Murder is in the Air

by Frances Brody

  Miss Boland looked at the pie. ‘Thank you. My father always said, refuse nothing but a good wallop.’

  ‘That didn’t work for Joe, did it, Miss Boland?’ I turned to her. ‘Do you want to tell Yvonne, or shall I?’

  Miss Boland said nothing.

  I had to make myself continue. This was one of the worst things I ever had to do, and to say. ‘Mrs Finch, I asked you here because I believe you told Miss Boland that your husband wanted you to go with him to a new job, away from Masham.’

  Yvonne Finch looked from me to Miss Boland. ‘Yes I did.’

  With the thought that Yvonne may later blame herself for telling her friend, I said, ‘And why should you not confide? You were collaborators and friends.’ When neither woman spoke, I continued. ‘I’m sorry to put it so bluntly, Yvonne, but Joe got a good wallop from Miss Boland when she knocked him down the brewery staircase, isn’t that right, Miss Boland? Is that when you tripped and twisted your ankle, hurrying down the stairs to see if Joe had broken any bones? It probably never occurred to you that he might be dead.’

  ‘That is not true. Mr Moon does not suspect me. I don’t know why you should.’

  ‘Well then, you must tell me what is true. You went to the brewery to tell Joe that it was unfair, and selfish of him, to expect Yvonne to move away?’

  ‘Yes.’

  Yvonne stared at Miss Boland, and then turned to me. ‘How did you know?’

  ‘At first, because of the small impromptu lie. Miss Boland, you didn’t trip going out to see the milkman. He brings the milk to the door. I found that out early on, when I asked him about paying. He told us not to trouble about bringing the can to the gate, and that he knocks on the door on Saturdays for payment.’

  She looked at me. ‘Do go on.’

  ‘What you said may have been true, if you had decided to go out and have a word, and so I asked him directly where you tripped. He did not want to say, at first. When he knew I was the person who bandaged your ankle and had an eye to your welfare, he told me that you were coming back from the town square, after going to the post box.’

  ‘What if I were by the post box?’

  ‘But you weren’t, were you? You were coming back from the brewery.’

  Yvonne Finch looked as if she would speak, but then said nothing. She watched Miss Boland intently and then turned to me, waiting to hear what I would say next.

  ‘The milkman gave you a lift back. He brought his float all the way down the track. Fortunately for you, the allotment holders, Mick Musgrove and Slater Parnaby, had not started work. They were there when the milk float came back in the other direction. You didn’t want the milkman to tell anyone, for the same reason you wanted us to keep quiet about your sprained ankle. People in the town might think you were past it, a hobbling old woman, not up to teaching music to their children. I thought that odd at the time, but I know that a woman alone must be careful about the place she occupies in the community. Staying upright is important.’

  Yvonne lowered her head. She pressed her fingers against her eyelids. ‘When did Joe die?’

  Miss Boland said nothing, leaving me to answer. ‘Joe died in the early morning, shortly after he opened the pedestrian gates to see the homeless family out of the stable and off the premises. It was the children who saw you, in the brewery yard, Miss Boland. They described you as wearing a long black dress and cloak. I’m sorry to say, and this is nothing personal, they thought you were a wicked witch.’

  ‘Lots of older women dress as I do. It’s practical. It’s a habit, in every sense of that word.’ She leaned forward and reached for her glass, holding it so tightly that the veins in her hand swelled. ‘I’m listening, Mrs Shackleton. I’m sure you have more to say.’

  ‘When Slater Parnaby interrupted our card game, and sniffed all about, he sniffed at you, and at me. Again, it was nothing personal, not body odour from poor hygiene. He was smelling at our clothing and our hair, and yours especially, because you had dragged Joe into the fermentation room with its particular smell.’

  ‘That man goes around sniffing all the time.’

  ‘Not everyone he sniffs washes and hangs out their clothes first thing the next morning, in spite of a sprained ankle, and on a Sunday.’

  ‘If, as you say, I went into that room, then how did I come out alive?’

  ‘You’re a singer. You know how to hold your breath. You have that lovely scarf to wind around your face, and the nimble feet you are proud of would have had you in and out in less than the five minutes it would take to die. You may even have spotted the wartime gasmask hanging by the door.’

  To be too graphic might create images in Yvonne’s mind that she would never erase. Miss Boland almost certainly rolled Joe’s body onto her cloak and dragged him into the fermentation room.

  ‘I should have known when our dog was behaving oddly. He does not usually deprive people of their walking sticks. There must have been something about your stick that attracted him, a particular smell. In spite of discouraging him, he would not give up. He brought it to Sergeant Moon when we were too dense to understand.’

  ‘Just because a dog picks up a stick—’

  ‘You left a scrap of material behind on the bannister, Miss Boland. It is a heavy fabric, a cape, a cloak?’

  Yvonne Finch looked towards the back of the door. ‘Where is your cloak, Celia?’

  ‘Somewhere about.’

  ‘Did you roll Mr Finch onto your cloak to pull him into the room?’ I asked. Yvonne flinched. She stared at Miss Boland, who answered me without meeting Yvonne’s eye.

  ‘Not at all preposterous, Mrs Shackleton, but why would I do such a thing?’

  The blood fled from Yvonne Finch’s face. She clenched her fists, the knuckles a stark white. ‘To protect me? Because I told you Joe was planning to move away, whether I went with him or not. You were angry. You asked me how I would manage. You said I had stuck by him. He should stick by me.’

  Miss Boland’s hands were in her lap. She placed them on the table, interlaced her fingers, and tapped her thumbs as if marking time.

  I felt sure there would be some musical impulse behind her movements, behind all her movements. When it seemed as if she would not answer, I prompted. ‘Yvonne is right. You feared that Joe would leave Yvonne for Annie Parnaby. Without a breadwinner, Yvonne would never earn enough to keep herself and write her music, or so you thought. You know all about trying to make ends meet. You hope for pupils. You set your lyrics to Yvonne’s music and send off songs to the music publisher, receiving a fraction of what you ought to. How many songs do you have to write to sell one?’

  Miss Boland stared at her empty glass. ‘We do well.’

  ‘But not well enough. Joe decamping would pull the rug from under Yvonne, that is what you thought. She has been too protected to realise the precariousness of her situation. But you realised. You didn’t mean to kill him.’

  A long silence held. Eventually, Miss Boland spoke. ‘Has your Mr Sykes gone for the police?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘It’s all very plausible, Mrs Shackleton, but so would be an entirely different scenario.’

  ‘Such as?’

  ‘I can’t straightaway think of one I would want to tell you, but there is no real evidence for anything you have said.’

  Miss Boland took a small blue bottle from her bag and poured some into her wine.

  I moved the glass away from her before she was able to take a drink.

  Miss Boland snatched it back and dropped the glass to the floor where it shattered. ‘Oh, I am sorry. Do sweep it before your dog comes in looking for my stick and cuts his paw, and give that bottle a good rinse while you’re about it.’ She held onto the table to push herself up. ‘I’ll go lie down now, if someone would kindly pass me my walking stick.’

  It was Yvonne Finch who said, ‘Sit down, Celia. Spare us a deathbed scene. I deserve to know how my husband died.’

  Miss Boland’s voice was hoarse, a whisper.
‘He was going to leave you.’

  ‘That was between him and me.’

  ‘I know you loved him, not in that stupid soppy way of his. He mistook independence for indifference. I tried to make him see sense. He said it was none of my business.’

  ‘What happened?’

  ‘He called me names, disgusting names. He laughed at our songs. He said the stud would be a new beginning for him, a fresh start. Because they all knew that when James Lofthouse took over from his uncle, he would get rid of the horses and buy vans. Joe said if he couldn’t work with horses, he wouldn’t be able to breathe.’

  Yvonne closed her eyes.

  Miss Boland continued. ‘Joe went into the brewery. I followed him. I was arguing with him. I told him all the reasons James Lofthouse wouldn’t make those changes. By then we were by the staircase. I was holding the head of the bannister with one hand, beating time with my stick as I told him what I thought of him. He snatched my stick, to make me stop. I’m sorry, Yvonne, but I laughed at him. I told him he paraded his kindness, let everyone know what a fine fellow he was. I told him he was a pathetic, sentimental sot and his wife was worth ten of him.’

  She would have stopped there, feeling she had said enough. I asked, ‘What happened then?’

  She spoke quietly, almost a whisper. ‘He couldn’t bear that there was someone who didn’t take him at his own estimation. He raised the stick and came at me. I moved out of the way, but the stick caught me.’ She touched her cheek. ‘If any blood remains on that stick, it will be mine.’

  I must not let her stop now. ‘How do you explain that he ended up in the fermentation room?’

  ‘I was at the top of the stairs. I moved as he came towards me. He went toppling down. When he didn’t move, I thought he was going to trick me, and would finish me off. After a few minutes, I went down to see. I thought he was unconscious and would have tried to revive him or gone for help. I felt for a pulse. He was dead.’

  ‘He wasn’t a violent man, Celia.’

  ‘He was violent that morning, because he knew that I told him the truth.’ She brought her hands, in prayer position, to her mouth, and blew through her fingers.

  Sykes would be coming back at any moment. He would bring Sergeant Moon. I needed there to be some clarity before that happened. ‘You went to remonstrate with him not to kill. If what you say is true, it was an accident. Why didn’t you go for help?’

  It took her some time to answer. ‘Because I don’t think like you. It was that shocking moment in the opera, when someone dies, and the action continues. What happened didn’t feel real. The character will die again tomorrow. I wanted to wind back to the second act. But Joe was dead. I closed his eyes.’

  Celia Boland reached for Yvonne Finch’s hand. ‘I’m sorry.’

  Yvonne pulled her hand away. ‘Why drag him into that room?’

  ‘I was thinking of the garden party, of Ruth’s speech, Eleanor’s preparations. The day would be spoiled.’ She took another breath. ‘I was thinking of our songs, and of you. I didn’t want to be found on brewery premises.’

  Yvonne Finch pushed back her chair. ‘I can’t listen to any more.’ She stood and walked to the door, and then she turned back. ‘How did you know he was still set on leaving?’

  ‘I was in the draper’s, at the same time as Mrs Jopling. People talk.’

  Yvonne Finch shook her head. ‘That was one of the things we had in common, Celia, we didn’t fit here. We didn’t join in the gossip.’

  Mrs Finch opened the door.

  I picked up my coat and hat. ‘I’ll walk you back.’

  ‘No need.’

  ‘There’s every need.’ I turned back to Miss Boland. ‘Think carefully about what you do next. If what you say is true, Joe Finch’s death was an accident. And poison is a horrible way to die.’

  ‘So is a noose.’

  ‘Miss Boland, be alive when I come back from seeing Mrs Finch home.’

  Chapter Forty-Four

  Sykes was waiting by the Town Hall.

  ‘Well?’ he asked.

  ‘Time for Sergeant Moon to step in.’ I gave a brief account of Miss Boland’s confession.

  ‘Do you believe her?’ Sykes asked.

  ‘Yes.’

  He nodded. ‘I’ll fetch the sergeant. Why did she wait so long?’

  ‘We can ask. I’m not sure there will be a rational explanation.’

  When I arrived back at Elm Tree Cottage, after seeing Mrs Finch to her door, Miss Boland was seated where I had left her. She suddenly sprang to life and gave a cry of pain as she stood. ‘Where is he?’

  ‘If you mean Sergeant Moon—’

  ‘Who else?’

  ‘I thought you would want some time to put your papers in order. That is what I would want to do, in your situation.’

  ‘Before I am hauled off and thrown in the condemned cell? Well thank you.’

  She went to the desk that had been almost hidden under a violin case, several recorders and a pile of papers.

  I placed the walking stick beside her.

  She grasped the stick, with a grim smile. ‘You trust me with it?’

  ‘Don’t assume the worst. You described what happened as self-defence, and an accident. Your mistake was not to come clean straightaway.’

  She shook her head. ‘My word against opinion, accusations, whispers. I know this town, Mrs Shackleton. That is why I left at the age of fourteen and came back only when there was nowhere else to go. My mother was dying. People thought I stayed for my father.’ She struggled to her feet, giving a cry of pain as she put weight on her sprained ankle. ‘I am not under arrest yet. Once I’m taken, I may never be allowed back.’

  She took out a folder. ‘Here are some of my papers. I always thought I would have time to sort everything out.’

  I asked her the question that was puzzling me. ‘Would you have let the horse dealer hang?’

  ‘They have no good evidence against him.’

  ‘That does not always come in the way of a conviction.’

  ‘Without Slater Parnaby’s bullying and violence, Annie Parnaby would still be in the family home, Joe would not have played the knight in shining armour and there would have been no rift between Joe and Yvonne. By rights, Parnaby should be the one to swing on the end of a rope.’

  ‘We are not judge and jury, Miss Boland, and you are not going to swing unless you climb on a trapeze.’

  She said, ‘I thought the police would treat Joe’s death as an accident, assuming that he fell, was stunned, went into that room without realising. I didn’t take into account a clever pathologist.’

  She gave a small cry. ‘You said I would have significant pain, and you were right.’

  ‘You can take the arnica ointment.’

  ‘That’s very kind of you. To arrange my medication and incarceration.’

  ‘Prison is not inevitable.’

  She huffed a scoff as she placed two folders on the table. ‘I do have one question for you, Mrs Shackleton.’

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘Why did you take so long?’

  ‘You were my main suspect, but I kept hoping there would be an alternative, a lightning strike moment when I could put you in the clear. Also, I did wonder whether it was a joint effort between you and Yvonne Finch.’ I looked at the desk. ‘If all your papers are in here, may I pass you a drawer?’

  ‘The one on the left.’ She sat down.

  I placed the drawer on the table. She took a large envelope from it and handed it to me. It was marked, “Lyrics for Y. Finch”.

  ‘Usually Yvonne writes the music first, and I create the lyrics. There are a hundred or so lyrics here. I hope she will be able to adapt her method and find music to fit my words.’

  It occurred to me that might be the last thing Yvonne would want to do. How deep did their friendship go? After what had happened, it would take fathomless depths for this collaboration to continue.

  She saw what I was thinking. ‘Yvonne and I rubbed no
ses. You might say we were soul mates. I am not sure I’ll survive without her.’ She instantly became practical, passing me her last will and testament. ‘I had it witnessed, by the milkman and Mr Musgrove. He took over tending my father’s allotment.’

  She handed me another document. Her confession.

  ‘You’ve thought of everything.’

  ‘Best to be prepared. I really would like time to re-write it if that proves possible. I got a little carried away in the last paragraph. Would you give me an opinion?’

  I flicked to the third page of a testimony that began very neatly on page one and then became more of a scrawl. She had been unable to resist the melodrama of that tragic event.

  I read the last paragraph.

  “I wound my scarf around my mouth and nose. I saw old gasmasks on hooks by the door. I held my breath and went into that dreadful room, dragging on my cloak, holding the door with my shoulder. I had to let go the door. When it slammed shut, I feared I would never get out. We would lie side by side in eternal sleep, an insufficient number for classical tragedy, and too old for Romeo and Juliet.”

  ‘I should cross that out, don’t you think?’

  ‘Leave it, Miss Boland. It shows your state of mind.’

  ‘Mad as a hatter, eh?’

  ‘No, a doyenne of the opera to the end.’

  She took out a fading sepia photograph. ‘If ever in the future Ruth can think of me without loathing, please tell her she is the best pupil I ever had.’

  The signed photograph showed four young people in costume, two men, two women. Each held a banner with a single word. It read: Merry Opera Company Rigoletto.

  ‘Just the four of you?’

  ‘We toured, doing slimmed-down opera for whoever would book us and give us a stage with piano, travelling the world for our bread and butter, and sometimes a scraping of jam. We thought it would never end.’

  Looking exhausted, she pushed herself up from the table and moved towards the stairs. ‘Just ten minutes’ lie down, and then I will be ready for whatever comes.’

  ‘Miss Boland, please stop playing the tragic heroine. You failed to report a death. You obstructed the coroner. You did not commit murder.’ I moved to help her.