A Woman Unknown (14 page)

I drove across to Kirkstall, parking the car on Abbey Road so as not to draw attention to myself. Norman View is a steep street, with well-tended gardens. I did not have to knock. Fitzpatrick was in the garden, emptying a teapot. He was wearing a dark blue striped apron.

He stared at me. ‘Mrs Shackleton.’

‘Hello, Mr Fitzpatrick. What a pretty garden.’

Fitzpatrick tipped the contents of the teapot onto the soil.

Sykes would have sniggered at the sight of Fitzpatrick in his apron.

‘What brings you to Kirkstall, Mrs Shackleton?’

Good question. What did I hope to achieve? I had a sudden mental picture of the evening gown that hung in the wardrobe of Runcie’s hotel suite, and of the dainty shoes. I should have brought one for Deirdre to try. It would be a great relief to see that they did not fit.

‘Is Mrs Fitzpatrick at home?’

Fitzpatrick froze. His heavy face turned pale. ‘Is something wrong?’

I had thought up a story on the way over, and now it
sounded ridiculous: that my sister was about to be married (true) and had heard of a house to rent in one of these streets (false). She had asked me to take a look (whopper). Houses round here would be snapped up in an instant, and we both knew that.

He held the teapot close to his chest.

‘I had a question, for you or for Mrs Fitzpatrick.’

‘Deirdre isn’t here. We both went to see her mother at the nursing home. Deirdre was anxious that her mother see us together and know that everything’s all right. Be reassured you know.’

As though he suddenly remembered his manners, Fitzpatrick went to the already open door and held it steady. ‘Will you come in?’

‘Thank you.’

We stepped into a square kitchen, with the usual range, table and chairs, and the refinement of a curtain to cover the sink set in the recess. A giant picture of a sad-faced Jesus, his delicate hands exposing the bleeding heart on his chest, looked down from the wall. Beside it was the Virgin Mary, immaculately dressed in blue and white, wearing a sorrowful expression, head tilted to one side.

The table was set for tea, with three good China plates, cups and saucers. A dish of lettuce and a plate of tomatoes lay under a mesh cover. A snowy white cloth covered what must be slices of bread and butter. Under a glass cover lay slices of boiled ham surrounded by a boiled egg, neatly sliced. A cake stand held small, square iced creations. There would be a trifle somewhere, keeping cool.

‘You’re obviously expecting company. That’s a grand spread you’ve put on.’

‘The wife’s brother, over from America.’ He enjoyed saying this. The visit brought a touch of excitement. I imagined him letting the news drop in the composing room at the newspaper. The New York businessman brother-in-law, here on a visit.

‘He’ll have a lot of stories to tell I expect. You don’t have that kind of visitor every day.’

‘He went to see his mother earlier, and do you know, the nurse told us that the poor old soul thought it was her husband at the bottom of the bed. Gave her quite a turn.’

‘A turn for the good I hope?’

‘Oh no. She made all sorts of upset noises, until the nurse explained that it was her son who she hadn’t seen since his boyhood.’

‘What time are you expecting him?’

‘Six o’clock.’ He looked at the miniature grandmother clock on the mantelshelf. ‘Deirdre should be back by now. She said she’d stay just another hour. Poor Deirdre. It’ll hit her hard when her mother goes.’ This thought seemed to cheer him.

‘Everything’s all right between you and Deirdre then?’

He ran his tongue over dry lips. ‘What makes you ask?’

‘Mr Fitzpatrick, I don’t want to alarm you, but if you are still concerned about Deirdre, will you please let me take a quick look around the house? Only some information came to me, and I think it’s nothing to do with her, and nothing to be alarmed about, but if I could see her room, where she might keep things?’

He froze. ‘There’s nothing here that doesn’t belong here.’

‘Not even a bottle of perfume?’

It was a low blow and he flinched. ‘Take a look, if you must.’ He glanced out of the window. ‘She’ll be back any minute. Please be quick.’

A small fire blazed in the speckless front room with its sideboard and moquette sofa and chairs. Fitzpatrick took a cloth from his apron and wiped at a spot of dust.

‘May I see your wife’s dresses?’

He hesitated. ‘You think she stole a dress?’

‘Mr Fitzpatrick, I want to eliminate a doubt. You wanted to know the truth about your wife. Now so do I.’

‘Go up.’

One bedroom was a little untidy, with a dress flung onto the bed. Fitzpatrick followed me into the room. He took a hanger from the wardrobe, carefully placed the dress on it and hung it on the rail. As he did so, I picked up a shoe and checked the size. It was the same as the shoes in the room at the Hotel Metropole, but it was also the same size as mine.

‘Does your wife make her own clothes?’

‘She does.’ He picked up a perfume bottle from the dressing table. ‘I bought her this.’

I nodded, feeling mean, hating the thought that she might arrive home at any moment and find me snooping. She and her brother. They would not be so easily taken in as Fitzpatrick.

‘What is it you expect to find?’ he asked.

He had left the wardrobe door open.

I looked quickly at the dresses. Every one was handmade, with carefully sewn seams. One had a quickly-stitched careless hem, like the dress left behind in the wardrobe at the hotel. If some skilful seamstress examined the outfits, she might come up with a clever
conclusion regarding stitches. I saw only a superficial similarity. I closed the wardrobe door.

‘There’s another room, across the landing.’

The second room had a single bed, with the same white candlewick counterpane as the first. Fitzpatrick’s brown overcoat hung behind the door. His hairbrushes and hair oil stood on the washstand, next to a male plaster saint dressed in brown robes and carrying a lily.

‘There’s nothing belonging to Deirdre in here. Have you seen enough?’

‘Yes. I’m sorry to have troubled you. I’m glad that you and Deirdre have made up.’

‘Oh yes. It came from her. I’d prayed about it, said special prayers, and it was like a miracle, and so sudden. Friday night, she was to stay with her mother. But she came back, after I’d gone to bed.’

He led the way back downstairs.

‘What time did she get home?’

‘I don’t know. I was asleep. But on Saturday morning, there she was. She had the kettle on the gas ring, and made my sandwich to take to work.’

Still behind him, as he stepped into the kitchen, I asked, ‘What time do you go to work on Saturday morning?’

‘I’m up at seven. I leave to catch the half past seven tram.’ He forced a smile, but his suspicions were well and truly aroused.

I thought about the timings. The chambermaid had knocked on the hotel door at six. If I were right, and it was Deirdre in the room, there was time for her to make her escape from the hotel, jump on a tram, and be home in time to put a match to the gas ring and boil the kettle.

Fitzpatrick’s shoulders stiffened.

He suddenly clutched his stomach. ‘I’m going to be sick.’ He hurried across the room, pulling back the concealing curtain, grabbing for an enamel bucket beneath the sink.

He vomited. ‘I’m so sorry.’

‘Don’t worry, Mr Fitzpatrick. It’s an emotional time for you, with your worries about your mother-in-law, and a visitor coming.’

I ran water into a cup and held it out to him.

Fitzpatrick took a sip. He rinsed his mouth, and spat into the sink. His face was pale. ‘What is it you’re not telling me, about Deirdre?’

‘Sit down.’

Fitzpatrick slumped into a kitchen chair.

‘Take some deep breaths.’

He folded his arms around his chest.

‘Can I get you anything? Do you need a doctor?’

‘You could pass me the milk of magnesia. It’s in the cupboard.’

I opened the door above the sink, took down the bottle and handed it to Fitzpatrick.

He took a swig. ‘I’ll be all right. Please go. I don’t want you to be here when Deirdre comes back. She’ll guess. She’ll think I’ve been spying on her.’

‘And have you?’ Were his the hands that squeezed life from Everett Runcie? ‘Did you follow her on Friday night?’

‘No of course not. I knew where she was. She was staying at the nursing home with her mother.’

The clock chimed, quarter to six. If Deirdre was to be here for tea, she would be getting off the tram any moment now.

‘I’d better go, before Deirdre returns and your guest arrives.’

‘But what is it? Why did you come?’

‘Try not to worry. I hope it will turn out to be nothing. Goodbye, Mr Fitzpatrick.’

He followed me to the gate, carrying the bucket of vomit.

I waved, and he waved back, probably for the benefit of the neighbours.

I needed to meet Sykes and see what, if anything, he had learned at the Adelphi Hotel.

Fortunately, the Sunday evening streets were quiet. I put my foot down and urged the Jowett to hurry.

When I reached King Street, I saw Sykes waiting in the alley, near the tobacconist’s doorway.

He looked a little out of sorts.

I parked by the alley and got out. ‘Well, Mr Sykes?’

Close up, I saw how glum he looked, as he returned the Fitzpatricks’ photograph to me.

He said, ‘I was right. The linen napkin did come from the Adelphi. And I showed the photograph to a waiter I know there.’

Sykes’s contacts across the city never fail to surprise me. Had he once given the waiter a pair of stockings for his wife, or sat next to him at some long-ago cricket match and ended up doing the man a favour? I was not to know. He avoided background explanations.

‘The waiter recognised her photograph. Mrs Fitzpatrick spent the weekend of 24
^th
August at the Adelphi Hotel, with a singer from the Gilbert and Sullivan opera, Joseph Barnard, professionally known as Giuseppe Barnardini.’

‘We saw him in
The Mikado
. The Fitzpatricks were in the audience.’

‘Yes.’

So Deirdre Fitzpatrick had hidden depths, and secrets. I felt a sneaking admiration that she had the nerve to drag her husband to the stalls of the Grand to see her lover cut his capers and sing his heart out. I played devil’s advocate. ‘The waiter could have been mistaken.’

‘He was quite certain. Apparently Barnard treated the bar staff, and he was a generous tipper, so they all remembered him. A lot of theatre people splash money about. They want to be liked, that’s why they’re up there, strutting for the rest of us. The most insecure profession and most of them spit in the eye of the future and never put anything by for a rainy day.’ There he was again, judging everyone, although often he was spot on in his judgements. Sykes continued, ‘The waiter said what a lovely couple they were, and so taken with each other. He felt sure they weren’t married.’ He pricked up his ears, and then looked round the corner into King Street. ‘That’s Hartigan getting into the Rolls. Better dash.’

‘You’ll be following him to Kirkstall, for tea with his brother-in-law and sister.’

‘Yes. I’ve worked that out. I feel sorry for Fitzpatrick.’

‘Don’t feel so sorry for him that you forget to tell Marcus Deirdre is Hartigan’s sister.’

Sykes sighed. ‘I don’t “tell Marcus” anything. I write my findings in Sergeant Wilson’s log book, and I can’t do that now because I’m on my bike!’

With that he jumped on the motorbike, kicked it into action and veered dangerously out of the alley, to follow Hartigan’s car.

I went back into the hotel and took the lift to the third floor where the investigating officers took up two and a half rooms of Mr Naylor’s precious space.

Marcus was in one of them, talking to a freckled chap, introduced to me as Sergeant Wilson. I wondered if this was the man who fried eggs in the middle of the night.

‘Did you get the cutting, Mr Charles?’ I asked, keeping our exchange formal because of Sergeant Wilson.

He frowned absent-mindedly before saying, somewhat dismissively, ‘Oh, the newspaper article about the shooting incident? Yes, I did, Mrs Shackleton. Thank you for your interest.’

Pompous prig! He was trying to dismiss me. They had both stood up as I entered, but I had not been offered a seat.

‘There is something else you might like to know.’

They looked at me, indulgently.

‘Mr Hartigan has a sister, Mrs Cyril Fitzpatrick, Deirdre, who lives in Kirkstall. It may be worth asking her where she was on Friday night and early Saturday morning. It’s possible that she was Mr Runcie’s companion.’

Marcus kept his composure, but the sergeant’s jaw dropped ever so slightly. ‘How do you know about the sister?’

‘Mr Wilson, I am a private investigator. I know things. That is my job.’