A Woman Unknown (8 page)

‘Which is your usual floor, Mildred?’

‘The third floor.’

I took a guess. ‘So, you had swapped with Jenny?’

‘Yes.’

‘Was there a particular reason?’

‘I just felt like a change.’

‘Was it because your uncle suggested it?’

She said nothing.

‘It will come out if he did, and there would be no harm in it. I expect he wanted you to have a good tip.’

She gulped. ‘Yes. That was it.’

‘When I picked up your magazine just now, it fell open at the photograph of Mr and Mrs Runcie.’

‘I was too tired to read it.’

‘So you just looked at the pictures?’

‘Yes.’

‘You didn’t see the lady in the room, only heard her voice. If you had seen her, you would have known she was not Mrs Runcie.’

‘I don’t know who she was.’

‘What did your Uncle Archie tell you about Mrs Runcie?’

‘That she was an American, and well off.’

‘The person who said to leave the tray by the door, what sort of voice did she have?’

‘Ordinary, not posh.’

‘And not American?’

She shook her head. ‘From round here.’

‘You’ve done nothing wrong, Mildred, but you must tell the truth because a dreadful thing has happened. A man is dead. Not telling the whole truth counts as a crime.’

She began to cry. ‘Uncle Archie said I would get a
good tip, because I might be asked what I saw when I brought the tea.’

‘What did you expect to see?’

‘Mr Runcie, sitting up in bed with a woman who was not his wife.’

‘Which you knew, because you had seen her picture in the magazine your uncle gave you.’

After writing Mildred’s statement, I walked slowly down the stairs and along the third floor corridor to the room Marcus occupied. From inside, I heard voices, tapped on the door, opened it and popped my head round. The furniture had been shifted to turn the suite into an interview room. I caught a glimpse of a constable at a table, conducting an interview.

Marcus stepped into the corridor, where I told him what Mildred had said and handed him her statement. ‘You need to talk to Archie Heppelthwaite, one of the waiters. He is Mildred’s uncle. He told her to swap floors with another chambermaid, so that Mildred would earn a decent tip from Runcie, for seeing him with his co-respondent.’

Marcus almost hid his surprise, only the slight parting of his lips gave him away, but he kept his jaw from dropping. ‘The Runcies are divorcing?’

‘It’s common knowledge.’

I handed him the key to Mildred’s room. ‘Somebody ought to keep an eye on Mildred, until you’ve interviewed the uncle.’

‘Wait here a sec, will you?’ He went back inside and returned a moment later. ‘It’s in hand. Someone will be by her door. I’ve sent for Heppelthwaite. We’ve spoken
to him once. He was on duty last night in the dining room. That man has some explaining to do.’

‘You said there was something else I might help with?’

As we walked down one flight of stairs, he said, ‘I need to find the woman who was with Runcie last night.’

‘Lots of people must have seen her.’

‘She was slim, dark-haired and petite. I’d like you to take a look at what she left behind. There’s a gown and shoes still in the wardrobe.’

A uniformed man opened the door to the room on the second floor. I looked at the bed where Runcie had lain. It seemed so strange to think that we saw him alive on Wednesday, fed up about not backing a winner, and being rude to his wife.

Small things can sometimes be the most disconcerting. There was a dent in the pillow where Runcie had rested his head. The other pillow was plumped up. A bolster lay on the floor.

‘What is it?’ Marcus asked.

‘Why is the bolster on the floor?’

‘Perhaps he didn’t like a thick pillow.’

Marcus went to the wardrobe. Carefully, he lifted out a green satin evening gown and hooked it over the wardrobe door for my inspection. ‘Take a look at this. What do you make of it?’

There was something familiar about the sleeveless green dress with its round neck and a matching tie ribbon. ‘Am I allowed to touch it?’

‘Yes.’

‘It’s elegant. There’s no label.’ I looked at the hand stitching on the hem and seams. ‘My guess is that she made this herself, or a friend did.’

‘Didn’t have it made for her by a dressmaker?’

‘If it had been done professionally I would have expected a label, and the stitching would be more uniform. The side seams are neat. When she got to the hem she was in a hurry, or impatient to have done with it. My old sewing teacher would have said you’d see these stitches from the school gate.’

I looked at a pair of low-heeled strapped shoes. ‘They look expensive without being expensive I’d say.’

He nodded. ‘You’re probably right. I’m having the maker’s name checked, and the local outlets.’

‘Wait a minute.’ I looked again at the dress, trying to think why it was familiar. ‘Mrs Sugden pores over the patterns that are syndicated in the local paper. This was one she had sent for, and offered to make up for me.’

‘Thanks, Kate. Every little helps at this stage.’

But we both knew that did not take us very far.

Marcus hung the dress back in the wardrobe. We left the room. I did not feel that I had been of much use, apart from taking Mildred’s statement.

At the top of the stairs, he said, ‘Thanks again. I’ll walk you to the door.’

Dismissed.

‘I don’t suppose you want me to interview the waiter, given that I’ve talked to his niece?’

Marcus laughed. ‘No! Absolutely not.’

‘Pity. He’ll lie.’

I felt a pang of disappointment. In spite of everything I have achieved, about which Marcus is very well aware, I was surplus to requirements. In Marcus’s eyes, solving a murder is boys’ work.

We were almost at the door when Marcus said, ‘I’m going to interview Anthony Hartigan myself. That means I have to break my cover. I’ll need someone else to keep an eye on him.’

My spirits rose. ‘I can do that. I have my car outside, and I’m good at sitting in hotel lobbies, sipping a cocktail. It’s my speciality.’

‘No, Kate. He’s dangerous. And he’d be onto you in a flash.’

‘So someone else will take over from you?’

‘We’re at full stretch. But it occurs to me that your Jim Sykes might step in, if you can spare him. He’s trustworthy and knows the area. If you agree, I could have him sworn in as a special constable.’

‘I’m sure he’d be glad to help.’

That put me in my place. Good enough to interview a nervy chambermaid and comment on a frock. Something rose up inside me. Cold fury. We’ll see, Marcus. You didn’t even know the Runcies were divorcing. You pooh-poohed my thoughts about Hartigan, and the waiter fooled whichever of your minions interviewed him. We’ll see how you get on.

Sykes was delighted to be in demand as a special constable. I hid my fury at being entirely sidelined, and slung my hook. There was plenty for me to do. I should cocoa. Let the boys get on with it. I had a report to type, a letter to write, an envelope to address, a stamp to lick. Not to mention checking through the past few weeks’ newspapers for interesting items.

My cat Sookie came to greet me. She rubbed herself against my legs, leaving hairs on my stockings, threatening to trip me.

‘You’ll have to wait until Mrs Sugden gets back from the market with fish scraps.’

I opened the back door. She bounded out.

Right. I would type my report to the insurance company on our investigation of the fraud case. If I got on with it now, it would be finished before Mrs Sugden returned, and I would avoid having an audience watching to see how it was done.

I was so furious that my fingers thumped the typewriter keys too hard. Every single o and every p lost its centre.

The report ran to two pages. I typed the date at the bottom, and a line for my signature, then released the platen. I typed a short covering letter, and the job was done. I keep envelopes in the dresser drawer, along with table mats, not an ideal arrangement for the efficient office, but it works.

Plenty to do. Envelope. Stamp.

Mrs Sugden returned. She watched me put the cover on the typewriter. ‘I could do that sort of thing. If I learned to typewrite, you could concentrate on your brainwork.’

Mrs Sugden likes to keep busy. She is easily bored. No skill is too tricky. She is cook, dressmaker, knitter extraordinaire, gardener and maker of chutney. We agreed that she should look for a typewriting class.

When back from the market, she wants to talk, about who she saw, what she bought, and for how much.

I escaped. Plenty to do. Sort out August’s newspapers. They were in a pile on top of the piano. I remembered something I had meant to cut out at the time, to send to my aunt. Where was that newspaper? It was easy to date because it had appeared the day after grouse shooting began. And then I found it. There was a photograph, with the caption:
LORD FOTHERINGHAM’S SHOOTING PARTY – STRAY SHOT AT SHOOT
.

The photograph showed Caroline Windham, clutching her arm, while still holding her gun, unaware of the camera, a look of surprise on her broad, handsome face. Everett Runcie stood beside her. The article read:

Well she would. Caroline Windham, impeccable aristocratic connections, best seat in the county, archery champion, unrivalled on the tennis court, swimmer in wild places, extraordinary swordswoman. It was said she had inherited all the characteristics of her military ancestors, and none of their wealth. What was left of the family lands and money had gone to her timid younger brother who resented her accomplishments and disapproved of her adventures. He kept to his Derbyshire estate and allowed her nothing. Caroline Windham dazzled, she impressed. It was not just her size, her broad cheeks and her flaxen hair that had earned her the sobriquet the Viking Queen. In spite of her lack of money, she could have married well. But Miss Windham’s downfall was her love for Everett Runcie, and his for her. When she was nineteen, it was said she and Runcie were about to become engaged. At age twenty-one, she had travelled the continent with him, with no sign of a ring. At twenty-five, they shared his
London home. When she was twenty-six, he married wealthy Philippa. Now, people spoke of Caroline as having ruined herself. No one would have her now. She and Runcie were unable to keep away from each other. Everyone knew it, including Philippa.

The article set me thinking. Was that ‘stray shot’ truly an accident? It did not surprise me that the culprit had not been shamed in the newspaper, as a bad shot and a worse sport. I wondered who fired, and whether the shot had not been accidental at all, but meant for Runcie? If that shot was intentional, and failed, then the culprit might be the murderer.

Had Marcus not put my back up, I may have immediately set off for the Metropole and taken this newspaper article to him, with my thoughts. But he was pursuing his own lines of enquiry, and had made quite clear the extent of my involvement.

Well then, I would explore these possibilities before presenting him with ideas that may appear outlandish or half-baked. I should in any case visit Philippa. Was it too soon? Was I going to express my condolences, or to steal a march on Marcus?

Both.

The Runcie home, Kirkley Hall, is a twenty minute walk for me. A stroll would allow me to calm down. I could barely imagine how Philippa must feel, having heard that Everett had been murdered.