‘Under the circumstances, I can tell you. It was not in connection with the will. Apparently, Mrs Lincoln told Miss Crawford that she saw, or thought she saw, James Lofthouse coming out of a public house in Ripon. Rory Tebbit, who works at the bank, is a friend of James. Miss Crawford thought Rory would know whether James really had come back and was perhaps planning to surprise his uncle.’
‘And had he come back?’
Mr Murthy showed no emotion other than a slight gesture, opening his palm. ‘I have always held Miss Crawford in high regard. It was uncharacteristic of her to ask such a thing. It was not my place to enquire into the comings and goings of others.’
‘Was that your answer to her, that it was not your place to enquire?’
He sighed. ‘I am afraid so. Do you think the matter was important?’
‘It is not my place to answer that question, Mr Murthy.’
‘Touché.’
‘But am I right in thinking that after today’s tragic incident you thought better of it, and you did ask Rory Tebbit about James and that Rory did not deny it?’ It was a shot in the dark, but Mr Murthy was surprised into admitting that I was right.
‘Did Rory say that James’s return was to be a surprise, for the garden party on Saturday, and did he ask you to keep the secret?’
‘How do you know that?’ Mr Murthy asked. ‘Why does it matter now?’
I knew that because Miss Merton had made enquiries based on James’s itinerary. She found out that James left Hamburg ten days ago.
It mattered because Miss Crawford’s shrewdness may have led to her death.
Chapter Sixteen
By the time I reached Masham, the brewery had closed for the night. I drove to Barleycorn house, a Georgian mansion built by one of William’s ancestors who wished to be close to his brewery yet enjoy extensive gardens and fine living.
A maid opened the door. She was clearly expecting me. ‘Mrs Shackleton?’
‘Hello, and yes.’
‘Mrs Lofthouse is in her sitting room, please come through. There’s a telegram for you.’
Eleanor almost fell on me with a cry of relief. ‘Am I glad to see you!’
‘Is something wrong?’
‘I was beginning to think you’d changed your mind, had a better offer! Let’s have an early supper. I’m guessing you haven’t eaten, because I haven’t.’
‘You’re right. I can eat whatever you put in front of me, and a glass of wine, too.’
‘Good.’
The maid was waiting for instructions. Eleanor said, ‘Yes to the food, Beryl.’
Eleanor waved towards the big comfortable chairs by the fire. ‘Kate, you must be frozen after that journey.’ She went to the cocktail cabinet.
‘Where’s William?’ I asked.
Eleanor poured wine. ‘I packed him off to bed. Honestly, Kate, I’ve never seen him so upset. He’s recovering from jaundice and he needs a holiday, but he daren’t take one.’ She handed me a glass of wine and sat in the opposite chair. ‘It was a stroke of genius, your suggestion that I visit Mrs Tebbit. Would you believe that she hadn’t seen the invitation to the garden party?’
‘Rory kept it from her?’ I asked.
‘How do you know about Rory?’
‘From Jim Sykes.’
‘You and he make a great pair, Kate. Scotland Yard watch out.’
‘Oh, they are watching out!’
‘Mrs Tebbit hadn’t seen the AGM correspondence either. Both are now in her diary. And I’m to call her Gwyneth, which is a great relief, Kate. I did wonder how people would take to me, second wife, younger woman, all that sort of thing.’
‘Then you’ve won over Mrs Tebbit.’
‘So it seems. I began by telling her about poor Miss Crawford of course, and how cut up we are. She hadn’t heard about Miss Crawford’s death. She was desperately sad, and so sympathetic. She knew her you see, not just from Barleycorn meetings but from the Cathedral. They both did all sorts of charitable works and fund-raising.’
Now Eleanor had made me curious. Given Mrs Tebbit’s penchant for bright shiny objects, I wondered whether she ever went home with a church candlestick up her sleeve, or whether religious institutions were exempt from her list of targets.
‘I’m so glad, Eleanor. She’s the right sort of person for a garden party, in spite of her tendencies. And I expect she understood why it must go ahead.’
‘She did. We went to the florist together. She helped me choose flowers, including a memorial bouquet and card for Miss Crawford that will have pride of place in the marquee.’
She suddenly spotted the telegram on the mantelpiece and stood to pick it up and pass it to me. ‘Here I am rabbiting on and this may be important. I’ll give you some privacy to read it. If it’s someone urgently requesting your presence, tell them they are too late.’
‘No need to leave the room, Eleanor. It will be from Mr Sykes.’
‘I’ll go tell William you are here. He will be very relieved that you are both on the case and he can stop worrying.’
I was right. The telegram was from Sykes. He confirmed the information Miss Merton had given me. He had also trawled his sources to find out more about the Tebbits and James Lofthouse. The telegram read,
Confirm James left Hamburg by ferry ten days ago STOP James’s father was William’s elder brother STOP Had the elder brother lived James would have inherited STOP Family connection between Lofthouse and Tebbit families long standing STOP James and Rory at school together
Sykes had not counted the pennies when sending the telegram. The STOPs made it absolutely clear that James must feel entitled to a much greater share of the brewery than his twenty percent. I had to read the last two sentences twice: Lofthouse and Tebbit families long standing connection. James and Rory at school together.
The sabotage of the beer, the lost orders, and possibly even Miss Crawford’s death formed a deeply worrying pattern. First bring your opponent to his knees, and then make the next move.
What would the next move be? I was now willing to believe that Mrs Lincoln had been correct when she thought she saw James in Ripon. James and Rory Tebbit were friends. If it came to a tussle on the Barleycorn board, James, Rory and Mrs Tebbit could outvote William and Eleanor.
What puzzled me was why James did not simply come home and wait to take over, as his uncle expected. It made no sense.
Eleanor came back. ‘William feels better after his rest. He’s now worrying about me.’
The maid wheeled in our supper on a trolley. ‘I thought we’d eat in here, Kate.’
‘Perfect.’
‘It’s steak and ale pie and chips. Just what I’ve been fancying.’
Beryl the maid beamed. ‘Well, Mrs Lofthouse, it’ll keep your strength up.’
I suddenly felt the need for another glass of wine. James wanted to take no chances. As Eleanor had made me aware when we met at the café in Ripon, she was pregnant. Her maid Beryl knew. Did James know that his young Aunt Eleanor was in that interesting condition? Uncle William might last another twenty years, leaving a son and heir who would come between James and his expectations.
Eleanor and I settled ourselves at tables by the fire and tucked into the food.
‘Eleanor?’
‘Kate?’
‘Are you keeping well?’
She beamed. ‘Very well, and I hardly show do I? My mother didn’t. Neither did my sister, for ages. Of course, depends what size dress I put on in the morning.’
‘Well I’m very happy for you.’
‘Thank you.’
I tried to make it sound the most natural question in the world. ‘Does James know about the baby?’
‘Yes. He was writing long, chatty letters before he ran out of ink. William is hopeless, leaves it to me to reply. It just slipped out, as things do when you write a chatty letter. He’s delighted for us.’
I could imagine that delight. James wanted to be in charge, and not just in charge but to regain what he saw a
s his rightful ownership. Eleanor and her unborn child could be in danger. I knew that a cottage was ready for me, but should I ask to stay here at Barleycorn House? Staying here, I could keep an eye on Eleanor. Staying at the cottage, I would be free to come and go, investigate, be a free agent. That is what I must do. But if anything happened to Eleanor, I would be to blame for not warning her. If I did warn her about James, she would not want to believe me. I had no evidence that James was involved in anything other than the subterfuge of planning a surprise visit home on the day of the garden party. Yet the catalogue of things going wrong at the Barleycorn pointed in that direction.
As we ate, it came to me that the best thing to do would be to get William and Eleanor out of the way.
‘Eleanor, a change of scene would do you and William a world of good.’
‘We have been going around in circles but he daren’t take time off, not now.’
‘Then break the circle, and it would be good for business. Support your brewery queen. Why don’t you and William drive Ruth to Scarborough tomorrow? Make it an overnight stay. Be ready to support her in the contest on Friday.’
Eleanor gave a small cry and put her hand to her mouth. ‘Oh no! That poor girl. I completely forgot. Miss Crawford was to take Ruth to Scarborough tomorrow, and Ruth hasn’t said a word about it.’
‘Do you feel up to making the journey?’ I asked. A couple of days would give Sykes and me time to find out more. We could be wrong in our suppositions about James, but I did not think so.
‘Yes, as long as I’m not sick in the car.’
‘Sit on a newspaper, take a basin, a bottle of water and a towel. If you’re prepared, you won’t be sick. Do go! Put yourselves and Ruth up in the best hotel. Walk by the sea. You’ll come back more able to face what life throws at you.’
‘If only we could.’
‘I’m here. Mr Sykes can be back in no time. Sergeant Moon will find the driver who killed Miss Crawford.’
‘Kate, you are a genius. William is fond of telling me what capable people he has at the brewery. Let them get on with the finishing touches for the garden party. I’ll go up and see him. Beryl will take a note round to Ruth about the change of plan.’
‘Tell William that you and the baby need a walk by the sea, that the baby needs to listen to the waves. If you say the outing is for William’s own good, he’ll put up an argument against going.’
‘You’re right, Kate! I’ll go to William now.’ Eleanor jumped to her feet but stopped at the door. ‘It’s a lovely idea but there’s too much to do!’
‘You’ve a housekeeper. You’ve Beryl. William will ask one of the men at the brewery to oversee setting up the marquees and so on. Everyone will pull their weight. You don’t organise your own art exhibitions. Think of it like that.’
‘True. I’d be pretty hopeless anyway. I’d drive everyone mad. And it will be so nice to come back and for everything to be done.’
‘That’s settled then.’ I stood. ‘All I need is the use of your telephone and the key to the cottage.’
‘Beryl will show you the way to the cottage. The phone is in the hall. Help yourself. Oh, and before you ask, we do have what passes as a secure telephone line. Our operator served in communications during the war. I’m ninety-nine percent sure she doesn’t listen. If she does, secrets will go to the grave with her.’
Fortunately, the telephone was in a private part of the hall, in its own telephone box.
I gave the operator my home number and waited for her to connect me. In spite of Eleanor’s assurances, I decided not to mention James Lofthouse’s name.
Mrs Sugden answered quickly. She must have been waiting for me to ring.
‘Any news?’
‘I’m finding my way about. Eleanor and I just had supper.’
‘What did you have?’
I told her. ‘Is Mr Sykes with you?’
‘Here and waiting. I’ll put him on.’
‘Hello!’ Sykes dislikes using the telephone and it shows.
‘Hello. I do believe our friend is back from the continent,’ I told him. ‘It’s not yet confirmed, but he was spotted.’
‘So he is up to something.’
‘He hasn’t found time to come to Masham yet.’
I could hear Sykes’s brain tick, as he decided how to phrase his next comment. ‘But do you think the returned prodigal managed to go out for a drive on Wednesday morning?’
I knew what Sykes was asking. The one person in the brewery whom Sykes had called his guide, Miss Crawford, knew the business inside out. She would have been a threat to James. William Lofthouse was blinded by family feelings and sentiment towards James, and Eleanor was the outsider who endorsed her husband’s feelings. Miss Crawford was the threat.
‘It’s possible that he did go out for a drive that day,’ I said. My stomach lurched as I pictured a car putting on speed as the driver saw Miss Crawford riding her bicycle.
‘Anything else going on?’ Sykes asked.
‘I hope Eleanor will persuade William that they should take Ruth to Scarborough tomorrow, and have a couple of days away from everything and everyone.’ I put the emphasis on everyone. My unspoken question, to Sykes and to myself was, Do I tell the Lofthouses that James is back?
I like to wait until a full story emerges before spilling bits and pieces of a tale, but it was a risk to withhold some vital piece of information. ‘There’s always the business of who knows what and when,’ I said.
There was a silence on the line, and then Sykes said, ‘I can see the yea and the nay. Do you have a feeling to go by?’
‘Yes, I do.’
‘That’s it then. Goodnight, Mrs Shackleton.’ It might have been my imagination, but I thought his ‘Goodnight’ sounded edged with anxiety.
‘Goodnight, Mr Sykes.’
Beryl was waiting for me to finish the call. ‘Shall I show you the way to Oak Cottage?’
I took the key. ‘Thank you, Beryl, but don’t trouble. Just tell me the way.’
‘Pass the school, go along the lane until you see the allotments. Turn left before the allotments. You’ll see two joined cottages. The first is Elm Cottage where Miss Boland lives. She’s the music teacher. The second is Oak Cottage, the one you want.’
Bearing in mind the axiom don’t trouble trouble until trouble troubles you, I may have left without saying another word to Eleanor, but at that moment she appeared at the top of the stairs. ‘Kate, William and I are all set for taking Ruth to Scarborough tomorrow. William will tell Mr Beckwith not to expect Ruth at the office. It was a ridiculous idea that she should spend a couple of hours in the wages office on the eve of her big day.’
‘That’s good.’
Eleanor came down the stairs to see me out.
As we got to the door, I said, ‘Eleanor there’s something I ought to tell you.’
‘You sound serious, Kate.’
‘Knowing how anxious William was to have James back, we did a bit of checking on James’s itinerary. James left Germany ten days ago.’
‘Never! What a monkey. I bet he’s in London, and not even a postcard.’
Don’t retreat now, I told myself. ‘That’s possible, although someone at the Oddfellows saw him in Ripon.’
‘That’s too bad if it’s true,’ Eleanor said. ‘He must know William needs him back. I wrote to him, saying your uncle is unwell and will be glad to see you back.’
That message may have encouraged James to come in for the kill. ‘Look on the bright side, Eleanor. If James does show his face tomorrow, intending to surprise, he’ll find out that you won’t always be here, holding the fort.’
I wanted to tell her to be careful, but that seemed alarmist.
We said goodnight.
As I left Barleycorn House, the town crier was on his rounds, calling the hour, announcing Miss Crawford’s death, and urging anyone with information to go to the police station. It was encouraging to see several people at the entrance to the police station, waitin
g to go in.
Chapter Seventeen
I followed Beryl’s directions, driving past the school and along the paved lane that led onto more bumpy ground. Soon it would be dark. Ahead of me I saw fenced allotments. I stopped the car, not wishing to risk damaging the tyres by driving down what Beryl had called a track. From the dicky seat, I took a blanket and lantern, as well as my overnight case. With a bit of luck, my trunk would be at the cottage.
A figure appeared, swinging what appeared to be an axe. As the distance between us closed, I saw that it was indeed an axe.
‘Hey-up!’ said a deep voice with a growl in it.
Hey-up does not come naturally to me. Good evening seemed too formal. ‘Hello,’ I said.
We were closer now. I saw that he was an old man in dark clothes.
He spoke. ‘I heard a motorcar engine.’
‘Yes.’
He raised his axe. ‘Where’s the spawn of the devil that drives it?’
‘You’re looking at her.’
‘Oh.’ He lowered his axe. ‘I don’t suppose you never ran no one down.’
‘I never did.’
‘Well then I’ll let you off.’ He kept a tight grip on the axe. ‘Where are you off to?’
‘Oak Cottage.’
‘I’ll carry your case. But if you hear of the man that did for Miss Crawford, tell them Mick Musgrove, that’s me, will see him into kingdom come.’
Mick Musgrove. I remembered the name. The axeman carrying my case was poet laureate of ale, whose rhymes Miss Crawford had taken down in shorthand and transcribed.
I let him carry the suitcase, imagining that this might encourage him to lay down his axe. ‘Pleased to meet you, Mr Musgrove. I’m Mrs Shackleton.’
‘How do. You’re to be staying next door to Miss Boland.’
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