Read A Woman Unknown Online

Authors: Frances Brody

Tags: #Cozy Mystery, #Historical

A Woman Unknown (2 page)

BOOK: A Woman Unknown
5.66Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
ads

The photograph had been removed from a frame. The bride looked happy and confident. She was petite, with wavy hair, high cheek bones and an infectious smile. The groom looked as though he had bet on the wrong horse and lost his wages. ‘What age was she when you married?’

‘Eighteen.’ He shifted uncomfortably in his chair. ‘I’m going on forty-five. She has twenty-four summers but looks like spring. Why wouldn’t she? I’ve given her an easy life. She doesn’t work. We have no children.’ His lower lip quivered. ‘And now she’s off all hours.’

Fitzpatrick seemed a kindly man. His uneasiness was palpable. ‘Have you asked your wife where she goes?’

He frowned. ‘She tells lies. Short of locking her in the house what am I to do? I have to work. I did try locking the door once, when we’d had words, but she climbed out of the window. And there’s always a plausible story. Her mother is ill. Her aunt at the convent has invited her on a retreat. Another man would beat her over it, but she is so …’ He turned to Sykes. ‘You know how exquisite she is. I could never raise a hand to her.’

He spoke as if we had suggested such a thing. ‘Perhaps she is telling the truth,’ I said.

‘Oh she is always partly telling the truth. Since she found out last year that her mother is not long for this world, she’s there all the time, at the house she grew up in, on the Bank, and you know what sort of area that is.’

I knew the Bank only by reputation. A poor area of the city, situated between the railway line and the river. It was said that the police rarely ventured there.

The sun on the back of my head made me feel a little dizzy. I moved my chair.

He sighed. ‘I’m a compositor on the local paper. When I married, I was earning four pounds, one shilling a week. Since then, we’ve had nothing but wage cuts. I’m down to three pounds, eight and six.’

Sykes raised an eyebrow. This was still a good wage, given the hardship of our times.

Fitzpatrick drummed his fingers on the table. ‘I’ve borne a wage reduction of twelve shillings and sixpence, but have I cut her housekeeping? No, I have not. I took her out of poverty. Now she wants more than I can afford. Is she giving someone money?’ He leaned forward, making fists of his hands. ‘When I refused her a guinea, she said she didn’t care, and it would come from somewhere else. That is what made me wonder, is she out stealing?’

I had the impression that he was stressing the possibility of shoplifting only because this was what most disturbed Sykes.

He coughed, and said apologetically, ‘Sorry. Weak chest.’

When he had recovered, I asked, ‘Regarding your
suspicions about your wife stealing, have you noticed any items in the house that you have reason to believe were obtained dishonestly?’

‘I came home a month ago to find her dancing like a dervish to the latest music. She had this gramophone, and no explanation of where it came from. And now it’s gone. She says it’s being repaired, but she’s sold it, or pawned it. Well where did it come from? Who carried it for her? She has an old sweetheart who hangs about, making himself useful to her mother.’

‘I don’t see how we can help, Mr Fitzpatrick.’

He touched the Sacred Heart badge in his lapel. ‘She could have got in with some shoplifting gang.’

Sykes’s jaw tightened. He said nothing. For a moment, the three of us sat in uneasy silence. Was Fitzpatrick here to admit that his rage was about to explode, that he might do who knows what if he did not find some explanation that satisfied his doubts, and jealousy?

Fitzpatrick hunched, drawing his arms into his body. ‘I have a house that was my parents. They are both gone to their eternal rest. I promised Deirdre that she would want for nothing. And I kept my promise. But I think she was disappointed that I did not agree to bring her mother to live with us. Perhaps I should have, only …’

‘Only what?’ I prompted.

‘When I first said no, she said that I would say that wouldn’t I, because people would think her mother was my wife, and she was our daughter. She can be very cruel. Last year, when I knew how ill my mother-in-law was, I said to invite her. But then she wouldn’t come, said she knew when she wasn’t wanted.’

Sykes finally spoke. ‘Would it hurt,’ he said, looking
at me, ‘to see that Mrs Fitzpatrick is coming to no harm? After all, I was the one who ensured no charge was brought against her.’

‘I’ll pay, of course,’ Fitzpatrick said, hand to his inside pocket, ready to bring out his wallet then and there.

I told him our daily rate, and that if we took on the case, he would be billed in the usual way.

His lip twitched. ‘Please don’t send an invoice to me at home. If Deirdre sees it, she’ll wonder what I’m up to.’

I glanced again at the wedding photograph. This seemed such an unlikely coupling.

It was against my better judgement, but looking from Fitzpatrick to Sykes, I decided that it would not hurt to take a closer look at this young woman who aroused such strong emotions.

 

Deirdre sat next to her mother’s bed in the small whitewashed room, with its familiar damp amber patterns on ceiling and walls. The room smelled of camphor, essence of violets and boiled cabbage from last night’s supper. She smoothed the familiar tufts of the counterpane.

Mam had dozed off. In her sleep she murmured. Her eyelids twitched dreams. She would be back in the misty Ireland of her childhood, a place about which Deirdre heard endless stories but had never visited.

What convinced Deirdre that her mother must leave this house was the time the rat came down the chimney. Now she spotted another bloody flea on the bed sheet. She snapped it between expert fingers, and then dropped it in the chamber pot, the only way to deal with the little devils. They lurked in cracks in the walls, planning torments. You could murder half a dozen in a minute; there would still be a small army waiting to drop from the ceiling. There’d be none of that in the nursing home.

Sometimes Deirdre transported a flea or two home in the seams of her dress. Fitz would complain that she
came back stinking of poverty and trailing disease. He worried about his health and his weak chest.

Her mother opened her eyes and gave a gummy smile. ‘I thought you’d gone home.’ Her body might be wasted, but her mind was sharp as ever. ‘What time is it?’

‘It’s twelve o’clock. I’ve brought you calves foot jelly. While you eat it, I’ve summat to tell you.’

A spark of hope lit her mother’s eyes. ‘You’ve heard from Anthony?’

‘No.’ It took a few moments for Deirdre to raise her mother up and prop her with pillows. She placed a towel under her mother’s chin, and handed her the spoon and dish.

Her mam swallowed a mouthful of the jelly. Then she said, ‘I dreamed Anthony came. I’m sure he’s on his way.’

She wanted to see her son once more, before she died. She had dictated a touching note to the little boy who had left for New York twenty-three years ago. The words had made Deirdre squirm.

‘Don’t get your hopes up, Mam. He hasn’t written.’

‘In the dream he was just the age as when he left. His locks hadn’t been shorn. Your uncle did that, took the scissors to make a big boy of him.’

Deirdre said nothing. She had written to her brother Anthony every year since she was ten, and in a decade and a half had received two brief replies. Two months before marrying Fitz she developed cold feet and wrote to Anthony. Would he send the fare for herself and Mam to go to New York? Answer came there none. She married Fitz.

‘Mam, I’m making an arrangement for you to be more comfortable.’

Her mother dug the spoon into the jelly and left it there. ‘I’ll accept nothing from Fitzpatrick.’

‘There’s this lovely place, run by a woman whose grandmother came from Kilkenny. You’ll build up your strength. There’s a garden to look out on.’

‘I won’t accept that man’s charity.’

‘I’m paying for it. I have a job, working for a solicitor.’

Even before she reached Leeds Bridge, Deirdre caught the tang of the River Aire, a sharp, foggy, back of the throat smell. Lucky river, winding to sea. On this hot August Friday afternoon, wouldn’t she love to be flowing in that direction herself? She ran her hand along the ironwork bridge, and for her pains muckied the creamy fingers of her glove.

Below, two bargemen called to each other. Looking along the riverbank, she saw Calls Landing, its name painted in glory-of-God-size lettering on the side of the building. It was grand to be in the town with its hustle and bustle. In the distance, the protestant parish church stood smug and certain, sharp against the sky.

A used-up creature shuffled towards her. He caught her eye, as though one person with no legitimate business would always recognise another. The sole of his left shoe flapping, he sidled out a little to give way. He was a man down on his luck, passing the time until nightfall when he would be let in to some lodging house, or the Salvation Army hostel. Deirdre dipped her hand in her pocket and slipped him a coin.

And then she saw the man: Giuseppe Barnardini, lithe,
lean and looking not a day over thirty. There was something comical and unmistakeable about him as he lolled over the bridge, bantering with the bargemen.

This man was different from her previous two encounters. The first boy-o had been a will-o’-the-wisp fellow with a shocking cough. The second, a stout chap of few words, half-heartedly asked her to name her price for something extra. He did not take it amiss when she declined.

And now Barnardini, who was gazing at her, in something like wonder.

She heard herself say, ‘Are you the man himself?’

He raised his hat, and gave a slight but stately bow. ‘If you are the lady herself, then yes, I am he.’ He reached to take her bag. ‘May I?’

She did not release her grip on the overnight bag. ‘No need.’

For a moment, he looked ready to argue his gallant point, and then he shrugged. ‘You know the rules. I abide. Shall we begin our adventure, Mrs Fitzpatrick?’

‘Why not?’ She looked beyond, along the bridge. Their destination, the Adelphi Hotel, lurked just out of view. ‘If we are to do this properly we had better call each other by our Christian names.’

‘Of course. I’m Joseph Barnard. Call me Joe. Giuseppe Barnardini is my stage name.’

Before she had time to say her Christian name, a tallish man in a raincoat appeared out of nowhere. He whipped out a small camera which he pointed towards the river, but she unaccountably felt the camera’s eye on her. She knew this man, with his trademark check cap and sandy moustache. He was the newspaper photographer who took a photograph of children paddling in the river by
Kirkstall Abbey earlier in the summer. Fitz had proudly introduced her. She glared at the photographer. He had better not show her picture to Fitz.

Deirdre turned away. Joe was onto the man in an instant. ‘I say, you took our picture.’

‘Oh no, sir.’ The photographer held his camera aloft. ‘I’m capturing the bridge and the river. You saw which way my lens pointed. But if you want your picture taken …’ The photographer held out his hand. ‘Diamond, Len Diamond, at your service. I recognise you, sir. It’s Mr Barnardini, isn’t it? I’m a great admirer of yours. No one sings light opera better. I always say you should be singing at Covent Garden.’

Deirdre took a few slow steps towards the far side of the bridge, hearing Joe blithely accepting the photographer’s reassurance.

The vain eejit posed for his photograph. Diamond produced a different camera from his bag. Sure you had to be strong to carry that much stuff around with you, but Deirdre knew someone who was stronger. Let Diamond try and get her into bother with Fitz and he’d rue the day.

Joe caught up with her. He once again reached for her bag. ‘I can’t let you carry that. It looks bad.’ He crooked his arm for her to link him. ‘Don’t worry about the photographer. If he took our picture, what of it? We weren’t holding hands. We mustn’t be on edge.’

Deirdre took his arm. This was all too close to home. She should have reckoned on that. Next time she was home, she would casually say, ‘Fitz, when I walked across Leeds Bridge the other afternoon, a fellow asked me for directions.’

The wondrous sight of the Adelphi Hotel sent her worries packing. The hotel curved around the corner, like an elegant mermaid flapping its tail and grabbing space for its ornate self on both Dock Street and Hunslet Road. Look at me and marvel, it would call, if mermaids could truly sing. Stepping through the pillared doorway, she breathed deep to catch the magnificent whirl of tobacco smoke, ale and grandeur. Pale green leaf-like shapes decorated shining cream tiles. Brass handles gleamed on the wooden doors. The opaque glass of the first bar was etched with the words
Smoke Room 1
.

BOOK: A Woman Unknown
5.66Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
ads

Other books

Aftermath by Alicia Roberts
Betrayed by Rebecca York
Oedipussy by Deep, Solomon
Grail by Elizabeth Bear
Secret Value of Zero, The by Halley, Victoria
False Gods by Louis Auchincloss
An Amish Gift by Cynthia Keller