‘I won’t change my mind.’ She began to write. Her hand shook. She rubbed her wrist and flexed her fingers before beginning again. She wrote slowly and carefully, hesitating only when she came to the last line. She handed me the notebook.
They were Elizabeth and John Burns. The children Monica and Michael, which I already knew. The last line was her previous address. They had tramped a long way.
The children were watching and listening.
‘You must be Monica and Michael.’
‘Yes.’ Monica answered for both of them.
‘I’ve just come from talking to Mrs Finch. She said be sure to come next Sunday.’
‘Go pick this lady some flowers,’ Mrs Burns said. ‘She and I want to talk.’
When they had gone, she said, ‘They sometimes go up to the allotment. They were afraid of Mr Musgrove at first. Monica said he was Rumpelstiltskin, and Michael thought he must be a goblin. Now he teaches them rhymes. He went off somewhere today, in his suit.’
‘Did the children remember to tell you that you and Mr Burns are invited to Sunday dinner with Mrs Finch?’
‘They did. Mrs Finch must be an angel. I can’t see me making a dinner for strangers if I was in her shoes.’
‘You heard about Joe Finch?’
‘First I knew something wasn’t right was on Saturday night. Joe would usually have opened the gate for us to go in. He wasn’t there. There were police about.’
‘When did you find out Joe had died?’
‘Monica told me, when the pair of them came back from their dinner on Sunday. Why is it the good people are taken first?’ She sniffed and was trying not to cry.
I passed her my hanky. ‘Keep it. My mother buys me three every Christmas.’
‘People can be kind, but not know what to do or say or how to help. Joe was different.’ She wiped her nose. ‘Joe said what happened to us could have happened to him, to anyone. Bad luck, good luck. All it takes is a bit of the bad. All it takes is for you not to be needed, where before you were. We were let go, both let go.’
‘Then it’s your turn for some good luck. I’ll speak to Mrs Lofthouse at the brewery. She knows the schoolteacher.’
What I wanted seemed hard to put into words. Simply say it, I told myself. Just say it. ‘What did you hear about Joe Finch’s death?’
‘That the police were there, and an ambulance. How did he die?’
‘They’re not sure. There will be an inquest tomorrow. It seems possible that someone killed Joe on Saturday morning, while there was no one about. He ended up in a cellar room in the brewery. Someone must have been at the brewery, waiting for him.’
She put her hand to her heart. ‘I was afraid of this. I’ve said too much. We were there, but then we were gone. My husband would not have harmed that good man.’
‘I believe you. But did you see anyone else?’
‘No.’ She thought for a moment. ‘Joe came in with the pony. He brought him along to the stable and then went into the brewery to clock on. He was upset. He said he’d had a fight with the man who sold him the pony. Joe bought the creature fair and square when it was in a bad way. He took care of it and had it confident enough that it would give rides to the children. And then this fellow wanted it back for the price Joe paid for it.’
‘Did you see this man?’
‘No. We had to go then. We always go when Joe arrives, to be out of the way.’
‘You didn’t see anyone else, anyone at all?’
She shook her head. ‘Sometimes we see the watchman, but he doesn’t see us.’
‘Can you remember what you did that morning, before you left?’ I thought a specific question might jog her memory.
‘I folded the spare horse blankets so no one knows we’ve been. We leave no trace of us-selves, not wanting to get Joe in trouble.’
‘Do you mind if I ask the children if they saw anyone?’
‘Ask them. Those two miss nothing.’
I waited for the children to come back. They brought me bluebells.
Monica told her mother that Mr Musgrove’s rhymes were going to be printed in a book. He would give her a copy. ‘I can read,’ Monica said, offering me her own testimonial as she had overheard her mother talking about school.
Apart from that, they were shy with me, not used to talking to strangers.
I asked them about their last morning at the brewery stables, what they remembered, and had they seen anyone.
‘This lady has brought you chocolate,’ Mrs Burns reminded them.
For chocolate, they were more than willing to oblige with a variety of answers. They had seen horses, spiders, the pony, Uncle Joe. There was one thing on which they both agreed. They had seen a wicked witch in a long black dress and cloak.
This was what I had both expected, and feared, to hear.
They were astute and saw the look on my face.
‘We don’t like witches either,’ Monica said.
‘What colour hair did she have?’ I asked.
Monica warmed to her story. ‘Her hair is silver. Her eyes are red.’
Michael, not to be left out, added that the wicked witch flew away on a broomstick.
This was not conclusive. Whatever Miss Boland’s skills, flying was unlikely to be among them. I needed more detail in the picture.
Chapter Forty-One
It was time for me to talk to Annie Parnaby. She would have finished baking for today. I parked at a little distance from the Bedale Bakery. Not that Mrs Parnaby would expect her husband to arrive by car, but a strange vehicle might make her nervous.
The dark blue blind at the bakery window was pulled down, and the shop door sign turned to Closed. The low wall to the right of the shop was topped by a wooden fence. I faced a high gate that led to the bakery yard. The latch clicked as if it might open, but there was at least one bolt on the bakery yard side. At the other side was a neighbour’s backyard, with a normal-size gate and a brick wall between them and the bakery yard. Through the net curtains of the house next door, I could see a figure moving about.
Someone had created a spy hole in the bakery gate. Unless I was very much mistaken, this was Annie Parnaby’s hiding place. I did not know what she was calling herself. Perhaps the person moving behind the next door’s net curtains did know. If I asked for Mrs Parnaby, I might be giving the game away.
Now I realised this would not be easy. I should have enlisted the help of Phil Jopling, Joe Finch’s brewery partner, and partner in deception.
I walked up and down the main street. When dusk fell, the neighbour would close her curtains. I could then go through her gate, vault across to next door, unbolt the gate from the inside—in case I needed a quick departure—and then knock on the bakery door, or tap on the window. Either innocent action might induce terror in the occupant. Besides, dusk was a long way off.
Ruth and Harriet had taught me the Parnaby whistle. A difficulty might be that if it was the family whistle, Slater would also know it.
I thought about this. He would not come to do her harm and announce himself by whistling. Besides, people had different whistle tones.
The next-door neighbour disappeared from view, almost as if I had willed her away. Straightaway, I entered the neighbour’s yard by the little gate. The wall between this yard and the bakery wall was taller than it looked from outside. I hitched my skirt, did a great leap, brought one leg across, got stuck, felt the seam of my skirt split, managed to get over, ripped my stockings and badly grazed my shin. The curtains hiding Annie Parnaby were so tightly closed that I would not have seen a candle flicker.
I lifted the letter box, peered at a doormat, pursed my lips and whistled the George and Ruth signal. I hoped she had heard about Harriet or seen her on the dray. ‘Annie! I’m Kate, aunt of Harriet who was with Ruth on Monday. We’re Ruth’s friends.’
No answer. Perhaps she was upstairs.
I stood back, imagining that she might peep through the curtains, to be sure I was alone.
&n
bsp; It took a couple of moments for her to do so, from the upstairs room.
I waved.
She retreated. After a short wait, the bolt shot back. Another bolt shot back. A key turned in the lock. She was prisoner, and gaoler.
I entered quickly.
‘Is the gate bolted?’
‘Yes. I came over the wall.’
She locked the door behind me. ‘If you’d come when I had the bread in, I wouldn’t be able to let you in. If there’s a draught of cold air, the bread doesn’t rise.’
‘I’ll remember that.’
And if I became a regular caller, I should bring my own stepladder for access.
She did not notice my torn stockings, scraped hands, bleeding leg.
Plump and white, she wore her dark hair scraped back into a bun, over a placid, dough-like face. ‘You knew our whistle,’ Annie said.
I held out my hand. ‘Annie, I’m Kate.’ Her plump hand felt limp. ‘I’m staying at Oak Cottage in Masham. Your Ruth is there, too, and my niece Harriet.’
Annie spoke softly. ‘Ruth whispered to me that she’d moved out.’
Under the window stood a small, well-used sofa with big dips on either end.
Annie said, ‘You better sit down.’
My own reactions to Annie confused me. I had pitied her from a distance. Suddenly I saw her as a woman who had spent seven years keeping warm and eating pastries. Trusting that my reserves of sympathy would return when the pain in my leg and hand subsided, I sat down.
On the opposite wall was a black-leaded and gleaming chrome fitted range with two big ovens.
The heat was unbearable. We would cook. Tomorrow two roasted women would be discovered, and lamented.
I took off my coat.
She hung it on a hook behind the door. ‘Is something wrong, is one of them taken poorly, George or Ruth?’
‘No, they’re well. Ruth has a practice later with Miss Boland. As far as I know, George is at work.’
Annie stood and poked the fire, and then turned to look at me. Why had I come, she wanted to know.
I had come in the hope of forming a clearer picture of Joe Finch’s life. Annie did not know that Joe, her knight in shining armour, had died. When George called, Joe was still alive. Ruth, passing the bakery in procession, would not have whispered the news. Perhaps neither George nor Ruth knew the extent of Joe’s involvement with Annie. If I broke the news now, I may get no sense out of her, yet I must do it. ‘Annie, I’m sorry to tell you that Joe Finch was found dead in the brewery on Saturday.’
Her dough-like face collapsed in misery. ‘Poor Joe. Is that why he wasn’t on the dray on Monday?’
‘Yes.’ I waited, expecting her to ask for details, but she did not. ‘You were fond of him. I’m sorry about his death.’
I listened while she told me how good he was, how he had stood by her all these years, asking nothing of her, just being good and jolly, and calling in. Finally, she asked, ‘How did Joe die?’ She closed her eyes. ‘Did Slater kill him? If he found out, it’ll be me next.’
‘If Slater found what?’
‘Where I am, that Joe visited me, that—’
She came to a halt.
‘Please be honest with me, Annie. Have you a sound reason for supposing Slater knows where you are?’
‘I just know it.’
‘Have you seen him hanging about here?’
She twisted her hands. ‘I thought so but now I’m not sure. I can feel it. I can feel he’s after me.’
I could see why they all wanted to protect her. Her fear went so deep. Perhaps she would never be rid of it. ‘You told Ruth you saw him walking up and down the street, but you didn’t, did you?’
‘I don’t know whether I did or not.’ She looked into the fire for an answer. ‘I had to say something.’
‘Did you have to say something because George and Ruth, and Joe, were growing impatient with you?’
‘Not George, never George.’
‘When you said you had seen Slater, or thought you may have seen him, did you think to yourself that it was time to move away again, to leave here?’
She shook her head. ‘I couldn’t see as far as that. The day will come. George will find a job in another place, and for me to come with him. Ruth has savings in the Post Office. I have my special savings fund, Joe helped me. He gave me something every week.’
‘That was good of him.’ That also explained the fiddle on the Bedale round, and why Joe could afford to buy the pony.
‘Ruth is sure she and George can find a place for us. That was always their plan. Except, for now, she’s tied to Masham, to the brewery, as queen. Slater is the one who should go away, not me. I wish he was dead instead of Joe.’
She looked suddenly exhausted. Leave now, I told myself. Let her have time to take in that Joe has died.
‘How did you answer Joe when he asked you to go away with him to his new job?’
She closed her eyes. ‘He didn’t ask me in so many words. He told me about it. That wasn’t the same thing as asking me.’
‘But?’
‘He said they wanted a cook. I could have done that. I ended up saying I’d think about it.’
‘And did you think about it?’
‘I tried to. I tried to think it might be best for Ruth and George not to have to worry about me. And I know Joe only ever wanted to work with horses. But it didn’t feel right. I said Yvonne should go with him. That’s when I knew I was second choice, and why shouldn’t I be? He said Yvonne wouldn’t go. She’d cook for him. She’d cook for his waifs and strays, but she wouldn’t uproot herself to cook for strangers. Two children go to the Finches on Sundays. Yvonne plays the piano and has the children singing.’
‘Do you know what music she writes?’
‘She writes music for songs. Miss Boland writes the words and sends them off. Yvonne should have gone with Joe. She thinks more about her music than she does about him.’
Bakers start work so very early. Here was a woman with few inner resources left to draw on, her hopes and dreams stretched to breaking point, squeezed out by fear. I stood to go.
She took my coat from the hook. ‘In fairness to Yvonne Finch, she did consider making the move. Joe told me that. He said Yvonne considered it for an hour and a half.’
‘Might you have said yes, to get away from here, to let your children lead their own lives?’
She handed me my coat. ‘I might have. I can’t remember what I said.’
If Slater knew that Joe had helped Annie for years, if he knew she planned to go away, that would give him a motive for murder. But it would be Annie he would kill.
‘Annie, if you want me to come back another time, and for me to help you bring your plan into being, I will. From what you say, you must have savings enough to start a new life.’
She unlocked and unbolted the door to let me out. ‘I do have savings. I’m paid poorly here, because of having a roof over my head, but I save my pay and what Joe gives me.’
We went into the yard. Halfway up the yard, she stopped and turned to me. ‘Truth is, I can’t see myself beyond this gate.’ She drew back the bolts. ‘After George made me go to the pictures, I was shaking all night.’
‘You’d get used to it. Will you come out with me for the time it takes me to cross the road to my car?’
She looked over at the solitary vehicle, saying, ‘You’ve parked so close to the bakery.’
‘Slater doesn’t know everything. Walk over and back. I’ll stay with you. Link arms.’
‘I might if you were Ruth.’
‘I’m the next best thing. Come on.’
She took three steps and then stopped, suddenly alarmed. ‘I haven’t locked the door. I could go back and find he’s got in.’
‘Another time, Annie. You will be able to do it.’
I did not convince myself, much less her.
And then the slightest change came over her. ‘I’m standing here. I’m on the pavement.’
&
nbsp; ‘What stops you?’
‘The wind might know the answer.’ She blew out her cheeks. ‘What did Joe die of?’
There was a way for me to not answer. ‘There’ll be an inquest tomorrow. We’ll know then.’
‘Just a minute.’ She turned and went back inside.
A couple of moments later, she came back with a bag of scones.
Chapter Forty-Two
The doors of Masham Town Hall opened at 9.45 a.m. Those of us waiting for the inquest into the death of Joseph Finch climbed the stairs to a large room on the first floor. Chairs were placed in two columns, allowing an aisle between.
We took our places in a hushed atmosphere of anticipation. Miss Boland and I sat side by side on the second row of the right-hand column. Mrs Finch, on the row in front, was flanked by two women. Miss Boland whispered that they were Yvonne Finch’s mother and sister, come from Staithes and Whitby. Next to them sat Phil Jopling and Mrs Jopling.
William and Eleanor sat on the front row of the left-hand column, along with Jim Sykes, George and some of the brewery workmen. Neighbours had turned out in force and took up the rows behind.
On the instant the hand on the round clock moved from one minute to ten to ten o’clock, several dark-suited men stepped smartly into the room and took their places on the row of chairs to the left of the coroner’s seat. I counted seven, the minimum number for an inquest jury.
Next came a clerk with wispy hair and rimless spectacles. He pulled out the coroner’s chair and flicked a duster across the seat. He then sat down, without flicking the duster, over his own seat, opened his ledger and drew the inkwell closer.
One juryman examined his hands. The others stared ahead, cutting themselves off from their surroundings and each other. It seemed to me they cloaked themselves with an air of regret and apology, as if on the wrong side of blame. This inquiry into a sudden and suspicious death somehow brought them and the town into disrepute.
When the clerk stood, saying, ‘All rise,’ I expected him to add, “that is if you don’t mind, rising. It won’t be for long”.
Murder is in the Air Page 20