Dying in the Wool by Frances Brody Page A

private detective person who wouldn’t understand. That’s why I asked you, and why I’m telling you all this. If you hear nasty stories, don’t be shocked. I just want the truth, whatever it is. I need to know. I can’t move forward otherwise.’
    I nodded. ‘I understand.’
    She looked suddenly about to crumple into tears. ‘I’m not sure you do understand, Kate. I’m not sure I do myself. When we came back after the war it took me about two years to recover from a kind of emotional shell shock. Then for two years, Hector and I were dancing a minuet around each other. He’s so young. For us to dance to the same tune, I had to make myself different – play at being young again. Act as if there were no dark side to the moon. But I’m thirty years old. My father’s missing. I’ve done nothing to try and find him.’
    The drawing room was a vision of cream, black and chrome, all sharp angles and geometric shapes.
    Mrs Braithwaite sat on a curved black leather sofa, flicking through a copy of
Tatler
. She wore a calf-length day dress that would easily have doubled as a chess board.
    ‘Mother, this is Mrs Shackleton. Kate, my mother, Mrs
Joshua
Braithwaite.’
    There was a barely perceptible change in the air between them. On hearing Joshua’s name pronounced sodeliberately, Mrs Braithwaite winced.
    ‘How do you do, Mrs Braithwaite.’
    ‘Pleased to meet you. I hope you’ll be comfortable with us. You two must have had extraordinary experiences in the VAD. And my daughter tells me you’re a keen photographer and will be taking photographs …’
    Perhaps she noticed my dismay. If Tabitha could not come clean to her mother, we would not make progress. Mrs Braithwaite tailed off, as if expecting me to own up to my vice and say what I intended to snap. Tabitha had obviously made up a story about my visit. ‘An old friend from the VAD.’ True, I had taken photographs at the opening of the Cavendish Club but hadn’t made much of it. As far as I remembered I had never even talked about photography to Tabitha until today when she saw me unload the equipment.
    ‘There’s a little more to my visit than that, Mrs Braithwaite. I’m sure Tabitha was about to tell you.’
    Tabitha blew a smoke ring. She narrowed her eyes. ‘Er, yes. I’ll ring for tea first, shall I?’
    I could hear her brain whirring as she made for the bell pull.
    ‘Oh never mind that!’ Mrs Braithwaite walked across to the black lacquer cocktail cabinet. ‘I’m sure we’d all like a cocktail. Name your poison, Mrs Shackleton.’
    We gathered ourselves around the low stainless-steel and glass table. I named my poison, and asked that Mrs Braithwaite call me Kate.
    ‘Then you must call me Evelyn.’
    We chatted about the photographic opportunities in Bridgestead and surrounds. Not until Tabitha mixed a second lot of cocktails did she finally spit out the reason for my being there.
    ‘The thing is, Mother, the truth is I specially asked … well, you might remember my telling you that Kate had some success in finding that officer chap that everyonethought was missing and he’d started a new life in Sidcup, abandoning his wife.’
    Mrs Braithwaite raised her eyebrows to show how impressed she was. ‘Yes. You did mention that.’
    Tabitha continued. ‘And when we were in London, staying with Kate’s aunt – she’s Lady Pocklington of course – this person, Turnbull …’ Tabitha gave me a meaningful look, intending me to go along with her story, ‘… Turnbull stole a diamond brooch. Kate got to the bottom of it.’
    My mouth dropped. Poor Betty Turnbull had eaten two eggs, which since we were all on rations was considerably worse than snaffling diamonds. At least if Tabitha were going to boast about my achievements, I would have liked accuracy.
    Evelyn narrowed her eyes and looked at Tabitha across her cocktail glass. ‘Have you lost something?’
    Tabitha flushed with annoyance. ‘I said it last week and you completely ignored me.