A Woman Unknown Page 0,115

was something quite magical about it. We explored the rock pools with fishing nets and found fossils. Austin insisted they must all be taken home, for the garden of the new house in Helmsley.

The three were happily ensconced in the cottage. Deciding against driving across the moors in darkness, I drove to Whitby and spent a solitary night in a room with a sea view, remembering happier days. This was the place Gerald and I had first met. This was where I said goodbye to him, looking out to sea.

Aunt Berta’s house in London seemed a world away. I stayed with her for three weeks. Towards the end of my visit, Mother was upstairs. I was sitting at breakfast with Aunt Berta, looking over the menu for the evening’s dinner party. She had invited the mourning Baron Kirkley, Harold Runcie, Everett’s elder brother. Once again the baron had taken over ownership of Kirkley Hall, due to Philippa having made good her escape.

Aunt Berta confided in me. ‘I asked Harold because he needs taking out of himself after his ordeal. I know it’s a little late for him, but he must find a wife, or there’ll be no heir for the Kirkley title.’

Alarm bells rang. For a long time, Aunt Berta had tried to match-make on my behalf.

She laughed when she read my look. ‘Oh don’t worry, Kate dear, not you! I know you’ve let that policeman go, but you and Harold are not a match. He needs to find a woman with a great deal of money, if he’s to keep Kirkley Hall.’ She sighed. ‘Though it would be nice to have you titled and in London a great deal.’

The guest list included a commander from Scotland Yard, a widower and old school chum of my uncle. The commander had specially wangled an invitation in order to thank me for my help in solving Everett Runcie’s murder.

All in all I was looking forward to the dinner party. It had been a tricky few weeks as everyone wanted to ask me about the investigation, and I would not speak of it. The Everett Runcie and Leonard Diamond cases had certainly made me well known among the kind of people who might bring an interesting puzzle to a private investigator.

And truth to tell, I was glad to be away from the north when Rupert Cromer went to the scaffold for the murders of Everett Runcie and Leonard Diamond.

I hoped that the Scotland Yard commander would be indiscreet about Marcus Charles. The American Ambassador had praised Marcus for his vigilant observation of Anthony Hartigan, and his firm assurance that the man was allowed to do nothing worse, while visiting England, than see his family, pay respects to his dying mother, and arrange her funeral.

The cooperation between Washington and London was highly valued. As a result, Marcus had been invited to Washington to have high-level meetings regarding future cooperation.

I had to laugh, feeling sure that Marcus’s reports had included nothing about the importation into the USA of spirits; gin from London, whisky from the Highlands.

Marcus’s letter had arrived that morning. Aunt Berta was perusing a letter of her own, and so I read mine.

Dear Kate

Here I am in New York, after a most eventful voyage. I am pleased to say I have good sea legs and found the passage much to my liking. It is a strange experience being between worlds, and yet bringing the past along.

No, I am not becoming poetical or philosophical. That is not in my nature as you know. I am a practical man. It happened that Mrs Runcie was on the same voyage, and we acknowledged each other, politely but distantly. I respected her wishes not to be reminded of all that has just passed. Her private secretary did not travel with her. She told me he has gone to Paris where he intends to deal in art.

I put down the letter. Did Philippa know that King had gone with Caroline Windham? Perhaps she would not mind where her former secretary went, now that she was starting her life anew. I began to read again.

There is something else which I hesitate to mention in case I am being premature, but I do so because you and I have a great respect for each other and have always been honest. (Sometimes you were more honest than my vanity would have wished!) I met a young lady on board and I know that ship’s romances are common and do not always last, but I have some hopes that I may have found someone who will want to share my terrible policeman’s life. If this turns out to be true, you will be the first to know, dear Kate.

I paused in my reading. Well thank God for that.

The rest of his letter was filled with the sights of New York, the strangeness of the streets, how differently things were done there, and that the next morning he would take a train to Washington DC.

He said nothing more about the woman he had met on board. I wished him well, and hoped she was not an undercover agent for the Mafia who would trip him up before he began.

My mother swept in for breakfast. ‘Both of you with letters. Anything interesting?’

Aunt Berta shook her head. ‘Another friend trying to wangle an invitation to meet the famous Kate.’

Mother laughed. ‘How about your letter, Katie? I might as well be nosey.’

‘It’s from Marcus. He seems very happy to be in America.’

Mother smiled brightly. ‘Good.’ She turned to her sister. ‘Your guest list for this evening, Berta. I think you said one of the men is very keen to meet Kate.’

Thanks to Ann Hazan, good friend and seasoned racegoer, for her winning tips. My uncle, Peter Brannan, would have been pleased at his resurrection in his old occupation as bookmaker’s clerk for Willie Price.

Tom Howley, formerly Father of the Chapel at Yorkshire Post Newspapers, generously shared his knowledge.

Thanks to retired police officer Ralph Lindley and his wife Mary, who kindly discussed the case with me.

Noel Stokoe, editor of the Jowetteer, and author of several books on the Jowett (a motor that contained “all the best bits of Yorkshire except the pudding”) advised on Kate’s change of vehicle.

Stuart Walker helpfully drew on his knowledge of country pursuits to answer my questions regarding grouse shooting.

It is always a pleasure to hear from readers. Eddie Kelly wondered when Sykes would visit his local, the Chemic, for a pint. Cheers, Eddie.

As lapsed and unlapsed Catholics will know, the Sisters of the Sacred Candle of St Genevieve should have existed but never did. The long-demolished area of Leeds called the Bank was real enough; life there would have been desperate without the dedicated work of the Little Sisters of the Poor.

Shady prodigal, Anthony Hartigan, was inspired by Owney Madden who went from the Bank to New York, via Wigan, and became well known to the FBI. In his highly readable and authoritative The English Godfather, Graham Nown gives Madden’s place of birth as Somerset Street. A surviving relative places him on Cotton Street, and says that Madden’s famous Harlem Cotton Club was named after the street on the Bank. Fact or legend? – no contest.

Very special thanks to my agent, Judith Murdoch, to editor, Lucy Icke, and all at Piatkus.