Murder is in the Air

by Frances Brody

  ‘Tell the police.’

  She shook her head. ‘I woke in the night knowing where he is.’

  ‘Where is he?’

  ‘I can direct us there. I’ve watched the constable. He always does the same thing, does his walkabout and then goes to the hut to shelter. If we get to your car, we’ll be there in no time. Take me there, or I’ll go on my own. Auntie Kate, I have to know, or I’ll never have peace, none of us will. And bad as he is, I don’t want the old man to be hunted by dogs.’

  I should have said no, but I put on my coat and shoes.

  As dawn broke, I stopped the car by a wood. Ruth lit our way along a path until we came to a small version of Stonehenge. There was a chill in the air and frost on the grass but another kind of chill as we walked between the stones. This was the Druid’s Temple Harriet had told me about.

  ‘He is in the hermit’s cave,’ Ruth said, with such certainty that I thought she must be having some sort of aftershock. She bent down to pluck a handful of buttercups.

  We walked until she directed the torchbeam to a dark space in the rock. ‘I brought water.’

  Ruth was off like a shot, the light of her torch dipping as she hurried along the path. I followed. I must have been mad to bring her here.

  She had dimmed the torch, perhaps by turning the beam to the wall. At the back of the cave, Ruth sat beside a figure that looked more like an effigy than a man. She cradled his head, and tried to make him drink, though he looked too far gone to be aware of anything. Perhaps he was already dead.

  She was talking to him softly. I thought I heard him speak. But the only words I caught were hers, buttercups and pity. I could not tell how long it was until Ruth closed her father’s eyes.

  On the way back to the car, she said, ‘I had to know. I threatened to kill him when I was little. He said he had waited four years for someone to put a bullet in his head, and no one did. When the constable walked me to our house last night to collect a dressing gown, I picked up the old man’s service revolver, and I put bullets in. I brought it, but he doesn’t need it now.’

  ‘Did he know you were there?’

  ‘He said, “I thought it would be you.”’

  Chapter Fifty-Eight

  I was back at home, in Batswing Cottage. All was clean, neat, tidy and very quiet. My house seemed strangely empty. Ruth and Harriet had gone to Harrogate with Eleanor. Mrs Sugden and the dog were still in Masham with Annie.

  In the late evening, Sykes called round. He and I sat at the kitchen table. He looked tired. Alongside his current assignment, he had spent hours writing letters, making telephone calls and taking the train to Blackburn in his attempt to trace former members of Miss Boland’s opera troupe, drawing on previous addresses, a distant relative, friends of friends, newspapermen, electoral rolls and musicians’ organisations.

  He had set out his results with impeccable neatness. Those few lines represented a mountain of work and would perhaps result in a new home for Miss Boland.

  ‘This calls for a drop of whisky, Mr Sykes.’

  ‘I’ll get the bottle, Mrs Shackleton.’

  I read his notes, headed The Merry Opera Company.

  Noel Broderick, tenor, residing in a home for elderly, impoverished musicians in Folkestone—vacancies for suitable candidates.

  Julia Patterson, contralto, residing in a self-sufficient, artistic community on the outskirts of Abergavenny.

  Delius Jackson, baritone—pauper’s grave, Blackburn.

  Given the decades that had passed since the four members of the Merry Opera Company last performed together, Sykes had done extraordinarily well to trace all three.

  I raised my glass. ‘To the Merry Opera Company.’

  ‘The Merry Opera Company.’ He took a drink. ‘I’m glad Miss Boland didn’t travel with an orchestra. And we missed Delius Jackson by only six months.’

  ‘Then I must act quickly and find out whether Miss Boland would like to join one of the two remaining comrades before they take a final bow.’

  ‘Please do. I couldn’t face hunting for some second cousin twice removed and hoping that he or she had a heart of gold and a spare room, just so that the townspeople of Masham might sleep safely in their beds.’

  * * *

  I was allowed a ‘resettlement’ visit to Miss Boland in Armley Prison. We sat in a cold, dingy room. She wrapped her shawl tightly round her shoulders and adjusted her spectacles.

  Miss Boland had not come up with any ideas of her own as to where her future might lie. She looked at Sykes’s findings.

  ‘Poor Delius, in a pauper’s grave in Blackburn. His father owned a cotton mill there. You think someone would have put a hand in a pocket.’ She sighed. ‘He was very popular. Everyone who heard him sing fell in love with his heavenly voice. There was always a rude awakening when the man didn’t match up.’ She sighed. ‘A pauper’s grave might be an improvement on where Noel has ended up. “A home for elderly, impoverished musicians.” How ghastly. Some people have no tact. Noel and I were close for a long time. We talked of marriage.’ She shook her head. ‘I will write to him. I don’t suppose he knows about Delius. You’d think just one of us might have fallen on our feet.’

  ‘That leaves Julia.’

  ‘Julia, in a self-sufficient, artistic community, whatever that means. It sounds livelier. She was a good sport, though she often took a dislike to people. Sometimes she and I took a dislike to each other, but that’s what makes life interesting. And I’ve never been to Abergavenny.’

  Chapter Fifty-Nine

  The Midland Hotel, Manchester where we were to stay for the weekend of the Northern Brewery Queen finals, can truly be described as a baroque twentieth-century palace, of red brick, terracotta and polished marble. The hotel’s own theatre seats a thousand, not large enough to accommodate the numbers attending Sunday’s contest. That was to be held in the three thousand-seater Palace Theatre.

  With admirable foresight, huge optimism and not inconsiderable expense, Eleanor had, months earlier, from her own money, booked four rooms for the Saturday night before the contest, and the Sunday night of the event.

  We set off on the Saturday, travelling first class. Annie Parnaby could not face going into a dress shop and so had left it to Mrs Sugden to choose outfits for her. Eleanor had arranged everything down to the last detail. Once on the train, she began to fret as to whether the trunk was on board, with her and Ruth’s outfits and William’s dress suit. She insisted on a porter taking her to the luggage van to check. William and I waited for her in the dining car.

  ‘This is a once in a lifetime event, Kate, and we are in on it,’ William said.

  ‘I know. And the Midland Hotel was the place where Mr Rolls met Mr Royce.’

  ‘Really?’ William lit up with an excitement I had never before seen in him. ‘Look what came of that, eh? Everyone who matters will be there.’

  Everyone who mattered included Sykes and Rosie. William had asked me if I had any objection to Sykes being offered a post as administrative director on the Barleycorn board. He would attend all meetings and work twelve days a year assisting in strategies and planning. It was the perfect job to complement Sykes’s work with me and I was delighted for him.

  Eleanor came back from the luggage van, reporting that the trunk was safe and so were all our suitcases: mine, Harriet’s, Mrs Sugden’s and Mrs Parnaby’s.

  The hotel did not disappoint. William came to whisper to me, ‘The place is awash with brewers, potential investors, and men with big ideas.’

  Saturday evening took on the quality of a fairy tale. We sat at a round table in the dining room. Ruth seemed remarkably calm on this evening before her big night. Harriet said, ‘She practises deep breathing. Miss Boland taught her how to be calm before a performance. You’d hardly notice that underneath she is a bag of nerves.’

  William and Sykes made their way to the bar, for what they called a bit of hobnobbing. Eleanor escaped to her room, to put her feet up. Harriet, Ruth and I w
ent to see the variety show in the theatre. That was too busy an event for Annie Parnaby’s liking. She and Mrs Sugden took to one of the lounges, to admire the décor, and watch people come and go.

  * * *

  On that glittering tie and tails and evening dresses Sunday night, a placard outside the Palace Theatre declared that tickets were SOLD OUT.

  Ruth was already backstage.

  Eleanor whispered that she was one of the first to book seats. Ours was a block on the second row of the stalls.

  Our programme named seven contestants, in alphabetical order of county: Cheshire, Cumberland, Durham, Lancashire, Northumberland, Westmorland and, at number seven, Yorkshire. As the lights dimmed, we were almost too excited to speak.

  A child in the row behind queried where did the North begin and end, and what were its edges? Why was Cheshire included and Derbyshire not when both counties edged Yorkshire and Lancashire? It was explained to her that so did Nottinghamshire and Lincolnshire touch the white and red rose counties, but everyone knew they were the Midlands.

  A brass band fanfare heralded the start of the contest.

  Three judges took their places at the side of the stage. The glamorous editor of a fashion magazine wore black satin. The president of the Society of Brewers and a national newspaper columnist wore formal evening clothes with bow tie and tails.

  Minor members of the aristocracy occupied a box, allowing the compère to welcome My Lords, Ladies and Gentlemen.

  Although each contestant was a queen of her county, they were introduced as miss, starting with sparkling Miss Cheshire in a gold ball gown.

  The questions followed a pattern, probing each candidate’s character and personality, each judge asking his or her question. The newspaperman’s questioning caused four entrants to hesitate.

  At last, Ruth came on stage, to roars of approval from the Yorkshire contingent in the gallery, and cheers from our row.

  She was poised, smiling and charming. No one would have guessed what she had recently gone through. It was in the last questions, from the newspaper columnist, that she excelled.

  ‘Please tell the audience what, in these difficult times for our country, has saddened and gladdened your heart?’

  Ruth thought for a moment. ‘It gladdened my heart that when a destitute family came to live rough in the nearby woods, the father was given a job in our brewery, the mother found school places for her children, and the family now have a home in a cottage, and can start their lives again.’ She paused for the applause to die down, indicating that there was more to be said. ‘What has both saddened and gladdened my heart is that an elderly man who was part of all of our lives died recently. But I am proud to have been one of the people who took down his rhymes in praise of ale, so that they will never be forgotten. Here is one of Mick Musgrove’s short rhymes, to make you smile.’

  She took a deep breath and began in the style of a comic monologue.

  ‘They say there’s five reasons for drinking,

  But more, I’m sure may be got;

  For I never could find, to my thinking,

  A reason why people should not.

  A sixth I’ll not scruple at giving,

  I’ll name it, while ‘tis in my head;

  ’Tis, if you don’t drink while you’re living,

  You never will after you’re dead.’

  There were cheers and laughter as the compère thanked her, and she left the stage.

  Silence fell as the judges leaned in closely to each other, producing their score cards. The brass band struck up the William Tell Overture, which must have made conversation impossible for the judges. Being so close to the stage, I was able to see each one lay out their score cards. The audience remained seated, mostly in silence. Only a few talked amongst themselves as we waited for the result.

  The compère returned to the stage and conferred with the judges.

  Against a racket of tumultuous applause, the seven contestants came back on stage.

  The compère took the microphone. He praised all the candidates, congratulated them, and their breweries.

  ‘And the winner is, Miss Ruth Parnaby of the Barleycorn Brewery, Masham in the North Riding of Yorkshire.’

  Ruth stepped forward to receive the crown, and to give a short, surprised speech that she had practised. She was given an envelope containing a cheque, held it tightly and said, ‘Thank you, thank you everyone.’

  When William Lofthouse was called to the stage, he walked along our row to the aisle almost blindly, into the spotlight, and was ushered onto the stage to accept congratulations and the cheque. He said, ‘Ruth came to us as a trainee clerk, at the age of fourteen. The congratulations are all for Ruth, and for my wife, the artist Eleanor Hart, who has championed Ruth every step of the way.’

  * * *

  We gathered back at the hotel and it seemed as if the enormous chandelier sparkled just for us. The waiter opened champagne. Eleanor raised a toast to Ruth, and to her companion, Harriet. William, not normally a demonstrative man, hugged Eleanor.

  ‘I have the name for Barleycorn’s new brew. It will be Hart’s Artist Brew, in honour of my wonderful wife Eleanor.’

  They both looked so happy. I was glad to have been wrong in my early suspicions of Eleanor. She came and sat by me. ‘Hasn’t it been a glorious evening, Kate?’

  I agreed that it had. For a short time, the trials and tragedies of the past weeks receded. ‘I’m so glad William has named a brew for you!’

  ‘He keeps asking if I need to go and lie down, but this is one after-show party that I wouldn’t dream of missing.’

  I looked about but couldn’t see William or Sykes.

  ‘Where are they?’

  ‘William and Mr Sykes are chatting to everyone who matters, exchanging business cards. Ruth keeps popping back to tell me about new orders, offers of investment, expanding premises, establishing a bottle plant, making more use of the railways, hiring barges for the Ure, and buying a fleet of vans for the more distant deliveries. If only a tenth of that comes to pass, it will be good times for Barleycorn. I’ve told William that he must never let the horses go. Ruth backed me up on that. She told me that horses are much more economical on the short runs.’

  The next morning, Harriet, Mrs Sugden and I caught a train back to Leeds. William’s cheque settling our account had arrived before us, and included a bonus.

  Thanks to a good neighbour, our vegetable patch still thrived. Harriet and I went into the garden, to praise Mrs Sugden’s tomato seedlings.

  Author’s Note

  The Yorkshire market town of Masham, home to the famous Theakston’s and Black Sheep breweries, provides the background for this story. In 1930, there was one brewery in the town, Theakston’s, which I have replaced with the fictional Barleycorn Brewery. Barleycorn Brewery bears no resemblance to existing breweries in the town, except in the way that all breweries have features in common. Some characters in this story have local names. Any similarity to real persons would be an extraordinary coincidence. Mashamshire has its own specially commissioned Ordnance Survey Explorer map. Walkers, please go by that and not by my locations and distances.

  Between the 1920s and early 1980s, Britain’s major industries crowned queens, following the tradition of May Queens. Attractive and charismatic young women who worked in, or had family connections with, their industry became its ambassadors, an opportunity that could change lives. There were queens of railways, coal, cotton, wool and textiles, but never breweries. This story remedies that omission.

  Acknowledgments

  My mother was brought up in the Lloyd’s Arms public house. When we were growing up, one of her many jobs was at the Melbourne Brewery. While saving for a typewriter, I worked as a barmaid at the White Horse. I knew how to pull a good pint, and that the landlord went into the cellar to see to the barrels. With such impeccable credentials, the idea of creating an imaginary brewery was not daunting, until I began.

  In Masham, I took brewery tours at
Theakston’s, with Stuart Burrows, and at Black Sheep. At Tetley’s Brewery, once part of the Leeds city skyline, I took the Heritage Tour. Tetley’s was taken over by Carlsberg who closed the brewery and demolished the plant. The iconic art deco headquarters is now The Tetley, a contemporary art gallery. On Georgia Taylor’s tour, I met former Tetley employees. Sylvia and Ted Johnson, Dudley Mitchell and Brenda and Andrew Metcalfe kindly answered my questions.

  Robert Lawson, formerly brewer at Tetley’s, showed me round Ossett Brewery, of which he is Chairman. He kindly loaned me the old volumes where I found the rhymes in praise of ale.

  Thanks to Alan Slomson of the Thoresby Society and to Professor John Chartres who wrote a chapter about Tetley’s for the book he and Katrina Honeyman edited, Leeds City Businesses, 1893–1993—all of which businesses have since bitten the dust.

  Thanks to nurse Stephanie Carncross, retired police officers Viv Cutbill and Ralph Lindley and to Karyn Burnham, Sylvia Gill and Patricia McNeil.

  John McGoldrick, Curator of Industrial History, Armley Mills Museum, mounted the exhibition Queens of Industry, sparking my interest in this hidden strand of history. He gave me the link to Rebecca Conway’s Making the Mill Girl Modern?: Beauty, Industry and the Popular Newspaper in 1930s’ England. The links to this and other background pieces can be found on my website.

  My source for Willie Lambert’s poem The Old Thatched Cottage on the Moor, is Days of Yore, A History of Masham by Susan Cunliffe-Lister, 1989, Yore being an old name for the River Ure. J B Priestley’s English Journey gives a deeply resonating insight into l930s England.

  A big thanks to Emma Beswetherick for her spot-on editing, to the team at Piatkus, especially Hannah Wann, Clara Diaz and Brionee Fenlon. Last but by no means least, thanks to Jenny Chen and the team at Crooked Lane Books, New York and to agents Judith Murdoch and Rebecca Winfield. It has been my pleasure to work with you all.