‘Wait here for the ambulance, Phil. I’ll break the news to Mrs Finch.’
Phil and I waited in silence. I need not have stayed but it seemed right that we should be there, to see Joe brought out.
The ambulance drew into the yard alongside the fire engine. Two stretcher bearers climbed out of the back.
‘Where will you take Mr Finch?’ I asked.
The older one answered, ‘Harrogate Infirmary.’ He put on a mask.
The younger one said, ‘It’ll be Ripon. Pathologist is there today.’
The driver turned the ambulance around, ready to leave the way he had entered.
Phil and I went to stand by the door. After a few minutes he went inside saying, ‘I’ll hold it open for them.’
Joe’s body, covered by a heavy tarpaulin, was lifted into the ambulance. One of the bearers sat alongside the stretcher. The other went round to sit beside the driver. Slowly, the ambulance drove out of the gate and into the lane. It came to a sudden halt. A woman had leapt out in front of it.
She had dark curly hair and wore a blue dress with a square neck. Now that woman was bashing the vehicle’s bonnet hard enough to crack her knuckles.
‘I want to see my husband! You’re not to take him away.’
I hurried towards her. The driver was visibly shaken. He clutched the steering wheel and stared ahead. His mate got out of the passenger seat and walked round.
The woman was sobbing now and shaking. I put my arm around her. Where was everyone? Who had let her come rushing from the house like this?
The ambulanceman spoke softly. ‘Sorry, Mrs Finch. We have to take Mr Finch to hospital.’
She made a bitter sound from somewhere deep inside, a cry of rage or pain. ‘To make him better?’
‘We have to find out how he died. You’ll be able to see him.’
‘I want to be with him. You’re not taking him from me. The sergeant said I could see him.’
‘He didn’t mean right now. We have us orders, ways we have to do things. It’s laid down.’
‘I’ll lay you down if you don’t let me see my Joe.’
Another woman appeared, perhaps a neighbour. She stood watching the exchange between the ambulanceman and Mrs Finch, who was now setting up a chant. ‘You will not take him, you will not take him.’
In time with Mrs Finch’s chants, the neighbour began a slight rocking movement as if preparing herself for action.
A look of relief came over the ambulanceman’s face when he saw Eleanor and two other women approaching.
The driver opened the door and got out. ‘This isn’t seemly, Mrs Finch. Let us do our job.’
Mrs Finch would not give in. ‘What good’s a hospital now? Bring him home.’
I put my hand on Mrs Finch’s arm. She shook me off.
‘Mrs Finch, I believe the driver will wait five minutes. Come with me to my car. We’ll follow him.’
The driver hesitated.
‘Please, you will wait?’ I asked.
He nodded. ‘Very well.’
Eleanor had looked suddenly helpless. Now she stood straight and determined. She said, ‘Mrs Finch, go with Kate. I’ll make sure the ambulance driver waits for you.’
* * *
The ambulance came to a stop outside an imposing brick building with the word “Ripon Dispensary” embossed above the entrance.
The driver’s colleague stepped from the vehicle and came towards us.
He touched his cap. ‘We’ll be taking Mr Finch to another entrance, for privacy. Please go through the main entrance. I’ll let it be known you are here. Someone will come and find you.’
Mrs Finch and I climbed the few steps to the entrance. There was a waiting area with benches, and beyond that a reception desk. ‘You sit down, Mrs Finch,’ I said. ‘I’ll let them know we are here.’
She sat down quietly without a word, still in a state of shock. I took a packet of mints from my bag.
It ought to have been chocolate. It ought to have been a soft-boiled egg in her best egg cup. She ought to be wrapped in a blanket and cocooned by friends and family. Now I wondered had it been a mistake to bring her here, but there had seemed no alternative in the face of her determination.
I knew that Dr Miller was the pathologist at Harrogate and that there would not be another pathologist in this area. I had worked with him for several months during the war. When I asked about him at the reception desk, the porter told me he was on duty. The porter agreed to pass on a message to Dr Miller.
‘Please tell him that VAD Nurse Kate Shackleton is here with the widow of Joseph Finch, and would Dr Miller kindly come and speak to Mrs Finch.’
We sat for what seemed an age before Dr Miller appeared. He came into reception, looking hardly a day older than when I saw him last.
‘Mrs Shackleton.’
We shook hands. ‘Mrs Finch, this is Dr Miller. Dr Miller, Mrs Finch would like to see her husband.’
I stepped aside.
Dr Miller sat down beside her. He reached for her hands, not to shake hands but to squeeze her hands in his. ‘Do you mind if we speak here, Mrs Finch?’
‘I want to see him.’
‘You will. I’m sorry that your husband has died. I’m going to try and find out how he died, so we will keep him with us a little while, if that is all right with you.’
‘How long?’
‘No longer than necessary.’ A junior doctor hovered nearby. Dr Miller waved him closer. ‘Would you please take Mrs Finch to see her husband.’
She came to attention, so ramrod straight that it must have hurt. Had she asked me to go with her, I would have done so. She did not ask. This was something she must do alone.
When she had gone, Dr Miller turned to me. ‘Did she or anyone mention Mr Finch having been in a fight this morning?’
‘No.’
‘He’s been in a scrap, very recently. Until I do a thorough examination, I won’t know whether he was killed by a blow or blows or by the CO2 from the fermentation room. It’s better that she sees him now.’
Chapter Twenty-Nine
We drove back to Masham in silence. It would have been difficult to talk above the noise of the car engine. I parked outside Mrs Finch’s house. In turning off the engine, I switched on a deep and spreading silence.
‘Would you like me to come in, Mrs Finch?’
She shook her head.
‘Or fetch someone?’
‘No.’
‘What can I do to help?’
‘Find out what happened.’ Mrs Finch fumbled with the car handle.
‘Let me.’ I got out and went to the passenger door, opened it and held out my hand.
Mrs Finch did not take my hand but climbed out, saying, ‘Thank you.’
A next-door neighbour appeared and stepped out. ‘Yvonne, can I come in?’
‘I’m best alone.’ Mrs Finch went inside and closed the door.
The neighbour stayed put. ‘That’s her,’ she said. ‘Independent. Needs no one, even at a time like this.’
‘Do they have children?’
‘None of their own. They adopted a lad. He joined the army. Of course, there was always a lame duck on the scene, but that was Joe’s doing. A three-legged dog, a bird with a broken wing, two rickety kids that come for Sunday dinner.’ The woman seemed reluctant to go back into her own house. She turned to me. ‘Them kids will be here tomorrow, expecting a dinner and a pony ride.’
As I prepared to drive away from the house, the neighbour opened the Finches’ letter box and called, ‘When those two bairns come for their dinner tomorrow, send them in to me.’
I thought that Sunday dinner would be the last thing on Mrs Finch’s mind.
The loud ringing of the bell broke the quiet of the evening, followed by an even louder voice. The town crier stood in the centre of the square, ringing his bell, breaking the news that most of the town must now know. ‘Oyez, oyez! It is Saturday evening, eight o’clock. Joseph Finch is dead. If you have anythin
g to say pertinent to the death of Mr Finch, go now to the police station. May Joseph Finch rest in peace. God save the king!’
Chapter Thirty
I parked the car on the lane and walked down the bumpy track past the allotments. Miss Boland’s cottage was in darkness, but a welcoming light shone from Oak Cottage.
I walked slowly to the door, feeling suddenly exhausted.
Harriet came to take my coat. ‘Auntie, you look done in. Mrs Lofthouse said that you drove Mrs Finch to Ripon.’
‘Yes, she wanted to see her husband.’
‘What happened?’
‘An accident in the brewery,’ I said. ‘I can’t really say any more.’
Harriet was about to ask a question and then thought better of it. I made for the washroom. Everyone went so quiet that they must have heard each splash as I washed my face.
When I reappeared, Harriet set a plate of food on the table for me, and a glass of Miss Boland’s dandelion wine. I took a drink. It tasted as horrible as it smelled. Fortunately, I had a small bottle of brandy in my trunk. Harriet brought it down and Miss Boland and I had a glass.
Miss Boland asked about Yvonne Finch, and thought she ought to go see her.
With a sprained ankle, Miss Boland was in no state to go anywhere.
I said, ‘A neighbour offered to go in, but Mrs Finch said she would rather be on her own.’
Ruth was subdued. I felt sorry for her. This ought to have been a triumphant week for her. Instead, there were two deaths of people she knew and cared about.
When there was nothing more to say about what had happened, and they got little out of me, Miss Boland tried to divert us with a forced gaiety. It clearly suited her to be centre stage, and I believe the brandy helped. She talked about how, in the days when her father lived in this cottage, Joe Finch and Phil Jopling used to come here and play cards. In those days, when she took a break from touring with the Merry Opera Company, she had occasionally been persuaded to sing on a Friday night in the Falcon. When it came to closing time, Miss Boland’s father, Harry, would bring Joe Finch, Phil Jopling and Slater Parnaby back here to play pontoon.
At the sound of her father’s name, Ruth flinched. She must hate the thought that he had been here, in what was now her refuge. She seemed to glance about the room, as if to see whether her father might be lurking here still.
This did not escape Miss Boland. ‘Your father was a poor loser, Ruth.’
Miss Boland then took a pack of cards from her pocket. ‘We can either sit here and be miserable, or we can play a game of cards and drink to the memory of Joe Finch and my father.’
Playing cards was the last thing on my mind, but when she put it that way, we all agreed to join in. Perhaps it would be good for Harriet and Ruth to be diverted.
Miss Boland knew that there was a button box in the top drawer. She asked Ruth to bring it out. We were each supplied with sufficient buttons for high stakes.
Between games, Miss Boland told us a story. She told of touring America. She described arriving at a little town in Arizona called Holbrook. The opera company enjoyed a fine welcome, but she and her friend Julia were not comfortable about going out at night. They stayed in their hotel. One of the waiters taught them to play poker.
There was a heavy knocking on the door. Ruth bit her lip and gripped her cards so tightly that her hand turned white. ‘It’s the old man.’ Her shoulders stiffened. She wanted to turn around, and began to move, but then stayed still.
‘Do you want to be out of the way?’ I asked.
She shook her head. ‘He knows I’m staying here.’
I went to the door.
Slater Parnaby reeked of beer. He stared at me, and then laughed. ‘So, Mrs Lofthouse has brought in reinforcements.’ He was carrying a hessian bag. ‘You forgot some stuff, Ruth.’
Miss Boland reached for her walking stick.
To defuse the situation, I invited him in. ‘Come in, Mr Parnaby. There’s tea in the pot, and cake from the garden party.’ I stepped aside to make room.
He crossed the threshold and looked about. ‘Are you hiding George? He’s the only man in Masham not queuing up at the police station to give his alibi for this morning.’ He threw the hessian bag at Ruth.
She caught it.
‘If you’ve left any more of your female rubbish behind, it’ll go on the fireback, unless you want to pay me storage.’
I closed the door behind him and went to stand by Ruth. ‘Do sit down, Mr Parnaby.’ I indicated the chair by the fire. Here was a man with a short fuse. If I behaved normally, that might rub off on him. If I treated him as a guest, he may behave like one.
He did not sit down. Whatever I had done seemed to rub off on Ruth. She spoke calmly, putting the hessian bag by her chair. ‘Thanks, Dad.’
‘For what? For looking after you all your life, until you have a splash of luck and folk who think you’re summat you’re not?’ He leaned in close to Ruth. ‘Do they know you’ve a terror of rats? Has Miss Celia Songstress Boland told you that there’s rats in the thatch? You’ll hear them scratching. They smell fear.’
That was enough. ‘Mr Parnaby, if you can’t be civil, please go.’
‘Oh, I will. In a minute.’ He stared at Miss Boland. ‘You! Still playing cards I see. They better watch out.’ He sniffed, and sniffed again, just like our bloodhound does but with a great deal more noise.
He was seriously drunk. If he did sit down in the chair by the fire, he would fall asleep. We would have to carry him home, or into the nearest ditch.
He circled the room, sniffing, stopping by each person around the table, starting at Ruth, then Harriet, pausing behind Miss Boland, giving a big sniff moving his head from side to side. He snatched Miss Boland’s hand of cards and looked at them front and back. He leaned over her. ‘These are just the same cards you played when you took my money. I thought you’d won fair and square. They’re marked. I was set up.’
Finally, he came to me sniffing.
I stood still and sniffed back. He smelled of beer and body odour. There was something else, something that I had once put a name to, and then forgotten.
‘What can you smell?’ he asked.
‘Loneliness, even so it’s time for you to go home, Mr Parnaby.’ I walked to the door and opened it.
He let out a scoffing laugh, and then moved back to Ruth, grabbing her shoulder. ‘I can scupper you. I can scupper the lot of you. You’ve prize money. Where’s my share?’
She refused to flinch. ‘Dad, there’s no need for this. I’ll give you a month’s rent and board, because I’m not coming back.’
‘You’re like the rats leaving the sinking ship. Well no one sinks Slater Parnaby. Think on that. If I go down, two people in this room go down before me.’
I felt a chill. Go down for what? Had he killed Joe Finch? Parnaby and Finch had been at each other’s throats on the day of the trussing. It was a mistake to let Parnaby in, but I did not want him to think I was afraid. There was a torch on the dresser, and a cast iron poker on the hearth. I would not hesitate to use either.
He leaned close to Ruth and whispered to her.
She turned white.
‘Ignore him, Ruth,’ I said. With my eye on the poker, I opened the door. ‘It’s growing dark, Mr Parnaby. Time you went home.’
‘Goodnight, ladies.’ He left.
What had he said to Ruth that made her so afraid?
Chapter Thirty-One
Walking back home through the square, Slater Parnaby spat at the Market Cross. They thought they could slip away, one by one. First Annie did a flit. Then Ruth, driven to Scarborough on Thursday with the Lofthouses after she’d slipped from under his nose, moving into Oak Cottage with people who didn’t belong. Moving in next door to someone who called herself an opera singer—a cheating gambler who gave cut-price piano lessons and stole from his allotment in her spare time. George didn’t come back with the rest from Scarborough, no sign or light of him.
Who was blamed whe
n Annie slung her hook? He took the blame. But Annie was the one who made him mad, just giving that certain pained look that got his goat and made him want to knock her block off.
George, threatening, thinking he’s his own man, thinking he’ll walk out of the brewery and into something better. Well, much he knows of what’s out there in the world. If he goes, who’ll be blamed?
Who was blamed after the trussing? He heard them. They meant him to hear. Sniffer Parnaby went too far. George didn’t deserve that sort of trussing.
He wasn’t going to pretend to be deaf. ‘My lad has to be able to take it. Some folk will have a hard life and it’s best they know it.’
Slater couldn’t pinpoint the moment when everyone turned against him. He was never liked but always respected. He didn’t care whether people liked him or not. He had his moments. Complimented for his marrow, his wife, his gent of a son, his bonny daughter—never for himself. No one cared that he fought. He did his duty. Slater knew he was a wronged man. There wasn’t a man here didn’t keep his wife in order, one way or another. There was no better cooper than himself, but George ran a close second, and who has he to thank for that? His old dad.
They never liked him in this snot-nosed town. He’s an incomer. But he married Annie, and they’d say, Nah then, Slater. Hey-up, Parnaby. Once they knew his talent, it’d be Hey-up, Smeller. Hey-up Sniffer. As if he’d stopped existing, except for his nose. Now his own workmates looked through him, and him the head cooper. It was Finch’s fault. He’d no business taking George back to his house for his wife to bring out the bath. He’d no business bandaging George’s hand as if that hammer did him any real damage.
The trussing gave them all an excuse to come out in the open and show they hated him. Even his own workmates, Tim and Barney. Of course, they said nothing. They knew better than to open their mouths and spit poison into the cooperage. Toffee nose Mr Head Brewer had to poke his measuring stick in. ‘There’s no written law that a lad should stay on when he’s out of his time, but they do. Unless they’ve a father like you. No one would blame George if he packed his bags.’
Murder is in the Air Page 15