‘You’ll get no joy at Conroy’s farm today,’ the sergeant said.
‘Then I might just make an appointment to call again next time I’m round.’
‘As you like. It’s a free country.’
‘Thank you. Good afternoon, officer.’
Sykes strode on, glancing back to see the sergeant climbing a stile, into a field where four cows grazed. From this, Sykes guessed that the sergeant had not found Conroy at home and was setting off to look for him.
Sykes pushed open the farm gate. In the field to his left, a little girl piled couch grass onto a fire, warming her hands as she did so. Sykes said hello. ‘That’s a grand blaze.’
The girl gave something close to a smile. She was dark as a gypsy, her movements smooth as a wriggling eel’s.
‘What you burning?’
‘Couch grass.’
He looked at her dirty hands, pencil-thin arms and legs. ‘Did you pull it all up yourself?’
She shook her head. ‘Just some.’
In the field beyond was another fire. A black cauldron hung over the flames with two crouched figures beside it, one of the men holding an animal. From this distance, the scene struck him as some ancient ritual of sacrifice. I’m a townie, Sykes thought to himself. Coming here spoils my view of the country entirely.
‘What are they up to?’ he asked the girl.
‘Over thur?’ She looked at him as if he must be stupid.
‘Yes.’
‘Cutting tails.’
‘What tails?’
‘Lambs’ tails.’
This was a girl who did not run to more than two words at a time. Sykes wished he hadn’t asked. ‘Is one of them Mr Conroy?’
‘No.’
A dog began to bark.
The girl threw more couch grass on the fire, turning her back on him.
‘I have a girl your age. She likes chocolate. She won’t mind if you have this chocolate bar and I’ll get her another one.’
She turned. He held out the chocolate.
‘Fur me?’
‘Aye.’
‘Thanks, mister.’
‘What’s your name?’
She thought for a long moment. ‘Millie.’
‘Whose girl are you?’
She did not answer straightaway, as though the question was too difficult, and then the words came to her. ‘Hurs.’
‘Did you know Mr Armstrong?’ he asked the girl, immediately wanting to bite his tongue for putting Ethan Armstrong in the past tense.
She nodded.
‘Come to the farm a lot did he?’
Her canny glance told him she would not give much away, even if she could. She held the chocolate in her hand, close to her chest, as though it would be snatched away. ‘What does tha want wi’ me, mister?’
‘Nowt.’
She broke off a piece of chocolate, popped it in her mouth, and slipped the rest of the bar in her pocket. She stooped for more couch grass. The burning grass crackled. Millie wiped a hand across her smeared face.
Sykes said, ‘There is summat.’
‘What?’
A flash of inspiration led him to say, ‘How did Mr Armstrong and Mrs Conroy get on when he came to see her?’
Mrs Shackleton had said that Armstrong supposedly talked to Mrs Conroy about his troubles. What if it wasn’t that at all? Armstrong and the farmer’s wife were lovers. Conroy had found out. A fight. A deadly blow. That would explain why Conroy was not here when Harriet came running. Conroy was already in the quarry, blood on his hands.
He waited for Millie’s answer, willing her, please give me more than two words.
‘Don’t know.’ She fingered the chocolate bar in her pocket, not looking at him. But he had the feeling of being close to something.
The eye in the back of Sykes’s head blinked. He turned and saw the farmhouse door open. ‘Bye, Millie. Don’t eat the chocolate all at once, lassie.’
The woman at the door watched as Sykes approached.
When he drew close, he saw that she had a round, open face and mesmerising blue eyes. Her look was curious as she waited for him to speak.
‘Good afternoon, madam. I wonder if I might interest you in some very fine hosiery at a reasonable price? No obligation for taking a look.’
She looked beyond him as though he may be some ne’er do well who had an accomplice lurking round the corner, waiting to pounce.
‘I’m Jim Sykes, and this week I’m in the area with some superior items manufactured from viscose which if you touch between finger and thumb I guarantee you will imagine to be silk.’
She hesitated.
‘A lady like yourself would, I’m sure, appreciate the quality.’
She opened the door wide enough for him to step inside. ‘I’ll spare you five minutes. Only because it’s a change to have a salesman who isn’t flogging cattle feed.’
Sykes glanced around the kitchen. ‘You keep a lovely place, and a grand fire, Mrs …’ Just in time, Sykes stopped himself from saying her name.
‘Mrs Conroy.’
‘A lovely place,’ he repeated.
‘I try. It’s a losing battle with men trooping in for their meals.’ She moved from the kitchen towards a door at the far side of the room. ‘Come through, or whatever you have to display will end up smeared with dripping and smelling of smoked bacon.’
He followed her into a Sunday best room, with over-stuffed horsehair sofa and chairs, oak sideboard suitable for a giant’s parlour and enough ornaments to keep an auctioneer busy for a week.
‘Do you manage this place all on your own?’ Sykes waited until she sat down on the sofa, motioning him to put down his case and be seated.
‘I’ve a girl to help, and a woman comes in from the village twice a week.’
‘Well, I take my hat off to you, Mrs Conroy.’ He set the case between them, and flicked open the lid. Drawing out a pair of stockings, he held them up to catch the light. ‘The silkworm himself wouldn’t tell the difference between this and the real thing.’
She took the hose from him with long, slender fingers – a pianist’s hands, but roughened by work. ‘That’s a right nice stocking. What would you rush me for ’em?’
‘How much would you say they’re worth to a lady like yourself with an ankle worth showing to the world?’
They haggled amiably for several minutes. ‘You drive a hard bargain,’ Sykes said, ‘but since I’ve come this far and you’re buying three pairs, you shall have them.’
‘Well, be quick about it before my husband gets back or he’ll be on at me for wasting brass.’
Sykes took out two more pairs of stockings and a sheet of tissue paper.
‘Not so fast. I must make sure that the other two pairs aren’t inferior.’
‘I can see no man will get the better of you, Mrs Conroy.’
She laughed, a warm genuine laugh.
‘Will your man be back soon? Perhaps I can interest him in a pair of socks?’
‘He has socks enough to last a lifetime. His mother used to knit them for him as a punishment.’ She spotted children’s socks. Sykes lifted out a pair of boy’s and girl’s socks. ‘What about something for the children?’
‘I was thinking of that.’
‘How many bairns do you have?’
‘None of my own, sadly, but I’ve two little ones coming to stay who’ve had a dire loss. Stockings won’t make up for that but if I take a pair for each of them, they’ll know they’re welcome when they come.’
‘Might I ask what dire loss the two little ones have suffered?’
‘Their father,’ she sighed. ‘He was found dead in the quarry earlier. The police sergeant, probably you passed him in the lane, he came to tell me.’
‘I’m sorry. You should have said. I would have come another time.’
She went to the dresser, opened the top drawer and took out a purse. ‘Nay, I wasn’t close to the man. But he was a childhood friend of my husband. My mister will take it hard.�
�
As they stood by the sofa, she counted the money into his hand. I wonder, he thought as her fingers grazed his palm, was there something between you and Ethan Armstrong? When you say you were not close, do you protest too much? The thought lingered as she walked him to the door and wished him good day.
As he drew level with the girl in the field, Sykes balanced his case on top of the dry-stone wall. ‘Millie!’ he called.
She looked up from her fire.
‘Here. A pair of stockings for you.’
Her eyes widened. ‘Why?’
‘To keep you warm, why else?’
The girl took the stockings from him and slid them into her apron pocket.
It was then that Sykes heard the unmistakeable sound of Mrs Shackleton’s Jowett approaching.
He said goodbye to the girl and walked to the gate.
Mrs Shackleton stayed in the motor. She spoke to the children who climbed from the car. Like two little rag dolls with the stuffing knocked out of them, they stepped slowly and cautiously through the gate, keeping to the edge of the path, trying to avoid the mud.
Sykes caught a glimpse of Mrs Shackleton’s face in an unguarded moment as she watched the children. He looked away because the sadness was too naked.
He walked to the car and said cheerily, ‘I never miss an opportunity to show my wares. And that’s what I shall do now, as you tell me what comes next.’
He opened the attaché case and set it on the seat beside her.
‘I don’t know what comes next, Mr Sykes. I’ve just had to break it to those two children that their father is dead.’
He could have choked on his cheeriness. ‘Where’s their mother?’
‘Taken to formally identify her husband’s body. But I know she’ll be questioned.’
‘By your chief inspector?’
‘Yes. Ethan’s tools were hidden under the coal in her outhouse. As if she’d be so stupid.’
People had been hanged on less evidence, Sykes knew, but he kept the thought to himself. ‘I passed the local sergeant earlier. He’s on his way to some far-flung field to seek out Bob Conroy and tell him the bad news.’
‘That’s kind of him,’ Mrs Shackleton said, making a show of picking up a stocking. ‘Unless…’
‘Unless what?’
‘He could be acting on instructions. If I’m not mistaken, Chief Inspector Marcus Charles thinks Mary Jane killed Ethan. He may suspect that she had help from Bob Conroy. Mrs Ledger said both Bob Conroy and Ethan were smitten by Mary Jane, and Ethan won her.’
Sykes held out another stocking, lisle this time, in what he thought of as “unnatural flesh” colour. They had a slightly orange tinge that he had never seen in a human being. Absently, she took it from him. Sykes thought the best thing to say now was nothing, but he said, ‘What about a possible connection between Ethan Armstrong and Mrs Conroy? She’s got something about her.’
Mrs Shackleton looked at him quickly. Two pink spots appeared on her cheeks. It reminded him that he must tread carefully. This investigation was too close to home for her to feel objective about it.
She let the flesh-coloured stocking fall back into the case.
Six
Sykes marched away down the lane, carrying his attaché case. I hurried to the farmhouse, feeling guilty about letting the children go in alone. But at least Georgina Conroy now knew about Ethan, and so it would not be up to Harriet to try and put the bad news into words.
I tapped on the door and went inside. ‘Sorry. I sent the children ahead. I was waylaid by a man selling stockings.’
‘Did you buy?’
‘No. Did you?’
‘I felt sorry for the poor chap. And he has the gumption to get himself out and about and try and earn a living. Not like some poor souls who have the stuffing knocked out of ’em and never see how to put it back.’
Mrs Conroy already had the children sitting by the fire, trying on new socks.
‘It looks as if you two are settling in all right,’ I said, immediately regretting my choice of words which made it sound as if they would be here for the duration. Both Harriet and Austin ignored me. Harriet seemed to struggle to get the heel of the sock in the right place. Austin’s foot was still inside the stocking leg.
With her back to the children, Mrs Conroy cast me a tragic glance. ‘Eh what a to do. But the bairns can stay here as long as need be. Put Mary Jane at ease over that.’
I helped Austin try on his new socks. He let me do it, though would not look, and would not answer when I asked did he like them.
Declining the offer to stay for tea, I was just about to leave when the door burst open and a cold blast of air filled the room. Bob Conroy stood in the doorway, looking at the farmhouse kitchen as though he had never seen it or the occupants before. He stumbled a few steps into the room. Ignoring his wife’s warning glance, his face contorted with emotion. He swooped towards the hearth and the two children.
Georgina Conroy shut the door behind him and uttered a warning, ‘Bob!’
But he was on the hearth rug, between the children, silently putting his arms around the pair of them, drawing them to him. ‘You can stay as long as you want, and your mam, too, when she comes home.’
‘Of course they can, my dear,’ Georgina said evenly.
She walked to the door, where I stood waiting to take my leave. Mrs Conroy sighed at her husband’s demonstrativeness. ‘The poor bairns don’t need outpourings of sentiment. They need a bit of calm and care.’
Feeling I had left the children in safe hands, I said goodbye. Next stop, Applewick Hall.
The powerful conviction that the Ledgers had some connection with Ethan’s death was not my only prompt for driving to Applewick Hall. Marcus had been quick enough to tell me about Mary Jane’s insurance policy on Ethan’s life, yet he did not mention her bank book. I felt sure he would have asked me about that had he come across it. I wanted to know why Mary Jane met Colonel Ledger on Tuesday.
I parked my motor in front of Applewick Hall, hoping my noisy arrival and obtrusive placing of the motor would alert the occupants. At the front door, I gave the knocker a whopping thump, and waited. A word from someone “important” carries a great deal of weight. Tipped as future lord lieutenant of the county, Ledger was “important”. I had no compunction about pulling any string that might ease Mary Jane’s way. The butler remembered me from my previous visit. ‘I’m here to see Mrs Ledger, on a matter of urgency.’ Best be conventional, and start with her.
‘Madam is not receiving visitors at present.’ He hesitated. ‘Would you care to leave your card?’
‘No. I shall wait and see either Mrs Ledger or the colonel. They will not thank you for turning me away.’
Without another word, he opened the door and led me into the drawing room, where I had waited on my previous visit. The family portrait dominated the room. Colonel and Mrs Ledger in all their glory gazed down at me with something like disdain. The two little boys, bright-eyed and confident, brought a touch of joy to the scene. The elder had curved brows that gave him a surprised, slightly supercilious look, like my cat when she thought herself ignored.
I did not have long to wait. Mrs Ledger glided into the room. She approached me cautiously. ‘Mrs Shackleton?’
‘Mrs Ledger.’
‘Won’t you sit down?’ There was something curiously brittle about her that I had not noticed before. A tremor of irritation came from her as I took up her invitation and sat on the sofa that faced the portrait, looking at the woman and the painted image of her. ‘You are here on a matter of urgency, I understand?’
‘Yes. You’ll have heard that Ethan Armstrong’s body was found in the quarry.’
She nodded gravely. ‘We were told of course. Sergeant Sharp telephoned to my husband. A tragedy.’
‘Mrs Armstrong has been taken to make formal identification of the body, and for questioning by the police. I thought you would want to know, because of how long she worked for you.’
She looked at me steadily, trying to work out what else lay behind my words.
‘Oh?’ She looked surprised. ‘When you say taken for questioning, do you give me to understand that some suspicion hangs over Mrs Armstrong?’
‘I believe so, though I’m sure it’s entirely unfounded.’
‘It’s absurd if she’s suspected. But I’m not sure what I can do. Did she ask that you come here?’
‘No. I took it upon myself. Because she worked for you, when she was very young, and because her husband was your employee.’
Mrs Ledger gave me a sharp look, as if to assess what Mary Jane may have said.
‘She was my maid, yes. But that was a long time ago. Is there something she needs, for herself or the children? Naturally if there’s anything we can do to help …’
At that moment the door opened. Colonel Ledger feigned surprise. ‘I’m sorry, my dear. I didn’t know you had company.’ For a moment he seemed to look through me, as if our meeting on Monday was a decade ago and he had trouble placing me. Flattering.
Finally he said, ‘Mrs Shackleton.’
‘Colonel.’
He strode across the room and sat down beside his wife. A united front. ‘I’ve heard about Armstrong being found. Bad business. Wish now that I’d thought to send my own hounds to the quarry earlier.’
Mrs Ledger stretched her fingers towards her husband’s hand, without touching. ‘I expect it is better that the police deal with these matters, Colonel.’
She called him colonel? I tried not to smile.
And now she did touch his arm. ‘Apparently Mrs Armstrong has been taken to identify the body, and for questioning.’
He blinked several times. ‘Why? I mean, this is no time to question her.’
I decided not to tell him about Ethan’s tool bag hidden in the Armstrongs’ coalhouse. As briefly as I could, I hinted at Marcus’s suspicions.
The colonel sprang to his feet. ‘But that’s absurd! I shall speak to the man. Mary Jane’s sent you here?’
‘No. I offered to go with her to Otley, to the hospital, but she asked me to collect the children from school. They’re with the Conroys.’
Murder in the Afternoon: A Kate Shackleton Mystery Page 20