‘No need.’ She paused at the foot of the stairs.
I would have gone up with her but at that moment there was a knock on the door, Sykes’s knock. We both stayed put.
‘Miss Boland, remember that you were defending yourself.’ Taking my time, I walked across the room. The door opened before I got to it.
Sykes stood there, with Sergeant Moon.
Miss Boland turned back and invited them in.
The sergeant looked around the room. ‘It’s a while since I was in here, Miss Boland.’
‘Welcome back.’
‘You did a good job with our Stanley,’ the sergeant said. ‘He’s in high demand to thump out a tune whenever there’s a party.’
‘I’m glad to hear it.’
‘Now what’s all this about?’
She nodded to me, to pass him the confession. I was right in saying that the flowery last paragraph would show her state of mind. On reflection, a statement with more defence and mitigation would not go amiss. I pretended to misunderstand her nod. ‘I’ll take care of your lyrics.’
The sergeant waited.
‘In the presence of Mrs Finch, Miss Boland told me that she was at the brewery when Mr Finch died. She went to the brewery to talk to him about a private matter and ended in a situation where she was compelled to defend herself.’ I turned to Miss Boland. ‘Tell the sergeant what you told Mrs Finch and me.’
She did so, with the important words that she was terrified when he hit out at her with her own stick, and she tried to defend herself.
He sighed. ‘This is a tragic and serious matter, Miss Boland. I must ask you to accompany me to the station. I am arresting you on the charge of obstructing the coroner in the course of his duty. Do you wish to say anything in answer to the charge? You are not obliged to say anything unless you wish to do so, but whatever you do say will be taken down in writing and may be used in evidence.’
Miss Boland blinked in surprise. She said, ‘I have nothing to say at the moment, Sergeant, except that Mrs Shackleton has kindly agreed to change the dressing on my sprained ankle.’
This was another of her lies.
What followed would not have happened in a city, or even a larger town.
The sergeant agreed to wait. He and Sykes would go next door, to give us privacy while I changed Miss Boland’s dressing.
Sykes brought a basin of water from the kettle at Oak Cottage, and my first aid kit.
Miss Boland sat down and plunged her feet into the basin. ‘Might as well give them both a wash.’
There was a worn towel by the sink. I went to pick it up, ready to dry her feet. ‘You will need a solicitor. There is likely to be at least one more charge and that is preventing a lawful burial.’
‘I haven’t ever prevented a burial.’
‘That is the wording for the offence. Usually it is when someone secretes a body for much longer than you did, but in theory you stopped Joe Finch’s body from being discovered. Give me your foot.’
‘Is it hugely, enormously serious? Will I go to prison?’
I dried her foot. ‘It is extremely serious. If there is someone well-connected who will speak up for you, you may avoid prison. Give me the other foot.’
She thought for a moment. ‘There is just one person, a family friend. He still sends me Christmas cards.’
‘What is his name?’
‘Clement Pointing, now Sir Clement Pointing. He was knighted for making lots of money and being charitable.’
‘Sir Clement sounds perfect,’ I said. ‘But you mustn’t expect to stay in Masham after this.’
I applied the arnica ointment.
‘I never wanted to stay in Masham.’
‘You turned your back on the town for years, Miss Boland, but you are one of their own.’ The unfortunate Joe Finch, on the other hand, would forever be regarded as a jumped-up hoss boy from the East Riding.
‘We don’t have long,’ I told her. ‘Stop feeling sorry for yourself. Do you own or rent your cottage?’
‘Own it, for what it’s worth. Parnaby was right. It’s damp and there are rats in the thatch of both of them.’
I applied the plasters. ‘That should see you through the next few days. Do try and keep the weight off.’
‘I will if you keep your dog under control and I have possession of my walking stick.’
‘Take possession of it now. You’ll need it. Here, put your stockings on.’
‘Look away. I don’t want you to see the veins in my legs.’
I turned away. ‘Do you own both cottages?’
‘Yes. My great grandfather built them. Eleanor Lofthouse could have found somewhere better for you to stay, but she regards me as a fellow artist and a charity case. I was grateful for the income.’
Once more, I tried to fathom Eleanor. Were we in condemned property because of Eleanor’s meanness, or her philanthropy? ‘You’re fortunate then, to have property.’
‘I can’t stretch to the upkeep. Cottages like these are being demolished all across Mashamshire, the Urban District Council sends a condemned notice.’
‘Then the Council must be kept busy. They may not reach your property for decades. In the meantime, I have tenants for you, a lovely family, parents and two children. He is working as a casual labourer. There would be no difficulty about meeting the rent.’
I said this with more confidence than I felt, but Miss Boland did not ask for proof of earnings.
She said, ‘They’d have to be mad to move in here.’
‘Your cottage would be a godsend compared with where they are now. You would have an income. The father turns his hand to anything and would likely make improvements.’ Although never having met the man, I had seen the neat bender he made in the wood and the symmetrical arrangement of stones around the fire. ‘They might move in tomorrow, if you’ll let me oversee the packing of your things. I’ll make sure your belongings are safe in one of the rooms. Write me a list of what’s precious.’
‘Everything musical is precious, that’s what I want, and my clothes and papers.’
‘So, we are agreed, about the rental?’
‘You can turn around now, I have my stockings on.’
I turned.
She extended her hand. ‘Do we shake hands on the rental arrangement?’
We shook hands.
‘How much a week?’ I asked.
‘Ask Mrs Lofthouse what I can reasonably expect. If you find a permanent tenant for next door too, I’ll be in clover.’
‘Harriet and I will be here just a little longer. You have Ruth Parnaby as a tenant, for now.’ I felt a wave uneasiness. Ruth Parnaby would not feel secure as long as her father was likely to come knocking on the door.
Miss Boland looked around the room. ‘I’ll never see Yvonne again.’
‘Don’t ever say never. You’ll have a distant link through your tenants. The children have been going to Yvonne for their Sunday dinner.’
‘How long will I be in prison?’
‘Not long.’
‘And where will I go then?’
I took a mimeographed Merry Opera Company programme from her drawer. ‘Shall I see if I can track down your friends?’
I looked at the names of this merry band. Celia Boland, Noel Broderick, Delius Jackson and Julia Patterson. ‘Do you have addresses?’
She shook her head. ‘You may need a ladder to heaven.’
There was a tap on the door. I went to answer and stepped outside to talk to Sergeant Moon and thank him for his patience. ‘Sergeant Moon, do you happen to know how to contact Sir Clement Pointing?’
‘Oh, yes. He is very generous towards police charities.’
‘He is a family friend of Miss Boland’s. She hopes he may be willing to speak up for her in court.’
‘I’ll have to put my skates on then,’ the sergeant said. ‘After the interview, I’ll be taking Miss Boland to be held in custody in Ripon. She’ll be up before the Ripon magistrates in the morning.’
I watched as Miss Boland, on the arms of Jim Sykes and the sergeant, was escorted up the lane to the waiting police car. Sykes waved, indicating that he would come back down the track.
The drawer Miss Boland had set on the table contained programmes, fliers and newspaper cuttings, that had fallen out of a scrapbook while waiting to be pasted. The four friends had blasted their arias far and wide. In England they played the Hackney Empire, the Alexander Theatre in Bradford, and clubs and town halls across the country. Perhaps, like Celia Boland, her opera pals had ended up close to where they began. In the hope that one of them might be alive and have a spare bed, I gathered up a selection of press cuttings and biographical material and put it in an envelope, along with a note of ideas for tracing elderly opera singers.
Sykes was waiting at the gate when I locked Miss Boland’s door behind me. What stories that house might tell. It seemed indecent to be planning for the Burns family to move in before Celia Boland’s hearth grew cold.
Sykes looked glum. ‘Which of us will tell the Lofthouses that Mrs Shackleton has solved the mystery of Joe Finch’s death and that Miss Boland will languish overnight in the lock-up in Ripon?’
‘You tell them, and we did it together, as always,’ I said. ‘I want to be here when Harriet and Ruth come back from their walk. It will be a blow for Ruth to lose Miss Boland so soon after Miss Crawford’s funeral.’
Sykes volunteered to go to the court tomorrow, which took the burden from me. ‘Mr Lofthouse may want to go,’ Sykes said. ‘If not, I’ll report back to him.’
He still looked glum. I said, ‘Come for a walk with me, before it gets too dark. There’s time enough for you to see the Lofthouses, and it will do us good to go to the bluebell wood.’
‘What are you up to?’ Sykes asked.
‘A cheerful errand to an encampment.’
As we walked, I told him about the Burns family and Miss Boland’s willingness to have tenants in her cottage. Sykes was pleased for the family. He suggested that we meet the first month’s rent and say it was to cover any cleaning or patching up they might need to do.
The joyfulness of that family when we broke the news gave us a lightness of step as we walked back from the wood.
‘Where will Miss Boland go when she’s let out of clink?’ Sykes asked.
I told him of my hope that one of her friends might still be alive and kicking and willing to give Miss Boland houseroom. I gave him the envelope of Merry Opera Company cuttings. ‘We’re just about finished here, Mr Sykes. How about you see if you can track down Miss Boland’s old pals.’
He seemed pleased and relieved. ‘Then I’ll get off home tomorrow. I’ll be better placed to do this tracing in Leeds.’
‘Good idea.’ I guessed he would have bridges to mend with Rosie after seeing her to the bus last Sunday morning.
We parted, agreeing that this assignment was almost at its end. This ought to be the time to say goodbye and send in the bill yet I felt the last act was yet to come.
Sykes picked up on my uncertainty. ‘What’s worrying you, Mrs Shackleton?’
‘Ruth. She and Harriet went out today and they are getting on very well. Harriet would be a perfect companion for her but there’s the spectre of Slater Parnaby. I’d be permanently uneasy.’
‘They should move in with the Lofthouses,’ Sykes said. ‘There’d be plenty of room and they would be safe.’
‘If I were their age, I would prefer the cottage. They have their independence. We parted company. I called at Miss Boland’s cottage to pick up the pie she would no longer need.’
Chapter Forty-Five
The lamps were lit in Oak Cottage. Harriet and Ruth were safely back from their day out. They were laughing over Harriet’s difficulty in opening a tin of peas with a rusty tin opener. Ruth sliced the pie that Yvonne Finch had brought. Harriet decided that halfway open was enough and she could scoop the peas into a pan. They had been shopping and bought sausages, packets of potato crisps and a tin of jam and cream wafers.
We all sat down to eat.
Our dog barely troubled to greet me. He was by the pantry, tackling a marrowbone.
I felt a sense of relief that swept aside my anxieties about the girls not being safe if I left them. I waited until after we had eaten to tell them the news about Miss Boland, beginning with the signed photograph she had asked me to give to Ruth. In it, young Celia Boland was smiling. She had inscribed the photograph, To Ruth, My Star Pupil.
They listened in silence as I told them of Miss Boland’s confession and arrest.
Ruth finally said, ‘The old man was right. I thought he was just being cruel.’
‘What did he say?’ I asked.
‘On Saturday night when he was here, he whispered to me. He said Miss Boland murdered Joe Finch. He said he smelled blood on her.’
‘She did not commit murder,’ I said. ‘He was wrong about that. Joe Finch’s death was a terrible accident. He fell down the stairs. Miss Boland knew she should not have been there and didn’t own up.’
Ruth thought about this. ‘Then I will go tell the old man that. I don’t want him spreading lies about Miss Boland. What time is her court appearance tomorrow?’
‘I don’t know. The courts usually begin at 10 a.m. It will depend on how many cases there are, and when Miss Boland’s case is scheduled.’
‘Then I’ll go ask at the police station,’ Ruth said. ‘If they can’t tell me, I’ll be at the court for ten o’clock. Will you come with me tomorrow, Harriet? I can borrow a bike for you.’
Harriet agreed. ‘What about you, Auntie, will you go?’
‘No. Mr Sykes will be there, and perhaps the Lofthouses.’ I then told them about Miss Boland letting the cottage to a family.
‘Will Miss Boland go to prison?’ Ruth asked.
‘That depends on the court. If she does, I hope it won’t be for long and we’ll find somewhere for her to live so that she doesn’t have the shame of coming back here. She’ll miss you, but she won’t be sorry about starting again.’
I could see that both girls thought Miss Boland far too old to begin again, but they did not say so.
They put on their coats and set off for the town.
Chapter Forty-Six
Harriet did not relish the idea of seeing Ruth’s dad, but she did not tell Ruth that. At the Parnaby house, Harriet stood a little to one side as Ruth opened the door and stepped inside, calling, ‘It’s me, Dad,’ and saying to Harriet, ‘Come in, we won’t be long.’
Slater Parnaby was sitting in a chair by the fire. He was unshaven. His clothes were dirty. He ponged. The house was messy and smelled of what Mrs Sugden would call burnt offerings. The sink was piled high with dishes and pans. Mr Parnaby looked up from reading the paper.
‘Talk of the devil,’ he said to Ruth. ‘I was thinking about you and here you are.’
‘Here I am,’ Ruth said. ‘I’ve just come to put you right about Miss Boland.’
The floor around him was strewn with newspapers. Harriet saw why. He finished reading a page and then threw it on the floor.
He then stood and said. ‘I just made a pot of tea. Sit yourselves down. There’s a packet of digestive biscuits.’
Harriet saw that Ruth was about to refuse but Mr Parnaby did not let her get a word in. ‘I’ve had a lot of time to think sitting here all alonio, on my ownio. It was me, my fault. I drove you all away. That was wrong.’ He took two clean cups from the cupboard, put them on the table, poured in milk and stewed tea. ‘I’ll make it up to you, lass. When I have a business going, we’ll pull together.’
Ruth said, ‘I don’t think that’s going to happen, Dad, not now. I’ve just come to tell you that Miss Boland didn’t murder Joe Finch. It was an accident.’
Mr Parnaby scoffed. ‘That’s just what she would say.’ He began to pick up the sheets of newspaper paper and push them into the space between the drawers and cupboard at the side of the fireplace.
Mr Parnaby then picked up a double page and put
it in front of Ruth. ‘How about this in the Mole of the World?’ Ruth picked it up and sat down at the table to read.
Harriet saw the headline. ‘American Film Star Couple’s Child Held for Ransom.’ Harriet knew that story. She looked at the date. It was three months ago.
All the while Ruth read, Mr Parnaby talked, wishing he had been different and kept his family together. George had done the right thing going after a job in Scarborough, and on and on Mr Parnaby talked.
Ruth ignored him folded the paper and handed it back. ‘The film stars probably did it for the publicity.’
‘Some people are shockers,’ Mr Parnaby said. ‘Some people are money mad. That poor child.’
He talked on. Harriet read the paper’s puzzle page and tried to shut out his voice.
Ruth gulped down her tea and took a biscuit. ‘We’re off now. I’ll be going to the magistrates’ court tomorrow to see what happens to Miss Boland, but don’t go telling people she is a murderess because she is not.’
Mr Parnaby folded more sheets of newspaper, saying, ‘I’m saving certain items.’
Harriet could not decide whether to feel sorry for him.
He came to the door to let them out. ‘Ruth, come for your dinner on Sunday. I’ve ordered a leg of mutton. You’ve a good business head on your shoulders. I have this idea for taking over a tobacconist’s shop. I need a capital investment and I want to talk to you about it.’
Chapter Forty-Seven
It was late that night, when Ruth had gone to bed, that Harriet and I sat by the fire.
She asked me, ‘Are you tired, Auntie?’
‘No.’ I poked the fire. A log crackled.
‘I liked it on the common,’ Harriet said. We looked at where there were old cottages. Ruth recited a poem about one of them. Miss Boland taught it to her, making Ruth speak this poem over and over so as to practise pronouncing her Ts clearly. It’s called The Old Thatched Cottage on the Moor.’
‘Did you learn it, Harriet?’
‘Only the first verse. It goes,
“Out on the lonely moors you can see a cottage stand,
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