By chucking-out time, Bob and Sykes had struck up a bit of camaraderie. Sykes was good at banter. In the cool night air, they fell into step. Bob Conroy zig-zagged through the village street. He passed the Methodist chapel and turned into Over Lane. You’re going the wrong way, Sykes thought. You’re taking a long road home. Only when Bob turned into Nether End did Sykes realise that he was going to Mary Jane’s cottage.
The cottage was in darkness. Conroy went to the door. He spread his arms akimbo and brought his head forward so that his forehead knock-knocked against the door. Over and over, he banged his head against the door.
Sykes went to him, raised him up. ‘Come on, Bob. Come on, lad. She’s not here. Let’s get you home, eh?’
‘What have I done?’ Conroy wailed. ‘What have I done?’
That’s exactly what I’d like to know, Sykes thought, but if I put it that directly I’ll never find out.
‘Come on, lad. Your missis’ll be looking out for you. Let’s have you, eh?’
With encouraging words, putting an arm around the man, Sykes drew him away from the door, but he realised he was not sure how to get to the farm without going back into the village and starting again. There was a back way, he knew that. Mrs Shackleton described going to the quarry with the little lass. Conroy was stumbling in that direction, crisscrossing the back garden and along some path.
Sykes took the risk of hiding his attaché case under a bush in the Armstrongs’ back garden. He had brought his torch, in his inside pocket, but for now the moon shed enough light to give the hawthorn hedge its shape.
‘We might see him,’ Conroy said. ‘What if Ethan’s ghost comes walking along, as he always did?’
Sykes said. ‘One foot then the next, that’s the way.’
‘I don’t know your name.’
‘Jim.’
‘If we keep going, Jim, we’ll go to Hawksworth Moor, that’s the place on a night like this. We’d walk on Hawksworth Moor and set the world to rights.’
‘Another time, eh? We’ve both taken a drop too much.’
Nearby, an owl screeched. A tree sighed.
Conroy said, ‘You stride out, like he did. Purposeful like, a man with an appointment to keep, a job to do. The best. Ethan put a steeple on the church. That’s why Mary Jane had to have insurance. A mason, he might fall.’
‘Did someone help him fall?’ Sykes asked.
But Conroy had stopped talking. He slid from Sykes’s arm. On his knees on the rough path, he lowered his head and was sick into the grass, the moonlight catching the whiteness of his ear as his cap fell off.
He turned and looked at Sykes. ‘I know who you are. I know who sent you.’
He thinks I’m Special Branch. Well, there’ll be no sense got from this man tonight, only drunk’s talk, moon talk and madness.
Sykes left Bob at the farm gate. He watched as the man zig-zagged across the farmyard.
Three
The thumping on the door woke Harriet from a dream. She shot up, thinking, it’s Dad. He’s home. And then she remembered. She shifted her foot to touch Austin with her toe. They lay top to tail and he slept, but was hot, giving off waves of heat. She kept her foot by him to make sure of being awake, to make sure this was no dream. Then she remembered, she was at the Conroys’ and didn’t want to be here. She wanted to be at home with Mam and Dad.
She’d liked Auntie Kate, but now she didn’t like her because she had brought them here and dumped them.
The banging got louder.
She went to the window. There was Uncle Bob, braying on his own door. ‘Georgie, Georgina! I’m locked out.’
He stepped back and looked up, moving unsteadily. Drunk. Uncle Bob never got drunk.
A window was flung open. ‘Aye, you’re locked out. I can’t abide drunkenness. You can stop out there till you sober up.’
‘Let me in.’
‘Go and sleep in the cowshed!’
Harriet felt sorry for him. He looked as if he might fall down. Auntie Georgie should let him in. He’s drunk because Dad is dead, she thought. He’s drunk because his heart is broken. Should I be drunk? Should I be outside in the middle of the night, ready to fall down? Instead, here I am, as though nothing has changed.
Uncle Bob let out a cry like a dog howling at the moon.
He wouldn’t stop howling.
Auntie Georgie shut the window. Harriet heard her treading softly down the stairs. She would let him in. The bolt on the door slid back.
Uncle Bob moaned, saying her mam and dad’s names, Ethan, Mary Jane, Mary Jane, Ethan, as Auntie Georgie opened the door.
Auntie Georgie’s voice came out hard and mean. ‘If you can’t stomach ale you shouldn’t sup.’
‘Have a heart, woman.’ He slipped and let out a curse and lay for too long on the ground before struggling to his feet.
‘What time do you call this? Where’ve you been?’
‘I wanted to see Mary Jane. They’ve taken her. I tried to explain …’
What did he mean? Who had taken her? No one should take her. Without Mam, she’d be a full orphan for sure. Bad things happened to orphans.
Harriet watched. Instead of letting Uncle Bob in, Auntie Goergina pushed him away. He staggered back. She was angry. ‘Shut up your mouth. I’ve the man’s bairns sleeping up there. Show some respect.’
‘Mary Jane … and Ethan, poor Ethan.’
‘What about your wife? What about me? Mary Jane was planning to leave Ethan. He told me. She was going to leave the lot of them.’
‘No, never, never in this wide world.’
Uncle Bob staggered. Auntie Georgie got behind him, to bring him in, Harriet thought, but no. ‘You’re sleeping in the cowshed, my man, till you know how to respect a respectable wife and two fatherless children.’
He made a kind of sobbing sound, as if about to cry.
Uncle Bob is crying, Harriet thought. Men don’t cry.
They had moved away into the shadows. Harriet could hear their voices but not the words. This would be like her mam sending dad into the coal shed. Something that would never happen. It wasn’t right. And it wasn’t true what Auntie Georgina said. She would tell her. She would say, Mam isn’t going to leave us. It’s not true.
Harriet waited at the window until Mrs Conroy came back inside, until she heard her climb the stairs and go back into the room next door. Austin still slept. But you never knew with him. Sometimes he pretended. The room was too dark to tell if he was pretending or not. Harriet listened to his breath, too even and quiet for him to be awake.
Harriet lay down. What if Dad is not dead? This is all some mistake or some dream. A story. She would not have to go to school and be stared at. She would not be half an orphan. If she went to sleep, she might wake in the middle of last week when everything was normal and ordinary.
How long she slept, she did not know, or whether she slept at all. Something woke her. She moved her feet left and right. All she felt was the crumpled sheet beneath her heel and the top sheet on her big toe. She sat up. The bed was flat at the bottom and on either side. It wasn’t like him to get up for a pee. He’d prefer to wet the bed.
She felt suddenly scared. What if he had not been asleep earlier, when Uncle Bob made his racket? He might have gone downstairs, let himself out, and tried to find Uncle Bob in the cowshed. No. He would have wakened her. He was too afraid to be brave.
The light at the window was not like morning, and not like the moon. Harriet went to look.
Flames licked from the wall of the barn. Red sparks flung themselves into the darkness. She flung open the window, and smelled smoke.
Four
Trust the moon to slide behind a cloud when you needed her. Jupiter shone brightly, but not brightly enough. Sykes took out his torch. He felt like bloody Goldilocks because where else could he go but the three bears’ cottage – the Armstrong cottage where he would risk a few hours’ sleep and be careful not to eat porridge or break baby bear’s chair.
T
he wind was behind him now and it brought a tang, a dryness, something like smoke. He turned to look at the sky. It was lit red over the farm. Sparks flew into the sky. For a moment, Sykes stood like a statue, as if some master of ceremonies had put on a display and demanded his appreciation. And then he started to run, back towards the farm, along the track, past the ominous quarry with its forbidding shadows, up the dirt road, along the farm track. And by the time he reached the farm track, he was not alone.
Someone else had seen the fire. A man came running out of the farm cottage, pulling a cap onto his head. ‘Bloody hell fire,’ said the man. ‘It’s the cowshed. My beasts! My poor beasts.’
‘How many are there?’ Sykes asked, catching the sound of his own panting, wishing he had not spoken.
‘Four.’
Sykes could hear the braying of distressed cattle and the barking of a dog.
It was like a circle of hell come to life. Wind blew the smoke and sparks towards them. Sykes thought he saw the girl he had given chocolate to, saw her flit by and disappear behind a great lumbering shape that in this light looked more wild elephant than milking cow.
‘The beasts is free,’ the man said and ran past the burning cowshed towards four wild-eyed creatures that mooed and bumped into each other as though at any moment they would dash back into the flames.
If the wind changes, the house will catch fire, Sykes thought. He saw a bucket by the horse trough. Sykes lowered the bucket into the water, filled it, and threw it on the flames. Useless.
The man paid no attention to the fire. Sykes was vaguely aware that he was talking to the cows, smacking their flanks.
Sykes heard her before he saw her. The shriek came from behind. He turned to see the woman who had bought stockings. Mrs Conroy. ‘Bob, my poor Bob.’
A banshee wail came from the house and a small nightgowned figure charged in their direction.
That must be the little girl, Sykes thought. I saw a shadow before.
But it was a different girl, and she called a name over and over. ‘Austin, Austin.’
‘Back, Harriet, back!’ Mrs Conroy ordered. ‘Stay clear.’ She grabbed the child’s arm.
‘Where’s Austin!’
‘Austin?’ The woman stared at the flames, at Sykes and back at Harriet. ‘Oh my God.’
Harriet pulled free and ran towards the burning cowshed. Sykes caught her and held her fast. ‘You don’t know he’s in there, and if he is there’s no helping him.’
She struggled and kicked. ‘Let me go!’
One kick hit Sykes where it hurt and as he involuntarily relaxed his grip, she wriggled free. She ran towards the cowshed. The girl – he remembered her name, Millie – appeared from nowhere, like a wisp of smoke. She blocked Harriet’s path, tripping her, catching hold of her as she fell. For a moment, the two girls struggled on the ground, Harriet screeching to be let go.
A rafter fell into the burning cowshed, sending out sparks and new flames shooting to the sky. Choking black smoke billowed into the farmyard. Sykes began to cough. He stuffed his hanky over his mouth.
When he picked up Harriet again, all the fight was gone out of her. He carried her into the house, kicking the door shut behind him to keep the smoke from entering.
‘Austin,’ she said. ‘Find Austin.’
‘I will. I’ll find him.’
Or his charred bones, his ashes.
They were on the stairs. Sykes was carrying her to a bedroom, but which one he didn’t know.
She pointed.
‘You go back to sleep, and keep the windows shut.’
‘Austin,’ she whimpered. ‘Find Austin. He’s with Uncle Bob. Millie told me.’
Mrs Conroy called up the stairs. ‘Is he there? Is the little one there?’
Slowly, Sykes came down the stairs. Mrs Conroy stood at the bottom, staring at him. He shook his head.
‘You’re the stockings man.’
He felt accused, unmasked. ‘I was walking back from the pub. I saw the flames.’
She closed her eyes. ‘The little lad sleepwalks. He must have walked outside when I opened the door. I’d made Bob stop outside because he was reeling drunk, and the little lad …’
‘Are you saying he went in the cowshed?’
‘I left the door, but only for a moment. I was in the yard with Bob. A moment’s all it takes.’
Harriet was on the stairs. ‘Look for him. Somebody look for him.’
Sykes pulled out his torch. ‘I’ll go. You search the house, Mrs Conroy. I’ll search outside.’ He added quietly, ‘Your poor husband must have dropped a cigarette.’
She indicated a row of pipes on the mantelpiece. ‘He doesn’t take them out. He only ever smokes the odd roll-up if someone hands him one.’
Mrs Conroy called after Sykes, ‘Don’t try and save that damn barn. Just find the child.’
In the yard, the farm worker stood, watching the flames.
‘There’s nowt we can do, gov. Bob must’ve let the beasts loose when he could have saved his life. But that’s Bob. He loved them beasts.’
‘If the wind changes, get Mrs Conroy and … Get Mrs Conroy and Harriet out of the house.’
‘Aye. I’ve thought of that. And I’ve teken the beasts downwind.’
‘Did you see the little lad?’
‘No.’
‘What about Millie?’
‘She’ll be with the beasts, talking to them.’
‘Show me.’
Sykes’s torch shook as he shone his and the man’s way across the yard to the barn. Four pairs of cows’ eyes looked at them expectantly. But there was no sign of Millie, or of Austin.
SATURDAY
On a cloud I saw a child,
And he laughing said to me:
‘Pipe a song about a Lamb!’
William Blake
One
At dawn, Sykes stood with Sergeant Sharp in the farmyard. A sullen red glow lit the grey ash and charred wood, which was all that remained of the cow shed. Do I tell him now, Sykes asked himself, or keep quiet?
Sergeant Sharp poked with a stick at the hot ash, as though searching out a lost roast chestnut. ‘Poor Conroy. What a shocking end.’ He shook his head. ‘Mrs Conroy thinks Austin Armstrong sleepwalked, matches in his pocket. She says she caught him trying to set fire to the hen hutch last week.’
‘That makes no sense to me.’ Sykes drew the toe of his boot away from the hot ash. ‘No kid would come out in the middle of the night and start a fire. Cigarette more likely, or combustion.’
‘Bob wasn’t a cigarette smoker. A kid would do it, if it’s in him to do it. Fire raising takes a hold of some kids, like a disease. But you did right to take him and Harriet home, away from the scene.’
‘It was only Harriet I took back to their cottage. Austin was already there.’
‘Run off, guilty like. I’ll have a word with that lad. You see it’s in him. It’s in him to do summat bad and run off.’
Sharp was determined to think badly of the children, even after his experience of misjudging Harriet. Sykes decided what he would do.
From beyond the farm gate came the distant sound of a motor engine.
‘That’ll be the fire engine. They’ll search this lot and find poor Bob.’ Sharp sucked a finger and held it in the air. ‘We’re fortunate the wind didn’t carry the fire to the house.’ He held out his hand. ‘Thank you for what you did. Lucky you was nearby.’
‘It would have been luckier for everyone concerned if I’d seen Bob Conroy through his own door and not just to the farmyard gate.’
‘Leave it to me now,’ Sharp said. ‘You get off home. Where do I get in touch with you if needs be?’
Sykes pulled out his notebook, scribbled his name and address, and handed it to the sergeant. ‘Shall I call in to the station when it suits you?’
‘Aye. You do that.’
Sykes turned up his collar and pulled down his hat as he turned his back on the burned-out building. The fire brigade engine had r
eached the gate. Sykes lifted the latch, swung the gate open and waited until the vehicle chugged through.
Behind it was one of the North Riding Alvis motors, Chief Inspector Charles sitting in the back seat. Bad timing. The chief inspector had spotted him. Sykes clutched his ridiculous attaché case, having retrieved it when he took Harriet back to the cottage. He’d be mortified if asked to open it and reveal the solitary pair of artificial silk stockings. He stopped a grin. Be a bit rich if the chief inspector bought a pair for Mrs Shackleton.
Chief Inspector Marcus Charles looked straight at Sykes, and then through him. He remembers me all right, Sykes thought, but he’s choosing not to let on. Damned if I’ll acknowledge you then. I’m no toadeater. The man’s probably busy loathing me because I spend more time with Mrs Shackleton than he does. But at the thought of Mrs Shackleton, Sykes knew that he would have to speak to the man, even at the risk of having been discovered somewhere he shouldn’t be. No difficulty about that. If asked, Sykes would simply say he had arranged to meet an old chum in the Fleece last night, and got chatting to Conroy. And if the chief inspector believed that, he’d believe anything.
Two
My mother is the most relaxed of women. Dad and I once speculated about this. Dad maintained she was simply born that way. I came to the conclusion that her permanent state of equilibrium is due to her privileged girlhood in her family’s country pile where Care, Want and Anxiety not only never appeared, they did not exist. She is now aware that there are worries in the world and that life does not run along smooth lines for everyone, but it is as if the difficult side of existence is somehow slightly unreal and does not touch her in a deep part of her being. This makes her very comfortable to be with. It is rare for her to fall into a tizz. So when she telephoned to me in an agitated way, asking me to meet her in Marshall & Snelgrove’s café in Leeds at ten o’clock, I knew something was up. I especially knew something was up when I arrived at a minute to ten and she was already sitting at a table, sipping coffee.
Murder in the Afternoon: A Kate Shackleton Mystery Page 24