A Woman Unknown (3 page)

Joe led the way along the corridor, between the tap room on the left, and the broad staircase on the right, to a lounge at the back, empty at this time of day. She took this to be the best room, all plush seats, dark wood tables, ornate fireplace and aspidistras.

Moments later the waiter came, his sparse hair white as his apron.

‘We are to be resident,’ her man said, ‘Mr and Mrs Joseph Barnard.’

‘Ah yes, sir.’ The waiter tilted his head, as if all the better to hear. ‘What will you have?’

‘A pint of your best bitter for me, and darling? Gin and tonic?’

She nodded. You wouldn’t want the waiter to think a husband didn’t know his wife’s tipple.

When the waiter had gone, Deirdre said, ‘From your stage name, I expected an Italian.’

He laughed. ‘Barnardini. Good, eh? I stole it from a handsome Italian magician entertaining tourists in Cairo. I didn’t know then that I would pursue a career in the most English of operettas.’

Cairo. The name conjured all that was wonderful, kasbahs and hookahs and snakes from a basket.

He looked down at his right knee that was moving rapidly up and down of its own accord as if it had been wound with a small key. ‘Excuse my leg. Nerves.’ He placed his palm on it to keep it still. ‘This never happens when I’m on stage.’

‘Tell me about your travels.’

Over drinks, Joe obliged her request. He spoke of pyramids, the River Nile that flowed from south to north, the dhows, of men in turbans, coffee that made your hair curl, tired donkeys, bolts of silk, and perfumes fit for Cleopatra, until she felt half dizzy with wonder.

Half an hour later, warmed by gin and the heat of the afternoon seeping into the attic room, Deirdre stood by the large oval window, looking down at the street. A tram glided to a halt. The conductor helped a tiny old woman up the high step.

Joe tapped on the door and entered. ‘I’ve done the deed and signed the hotel register.’

He was looking at her. It was that look. She placed the folded navy blouse in the drawer, setting its ties neatly, and then sat down on the straight-back chair.

‘There’s something you should be clear about.’

‘Oh?’ He sat on the bed and gazed at her solemnly.

‘Mr Barnard, we’re here for one reason, to provide your wife with the evidence she needs to divorce you, no less than that and certainly no more. So I’ll say this sooner rather than later. I find it a good idea to have a bolster between us …’

He opened his mouth to speak. She raised her hand.
This being her third time, there would be no difficulty about putting him straight. ‘Two nights here will be sufficient, and physical …’

‘You’ve done this before?’

‘Yes, but I’ll say nothing about the previous gentlemen, just as I’ll say nothing about you. Physical intimacy is not necessary or desirable. All that is needed is for you to have the Mr and Mrs hotel bill, and the added assurance of the chambermaid’s willingness to testify.’

Having said her piece, she stood and looked down at him, drawing back her shoulders and taking a breath.

He looked up at her in a way that was disconcerting. ‘I see.’

Bloody man. Just because he was a singer on the stage. Just because over one beer and one gin he had tried to spellbind her with tall tales. Well he could get this through his doh-re-mi skull. ‘I’m a married woman, Joe. I’m Catholic. I have never committed adultery.’

Those big dark eyes looked into her heart and soul.

She did not say, I have never committed adultery because I have never committed anything. I could teach the mermaids a thing or two.

He smiled. ‘I’m sorry. I must have had half a tale. Those legal chaps are all the same.’

And suddenly he was not like the double-jointed creature leaning over the bridge, or the boaster in the lounge bar, but solemn and straight as an elm as he came to his feet. He touched the crown of her head with his lips, more blessing than kiss. Hand on his heart, his face a mixture of adoration and doziness meant to pass as love, he burst into the old song Uncle Jimmy murdered at every party: ‘The Ring My Mother Wore’.

When he began she thought of Uncle Jimmy and wanted to laugh. But Joe sang with such feeling that by the time the last note trembled into the faded wallpaper, she was wiping the back of her hand across her cheek.

He reached into his pocket and produced a large white hanky. ‘Was I that bad?’

‘You were grand. What a marvellous thing to be an opera singer.’

‘I’m sure it must be,’ he smiled, did a little dance, twisting his legs as if they were of India rubber, and executing a deep bow.

And she thought, Why should I live like a mermaid? I am sick of being as I am. This man is not like the others.

When she handed back his hanky, their fingers touched.

As a parting gift, Joseph Barnard had given Deirdre Fitzpatrick complimentary tickets for the Grand Theatre.

She and Fitz sat in the third row of the front stalls, middle seats. Fitz had swallowed the story that the theatre tickets came to her from her aunt, given by a workmate whose son painted scenery.

Fitz shuffled in his seat. He brought his brown sleeve
to his nose as he sneezed, not quick enough to pull out his hanky. He wanted her to look at him and worry that he sneezed. He found his hanky and his Rowntree’s Pastilles. ‘The cigar smoke gets to me.’

Poor Fitz, with his weak chest.

She would miss Fitz if he died, his rasping breath, the smell of printer’s ink and solvents he brought home on his clothes, the snuff, the heavy tread of his feet on the stairs, the regular wage packet. Some morning she would wake to find that Fitz had died in his sleep. Why shouldn’t that happen? After all, you spent most of your childhood praying for a good death. Prayers might as well be answered sooner rather than later.

For herself, Deirdre had long ago giving up praying for a good death in favour of a more lively life.

Something made her look up to the box on her right, the royal box, in which King George and Queen Mary would sit in the unlikely event they came to Leeds Grand Theatre to enjoy Gilbert and Sullivan.

There were two couples in the box. The man who looked back at her, catching her glance but giving no sign of recognition, was the chap who had nabbed her in Marshalls, and nearly had her prosecuted over that bottle of perfume.

Sykes tried out his ventriloquist skills, whispering without moving his lips. ‘Don’t look now. Middle of the third row, Cyril and Deirdre Fitzpatrick.’

Fitzpatrick had told Sykes that he and his wife would be coming to the theatre to see
The Pirates of Penzance
. Since I was the one who would have the dubious pleasure of tailing Mrs Fitzpatrick, here was my opportunity to take a look at her. The conductor waved his baton. The orchestra struck up the overture. As the auditorium lights dimmed, I raised my opera glasses without enthusiasm and glanced at the top of Mrs Fitzpatrick’s head.

She was not my main reason for being at the theatre. There were four of us in the royal box: Sykes, his wife Rosie, me, and my former beau, Marcus Charles. Marcus had unexpectedly telephoned to say he would be in my neck of the woods and was I free this evening. Suggesting an outing for four meant that I did not have to be alone with Marcus. He is a chief inspector at Scotland Yard. We first met last year, both investigating the same cases. To say we became close is one way of putting it. We fell for each other, but on my part not deeply
enough. I desperately hoped he had not come to renew his proposal of marriage. He possesses some good qualities, but can be pompous and secretive. That could perhaps be ironed out, but being married to a rising star of Scotland Yard would mean giving up on all that I most enjoy – sleuthing on my own behalf.

The rousing overture reached its conclusion, and the performance began. By the time the pirates sang the sherry-pouring song, I had all but forgotten my client in the third row. As the first act drew to a close, I gazed down at the Fitzpatricks. They were leaning towards each other, as if exchanging a word, not looking in the least like jealous husband and errant wife. I wished now that I had refused Mr Fitzpatrick’s request, and certainly felt no sense of urgency about following Mrs Fitzpatrick.

The applause for the first act was so loud that Sykes and Rosie had to make a dumb show of saying they were off to stretch their legs. A tactical move if ever there was one. Marcus and I were left alone, to pore over a box of chocolates and be a little awkward with each other.

Then of course we both spoke at once. I insisted he go first, feeling reasonably confident that he would not renew his proposal of marriage during the interval. All the same, my eyes must have narrowed.

He said, ‘It’s not what you think. I won’t raise that question again. I respect your answer, and I understand. But I’m glad we can be friends. I know that we can trust each other.’

A policeman, when he reaches Marcus’s rank, has spent a great deal of time working out how best to talk to people to achieve his required ends. What was he after?

‘You’re here on an investigation?’

Marcus smiled. He was solid and handsome when he smiled, the kind of man a woman could rely on – if he were ever there and not off sifting evidence, or laying a hand on a scoundrel’s shoulder.

‘Kate, you know I can’t say.’

‘And if we had married? If I were your wife, would you tell me then?’

‘Of course not.’

Just as I thought. It would not have worked.

Opportunely, Sykes and Rosie came back into the box. The lights dimmed for the second act.

When the chorus of policemen danced and trilled ‘A Policeman’s Lot is Not a Happy One,’ Sykes, Rosie and I practically fell off our seats with laughing. I nudged Marcus and whispered, ‘Don’t you think it’s funny?’

If voices could scowl, his did. ‘The rot sets in when audiences are encouraged to laugh at policemen.’

‘You’re being pompous again, Marcus.’

He laughed, in an unpompous but rather false manner.

It was not until we all sat down to supper that he asked me would I be free to go with him to York races for the Ebor Handicap.

I agreed, curious about what he was up to, and more than willing to put off following Deirdre Fitzpatrick.

Naturally, I needed a new hat for the races. My favourite milliner has a shop that is part of our top hotel: the Metropole, where Marcus was staying, and where I had arranged to meet him.

Madam Estelle, High Class Milliner, beamed a greeting as she stubbed her Sobranie and picked up
The Times
, waving it about, to disperse smoke. She is a tiny, slender creature with lined olive skin, her white hair knotted in a bun at the nape of her neck so as not to discommode her hat.

I explained my predicament of being invited to the races at short notice.

She tilted her sparrow-like head and surveyed my outfit. ‘I have just the hat for you.’ She swooped across the shop, opened a curtain and delved, emerging triumphant with a small, dark red hat box.