A Woman Unknown Page 0,49

to one side, a picture of grief and loss.

The page below was the one I had seen, with man and motorbike, and a Venus figure, the one I thought had Deirdre’s face. Now I saw that it did not. There was a similarity but seen side by side with the photograph, it was not her.

‘Sorry. It’s me. I’m seeing her everywhere.’

Cromer was by the window. ‘It’s all right. It happens to me all the time. Our eyes and hearts play tricks, thank God.’

I left shortly after, and was glad I did. From the bend in the track, I saw Caroline Windham riding across the parkland towards the cottage.

Stopping the car, I called good morning.

She spoke to her horse, and veered over to exchange a word with me, an honour indeed. I wondered did she want a lift to Edinburgh, or the loan of a fiver.

From the great height of her mount on the stallion, she looked down. ‘I have something for you, Mrs Shackleton.’ She put her hand in her pocket. ‘I shall want it back. It’s my lucky bullet.’ She placed the cartridge in my outstretched palm. ‘While I was out riding, Lord Fotheringham had a visit from the police, asking who was in the shooting party. They seem to be chasing the idea that someone shot me deliberately. I wonder where they might have got that from.’

‘I can’t imagine.’

‘Naturally, Lord Fotheringham is furious. He personally vouches for every shooter.’

‘But you are not so sure?’

She shrugged her magnificent shoulders. ‘I’m sure of nothing, Mrs Shackleton. But you were the one who thought of it first, so I’m passing this to you for safe transit. I believe the police can do very clever things regarding matching guns and cartridges. Tell them they might want to start with Philippa Runcie’s gun, or that secretary of hers.’

It had been twenty-four hours since Philippa asked for my help. So far my only gain was the spent cartridge given to me by Caroline Windham, and the knowledge that both she and Marcus took seriously my theory that the so-called “stray shot” could have been meant for Runcie.

At going on six o’clock, I arrived at the newspaper offices, hoping that Len Diamond might have left me photographs he had taken on the day of the shoot, along with his picture of Deirdre from last year.

It is very useful to have good contacts on the local newspaper, and this included old George, the porter who sits on the front desk. I keep on his right side, and exchanged a few words before asking him whether Len Diamond had left an envelope for me.

George checked through the papers and envelopes in his tray. ‘No, sorry, Mrs Shackleton. Mr Diamond left nothing for you.’

It is infuriating when you have something to do that feels really urgent, but urgent to no one except oneself. It was too much to hope that Len Diamond should have troubled to dig out photographs when he was busy with what mattered to him today. Len was a man always looking around the next corner.

‘Thanks for checking, George. I’ll call again in the morning.’

‘I’ll tell him you were in, if he turns up before I go home.’

When I first met George, I thought him surly and uncooperative, but it is surprising what a little bribery can achieve. A couple of tickets to the cricket, a packet of smokes before pay day (‘Someone gave me these and I don’t smoke them’), and he is my friend for life. He hated to see me go away disappointed.

‘Can’t Mr Duffield help you today?’

‘I wish he could.’

And then I had a brilliant idea. It was because the thought of bribery had entered my head: small offerings, sweeteners, generous tipping.

Both Sykes and I had at first assumed that Joseph Barnard and Deirdre Fitzpatrick were lovers, or out for a fling. Sykes had reported that Mr Barnard was remembered at the Adelphi as a good tipper, which he attributed to the singer wanting to be liked. What if there was a different interpretation? He had tipped to be remembered. If I could discover whether he was there to gain evidence for a divorce, the next step might become clearer.

If Deirdre was meeting men for the particular purpose of being a co-respondent, someone must be behind it. It was hardly the kind of service to advertise in a shop window.

Without some brilliant lead, like a finger pointing from the sky at a guilty party, I would concentrate on something small, a