Murder is in the Air

by Frances Brody

  ‘He planned to work at home this morning. He asked Miss Crawford to take correspondence there.’

  The sergeant looked suddenly brighter. ‘And did she?’

  The brightness dissipated as soon as Sykes said, ‘I haven’t seen her.’

  ‘Can we check, discreetly?’

  Sykes nodded. ‘Pigeonholes in the mailroom.’

  Sergeant Moon followed him. They walked to the ground floor, to the room just beyond the reception desk. There was no one on duty, only a bell inviting any visitor to press for attention. The mailroom was just beyond, also unattended.

  Mr Lofthouse’s pigeonhole was first in the row. Sykes glanced at the morning’s post, waiting to be collected. ‘Miss Crawford hasn’t come in yet.’

  The sergeant sighed. ‘I was grasping at a straw. A call came in from Ripon. Miss Crawford has been knocked off her bike.’

  ‘Is she badly hurt?’ Sykes read the answer in Sergeant Moon’s face.

  ‘I’m told she was killed instantly. The officer knew her, but I thought what if, by any remote chance, he was wrong.’

  ‘What about the driver?’

  ‘Didn’t stop, but we’ll find him.’

  Sykes waited. He understood the sergeant’s dilemma. It was one thing to break the news of a death when you had seen the body. People always hoped, hoped there was a mistake, hoped a blink would shut down a nightmare.

  The sergeant straightened his tunic. ‘I’m going out there now to see for myself, but what other woman would be cycling, wearing a red cape? I have to tell Mr Lofthouse first. Miss Crawford was such a good person, Sykes.’

  ‘Do you mind if I come with you to the Lofthouses?’

  ‘You should. Mr Lofthouse relied on her so much. He’ll need all the support he can get, until James comes back.’

  Sykes had grown tired of hearing about nephew James. The fellow was beginning to sound like a mythical beast.

  The sergeant and Sykes made the short walk to Barleycorn House in silence.

  Eleanor and William were in the conservatory. She was at a canvas, paintbrush in hand. He was reading the newspaper.

  Sykes hung back. ‘I’ll wait outside, until you break the news, Sergeant.’

  Sykes watched as the sergeant tapped on the door, entered the conservatory, and took off his cap. Eleanor turned to him.

  William was still behind his newspaper. It was a moment before he lowered it.

  Sergeant Moon, standing very still, began to speak.

  Eleanor dropped her brush.

  For several long seconds, they all stood still, and then Eleanor went to William.

  Moments later, the sergeant came out. He said to Sykes, ‘Mr Lofthouse has taken it badly. I suppose Miss Crawford was like a member of the family, someone you take for granted.’ He put on his cap. ‘Mr Lofthouse is upset about being short with her yesterday, something Miss Crawford wanted to say.’

  ‘That’s unfortunate. Mr Lofthouse is bound to blame himself for that.’

  ‘Did she say anything to you, Mr Sykes?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘I knew Miss Crawford so will identify the body, save Mr Lofthouse the distress.’

  Sykes took off his hat. ‘I’ll go in and see if there’s anything I can do.’

  ‘Right you are.’ The sergeant walked away.

  When Sykes went into the conservatory, Eleanor was holding William’s hand. The Times had fallen to the floor, its great sheets scattered.

  Sykes picked up the newspaper and straightened it. ‘I’m so very sorry for your loss, Mr Lofthouse, Mrs Lofthouse, so tragic and sudden.’

  He sat with them, while Mrs Lofthouse rang for the maid, asking for tea and brandy.

  When the maid came, Mrs Lofthouse hesitated. ‘I know what the doctor said, but drink the brandy, William. You need it, and so do I.’

  Sykes poured, refusing a drink himself.

  William picked up the glass. ‘People say someone was a treasure, but Miss Crawford really was.’ He took a drink. ‘I should have listened to her yesterday.’ He turned to Eleanor. ‘I always told you didn’t I, what a fusspot Miss Crawford could be sometimes. Now I’ll never know what she wanted to say.’

  His wife tried to reassure him. ‘She wouldn’t have minded. She knew you well enough, probably called you a grumpy old so-and-so more times than you called her a fusspot.’

  ‘I hope she didn’t suffer.’ William reached for the brandy bottle and topped up his glass. ‘I wish I could get my hands on the blighter that did it.’

  Eleanor said, ‘The driver must have been drunk or going at top speed. A sober motorist would have to be blindfolded to miss that great boneshaker with a basket on it. And didn’t she wear a red cape?’

  William nodded. ‘She’d been cycling that road since she learned to ride a bike.’

  ‘Darling, I’m going to leave you in the capable hands of Mr Sykes. I’ll go out there, lay some flowers, see what I can find out. And she has a cat. The least we can do is make sure someone is taking care of it or find it a good home.’ She stood.

  Lofthouse shifted in his seat and looked straight at Sykes, pulling a face and shaking his head. Sykes saw the panic in his eyes, and the unspoken message. Keep her away from the scene.

  Sykes was on his feet in an instant. ‘Mrs Lofthouse, the police will have cordoned off the road. I know how they work. Let me go.’

  Mrs Lofthouse glanced at her husband. ‘Very well, Mr Sykes. William and I will go later.’

  Lofthouse walked Sykes to the gate. ‘I’ll be waiting in the office for you.’

  Chapter Ten

  Along the quiet road, under a perfect blue sky, Sykes drove towards the scene of the accident. When he saw a police constable ahead, taking photographs, Sykes slowed to a crawl, and then pulled onto the grass verge. Beyond the constable with the camera, another PC was taking measurements of the road.

  The road was straight at this point, with good visibility, no overhanging branches, no twists or turns. Sykes got out of the car and walked towards the constables. As he drew closer, he looked to see what the constable was photographing. In the ditch beyond the verge, among grass, churned earth and crushed wildflowers, lay a black bicycle, the front wheel buckled, its basket broken. The grass was flattened where Miss Crawford’s body had lain. Sykes stared at a long blade of grass spattered with blood. He closed his eyes, surprised by the way that after all these years pity and rage could still make him tighten his fists to keep from shaking. He looked away. Poor Miss Crawford. Whoever did this must be held to account.

  Sykes waited until the PC put the camera back in its case and then introduced himself, adding, ‘Sergeant Moon broke the news. I’m here on behalf of Miss Crawford’s employer.’

  The young constable hung the camera around his neck. ‘I believe the lady worked at the brewery?’

  ‘Yes, as Mr Lofthouse’s secretary.’ Sykes could not yet bring himself to speak of Miss Crawford in the past tense. ‘Do you have any idea how this happened, and who was involved?’

  ‘Not yet. Whoever did it, didn’t stop.’

  ‘Who reported the incident?’

  ‘A telephone call came into Ripon station.’

  If the constable knew more, he wasn’t saying. Sykes asked, ‘Are we far from Miss Crawford’s house?’

  ‘She lived down the lane on the left. There’s a block of eight cottages. One of her neighbours, a Mrs Rigg, heard something and came out to look. She held herself together long enough to go to a house with a telephone, and then came back to wait for us. Mrs Rigg and Miss Crawford were friends. She told us that in the fine weather, Miss Crawford cycled to work. We got that out of her, and then the poor woman went to pieces. I had to half carry her back to her door.’

  ‘Which cottage?’

  ‘The third one down. But you won’t get much out of her, if that’s what you’re thinking, sir.’

  ‘You’re sure of the correct identity?’ Sykes knew that he was letting hope overcome experience.

  ‘
Our sergeant came with the ambulance to remove the deceased. He and his wife knew Miss Crawford because she was a regular attender at Ripon Cathedral.’

  ‘What now?’ Sykes asked.

  The constable indicated his colleague. ‘We’re to wait until the bike is taken away, and then back to the station.’

  ‘I can continue up the road?’

  ‘You can, sir.’

  ‘Thank you, officer.’

  As he drove by, Sykes glanced along the lane that led to the eight cottages. It was too soon to disturb Miss Crawford’s distraught neighbour. He was not entirely sure what he was looking for. Had the motorist driven on, or turned around and gone back the way he had come? Certainly, the car would be damaged. If the driver went through a town, or passed by farms, someone would notice a damaged vehicle. How and why had this happened? There was good visibility. A bike that size and a woman wearing a red cape could hardly be missed, unless the driver was asleep at the wheel.

  Sykes stopped the car when he saw a house on the other side of the road. It was a substantial stone-built dwelling, smoke coming from the chimney. The garden, full of tulips, sloped down to the road. This house had a telephone wire. There had been no wire to the eight houses nearer to the scene of the accident, if accident it was.

  As Sykes crossed and opened the gate, he suddenly thought of Rosie. She would love a house like this. Of course, she would love it for five minutes before hankering after neighbours, shops and a tram stop. The place was too isolated.

  He called hello to the little boy who lay on his tummy between beds of tulips, looking like a small dark elf. The child, of about four or five years of age, glanced at Sykes and then walked to the bottom of the garden and looked over the wall at Sykes’s car.

  Sykes’s knock on the door was answered by a woman, whom he assumed to be the little boy’s mother. She wore a flour-splattered pinafore over a blue and green sari, her dark centre-parted hair drawn back into a bun.

  ‘Sorry to disturb you, madam. I’m Jim Sykes, here for Mr Lofthouse of the brewery.’

  ‘Ah, and you have come because I made the telephone call.’

  ‘I thought it may have been you, Mrs—?’

  ‘Murthy.’ She sighed. ‘So very sad. Miss Crawford, such a perfect lady.’ She opened the door wider. ‘Come inside. Sit down over there.’ She waved towards the kitchen table. Sykes was surprised to be asked in. He remained standing.

  ‘Did you see what happened?’

  ‘Sit, sit!’ she ordered.

  He sat.

  ‘I saw nothing. I heard the sound. It is so quiet here and then something happens. Hardly any traffic. When I first came, a tractor went into the ditch. When I heard the sound this morning, I thought it was something like that, like the tractor. And then Mrs Rigg came running, which she should not do, all out of breath, and saying to call for help. I had to sit her down to get sense out of her.’

  ‘You telephoned the police?’

  ‘I did, and I telephoned my husband at the bank. He will speak to the police, and he will come home when he can.’ Mrs Murthy picked up a cup and poured from a small metal pan on the stove. ‘When the police call, I will give them tea.’ She placed the tea and a plate with two sticky buns on the table.

  Sykes thanked her and took a drink. He decided against saying that he was not with the police. The tea was sweet and milky, but oddly comforting. ‘Did you know Miss Crawford well?’ He bit into a sticky bun.

  ‘We met occasionally, at parish events, and at the Barleycorn garden party each year. Once a month, my son Jagadeep and I wave to the ladies, Miss Crawford and Mrs Rigg, as the car passes.’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘Miss Crawford and Mrs Rigg go each month to the Monday Oddfellows supper meeting in Ripon. My husband gives them a lift, that being his evening for attending the Philosophical Society lecture. To think, Jagdeep and I stood by the gate just two evenings ago, waving.’

  Sykes drained his cup. ‘Thank you for talking to me, Mrs Murthy, and for the tea.’

  She walked him out into the garden, glancing about for her boy, spotting Jagadeep down by the wall. ‘I will write our condolences to Mr and Mrs Lofthouse.’

  ‘Do you know whether Miss Crawford had relatives?’

  ‘She never spoke of family. Mrs Rigg would know, being her neighbour and knowing her much longer than I did.’ She turned away. ‘I left the pot on the stove. Goodbye, Mr Sykes.’

  ‘Goodbye, Mrs Murthy.’

  She called to the boy. ‘Jagadeep, come in now for your milk!’

  Sykes walked down the steep path.

  The boy met him at the bottom, by the gate. Shyly, he held out his drawing book. Sykes looked at a passably good sketch of his own pre-war Jowett. ‘That’s very good. You like motor cars?’

  The boy smiled. He turned back a page, ‘Police car.’

  ‘That’s good too. What else?’

  The boy turned back another page. ‘Ambulance. It went too quick.’

  ‘You’re good at drawing.’

  ‘Lots of cars.’ Jagadeep turned back another page. The car that filled the space was big, and square, with huge mudguards.

  ‘When did you see this one?’

  ‘Today.’

  ‘Is it your daddy’s car?’

  ‘Silly! His car is an Austin 7.’

  ‘Tell me about this car. You’ve drawn it big.’

  ‘Silly! It was big.’

  ‘Did it go fast?’

  ‘It went slowly. It stopped. It went slowly, and then fast.’

  Sykes’s fingers itched to take the child’s drawing book, but he could imagine the rumpus that would cause and decided against it. ‘That’s a very precious drawing book. Take good care of it.’

  ‘I will.’

  ‘Ta ta, Jagadeep.’

  ‘Ta ta, mister.’

  Clutching his book, the child went up the path. His mother was standing by the door.

  Sykes turned at the gate and waved.

  He drove back in the direction he had come. The young constables had gone from the scene. Seeing a police car at the top of the lane that led to the eight cottages, Sykes parked by the verge, and got out to stretch his legs. The hedgerow was occupied by a blackbird, a robin and butterflies. The blackthorn was in flower, the hawthorn in leaf. Sykes remembered a nature trip from school. The blackthorn flowers before it comes into leaf. He felt a stab of sadness. Miss Crawford would miss the best part of the year.

  Sykes suddenly thought that he ought to have taken his children out more, while they were still young.

  As Sykes was walking down the lane, Sergeant Moon was coming back up. Sykes knew the fine line between investigating for the Lofthouses and sticking his nose in police business. He was on good terms with the sergeant. Wanting to stay on good terms, Sykes fell into step with him.

  First, give Mr Moon what might be an important titbit, and then wait for what comes back.

  ‘Something you might be interested in, Sergeant.’

  ‘What’s that then?’

  ‘The Murthys’ little boy, Jagadeep, has a drawing book. If you drive up there now, he’ll bags you as his second police car of the day. He also has a crayoning of my car, the ambulance and a car earlier today that went slow, then stopped and then slowly and then quickly. That’s the vehicle that might be of interest. It takes up more of the page than his other drawings. It’s square, big mudguards, four doors, a badge on the front.’

  ‘Interesting.’ Sergeant Moon took out his notebook and pencil. ‘Any idea what make of car? How well does he draw?’

  ‘For a four-year-old, he is the Leonardo da Vinci of motorcars. He got the shape of my Jowett and the ambulance. The big car has the look of a Lanchester. The only person I know of driving a Lanchester is the Duke of York.’

  ‘We don’t get many Lanchesters around here.’ The sergeant made a note.

  It was the word ‘many’ that Sykes picked up on. If you don’t have many, you have some, or one. Sykes reckoned that if he was righ
t about the Lanchester car as deadly weapon, the sergeant would owe him a favour. It would be foolish to press a question of car ownership based on a four-year-old’s drawing. Sykes would bide his time for a possible pay off.

  For now, Sykes asked Mrs Lofthouse’s burning question. ‘Has anyone seen Miss Crawford’s cat?’

  They walked back up the lane together. ‘Mr Rigg is bed-ridden. Mr White Whiskers is keeping Mr Rigg’s feet warm.’

  When they reached the road, the sergeant climbed into his car and set off.

  Sykes walked to his own vehicle, a little way down the road. He stopped at the place of the Miss Crawford’s death and took off his hat. The mangled bike had been taken away, leaving its trace on the ground. He noticed now what escaped his attention earlier, red campion and cowslips.

  Miss Crawford fell among flowers.

  Chapter Eleven

  Sykes listened to his own weary steps as he climbed the stairs to the top floor offices of the brewery, making his way to the little office that had been set aside for him. He needed a few moments, to hang up his hat and coat, and to think.

  He unlocked the office door and stepped inside. He hung his coat on the hook and set his hat on the windowsill, gazing out across the yard towards the stables. The room felt stuffy. He tried to open the window, but it had been painted shut.

  As he turned from the window, he looked at the desk. The accounts files were gone. For a moment, Sykes felt a rising panic. He then remembered that Miss Crawford said she would collect them. That may have been one of the last things she did, but not quite the last. On the corner of the desk were manila folders of correspondence. Two folders bore the names of public houses, one folder the name of a brewery. Another was headed, AGM 1930. Sykes had asked the right question of Miss Crawford. She had obligingly slid slips of paper next to relevant letters.

  He sat down to read. It did not take long.

  Mr and Mrs Lofthouse were in the office, waiting for Sykes to return. He gave them an account of what he had seen and heard.

  Eleanor leaned forward. ‘Why on earth would the driver have gone on his way, not stopping to help, or to report the accident?’