Murder is in the Air

by Frances Brody

  ‘George is going nowhere. You know nowt.’

  No one understood what Private Slater Parnaby had been through. No one knew. Bit by bit they were robbing him of his family. Someone helped Annie to skedaddle, and he had a good idea who. Joe Finch, that’s who. Well, what goes around comes around. Finch was dead. There’d be another body before this game was over.

  They came for Ruth, though, they wanted Ruth. Mrs Lofthouse, posh bitch who could lose Slater his job, she’d shipped in that smart-looking woman and the young lass to pal up with Ruth. Ruth shouldn’t have fallen for them. She packed her bag as nice as ninepence, kissed him on the cheek and said it was only until after the Brewery Queen finals. But she didn’t say when that was. Slater knew how much money Ruth had won. He would have his share, in cash or blood.

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  It was late when I walked Miss Boland back to Elm Cottage. She used her stick and leaned on my arm.

  She had seemed so very independent earlier, but now allowed me to help her up the stairs. She decided that she would have a couple of aspirins after all. I felt angry with Parnaby. We had all been letting the card game keep sadness at bay and enjoying each other’s company. He came in and threw a dirty wet blanket over everything. I had been too kind to him, and yet how else could I have dealt with an unpredictable stranger? Eleanor was right. Ruth would be much better away from him, although a mile out of the town was not far enough. Apart from Miss Boland, we were quite isolated.

  I waited until Miss Boland had undressed and put herself to bed, and then went up with a glass of water and aspirins. The room smelled of lavender and camphor.

  She took two aspirins. ‘You can ask me about Ruth’s father if you want to.’

  ‘We’re all tired.’

  ‘Slater Parnaby was the other card player party at our Friday night gatherings. We were a regular little gambling den, with my father and Joe Finch and Phil Jopling.’

  ‘You didn’t play?’

  ‘I was banker and also the one who made sandwiches and poured home-made hooch.’

  ‘I expect they enjoyed it.’

  ‘It wasn’t for enjoyment. Parnaby was notorious for leaving his wife short of money. There’s plenty of men do that, but this was in the extreme. His weakness was his love of gambling. We’d bring him back here, give him a few drinks, and cheat him blind until my father, Joe and Phil got housekeeping money to give his wife.’

  Picturing the scene made me smile. It seemed ridiculous that Parnaby could be cheated, week after week.

  ‘Did he never win?’

  ‘Occasionally, a small amount, to keep him keen.’

  ‘Did he never cotton on?’

  ‘Well you see, he always drank that drop too much.’

  ‘How long did that go on?’

  ‘Until Annie left him. He made a show of searching for her.’

  ‘When was this, how young were her children?’

  ‘George would have been twelve, Ruth eleven. It was one of those situations where Annie Parnaby believed her children would be better off without her, convinced that she was the one who triggered his rages. The grandmother came to stay. She was the only one who kept Parnaby in order when the madness came over him.’

  I wanted to ask more questions. Miss Boland looked tired. It doesn’t do to be prying without a good reason. My good reason was to be armed with knowledge, in case Ruth Parnaby needed more back up than Harriet could give. That made me press on.

  ‘Why did he walk about sniffing? That seems such an odd thing to do.’

  She shook her head. ‘He is a strange man. I blame it on the war.’

  ‘Does he bear a particular animosity towards you, or is it simply that Ruth has chosen to come and live next door?’

  She thought this over for so long it seemed she would not answer.

  ‘He eventually realised the card games were rigged. He’ll be examining those cards he snatched tonight. I brought playing cards back with me from America. There’s a pattern of tiny clocks on the back of the cards.’

  ‘Yes, I noticed.’

  ‘If you know how to read them, it will give you the suit of the card, its number and whether it is Jack, Queen, King or Ace.’

  Being cheated at cards would not be normally be a motive for murder, but Parnaby had an excess of rage. I wondered where he was early this morning when Joe Finch died.

  Miss Boland began to cough. I passed her the glass of water.

  She sipped several times. The coughing fit left her hoarse, but there was something more she wanted to say.

  ‘Parnaby is no fool. When Annie left and he took over the housekeeping, he soon realised the pittance he handed over would not have put food on the table. Annie lacked the courage to escape him without help. He liked to control her. He’ll know she had help to leave.’

  I thought about the card games. ‘You and your father helped her?’

  ‘We didn’t have access to a horse and cart, or the contacts to find somewhere for her.’

  ‘Joe Finch helped her get away?’ I could just as easily have said Phil Jopling, but I somehow had Joe Finch as the leader in that pair.

  ‘I’m sure of it,’ Miss Boland said. ‘Yvonne Finch knows, but she won’t tell.’

  It struck me that Annie may not have gone far away, where she knew no one. It suddenly made sense that Joe had a fiddle on the Bedale round. Bedale was about six miles away. If Joe was still helping Annie, and Slater found out he’d been made a fool of, that would be a powerful motive for revenge.

  I made sure Miss Boland was comfortable and her glass of water within reach. ‘Goodnight, Miss Boland.’

  ‘Goodnight, Mrs Shackleton.’

  I went downstairs and let myself out. As I was walking along the path, I thought I ought to tell her not to trouble about lighting the fire tomorrow. One of us would do it for her.

  As I opened the door to go back in, I heard her crying, quietly at first, and then great racking sobs that left me feeling helpless. She had held back her grief at Joe Finch’s death until she was alone.

  Quietly, I let myself out, not wishing to intrude.

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  I slept fitfully that Saturday night. Disjointed dreams took me down a set of stairs into a dark place where there was no way out. I woke with the dream image of a body. It was not Joe Finch, but a young soldier in a stinking trench. In the dream, it seemed as if it was my task to bury him. The face on the soldier was Slater Parnaby’s. For moments, I lay there frozen in terror, and then came properly awake in the distempered room with blue curtains and the sound of the dawn chorus coming in through the open window.

  I went downstairs. It was too early for breakfast, but it gave me something to think about. Under other circumstances, the thought of frying bacon and cracking eggs in someone else’s house would give me a holiday feeling.

  The ashes from last night’s fire were still warm. I poked them through the grate, setting cinders aside. Everything was to hand for fire-lighting, knots of newspaper, chips of wood, a small log, good coal. I boiled a kettle and made a pot of tea for one. It was too early to expect Harriet and Ruth to raise their heads from the pillow.

  By the time I washed and dressed, Harriet and Ruth were moving about upstairs. Ruth had said she wanted to go to church. I expected Harriet would go with her.

  Our water pail was empty. I carried it out to the well and attached it to the hook. It was a pleasure to find something new and practical to learn and to feel a sense of achievement as the half full pail came up to meet me.

  I glanced across at next door. Miss Boland must have been up early and feeling strong. There were a few pieces of washing on her line. Good thing Mrs Sugden was not here. She would be outraged at the sight of washing hanging out on a Sunday.

  I went through the back door and deposited the pail in the scullery. There was a rattling noise from outside and I realised it was the milkman with one of those floats they all aspire to. I picked up our can and walked out to the gate
with it.

  The milkman was a middle-aged man, wearing a brown smock and a tweed cap. He gave me a cheery greeting.

  ‘We forgot to put the can out last night,’ I said, handing it to him.

  ‘I’ll fill it since you’re here, but there’s no need to bring it to the gate. My customers just leave the jug or can on the doorstep.’ He filled the can. ‘How long will you be here?’

  ‘I’m not sure, perhaps a few more days.’ Joseph Finch’s death meant Sykes and I may be here a while yet. ‘And what do I do about paying you?’ I asked.

  ‘I knock on the door on Saturday morning, though if you’re gone, you’re gone. The Lofthouses will settle up.’

  When the milkman had rattled his way back up the track, I made more tea and took a cup next door to Miss Boland, along with a piece of cake. She had gone back to bed, though had cleared her grate and left paper, wood and coal in the hearth, ready to light a fire. We chatted, and I advised her that bedrest was the best thing for her today. She did look tired.

  Harriet and Ruth were still upstairs. I called out that there was fresh tea in the pot and leftovers from the garden party and that I was going to take a walk.

  I hoped a walk might help me think clearly about the events of the day before.

  It was no surprise that the milk float rattled. The track to the lane was uneven, with deep ridges where carts had trundled through on muddy days, leaving the ground to dry into bumpy shapes and holes. It surprised me that it had taken Miss Boland so long to twist her ankle. It could be a regular occurrence along here.

  In spite of the early hour, Mick Musgrove was at work, raking a patch of his allotment. Beyond him, on the next allotment, was Slater Parnaby. Too close for comfort, but out of hearing. Mr Musgrove waved to me and walked across, treading carefully between narrow mounds of earth. ‘Potatoes,’ he said, and blew his nose.

  ‘You two are out early,’ I said.

  ‘We allus are,’ Mr Musgrove said, ‘me most days, Slater on the days he’s not working in his cooperage.’

  ‘Mr Parnaby works his allotment on Saturdays?’

  ‘The sergeant asked just that question. Slater was here from just after dawn. Believe me, if I thought he’d done for my Miss Crawford, he wouldn’t have lived long enough to do for poor Joe Finch. He wouldn’t be planting them King Edwards just now. He’d be under them. People don’t think it, but Slater’s a good lad at heart. Gives me a hand.’

  ‘Did anyone else go by?’ I held my breath, wanting the answer to be no.

  ‘Only the milkman, coming back up from leaving your milk.’

  As I turned away, I forgot to watch my step and almost stumbled. I tried to shake off the memory of yesterday, the sight of Joe Finch, the horror of the fermentation room and my disturbing dream, but it was as if Joe Finch’s ghost joined my walk, ready to trip me at every step.

  Turning into the lane, I spotted Sykes, walking towards me. For the eeriest moment, I felt Joe Finch had set Sykes and me on a path towards each other so that we could find justice for him.

  ‘Mrs Shackleton, you’re up early. I just thought I’d come and see if your curtains were open.’

  ‘Shouldn’t you be having breakfast with Rosie?’

  ‘After what happened, Rosie insisted on going home. I’m just back from taking her for the early bus from Ripon.’

  We fell into step and walked along the lane. ‘That is such a shame about Rosie,’ I said. ‘You’ll have to make it up to her, when this is all over.’

  ‘She said to tell you goodbye, and that she enjoyed the garden party. After what happened, she would have gone home last night, if I hadn’t spent so much time with the Lofthouses.’

  ‘How are they?’ I asked.

  ‘Devastated.’ Sykes kicked a stone. ‘Mr Lofthouse came up with the mad idea that Joe took his own life, out of shame at being found out in a fiddle.’

  ‘It would have been a horrible death to choose. Besides, I don’t think Joe would be ashamed of fiddling. He probably saw it as a redistribution of wealth.’

  ‘Because he looked out for the homeless family?’ Sykes asked.

  ‘Yes. He also helped Mrs Parnaby by cheating Slater at cards and giving Mrs Parnaby the money she ought to have had for housekeeping.’ The image came into my head of Joe in his working clothes, telling me about his dislike of James Lofthouse. ‘What if when Joe was out on Ripon deliveries, he also spotted James and became suspicious. It would be inconvenient if word got out that he and Rory were up to something.’ Even as I said it, I knew my speculation was unlikely. Unless Rory had stood bail, James was still in custody. It would have been up to Rory to silence the drayman.

  Sykes doubted James’s and Rory’s involvement. ‘James panicked about Miss Crawford. She was the real threat. Besides, he and Rory knew the dangers of the fermentation room. Rory wouldn’t have taken that risk, especially with someone who might have got the better of him.

  At that moment, the sun came from behind a cloud. It was as if the sudden change in the light brought a revelation. I said, ‘Nobody who knew about the dangers of the fermentation room would have killed Joe that way. It was someone who didn’t know what they were doing.’

  ‘Not necessarily,’ Sykes said. ‘If there was a fight, men don’t always think straight. It could be that Phil Jopling was tired of being Joe’s henchman. Phil was the only other brewery worker on duty yesterday.’

  ‘Not Phil,’ I said. ‘He’s loyal to Joe. If he fooled me yesterday, he deserves to be playing Iago in some top production.’

  A gentle breeze blew up. A solitary magpie alighted on a branch.

  Sykes said, ‘You’re probably right. From what little I saw of Phil Jopling, he seems a follow-my-leader sort of chap, and Joe was his leader.’

  We had walked into the town and were now close to the church.

  The gates stood open. Strange how the atmosphere around us changed as soon as we entered the grounds.

  There is something about the tranquillity of a churchyard that stops time. St Mary’s is a solid and ancient church with a fine steeple. The bells were chiming for the early service. There may be worshippers in there now, praying for the repose of Joseph Finch’s soul. More members of the congregation were arriving. On a day such as this it may be standing room only. I spotted Harriet and Ruth in their Sunday best.

  Sykes and I walked along the path.

  We paused at the far side of the churchyard. Beyond lay a long, fallow meadow.

  Sykes pointed. ‘The man I saw with the pony, he was walking away from the town, over there, on the far side of the meadow. I wasn’t close enough to get a good look at him or the pony.’

  ‘You said he was the wrong height for Finch.’

  ‘Yes. He was too short.’

  I could tell that Sykes now wished he had sprinted across. ‘You would have had no reason to go chasing after him.’

  ‘I know, but I wish I had. I described the man’s height and walk to Sergeant Moon, about as much as I could do from this distance. The sergeant had an idea he might be a horse dealer who’s had several brushes with the law.’

  ‘That may be the best lead so far. Dr Miller, the pathologist, said there were signs that Joe had been in a fight.’

  We watched a rabbit run across the churchyard.

  I said, ‘Unless Mr Musgrove is covering for him, Slater Parnaby is in the clear.’

  ‘Everyone’s first choice as killer,’ Sykes said, ‘but according to Sergeant Moon, Parnaby was on his allotment all day. He ate his midday meal at the Falcon, a regular Saturday habit, which reminds me that I haven’t had breakfast.’

  ‘Nor I, nor Rosie?’

  Sykes said, ‘She was keen to catch the bus. She asked the chef for a buttered teacake to take with her.’

  We turned and walked out of the churchyard, towards the town square. By the time we reached the Falcon, my stomach was rumbling. ‘I’m going to come in with you and have breakfast, Mr Sykes.’

  ‘Good.’ He held the door open.
‘And we’ll talk about something else.’

  ‘Do you think so?’

  ‘No.’

  I stepped inside. ‘I’ll leave Harriet and Ruth to sort out their own breakfast.’

  ‘They’ve hit it off?’

  ‘Yes.’

  Sykes led us to his favourite table in the corner, where he could have his back to the wall and see all. He said, ‘Mr Lofthouse has asked me to talk to you about my staying on until the inquest, to deal with the locksmith.’

  ‘I should think he wants you to do more than deal with the locksmith.’

  ‘He does and I’d like to help him get back on course, now that he has given up on the idea of James ever becoming his right-hand man.’

  ‘Then you must stay.’

  In a sudden moment of anxiety, I imagined William Lofthouse wanting to recruit Sykes to work with him. I have always valued Sykes for his ability, but it occurred to me that if Sykes departed, the Shackleton agency would not be the same.

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Harriet and Ruth decided they would go out. First, Ruth took some lunch to Miss Boland. Harriet wrote a note for her auntie. It made her feel excited to write it. She was in a strange place, on a lovely day, with a new friend.

  Gone with Ruth to the Druid’s Temple.

  They had just walked up the track to the lane when someone whistled. Ruth said, ‘That’s our George.’ She whistled back.’

  Harriet recognised the lad who was wheeling his bike. He was the boy she had seen in the newsreel, sitting on the front row for the contest in Scarborough, gazing at Miss East Riding. Ruth introduced George to Harriet, saying, ‘We’re both staying in Oak Cottage, with Harriet’s auntie. I’m not going back home, ever.’

  ‘Well neither am I. Richard’s mam said I can stay at their house for as long as I like.’

  This might be the first and last time Harriet could say, ‘I saw you on the pictures.’

  George groaned. ‘Don’t remind me! I looked so soppy.’

  ‘You did not,’ Harriet lied.

  ‘Where have you been all weekend?’ Ruth asked. ‘You could at least have put in an appearance at the garden party.’