Sykes said, ‘Sorry, I’ll come back.’
‘No, no, let’s hear what you’ve turned up,’ and to Miss Crawford, ‘We’ll speak later.’
Sykes caught Miss Crawford’s eye and felt guilty at butting in. She looked away, and went back to her office.
Mr Lofthouse said, ‘Sit yourself down, Mr Sykes.’ He set the watering can on the windowsill and came to the desk. ‘How’ve you got on?’
‘I’ve more to look at, but there a couple of things worth mentioning now.’ Sykes glanced at his notes, though he did not need to. ‘Number one is security. It’s too soon for Sergeant Moon to have got far with the investigation into the spoiling of the new brew, but I’m sure he will agree that there is a security issue. There are doors that ought to be locked, and there are too many keys floating about.’
Lofthouse put down his watering can. ‘We have always run on trust, Mr Sykes. I should hate for that to change too much.’
‘Let’s see what the locksmith says tomorrow. He will do a survey.’
‘You’re not talking new locks all round?’ Lofthouse had the crestfallen look of a boy told that he would lose his pocket money.
‘He’ll submit a quotation. It will be up to you where to take things from there. Miss Crawford would then be able to talk to your insurance agent. As she pointed out, improved security could reduce your insurance premium.’
A man of mercurial moods, Lofthouse brightened.
Sykes hated to throw in the damper. ‘There is the small matter of a fiddle going on.’
Lofthouse sighed. ‘There’s always something. Who and what this time?’
‘Joe Finch, flogging a firkin on the Bedale round. Let’s keep that under wraps for a few days now until I see what else might be going on.’
‘And you’re holding back the best or worst until last?’
It was too soon for Sykes to say that Barleycorn Brewery needed a new accountant. That would be best put in a report. ‘Miss Crawford will be pulling out some files for me, so that I have a full picture before I make recommendations.’
‘It’s a relief to know we’ll be on the straight and narrow when James comes back.’
That was the easy part. Sykes paused and took a breath. ‘Now about this account, opened for the use of Mrs Lofthouse in relation to expenses connected with the brewery queen.’
Lofthouse smiled indulgently. ‘I gave Eleanor shares when we wed. She’s on the board and that’s her contingency account.’
Make the most of your smile, Sykes thought. It’ll vanish in a minute. He cleared his throat. ‘There’s an initial deposit of five pounds in that account, and then a subsequent transfer of forty-five pounds.’
Dismay replaced the smile, but Lofthouse stayed loyal. ‘Ah, I did give the nod to the bank manager—’
‘The brewery queen account has gone into overdraft.’
‘Surely not?’
Eleanor Lofthouse chose that moment to enter the office, after a short tap. ‘Hello, darling!’ She paused in the doorway. ‘Oh, I’m sorry, you have someone with you.’ She stepped forward. ‘You must be Mr Sykes.’
Sykes stood. ‘How do you do, Mrs Lofthouse?’
William Lofthouse was still blinking at the expenditure of fifty pounds and the thought of an overdraft. He remained motionless, failing to make the introduction.
Sykes moved a chair to the side of the desk, for Mrs Lofthouse. She sat down.
Something had been niggling at Sykes. Now it clicked. Mrs Lofthouse’s paintings were signed Eleanor Hart. It was the lace on the collar and cuffs of her navy dress that gave him the clue. Her face was familiar from Rosie’s magazines, where she used to advertise Harts’ Lace. She was Mr Hart’s daughter.
Harts’ lace manufacturers of Nottingham produced high-quality goods but went out of business when the lace market moved overseas. Mr Hart, a widower, ended up in the bankruptcy court and died soon afterwards. It may well have been the failure of exports and a weak home market that brought closure to one hundred and fifty years of Harts’ Nottingham lace. Or it may have been Eleanor Hart opening contingency accounts.
Sykes could not decide whether to pity Mr Lofthouse or judge him. He had a wrong ’un for a drayman, an accountant losing his marbles, a nephew meandering across Germany, and a wife who came trailing bankruptcy and ruin. That might explain why Lofthouse was reluctant to be precise about what worried him. He was embarrassed by his own loss of control.
Mr Lofthouse croaked. ‘Fifty pounds, gone?’
‘Yes. Leaving a current debit of five pounds.’
‘Shall I come back later?’ Eleanor looked at her lace gloves, as if she suddenly spotted a flaw. ‘I seem to be interrupting.’
Lofthouse leaned forward. ‘Where has it gone, Eleanor, all that money?’
‘There are expenses. And you know that James wanted to visit Vienna. I telegraphed money to him. I’m sure I mentioned it. You said you wouldn’t want to deprive him.’
‘That was before I knew how long he would stay.’
‘Everything regarding the brewery queen business has been done without extravagance. We have a local dressmaker who charges modest prices. The stones in Ruth’s tiara are semi-precious. The gold chain of office gives her dignity. It was the specially cast Brewery Society medallion that went over budget.’
‘Budget?’ Lofthouse reached for his glass of water. ‘What budget?’
Sykes considered excusing himself but stayed put.
‘I know it seems a lot,’ Eleanor spoke soothingly. ‘But look at it this way. We have had a huge amount of interest, and more to come with the big event in Scarborough. The works outing to see the all-Yorkshire final is already paid for. Everyone will know about us. People will be queuing up to invest in the company.’
‘Eleanor, we’re not that kind of company, we’re too small.’
‘At present, yes.’ She stood. ‘I only came in to say hello. I must go pay Miss Boland.’
‘The music teacher?’
‘A little more than that. Celia Boland toured extensively with the Merry Opera Company. She is a voice coach, helps Ruth with her breath control, pitch, delivery, deportment.’ She tilted her head to one side. ‘Now I feel I’ve undone the doctor’s good work. I had no idea you wanted to be more closely involved, darling. But don’t worry about the finance side.’
‘Oh?’ A smidgen of hope lit Lofthouse’s right eye.
‘There’ll be a marquee at the garden party with my paintings on display, for sale.’ She gestured to the painting of the brewery and the river scene. ‘Not the brewery of course, but others. I’ll sell the River Ure if need be.’ She made for the door. ‘There will be businessmen, and farmers, wanting their brewery or farm immortalised. The cream of the county will be there. Commissions are bound to follow. The income from that will be my contribution to the brewery queen funds.’
She closed the door gently as she left.
The elderly brewer gulped.
Sykes pitied him. Eleanor Lofthouse, née Hart, in her lace collar and cuffs, would bankrupt him. He would die of a heart attack. The wandering nephew would lose his inheritance. Eleanor Hart would come out smelling of roses.
There was something Sykes ought to say, and yet was reluctant. He had not been asked his opinion on the wisdom of the brewery queen scheme. Why should he rock the boat? He knew all about the importance of brands and creating a big name for something that would become the public’s first choice, whether it was tonics, tea or beer. It would be easy to leave Mr Lofthouse with just the answers to the questions asked. Someone should have spotted what Sykes spotted.
Alongside the painting of the brewery was a portrait of the company’s founder. It seemed to Sykes that there was a time when every man of note modelled his appearance on whoever was the present king. Over a century of hard work had gone into the making of this business. Sykes must speak his mind.
‘Something else did occur to me,’ he began, immediately thinking this was a great impertinence, a criticism o
f the board’s judgement. ‘It occurred to me that it could be a very good thing to have a Brewery Queen of the North Riding, where you have most of your customers.’
Lofthouse waited.
‘Is there a plan to expand the business, if demand increases?’ It had to be said. ‘Will there be a disproportionate expense if your queen—and I met her briefly and she seems the perfect choice—becomes Brewery Queen for all Yorkshire, and perhaps may be crowned for the North of England, or for all England?’
Two deep tramlines dented Lofthouse’s forehead. ‘It seemed a good idea at the time. Eleanor had such enthusiasm. I suppose I thought of Ruth Parnaby as good at her job and a pretty girl. I didn’t fully realise her potential.’
‘You’ll have come to some mutual arrangement with fellow brewers, to share the responsibility?’
‘I was blinded by Eleanor’s enthusiasm.’ Lofthouse made a steeple of his fingers. ‘I’m trying to remember what was said about the arrangements for the brewery queen business.’
He stood. Opening the adjoining door, he said, ‘Miss Crawford, would you bring the North Riding Brewery Queen correspondence?’
She had anticipated his request and gave him the folder in an instant. The previously discreet Miss Crawford showed a sudden burst of liveliness. ‘Everyone is so excited. Ruth will make a perfect all-Yorkshire Queen.’
‘Thank you, Miss Crawford.’
She did not consider herself dismissed.
Lofthouse thumbed through a slim batch of correspondence, blinking as if he could not quite take this in.
Miss Crawford helped. ‘The replies regarding other breweries’ participation and contributions fall into the categories of no-reply; not putting anyone forward; will discuss at a later date; will meet costs within their own area—that includes Scarborough, York and Northallerton—obviously hoping their candidate will win through.’
‘I see.’ Lofthouse closed the folder.
Sykes took it from him. ‘I’ll take a look at this, Miss Crawford.’
‘As you please.’ She paused. ‘No one has the vision and the enthusiasm of Mrs Lofthouse. She is the one who will carry this through. And Ruth of course.’
Lofthouse waited until Miss Crawford had closed the door between their offices.
‘We’re on our own.’ He put his head in his hands. ‘This is beyond your remit, Mr Sykes, but—what am I to do if she wins the next round and increases these duties of hers, leaving me without a wages clerk?’
‘Offer Ruth promotion on the understanding that she will withdraw from the next round of the contest.’
Lofthouse lifted his head. ‘Promotion, for an eighteen-year-old lass?’
Sykes said, ‘She’s good at her job, shows gumption. Increase her wages.’
Lofthouse frowned. ‘How would I explain that to her elders and betters?’
‘They don’t need to know. She does the wages.’
Lofthouse stroked his chin. ‘She does have an accounting qualification and gets on with people.’
‘Promotion and an increase in wages. She would be mad to refuse.’
‘I’ll call her in and put it to her.’
‘Carrot and stick, Mr Lofthouse. She can continue as North Riding Queen but stand down from the next round of the competition.’
Ruth Parnaby was sent for. Sykes felt pleased with his solution. Now, he waited with Mr Lofthouse. They heard footsteps somewhere along the corridor.
‘Her father is against the business,’ Lofthouse said. ‘Her fiancé broke off the engagement. He’s in line to inherit the family farm, wants a wife not a beauty queen. We may be giving her the opportunity she needs to withdraw.’
Sykes suddenly thought of his own daughter and was not so sure.
The footsteps drew closer. Lofthouse wiped his brow. ‘Eleanor and Ruth. Two beautiful women. This malarkey could bankrupt me. What are they trying to do to us, the women of today?’
Sykes did not regard himself as a philosopher, but a sudden insight came to him. He thought of his wife, taking that job at Montague Burtons clothing factory when there was no need. She wanted the company. She wanted the wage packet.
‘Perhaps they’re not trying to do anything to us, Mr Lofthouse. Perhaps they want to do something for themselves.’
‘Then God help us, because that amounts to the same thing.’ The tap-tap of Cuban heels grew louder. ‘What happens if she refuses?’ Lofthouse asked.
‘In that case, you must pray that she loses the all-Yorkshire contest.’
The door opened. Ruth filled the space. ‘Mr Lofthouse, you sent for me?’ She smiled.
‘Ah yes, Miss Parnaby, do sit down.’
Sykes watched Ruth Parnaby lower herself into the waiting chair, as if the office belonged to her. She waited.
Lofthouse cleared his throat. ‘It’s about this brewery queen business.’
‘Yes?’
Lofthouse leaned forward, palms together, in prayer, fingers pointing at Miss Parnaby. ‘You’ve done very well, so far.’
‘Thank you, sir. I’ve learned such a lot. When Mrs Lofthouse kindly came with me to the Merchant Adventurers in York, we talked to a professor, two brewers, the mayor, of course, and two landlords. I believe you may have had an order from one or both of them?’
‘Ah.’ Lofthouse raised his fingers to heaven. ‘We did have orders from York. That was you?’
‘I hope I played my part. I know Mrs Lofthouse didn’t want to bother you, but the head brewer will have told you that she arranged for taster barrels of our Nut Brown to be delivered the day before the banquet.’
Sykes saw that Lofthouse was unsure how to answer this, leaving Miss Parnaby to continue.
‘I carry a satin bag, especially for our beermats. The professor thought that was a very good idea, being as how alcohol consumption has been declining since the last century. It made me terribly sad when he said that during the war, a generation of drinkers sacrificed their lives. It made me cry, to be truthful. I thought of the names on our war memorials, all the brewery workers who died, and all the men who enjoyed a pint by the fire in their favourite pub on a cold night. Not to mention the beautiful shire horses who went to war and never returned. We have to keep the industry alive for the future, don’t we, Mr Lofthouse?’
‘Indeed, we do, and in our part of the county. But you see, in business it is sometimes better to consolidate, rather than spread the butter too thinly—’
Sykes saw that Miss Parnaby knew what was coming. She disarmed him, by speedily agreeing.
‘So true, Mr Lofthouse. And after the Yorkshire finals, we may need to think again. But you’ll wish me luck, for Friday, won’t you?’
‘Friday? I thought it was Saturday. Why a weekday, a working day?’
‘People are publicity mad these days, sir. It will be in time for the weekend papers and Pathé News. Wouldn’t it be wonderful if I could play my part, not just in the North Riding, where Barleycorn have sales now, but across the whole of Yorkshire, where we will have sales in the future?’
Sykes felt a great deal of pity as Lofthouse strove to hide his dismay. ‘Of course. Yes, very good luck, Miss Parnaby.’
‘Thank you, sir. And of course, there will be a cash prize for the brewery, as well as for the successful candidate.’
Miss Crawford emerged from her office, smiling at Miss Parnaby and Mr Lofthouse in turn. ‘You’ve remembered that I’ll be accompanying Ruth to Scarborough, Mr Lofthouse? We’re booked into a boarding house for Thursday evening, so that she’ll have a good start on Friday.’
Ruth rose. ‘Yes, and I’d better get back to work if that’s all right. Mr Beckwith will think I’ve got lost.’
‘Yes, of course. Go back to work,’ Lofthouse said lamely, with an attempt at authority.
Sykes could not tell whether Lofthouse knew he had been outmanoeuvred.
Miss Crawford waited. When Mr Lofthouse did not speak, she said, ‘Is this a good time for our chat?’
Lofthouse looked at his watch.
‘It’s almost four. I must go home and take my tablets.’ He stood. Sykes thought he detected a hint of malice in Lofthouse’s parting sentence. ‘We’ll talk in the morning, Miss Crawford. Bring any post round, and I’ll deal with it from home. Mr Sykes can attend to the locksmith.’
Miss Crawford was about to speak, but Lofthouse was already picking up his hat She leaned slightly towards the door, as if she might go after him.
When Lofthouse closed the door behind him, Sykes said, ‘I’m sorry. You might have said more had I not been here.’
She shrugged. ‘As Mr Lofthouse says, we’ll speak tomorrow.’ She moved to go back into her adjoining office, and then turned. ‘The correspondence you wanted, it’s on your desk.’
The telephone began to ring. Miss Crawford turned to answer it.
Chapter Nine
Sykes, armed with millboard and list of keyholders, waited in the reception area. The locksmith cycled through the gates at 9.00 a.m., took off his bicycle clips and dusted down his trousers.
He was a cheerful man by the name of Malcolm Phelan, in his early forties with dark hair and light blue eyes. He perked up on hearing Sykes’s suggestion about the need for certain parts of the premises to carry warning notices.
Mr Phelan was a man of ideas. ‘What you want is a “No Smoking” sign by the stables and on the door to the mill room. You want “Danger Keep Out” on the door of the fermentation room.’
As they walked from one set of gates to another, Mr Phelan warmed to his theme. ‘There should be signs for each department. Mr W Lofthouse certainly ought to have his name on the door.’
Sykes took the locksmith to entry points into the building and to the doors that connected with the Falcon.
It was 11 a.m. when the locksmith left the brewery premises, promising Sykes that he would have his recommendations and prices to Mr Lofthouse by Friday and could start work on Monday if his quotation was acceptable.
Sykes felt pleased with the morning’s work. He went back into the building.
Sergeant Moon was coming down the stairs as Sykes went up.
‘Ah, Sykes, just the man. Where’s Mr Lofthouse? He’s not in his office.’
Murder is in the Air Page 5