now she chose to treat me like a chauffeur.

I hid my annoyance, politely thanked the maid and opened the car door for her to put the bag in.

‘Would you like a lift?’ I asked.

She laughed. ‘I’m not allowed to go in the front door, madam.’

I drove to the front of the house and parked opposite the door.

Moments later, Caroline Windham appeared.

Without a word, she clambered in, showing none of the grace of her earlier horseback riding. I glanced at her. In the short time it had taken her to change and pack a bag, she had grown heavier and forlorn with bereavement.

‘Which way?’ I asked, softening a little towards her.

She waved an arm. ‘Just out of here, and then I’ll give you directions.’

I drove back the way I had come, and through the gates.

She sighed. ‘Sorry about that, but I wanted them to see me leaving. Said I’d been called away. Couldn’t face them.’

‘Which way now?’

‘Left, then straight along.’

‘Are we going far?’

‘No. Staying on the estate. Hence the subterfuge. Let them think I’m miles away when the news comes.’

We drove in silence for a mile, along a leafy lane. Following her directions, I slowed.

‘Right here.’ She pointed to a dusty track. Around a bend in the track appeared a fenced off area the size of a field, filled with strangely shaped figures. Nearest was a circle of tall, slender human shapes that cast long shadows. It was as though a magician had cast a spell on Stone Henge and turned the circle of stones into human beings.

‘Keep going, and then you can hide the motor behind the barn. There’s another way out.’

Following her directions, I stopped the motor between a barn and a disused pig sty.

For a long moment, we sat in the afternoon sun, listening to a thrush. Finally, she sighed. ‘It was good of you to come and tell me. Will you come and meet someone? He’ll have to know. He’ll ask questions, and I can’t …’ She turned those blue eyes on me. I wondered if her Civil War ancestor had looked at his enemies with such sadness before he ran them through.

Curiosity made me follow her from the car. At the side of the barn were more sculptures. Two seated Roman figures formed a bench, their spread togas offering space, and gracefully touching the ground.

‘This looks like Rupert Cromer’s work.’

She nodded. ‘Lord Fotheringham lets Rupert have these outbuildings and the cottage, grace-and-favour.’

My footsteps slowed as I looked about me at a strange collection, some of which I had seen at Cromer’s exhibition last year. His pieces looked so different in the open air. Some were miniature. A creature half horse, half human reared up before me, but pint-sized, like the offspring of a Shetland pony and a dwarf.

At the front of the building, huge doors stood open to a space that was both barn and studio. We negotiated our
way in, avoiding a square block of stone, tree trunk, a motorbike and strips of metal.

The tap of a hammer and chisel punctuated the humming silence.

The man wore a leather apron, like a shoemaker. He was standing back from a nymph-like figure, his head tilted to one side.

She called, ‘Rupert, darling!’

He turned, wiped his hands on baggy trousers, and stared at us. ‘I wondered where you’d got to, Caroline.’

So he had been the man out riding with her. Had I seen him dismount, I would have recognised him.

Caroline said, ‘I had to come. I couldn’t face the Fotheringhams and their sherry after what I’ve just found out.’

So she was going to tell him. But at least he seemed remote here. With luck, the news of Runcie’s death would go no farther.