Dying in the Wool Read Online Free PDF

shaven, though I had for some reason expected a handlebar moustache. He had bright intelligent eyes, with the sort of bags under them that I associate with motherswhose children keep them awake in the night.
    Dad had told me that Sykes’ face didn’t fit. That his boss got the wrong man for a robbery and told Sykes to let it go, but Sykes wouldn’t. ‘That’s being a good copper in my book,’ Dad had said. But in Sykes’ nick it was seen as insubordination. He would never rise above pounding the beat, and with the worst shifts his sergeant could throw at him. When I asked Dad could he not have intervened, he said that it did not work like that. Sykes resigned.
    For a few moments we exchanged words about how long Mr Sykes and his family had lived in Woodhouse, which was five years, and how long I had lived in Headingley, which was eight – since Gerald and I married in 1913 after our whirlwind romance. Of course if I took off my time away in the VAD, I had hardly lived in my little house at all until the end of the war.
    Behind us some lads began to kick a ball about. A woman wrapped tightly in a musquash fur coat walked along the path, talking kindly to two Pomeranians who trotted alongside her.
    ‘How well do you know Bridgestead and the mill business, Mr Sykes?’
    He turned to me with a solemn glance, as formally as if I were an entire board of directors interviewing him for the post of bank manager. ‘I don’t know Bridgestead at all, madam. But I have family who work in the mills.’ He told me about his aunts who worked in Listers Mill, and of the spinners and weavers who were his ancestors. ‘My knowledge should help me to blend in and not arouse too much suspicion while making enquiries.’
    ‘Where would you begin? My father mentioned the Wool Exchange.’
    ‘That would be on the list certainly, Mrs Shackleton, especially on the meeting days, Monday and Thursday. But I might begin by finding out which public houseBraithwaites’ workforce frequent. There’s gossip to be picked up over a pint and some of it proves useful.’ He paused, giving me a chance to question him.
    ‘I shall visit the Bridgestead village bobby, Mr Sykes. Is there anyone you could draw on for information?’
    He looked thoughtful. ‘There’s one or two officers in Keighley who’d be willing to talk to me about what they remember of Joshua Braithwaite. If you agree, I’d like to find out what I can without revealing my connection to you.’
    ‘Why would that be, Mr Sykes?’
    ‘Call it a copper’s instinct to play his cards close to the chest. But I believe there are two kinds of people in the world – them that cough out information and them that gather it up.’
    He made the work sound as though we would be walking about offering a spittoon to passers-by.
    ‘And how would you keep your connection to me secret, and yet find out all you wanted to know?’
    ‘I’d have some good story – as I expect you may have.’
    I had not thought of that. ‘Until I see Miss Braithwaite, I’m not sure how I’ll proceed.’
    I told him what I had read in the newspaper library and about the librarian’s story from the reporter on the scene that Mr Braithwaite had tried to commit suicide.
    Sykes shook his head sadly. ‘Attempted suicide’s a nasty business. And it muddies the beck, if you’ll pardon a pun.’ Sykes let out a sigh. ‘The Keighley lads will tell me whether they had the bloodhounds out searching for a body.’
    Without our having formally agreed to a working arrangement, I realised with surprise that we were already jointly on the case and were discussing who would do what.
    I would speak to the family and the village constable, and try to find out whether there had been family or financialdifficulties. Sykes would quiz the workers, Keighley CID and connections at the Wool Exchange.
    ‘My father says two pounds a week would be an appropriate remuneration,’ I said, thinking it best to get this out of the