Murder is in the Air

by Frances Brody

  ‘Mrs Finch, Kate Shackleton, I drove you to the Dispensary.’

  She ran her fingers through her hair. ‘Of course.’

  ‘I’m sorry to come so early. I took the chance that you would be up. May I come in?’

  She opened the door wider and stepped aside. ‘It’s a change to be asked.’

  The house had little by way of ornaments. Cupboards had been fitted either side of the range. A piano stood where another house may have boasted a china cabinet or dresser. Although it had no maker’s name, it was not the usual cottage piano that might be fitted into a small space, but almost five feet in width.

  She waved at the table. There were three pies, two dishes with lids, and a bottle of tonic wine. ‘Neighbours, kind neighbours.’

  ‘I haven’t brought anything.’

  ‘Good.’ She lifted an old cat from the cane chair by the fire and set it down in a plywood orange box lined with a battered cushion. She waved at the opposite chair. ‘Do sit down. Give me a moment.’

  She went to the piano and played a few notes, no more than fifteen seconds. She picked up a pencil, took a manuscript sheet from the music stand and made a note.

  ‘You’re composing?’

  She nodded. ‘I suppose you think it odd.’

  ‘Not at all. I’m impressed.’ Her husband dies on Saturday, on Wednesday she is composing. I could not remember what I did when I received the telegram about Gerald. Nothing so proper and solid as composing music.

  She shrugged. ‘Popular songs, that’s all. People know I tinker on the piano, play tunes. Nobody knows what comes of it.’

  ‘These popular songs, would I know any of them?’

  ‘Possibly.’

  ‘They’re published?’

  ‘Yes, I’m sent a copy of the sheet music. Four are recorded.’

  ‘You’re a real composer.’

  She smiled. ‘I wish that were true. I create ditties. While I’m doing that, I forget myself entirely, and that’s a blessing.’

  ‘I’ve never met a composer.’

  ‘Well now you have. It happened by chance. When we married, Joe did not want me to work. His pride, you see. He could keep a wife, even a wife who needed a piano.’

  ‘It’s good that you have that, that interest.’

  I guessed that song writing would not bring in a great deal of money. She would miss a man’s wage coming in.

  ‘I’ve kept it to myself. In a small town, it’s easy to become a “character”. I’d hate that.’

  She had nothing to fear from me and I told her so. ‘I’m not intending to be a permanent fixture here, so I won’t be pointing you out as you cross the square on market day.’

  ‘And now you know my secret vice, what is yours? What brings you to Masham?’

  ‘I’m here because I’m friends with Eleanor Lofthouse, staying at Oak Cottage for a few days. Otherwise, I am a private investigator.’

  ‘Never.’ Her eyes widened. ‘We must be on the same thought wavelength. Didn’t I say something odd when we arrived back from Ripon? I asked you to find out who murdered Joe?’

  ‘When you got out of the car, you said, “Find out what happened”.’

  ‘And will you?’

  ‘Something may be revealed at the inquest tomorrow.’

  ‘I can’t tell how I feel about that. Nothing is real.’

  ‘Everyone says your husband was a kind man.’

  ‘Oh, he was.’ Others had given examples of his kindness. She was not going to expand.

  ‘Joe let a homeless family sleep in the stables at the brewery. It occurs to me that if they slept there on Friday night, they may have seen something on Saturday morning.’

  She looked suddenly interested. ‘That’s possible.’

  It seemed to me unlikely that the parents would have come forward. They should not have been in the stables. ‘Do you happen to know where that family is living?’ I asked.

  She shook her head. ‘I’m annoyed with myself for not thinking to ask their children on Sunday. I hope they’ll come back. I told them to bring their mam and dad.’ She bit her lip and paused for a moment. ‘From what Monica said, I’m guessing they’re in the woods, probably beyond the allotments. She talked about what a fright Michael gave them, pretending he couldn’t get down from a tall tree.’

  ‘I’ll find them.’

  ‘And is investigating like writing music? The tune comes into your head and it won’t let you go.’

  ‘Something like that.’

  ‘You also believe someone killed Joe?’

  I said, ‘I truly have no idea what happened.’

  Yvonne Finch’s matter of fact manner set me wondering about her. Whoever was present when Joe died would have had to be ignorant of the dangers of the fermentation room. Joe was more likely to come home and talk about horses than about mash tuns and fermentation.

  Mrs Finch’s distress on Saturday was real and deeply felt but she could not be ruled out.

  ‘Have you told Sergeant Moon that you suspect foul play?’ I asked.

  She corrected me. ‘I don’t suspect it, I know it.’ She tapped her heart. ‘I know it here.’

  ‘Is there anyone who had a grudge against him?’

  ‘Slater Parnaby, but he knocked on my door, cap in hand, saying sorry for your loss, so I don’t think so. Besides, Parnaby has a grudge against almost everyone.’

  ‘What does the sergeant say?’

  ‘He tells me we must wait for the inquest.’

  ‘Was there anything unusual about that morning, any change of Joe’s pattern?’

  ‘Joe was a creature of habit. He went to the brewery stables at the same time every morning, before people started work. On Saturday, he was on the rota to do certain jobs in the brewery. But he would have been there anyway, to check on the horses. Someone would have known to lie in wait. I’ve gone over and over this, trying to work out who might have wanted to harm him. No one rises up before my mind’s eye. I can’t go that far.’

  ‘He clocked in at 6 a.m. Wouldn’t you have expected him back for breakfast?’

  She sighed. ‘The truth is, we had a falling out. That’s what makes it worse than horrible.’

  I sympathised, saying how upsetting, and that they would have been back to normal in another day. ‘He would have known that.’

  ‘No. We’d hardly spoken since I told him I wouldn’t go with him if he took the new job. He loved me, in his way, but what he wanted was someone who would cling to him, who would worship him, like that poor three-legged dog we had for years. I see now that I didn’t ask enough of him, apart from wanting him to whistle my tunes. If he could whistle my little ditty, as we called them, and make something of it, I knew it would work. We let each other get on with things. He was immersed in helping his damsel in distress. I steep myself in music. I dream up cheap and cheerful tunes. He blew pipe dreams of Joseph the rescuer.’

  ‘Annie Parnaby?’

  She nodded. ‘Sergeant Moon has known for years where Mrs Parnaby is hiding. It crossed my mind that I would be a suspect. The jealous wife wreaking vengeance on her husband. Only there wasn’t anything to be jealous about. Joe pitied Annie.’

  She went to the tap and filled a jug. ‘I just caught sight of those thirsty bluebells. Monica and Michael brought them when they came for their Sunday dinner. That’s a clue then. The wood beyond the allotments, people call it the bluebell wood.’ She poured water into the vase. ‘I’m glad you called. Thank you for Saturday. You didn’t fuss when I thought I must be going mad. You made sure I saw Joe, before the doctor did his bloody work. I could say goodbye to him. And now, you are not looking at me oddly because I don’t burst into tears.’

  This was my dismissal. She topped up the vase.

  I stood.

  Yet I had one more question. ‘If you don’t mind my asking, how did you and Joe meet? I believe he’s not from round here?’

  ‘My parents managed a pub in Whitby with a halfway decent piano. Joe came there on h
oliday before the war.’

  ‘How romantic. You fell in love?’

  I should not have assumed that. But I suppose it was because Whitby was where Gerald and I met.

  ‘No, we were both very young, and just friendly. We didn’t stay in touch. When the war came, he joined up. I did war work. I was sent to work on the land, but by some hook or crook found myself delivering barley to the Barleycorn. It was then decided that I should shovel barley into the ovens. Lucky me.’

  ‘Hard work,’ I said.

  ‘It was hot, and exhausting, but we were well paid.’

  Mrs Finch would know all about the dangers of the fermentation room.

  She sat down again. So did I, waiting for her to go on with her story.

  ‘I rented this house, with two other girls. When the war ended, so did our jobs. I wanted to stay in Masham. The piano came with the house. I’d learned to compose, and I’d found a collaborator.’ She gave a resigned gesture. ‘I knew my job was over when the men came back. Joe was one of them. A lot of the boys who’d worked with horses in the East Riding found their way to breweries.’ She smiled at the irony. ‘I had one week’s work, showing Joe and the others how to do the job I had just lost. He had nowhere to live. I could no longer pay the rent. We did not have a great deal in common, except loneliness and need. A single woman with a male lodger, well, you can imagine. Not exactly love at first sight. But we did care for each other, more than anyone might think.’

  She went to the cupboard. ‘Among the pies and bread and sausages, an old admirer brought me a bottle of whisky. Have a glass before you go?’

  ‘I will.’

  ‘Good. I thought you might.’

  She poured. We clinked glasses and said ‘Cheers,’ neither of us managing to conjure up a suitable toast. She sat down again. We drank our whisky. ‘You mentioned Joe was thinking about a new job. What was it?’

  ‘He had an offer of a job, at a racing stud, with gallops nearby. He wanted us to move. Even for him, seven years was too long a time to go on calling at the Bedale Bakery for a pasty and come home with a Turog loaf. He knew George and Ruth were shaping up at last. Annie would want to be with them.’

  ‘What did you say to the move to the racing stud?’

  ‘I said no. I need to be in a town, near a post box, and within reach of the piano tuner.’

  I stood to go. ‘I’ll let you get on with writing your music. Please don’t call your songs ditties, I’m sure they’re not.’

  She put on a Geordie accent. ‘Dinna find fault with ditties, hinny. Why man, a ditty can tear yer heart.’

  She got up to see me to the door. ‘Thank you for coming. Come and say goodbye before you go, whether or not you find out what happened.’

  ‘I will. Do you need someone with you for the inquest?’

  ‘My mother and sister are coming.’ She picked up a manuscript sheet from the table, its lines neatly annotated with musical notes. She slid it into an old envelope and handed it to me. ‘Would you put this through Miss Boland’s letter box please?’

  ‘You write the music. Miss Boland writes the words.’

  She smiled. ‘We are unmasked.’

  I left the house feeling both impressed and puzzled by Mrs Finch, and also wondering whether she really did refuse to go with Joe to a new place. Joe had told me that he feared James Lofthouse would get rid of the horses, and that he could not live without horses. Perhaps he had not asked his wife to go with him. It would have filled me with rage to have a man who visited another woman every week and then decided to pick up sticks and move.

  Perhaps Mrs Finch cared more for her music than her man. Or perhaps she cared so passionately that her feelings were buried deep.

  She had given me an idea of where I might look for the homeless family. The bluebell woods. That would be my next call, except that as I left Mrs Finch’s house, I saw Sykes coming from the Falcon. He was dressed for a funeral, Miss Crawford’s funeral at Ripon Cathedral.

  We fell into step. ‘I’ll walk with you as far as Barleycorn House,’ I said. ‘What time are the cars leaving?’

  ‘In ten minutes. Some of the staff are going.’ I expected that Miss Crawford would draw many mourners. I wished I had met her.

  Sykes had seen me coming from Mrs Finch’s house. He nodded in that direction. ‘She is a possible suspect,’ he said. ‘Always look at the spouse first.’

  ‘She was deeply distressed on Saturday.’

  ‘That distress could be from the horror of the deed, and fear of being found out.’

  ‘Mrs Finch had a strong reason to keep her husband alive. A woman without a man’s wage coming in faces hard times in an area where most jobs are men’s work and women earn a pittance, not like the textile towns where women could once earn good money.’

  Sykes had clearly given Mrs Finch serious consideration as a suspect. ‘The assurance company that recommended me to Mr Lofthouse does very good business in Masham. Their collector calls every Friday night. Working people place great store on their life and death insurance policies. A baby is insured at birth, in case he or she will shortly need to be buried.’

  ‘And Mrs Finch insured her husband’s life?’

  ‘She never missed a payment.’ He explained that in insurance jargon, pay-outs fall into the categories of pittance, middling, respectable and hefty. ‘Mrs Finch will receive a respectable settlement, unless she killed him, or unless he killed himself.’

  We had ruled out Slater Parnaby because of his alibi of being on the allotment, in sight of Mick Musgrove. Yet, the feeling nagged away at me that Parnaby was still in the ring as a suspect. I tried out the idea on Sykes. ‘Joe Finch had a job offer from a stud. Mrs Finch would not go with him. If Slater found out about that and suspected that Joe meant to take Annie Parnaby with him, that would give Slater Parnaby a motive for murder, especially if he feels he was duped all these years.’

  Sykes listened in silence. ‘I should think half the town suspects Slater Parnaby of killing Joe Finch. Surely seven years was long enough for Annie Parnaby to make a new life for herself.’

  He saw the look on my face and thought again. ‘Sorry, but why on earth did she run away? She could have reported Parnaby for cruelty, claimed a separation and an allowance, or hit him over the head with a frying pan.’

  ‘Perhaps she did report him. Who would have listened to her? You must have come across such situations when you were on the force.’

  ‘Perhaps I didn’t pay enough attention then.’

  I had the sinking feeling that he would not pay enough attention now.

  If Parnaby had killed Joe Finch out of vengeance, it might not take Parnaby long to get to his own wife.

  We reached the gates of Barleycorn House. I saw Eleanor talking to Ruth. Elderly Mr Musgrove stood a little apart. That Mr Musgrove was Slater Parnaby’s alibi for Saturday morning did not inspire me with confidence.

  ‘I’ll go talk to Mick Musgrove,’ Sykes said. ‘He walked all the way to Ripon for James Lofthouse’s hearing at the Magistrates’ Court. They took his hatchet from him at the door.’

  ‘Did anyone come forward with bail for James?’

  ‘No. He’s been transferred to Armley Prison, awaiting trial at the Summer Assizes.’

  Chapter Forty

  The wood beyond the allotments was full of bluebells. One well-trodden path led to another, to more bluebells, and a narrower path. A waft of smoke mingled with the scent of bluebells and led me to change direction, towards the smell of something cooking. A pot hung over a fire that was encircled by flat stones, giving off a whiff of rabbit and greens. The woman in a blue dress and shawl was seated on a large stone reading a newspaper, a girl of about eight years old sat beside her. Conscious of being watched, I looked round, and then up. A boy looked down at me from the branch of an oak tree, so high that I wondered how he had managed it, and how he would get down. The woman let go of her newspaper, which the girl immediately picked up and started to read.

  I i
ntroduced myself. The woman did not reciprocate but acted as if I must know who she was.

  ‘Have you come about the schooling?’ she asked.

  ‘No, I haven’t, I’m sorry.’

  ‘Ah.’ She looked disappointed. ‘I’m trying to get them in school. They’ll fall behind if not.’

  ‘Who have you spoken to?’ I asked.

  ‘The schoolteacher when I saw her in the yard. She asked my address. A person is at a disadvantage without an address.’

  ‘There must be a way round that.’ I produced bars of chocolate and gave them to her. ‘For the children.’

  She thanked me.

  The boy came down from the tree with the speed of a monkey.

  I explained that I didn’t know the schoolteacher. ‘But I’m willing to make discreet enquiries.’

  Her sudden eagerness made me worry about raising false hopes.

  ‘I have their birth certificates, and our marriage lines. I don’t know what to do about having no address. “The bit of a wood beyond the allotment” won’t do.’

  ‘Tell me your names and the names of your children. I’ll see what I can find out.’

  Panic took over. She stared, open-mouthed, suddenly unsure. ‘We’re doing no harm. We don’t beg. My husband earns when he can.’

  ‘I’m not from anywhere official. I’m staying in Oak Cottage, next door to Miss Boland the music teacher.’ I took out my notebook and pencil. ‘If you want me to try and help, give me your names.’

  She decided to take the chance. ‘I can write.’

  I handed her the notebook. She hesitated, still unsure whether to trust me.

  ‘We’re shunted from pillar to post if we go near authority. We had to run from the last place because they came for the children.’

  I had heard such stories before, and of the means test, where someone would be refused relief if they had the luxury of a mirror on the wall that might be pawned or sold. The less people had, the harsher the treatment. This family must be clinging onto life by the skin of their teeth.

  ‘If anyone troubles you, say you have a plan to move into Oak Cottage when it becomes vacant. If you change your mind about me taking your details, just tell me. I’ll tear out the page with your names and give it back to you.’ I sat down on one of the flat stones that encircled the fire.