‘You are seriously concerned about security, Mr Sykes?’
‘I am, Miss Crawford.’
She smiled. She almost beamed. ‘I shall tell Mr Lofthouse that Mr Sykes recommends all locks be changed. He will know that makes sense, regardless of expense. It ought to reduce insurance premiums. Now if you’ll give me a moment, I shall telephone the locksmith, and then show you to your office.’
Miss Crawford disappeared through the adjoining door. Sykes heard her being put through to a locksmith and asking for a survey to be undertaken.
Here was someone not simply efficient, but confident and formidable. If Lofthouse had set a greater value on this competent woman, Sykes thought, he might not be in his present pickle.
* * *
In the tiny office, at the solid old desk that had been set aside for him, Sykes got down to work. It puzzled him that the paperwork Lofthouse had asked to be set aside for him was the sort of stuff a good bookkeeper could check. He examined lists of income and expenditure, went through copy invoices, alert for the old trick of a paler or darker carbon copy, that might indicate payment going to an unauthorised account, or being settled in cash. Nothing.
At 5 p.m., Miss Crawford came in wearing her hat and coat. She brought him a cup of tea.
‘Mr Sykes, is there anything you need before I go?’
‘I need information, Miss Crawford, but it will wait until tomorrow.’
‘Tell me quickly. I am usually here until half past five. On the first Monday of the month, I leave early to attend the Oddfellows supper.’
‘Then let me walk with you to the door.’ He followed her along the corridor. ‘I’ve glanced at the paperwork you brought me, and the invoices. I will look at everything relevant to the company, and whatever Mr Lofthouse wants me to see. So far, there is nothing untoward. I understand that you said an outside eye was needed. Why?’
She waved at a door. ‘That’s your nearest way through to the Falcon. It’s not locked.’
‘Well I suppose in case of fire, that’s a good thing.’ He thought for a moment that the secretary was ignoring his question.
As they reached the door to the yard, she said, ‘Mr Lofthouse wanted you to see the company accounts and so on, to make sure everything is in order for the AGM, and for when James Lofthouse returns.’ Sykes caught a hint of exasperation in her voice.
‘But?’
Sykes went with her into the yard. She walked towards a row of bicycles. ‘Answers are not always contained in figures. Next month’s invoices reflect lost orders. Sometimes it can be a good idea to look back over correspondence.’
‘Then may I see any relevant correspondence?’
‘I think you should. I am to give you whatever you require.’
‘Is there a telephone I may use?’
‘Use my office.’ She took a key from her bag and gave it to him. ‘I always keep a spare for emergencies, Mr Sykes.’
‘Thank you.’
She donned a red cape before mounting a black bicycle.
‘Do you live nearby, Miss Crawford?’
‘Between Masham and Ripon, in West Tanfield. There is a train service but in the fine weather I cycle. I’ll wish you good night, Mr Sykes.’
‘Goodnight, Miss Crawford.’
Sykes watched her go. I don’t think you need me, Mr Lofthouse, Sykes said in his head. You need Miss Crawford.
Sykes went straight back to the office. He put in a call to Mrs Shackleton.
It was reassuring to hear her voice after spending the day with strangers. ‘How are you getting on?’ Mrs Shackleton asked. ‘And are you comfortable in the Falcon?’
‘Very comfortable in the Falcon. It’s been an odd start, but I do believe I’ll now find my way through.’
‘Who or what is going to help you?’ she asked.
‘A very good and efficient secretary who knows everything has decided to be my guide.’
‘So what comes next?’
‘Supper. My guide recommends steak and kidney pie. After that, I’ll put a fine-tooth comb through books and paperwork.’
‘Goodnight then! Don’t work so late that you get bleary-eyed.’
Sykes did work late. If a thorough check of accounts would put Mr Lofthouse’s mind at rest, that is what Sykes must do. A heavy desk lamp cast a perfectly round pool of light on ledger after ledger. He checked figures. He examined bindings, looking for evidence of a carefully removed page.
In the wages office, he examined time cards and entries. All were in order. Nor was anyone suspicious about a desk being searched. As far as he could tell, no item had been so placed that the opening of a drawer would be a give-away. No single strand of hair had been stuck across cupboard doors. It seemed treacherous to suspect such conscientious employees.
The accountant had made a couple of mistakes that the auditor failed to notice.
The drayman, Joe Finch, had a small fiddle going. A horse had died, yet the amount of fodder ordered had risen compared with previous years, more than could be accounted for by food for a stray pony. Joe Finch could be selling fodder on the side. Joe was also changing the figures on delivery notes. Some lucky person was receiving an extra firkin of beer every week on the Bedale run.
There was always a certain amount of pilfering. A firkin a week was a pittance in relation to the overall accounts, but it was best to nip that sort of thing in the bud.
At 11 p.m., as he made a note of his finishing time and prepared to leave, Sykes heard a noise in the yard below, near the stable block. The moon lit the yard, but he saw nothing. Locking the door behind him, he looked about for the night watchman, to tell him he was leaving. Once more he heard a sound.
A fox taking a shortcut.
And then he saw a passing shadow by the stables. He went to investigate. At the back of the second stall was what looked like a pile of blankets. He trod carefully, but not carefully enough. He shone his torch. A figure raised itself to a sitting position and covered its eyes against the glare. Sykes moved closer and saw that it was a thin man with protruding cheekbones and big hungry eyes. Sykes lowered the beam. ‘Who are you?’
With the slightest movement, the man cowered for a second as if to avoid a blow. And then he stood. ‘I’m nobody, just somebody out of the cold.’
‘How did you get in?’
‘A gap.’
‘Somebody made the gap for you?’
‘I did it meself. I’ll be off in the morning. Leave me be this night.’
There was the slightest movement from under the blanket behind him. Sykes went closer.
‘Leave it!’ the man said.
Sykes averted the torch’s beam. A thin woman, no flesh on her bones, raised herself, attempting to shield two sleeping children.
The man looked down at them, as though they were nothing to do with him, as though they came as a sudden surprise.
The woman, still heavy with sleep, propped herself up. ‘We have permission.’
The man shushed her.
‘Who gave permission?’ Sykes asked, knowing that it would be someone who did not have permission to give. The night watchman, or some well-meaning fool.
Sykes did not know the woman was going to speak. The man did, and tried to shush her, but not quickly enough. ‘We’re doing no harm,’ she said.
The man remained standing, bouncing a little on the balls of his feet, coming between Sykes and the woman, and the children under the blanket. Now Sykes noticed the man’s arms through the torn shirt sleeves, thin as sticks.
‘It’s not my business,’ Sykes heard himself say, ‘unless you cause bother, and then I’ll come looking.’ But it was his business. This state of affairs was all of our business, but nobody knew what to do. He took a pound note from his pocket. He reached out and put it in the man’s icy hand. ‘There must be somewhere you can go.’
It was the woman who spoke. ‘Only the Workhouse.’
‘Workhouses are abolished.’
‘The rules are still in plac
e. They’ll separate us.’
They were trespassing. They might be harmless, but if they could get onto brewery premises, so could a gang of thieves.
All the man had to do was light a smoke, drop a match, and the place would go up in flames. Sykes thought about it, warned the man against smoking, and wished them goodnight.
Joe Finch the drayman had shown Sykes round the stables with the air of a man who claimed this as his domain.
The watchman could work out for himself that Sykes had left the premises. It seemed suddenly unimportant that Finch had a fiddle on the Bedale run. If Finch gave this family shelter, perhaps he fed them too.
As to Mr Tickler the watchman, being paid for sleeping on the job, Mr Lofthouse would do better to give Mr Tickler a small pension and let him go on his way.
After a restless sleep in the strange bed, Sykes woke at 5 a.m. the next morning, disturbed by a chorus of birds. By 5.15 a.m., he was dressed, took a swig of water from the tap and went through the connecting door and corridor into the brewery.
From the office allocated to him, Sykes watched the brewery yard.
At 6.00 a.m., the gates swung open. Only one man would arrive at work with a Shetland pony in tow. Joe Finch.
Moments later, the vagrant family emerged from their hiding place and went to the gate. Finch and the parents exchanged a few words. They left the yard. The children turned to wave. Finch treated the premises as his own, yet Sykes could not help but feel touched by the scene. Finch might be risking his job to do this kindness, if kindness it was.
It occurred to Sykes that Slater Parnaby, ‘the nose’ of the brewery, held Finch responsible for contaminating the beer because of his cavalier attitude towards opening the gates and letting people in. Finch might inadvertently admit someone who bore a grudge.
On his way back to the Falcon for breakfast, Sykes promoted Joe Finch to first person of interest, both for his minor frauds with the fodder and firkins, and now as a security risk.
Chapter Eight
When Sykes arrived back at the brewery offices at 8.30 a.m. and knocked on the door, Miss Crawford called for him to come in. She was speaking on the telephone, put her hand over the mouthpiece, and indicated for Sykes to take a seat. There was no sign of Mr Lofthouse. Sykes had noticed before that if a firm runs smoothly, the top brass do not need to be there.
While the secretary spoke to her boss, Sykes went to look at a painting on the wall. He was not a great follower of art but took to this picture of a river on a misty morning, and a man fishing. He would have liked to be in that spot, to be that man. Another painting, unmistakeably by the same hand, showed the brewery, in a soft evening light. A workman was lighting a cigarette, hand cupped round the match. How did the artist manage to make the figure look lonely?
The signature was Eleanor Hart. Sykes could see why Eleanor Hart’s work was praised. Mrs Shackleton regarded her work highly, as did a chap Sykes had met who belonged to the Arts Club, a painter who had more of the labourer than the artist about him. Sykes wondered whether Mr Lofthouse minded that to enthusiasts of art, his wife would always first and foremost be Eleanor Hart.
Miss Crawford was saying to her boss, ‘There is something I want to talk to you about, but I’ll wait until you come.’ She paused. ‘No, I would rather speak to you in person about this.’ Another pause. ‘Very well.’ With a small sigh, she put down the telephone. ‘Mr Lofthouse asks me to say that he will be in after lunch. Is there anything else you need, Mr Sykes? I’ll get that correspondence out for you later this morning.’
Sykes had noticed that there were no financial records in relation to the brewery queen expenses. ‘I’d like to take a look at the past twelve months’ bank statements, please Miss Crawford.’
She walked round to the front of the desk. ‘The bank statements are in the safe. Come with me. You might as well see the safe.’
He opened the office door. Miss Crawford stepped into the corridor and led the way. She stopped at the wages office, explaining, ‘There must be two members of staff when the safe is unlocked.’
She tapped and opened the door. ‘Ruth, do you have a moment to go with me to the safe?’
This was Sykes’s first sight of Ruth Parnaby since seeing the trussing. Without knowing that this girl was North Riding Brewery Queen, Sykes may not have given her more than the usual second glance, or would he? She was dark-haired, tall, slim but shapely and with high cheekbones, a full mouth and long lashes. In spite of her good looks and stylish dress, there was something about her that said, Ordinary, something that said, The Girl Next Door. These days all young women had what he called That Look. They copied styles from magazines and from film actresses. His own daughter was the same, pins in her mouth adjusting a dress pattern, scorching her hair with curling tongs.
As Sykes, Miss Crawford and Miss Parnaby stood together in the tiny lift that took them to the basement, he noticed the way Ruth held herself, something stately about her, a stillness.
No one spoke.
Sykes registered the system for opening the safe: date in a book, signatures on opening, items taken, signatures on closing. Although Miss Crawford had called it “safe”, it was a strong room, with shelving and cupboards all the way round. Two large safes stood by the wall. It was from one of these that Miss Crawford took two folders.
Ruth’s lips parted slightly. Sykes had the feeling that she knew exactly what was in those folders. Bringing an employee to the steps of a brewery industry throne would not come cheap yet Sykes had not seen a penny in any column relating to that expense. Here was the missing link. It might be helpful to get to know Miss Parnaby a little better.
After Sykes took the bank statements to his allotted office, he came out again, locked the door and returned to the wages office, carrying one of his prized adding machines. He tapped on the door and waited.
A deep voice called, ‘Come in!’
Sykes and the owner of the deep voice introduced themselves. Chief accounts clerk, Mr Beckwith, a stout elderly man whose beer belly and John Bull looks would make him a perfect advertisement for beer, welcomed Sykes into the office.
Sykes had already seen their files and ledgers, all in perfect order. He now showed them the little Bakelite machine with its dainty green keys. Mr Beckwith and Miss Parnaby were full of interest, and looked for somewhere to plug it in. When the connection on the electric lead did not match the connection on the office wall, Miss Parnaby climbed on a chair and plugged it into the ceiling light, causing a small spark and laughing off an electric shock.
Once the machine was connected, Ruth began to add, her fingers going at such a speed that Sykes and Beckwith simply stared.
Ruth’s eyes shone. ‘Give me some big numbers!’
Beckwith obliged. ‘One hundred and nineteen pounds plus three shillings and sixpence halfpenny. Twelve pounds four shillings and sixpence minus eight and fourpence.’
She added, subtracted, multiplied and divided. ‘It’s wonderful!’ She stared at the keys. ‘Do you want a square root?’
Mr Beckwith did not want a square root. A man with fingers as big as well-filled pork sausages, he looked on in dismay. Gamely, he took his turn, treating the adding machine switch with as much caution as if it were the trigger of a gun.
Ruth said, ‘I love the look of it, and you could work all day without growing tired or your fingers aching.’
Beckwith gulped. ‘You won’t be here, lass. You’re having time off, remember?’
‘Oh, I know, Mr Beckwith. I’m just saying.’
‘And I don’t know who’ll step in.’ He turned to Sykes. ‘Ruth will be on what Mrs Lofthouse calls a sabbatical.’ Then he gestured at the machine. ‘These little items are too flimsy, designed for people with delicate fingers.’
Sykes saw that Ruth straightaway grasped the anxiety of the man who had taught her the job, and who lacked the confidence to learn new tricks.
She said, ‘Shall we not bother, Mr Beckwith? No one would begrudge us keepi
ng what we are used to, and you can do everything in your head anyway.’
Beckwith nodded agreement at this description of his expertise. He turned to Sykes. ‘And don’t forget, with these dinky items we’d be at the mercy of the electric supply.’
Sykes did not remind him that the whole brewery was at the mercy of the electric supply. He knew when he was beaten and accepted defeat gracefully. ‘There’s a lot of life left in these old adding machines of yours.’
‘Sturdy,’ said sausage fingers. ‘You know where you are with them.’
Ruth climbed back on the chair, unplugged the adding machine and re-inserted the light bulb. ‘It’s very interesting to try these, Mr Sykes, like a glimpse of the future.’ She put the adding machine back in its box. ‘But what we have works perfectly, at present.’
At that moment, Sykes hoped that Miss Parnaby’s reign would be victorious and glorious. It wasn’t just good looks that the voting public and the judges saw in her. Sykes reckoned Ruth Parnaby was one in a million.
As he walked along the corridor, Sykes had a word with himself. You are not here to be impressed by the kind-heartedness of a drayman who gives shelter to a homeless family, or be impressed by the generous way a bright young woman treats her elderly boss.
Perhaps there was something about this place that knocked the hard edges off a person and barred good judgement.
Sykes found the bank account statements he was looking for. Eleanor Lofthouse had been given a special account to cover brewery queen expenses, and that account made interesting reading.
Sykes was watching out for Mr Lofthouse to arrive. Now, there he was, walking through the wicket gate. Sykes gave him time to take off his coat, and then walked along the corridor. He tapped on the door. Mr Lofthouse called for him to come in. He was standing by his office window, holding a child’s decorative enamel watering can, tending overgrown plants on the windowsill.
Miss Crawford stood nearby. She said to her boss, ‘What I wanted to speak to you about—’
Mr Lofthouse said, ‘Ah, Sykes, just the man.’
Murder is in the Air Page 4