A Woman Unknown by Frances Brody Read Free Book Online

children?’
    It was such a simple question. She ought to be able to say no without some storm brewing up inside her. He wanted children, and so did she. Don’t pity him, she told herself.
    He waited for her answer.
    ‘No, I don’t have children.’ Something in the way she spoke closed the subject.
    They laboured through the rest of the meal, both choosing a milk pudding. Deirdre thought she must be losing her touch that she could not summon careless chat. It was all the fault of Joe, Joseph Barnard. She had let the singer get under her skin, and now he was gone, and she had no patience left for any other man, not Fitz, and certainly not for this conceited toff who tried to make her feel for him because he had no son. It made her want to scream.
    But something happened to keep her from screaming. As the waiter gathered up their desert dishes, Runcie waved to a man at the bar.
    He said to the waiter, ‘Ask the gentleman from New York to join us.’
    ‘Very well, sir.’
    ‘Be nice to this fellow, my dear. I met him at the Knavesmire this week and I plan to let him in on a little project of mine.’
    Here was Deirdre’s escape. She felt that her guardian angel had intervened. ‘I’m sorry.’ She stood. ‘I’d be bad company. My head aches. I’ll go to the room and leave you gentlemen to talk.’
    Looking neither left nor right, doing her very best to walk in a straight line, Deirdre made for the stairs. She held onto the banister. No one would guess I’m tipsy. In the room, she undressed and struggled into her nightgown. By force of habit, she hung up her gown. Take good care of your clothes. Put the bolster between you, the voice in her head commanded. The wine did the trick. Within moments of lying down, she was out for the count.
    Deirdre woke with a start. Early morning light filtered through the gap in the curtains. She must sit this out until the chambermaid knocked on the door with morning tea. She raised herself up and looked at Runcie, gratified that the bolster was still in place between them. He must have come up late, thank God, and had not disturbed her.
    Her head throbbed. Her mouth felt dry. She went to the bathroom and filled the glass to quench her thirst. Well, she had come safely through the night.
    Runcie was lying on his back, sleeping soundlessly, still as an effigy. She stared for a long moment. Something was wrong, strange. There was no rise and fall at his chest. His skin was taut and ghastly pale. The man looked repulsive. Deirdre knelt up on the bed. She did not want to touch him, but made herself lift his hand. One of the nuns at school had taught her how to feel for a pulse. Nothing.
    She pulled a feather from the eiderdown and held it below his nostrils. The feather did not stir.
    There was a knock on the door, a gentle tapping. A young voice said, ‘Your morning call, sir. Madam.’
    The door knob turned.
    Deirdre flung herself from the bed and across the room. No one must see her, in bed with a dead man.

 
    As I walked up to the old stables that I use as a garage, I wondered why Marcus had suddenly summoned me to the Hotel Metropole.
    ‘It’s work,’ he had said tersely. ‘I would appreciate your help.’
    I wondered did it concern the ‘businessman’ visitor from New York, here to buy vast quantities of liquor. If my photographer friend, Len Diamond, knew the man’s reputation, perhaps the hotel management had also found out and grown uneasy about their gangster guest.
    But Marcus was giving nothing away. There was an edge to his voice that I had not heard before. Usually, regardless of events, nothing mars his telephone air of professional politeness. Something had rattled him.
    No point in speculating. I drove onto Headingley Lane and headed towards the town. Within ten minutes, I turned into King Street.
    Two official-looking black cars were parked close to the hotel. I drew up behind the second one. A uniformed policeman stood at the entrance. As I climbed out of the