Murder is in the Air Read online

  ‘So I’m told.’

  He waved his arm towards a darkened stretch of ground. ‘You’re standing next to her allotment, or what was her father’s allotment. There’ll be a good crop of carrots this year.’

  We came to the adjoining thatched stone cottages, both with low gates and fences and a square of garden in front. The first had a light in the upstairs window, the second was in darkness.

  We reached the second gate. I thanked Mr Musgrove for carrying my case.

  ‘Would you like to hear a rhyme?’ He cleared his throat. ‘I collect rhymes, for posterity, all with the same theme as you might say.’ Without waiting for an answer, he drew a deep breath and began.

  ‘Your doctors may boast of their lotions

  And ladies may talk of their tea

  But I envy them none of their potions,

  A glass of good stingo for me.

  The doctor may sneer if he pleases,

  But my recipe never will fail;

  For the physic that cures all diseases

  Is a bumper of good English ale.’

  ‘Thank you, Mr Musgrove. Is that your own rhyme?’ The gate creaked as I opened it.

  ‘It wasn’t but it is now.’ He tipped his cap. ‘I make it my job to keep the praise of ale alive.’

  ‘That’s a noble task. Now if you’ll excuse me, I’ll settle in before it gets dark.’

  He carried my case to the doorstep and touched his cap. I thanked him, and we said goodnight.

  I thought of the typed manuscript that I had picked up in Miss Crawford’s cottage and put in my briefcase for safe keeping. She must have spent hours listening to rhymes, writing in shorthand, typing them. How many motorists might the rhymester axe down in revenge for Miss Crawford’s death?

  I brought in the suitcase, lantern and blanket. The interior of the cottage was more spacious than I expected. This downstairs room looked large and full of shadows. I lit the oil lamp that stood on the table. There was ample furniture, a polished Yorkshire range, dresser, deal table and chairs, a rocking chair and a steamer chair on either side of the fireplace. The fire was laid. I took off my coat and looked for a hook on the back of the door. A royal blue velvet cloak hung there. There was a second oil lamp and candles. Masham has electricity but it did not come as far as this.

  Under the window was a sink but no tap. The place appeared spotlessly clean. A door on the far wall, which I thought must lead into the back garden, opened onto two tiny rooms, one a scullery and the other with a tin bath hung on the wall. On a long ledge there was a decorative basin, a jug of water, a tablet of Pears soap and two towels on hooks. On the floor beneath the ledge were three chamber pots, one of them new.

  Eleanor had forgotten to mention there would be oil and candlelight, and outdoor plumbing. I had better find my way round before it became too dark.

  I went upstairs. The rooms had been partitioned. There were three bedrooms. My trunk was in the bedroom that looked out onto the front garden.

  I always enjoyed camping. Staying here would be like camping, but with beds and a roof. Compared to a tent, this would be luxury.

  I was blessed with one of those sudden, illogical bursts of happiness. Here I would be, away from the hustle and bustle, from the telephone, the postman, and above all not beholden to kind hosts with their expectations and obligations, and not confined to a hotel where one must be on best behaviour.

  A windowless middle bedroom held a single bed and a chest of drawers.

  I opened the door to the back bedroom. There were two beds, a wardrobe and a dresser. The curtains were open. On the nearest bed lay a suitcase. There was a shape on the bed under the window. I went closer, feeling like one of the three bears. Someone has been sleeping in my bed. This was not Goldilocks, but a dark-haired girl in a white nightgown, deep in slumber, her arms spread above the counterpane. The royal blue cape behind the door gave me the clue. Ruth Parnaby, brewery queen, had arrived here before me.

  I was not yet expected. She would have known about the cottage being made ready, standing empty. Eleanor had invited me to stay there next Saturday, after the garden party.

  I must let Miss Parnaby sleep. She would be more surprised to see me than I her. This could have been worse. I might have come upon wizened Mick Musgrove lying there, hatchet by his side, dreaming of murdering a motorist.

  Quietly, I went back downstairs. Taking out my writing case and pen, I wrote a note and put it on the table.

  Miss Parnaby. You are most welcome to share the cottage. I hope it will give you peace of mind to know that Mrs Lofthouse will be taking you to Scarborough tomorrow and that you need not go into work.

  Kate Shackleton.

  Carrying my lantern, I went into the garden and soon spotted the well, shared with next door. At the far end of the gardens were two privies, one for each house, each with its surrounding paving stones. More luxury.

  Back in the house, moving quietly, I closed the curtains. I looked again at the cloak behind the door. Under it, on a coat hanger, was a satin gown and a gold medallion—Ruth’s finery for the contest in Scarborough. Taking what I needed from my suitcase, I noticed that something had been flung on the floor. I picked up a red swimming costume, or rather two halves of a swimming costume. It had been very neatly cut in two.

  I locked and bolted the door.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Last night, I had opened the bedroom window. I was awakened by the sound of the dawn chorus. I looked in on Ruth. She was still sleeping.

  I lit the fire and then washed and dressed as quietly as I could. There was a good supply of food, eggs, bread, butter, jam, a jug of milk and a pail of water. I boiled the kettle on a Calor gas ring, made a pot of tea and sat at the table to read Mick Musgrove’s Rhymes in Praise of Ale.

  Miss Crawford had written a brief introduction and listed contents. It must have taken her hours to transcribe and type. This collection deserved to be printed, not simply bound and kept in the library.

  By the time I finished reading, I heard a sound upstairs. I cleared the table and set it for breakfast, making a clatter so as to let Ruth know she was not alone. I had seen her, at the trussing, but she had not seen me. I heard her footsteps on the stairs, and then there she was, looking puzzled. ‘Hello, Ruth. I left you a note, in case you were up first. There’s tea in the pot but we’ll have a fresh one when the kettle boils.’

  ‘I heard a sound and thought Miss Boland had come in from next door,’ Ruth said.

  ‘Miss Boland probably heard a sound and thought it was you. Oh, and I’m Kate Shackleton. I wasn’t due to arrive until the weekend but here I am. You met my colleague, Jim Sykes.’

  I picked up Mick Musgrove’s manuscript. Showing it to her and praising Miss Crawford’s achievement broke the ice and distracted from the slight awkwardness. ‘I’ll make breakfast. I know you have a journey today, and big day tomorrow. Mr and Mrs Lofthouse will drive you to Scarborough.’

  She gave a sigh of relief. ‘Thank goodness for that. I thought I’d be going on my own. Miss Crawford booked the rail tickets, and a boarding house.’

  ‘You must have some moral support and help with your hooks and eyes. That’s a very elegant dress on the back of the door.’

  ‘I’m to wear that for the parade through Scarborough. We three hopefuls will be on a decorated brewery dray, waving to people. For the contest I’m to take a day dress and a swimming costume.’

  I picked the two halves of the swimming costume. ‘What happened here?’

  ‘The old man.’

  ‘What old man?’

  ‘Our dad. He took against the event, or against me.’

  ‘Then we must find you a new swimming costume.’

  ‘You’ll help?’

  ‘Of course.’

  She smiled. ‘I can’t believe this. It’s a bit like the fairy godmother telling Cinderella, you shall go to the ball.’

  ‘Everyone needs a fairy godmother at some point in their life.’

&n
bsp; ‘Miss Crawford was my fairy godmother. I dreamed of her last night. I think she must have sent you.’

  ‘In a way, she did.’ I put the manuscript of Rhymes in Praise of Ale on the dresser. ‘I’m beginning to realise Miss Crawford was a very special person.’

  Before we set off for Barleycorn House, Ruth wanted to say goodbye to her coach, the music teacher in the adjoining cottage.

  Miss Boland came to the door and asked us in. She was tall, her white hair plaited and pinned up. She wore a long black skirt, a hand-knitted black cardigan and sturdy boots.

  ‘Ruth! I thought you were going to hurry away without coming to see me. I’ve found the lucky charm I want you to have, so come in a minute, and who’s this?’

  I introduced myself. ‘For the time being, I’m your new neighbour. Kate Shackleton.’

  ‘Celia Boland.’ We shook hands. She insisted we step inside.

  As in Oak Cottage, the door opened directly into the big room that was both kitchen and parlour. It would have been spacious had it not held a piano, a harpsicord and tables covered with sheet music. While Miss Boland searched a drawer for the lucky charm, I looked about the room. Posters and photographs from her operatic career covered one wall.

  Miss Boland found the charm she was searching for, a four-leaf clover crafted into a brooch. She pinned it under the lapel of Ruth’s jacket. ‘Fasten it, out of sight,’ Miss Boland advised. ‘And on your travels, always take a length of knicker elastic, a sewing kit and a small pair of scissors.’

  Kissing Ruth on both cheeks, reminding her to stand tall, breathe deeply, and do her voice exercises, Miss Boland released us.

  * * *

  At Barleycorn House, the Lofthouses’ chauffeur was polishing the Bentley. He waved. ‘I’ve you to thank for the trip to the seaside, Ruth!’

  Ruth went into the house to find Eleanor.

  I joined William in the conservatory. He put down his newspaper. ‘Oh, Kate. I’m glad to see you. They are all going mad. Mr Beckwith has been on the telephone. He expected Ruth in work this morning, and what is he to do about the locksmith’s quotation.’

  ‘And what is he to do about it?’

  ‘I told him to go full steam ahead. The man can start on Monday.’

  ‘Is there anything I can do?’ I asked.

  ‘Call in on Mr Beckwith, top floor, wages office. Calm him down if he’s fraught. He was talking to me about the garden party and Eleanor’s list of what’s to be done. Well I can’t advise him on that.’

  ‘I’ll go see him later. Do you trust me to take decisions?’

  ‘I wish you would.’

  I explained about the rhymes that Miss Crawford had typed for Mick Musgrove.

  ‘Ah, she told me about that.’

  ‘It seems a shame that after Mr Musgrove and Miss Crawford spent so many hours on a labour of love, a single copy will languish in a dusty corner of the local library.’

  ‘Then it must be done properly, Kate. Might you see to that?’

  ‘I shall.’

  Something had come over William. He was no longer counting the pennies. Suddenly it clicked. Eleanor had told him that James was back. He was preparing to be surprised and pleased at the unannounced return.

  William folded his paper. ‘We’re behind with everything this morning. Eleanor and I went along to the place of the accident, you know. Hurt my heart to see it. Eleanor is going to arrange for a plaque, a memorial at the spot.’

  ‘That’s such a good idea, William.’

  Beryl directed me upstairs. Eleanor had produced two swimming costumes for Ruth to try. While Ruth tried them on, I asked Eleanor to write a short note of thanks to Mrs Tebbit, for helping with the flowers for the garden party.

  ‘Oh, I should have thought of that,’ Eleanor said, going to her bureau. ‘I can post it.’

  ‘I need an excuse to call and see her,’ I said. ‘I’ll pick up a posy on the way.’

  Eleanor scribbled a note on paper so highly scented that it made me sneeze. She asked, ‘Should I give Mrs Tebbit something more substantial than a posy? When she and Rory came to supper, she was mesmerised by a hideous green jade frog with emerald eyes. It’s in a cabinet in the music room.’

  ‘That would be too extravagant, Eleanor. It would raise suspicions that you want something from her. Besides, I do believe that for Mrs Tebbit, the pleasure is in the stealing. A gift would take away the thrill.’

  ‘Pity,’ Eleanor said. ‘I know one shouldn’t speak ill of the dead, but William’s late wife had the most deplorable taste.’ She popped the note for Mrs Tebbit into an envelope. ‘What do you want to talk to her about?’

  ‘I’m not sure yet. I want to make sure she is on your side, just in case Rory was up to something by not telling her about the garden party and the AGM.’

  * * *

  Once more, I stopped the car outside the Ripon Oddfellows Society premises. This time it was Mrs Lincoln who came to the door. A woman with a round, jolly face, she had a voice to match. ‘Ah, you’re the lady who called yesterday. I’m so pleased you came back.’ Like her husband, she brimmed with friendliness.

  ‘I was sorry to miss you yesterday, Mrs Lincoln.’

  ‘Come through. Usually, my husband is not very good at describing people, but he didn’t do too badly with you.’

  I followed her into the kitchen which smelled strongly of Brasso. ‘I hope you don’t mind but I need to get on. I can’t start baking until I’ve finished polishing the chains of office.’

  ‘I appreciate you sparing me the time. Your husband said that you thought you saw James Lofthouse coming out of a pub.’

  ‘I didn’t think I saw him. I saw him plain as day, coming out of the White Horse. He had his coat collar up and a scarf on, like someone who’d caught pneumonia.’

  Or someone who, trying not to be recognised, made himself more conspicuous.

  ‘How could you be sure it was James?’

  ‘I hate this job, polishing the chains. You’ve got to get the cloth on each of the links and there’s always a bit of polish that you miss.’ She spat on her cloth. ‘You ask me how I could be sure it was him. I’ll tell you. I used to work for the Tebbits, years ago. Rory Tebbit and James Lofthouse were friends, attended the same school. They’d go to each other’s houses.’

  ‘So, there could be no mistake?’

  ‘None.’ Mrs Lincoln reached the end of the chain and began to polish the medallion. I know James Lofthouse’s looks, his long stride and his slouch.’

  ‘What does he look like?’

  ‘Thick blond hair, fleshy cheeks, wide nostrils, pale eyebrows that almost meet and the most charming smile when he’s after something.’

  ‘Perhaps he is staying at the White Horse.’

  ‘They don’t do rooms. He’ll be staying with the Tebbits.’

  ‘It’s a puzzle that he hasn’t gone to Barleycorn House, to see his uncle. It could be he is planning a surprise.’

  Mrs Lincoln snorted. ‘I wouldn’t want to be on the receiving end of one of his surprises.’ She put down her polishing cloth. ‘I could get the sack for talking about James Lofthouse. We swear never to discuss anything we overhear at Oddfellows meetings, or to disclose anything that relates to our members.’

  ‘Is he a member?’

  ‘No. The reason I told Miss Crawford was to warn her.’

  ‘What about?’

  ‘I don’t know. But I was wrong to warn her because thirty-six hours later, she was dead. And for my pains, I could lose us this job.’

  ‘You’ve done nothing to jeopardise your job. It was Mr Murthy who told me that Miss Crawford asked about James Lofthouse. Try not to worry.’

  She gave a sigh and started to gather up the polished chains.

  I have never before recruited a stranger as an informer, but there is always a first time. ‘Are you still in touch with people who work at the Tebbits’ house?’

  ‘Yes.’ Her answer was cautious. She did not volunteer names.

&
nbsp; ‘We may be right, we may be wrong, but it is possible we could help each other.’

  I was doing what I should never do, jumping to a conclusion. But somebody had to do it, before the trail grew cold.

  ‘What do you want me to find out, Mrs Shackleton?’

  ‘I want to know where James Lofthouse goes, and what he’s up to.’

  * * *

  I stood on the doorstep of the Tebbit house and rang the bell. A maid with a loose strand of hair and a harassed expression opened the door.

  ‘Is Mrs Tebbit at home?’

  ‘She is but she is unwell today. I am not to disturb her, but I could give her a message later.’

  ‘I’m sorry to hear that. Would you please tell her Mrs Shackleton called, to bring a note from Mrs Lofthouse, and these flowers.’

  ‘That’s very kind.’ She sniffed the flowers. The maid brightened. She smoothed back her hair and took the flowers and card. ‘Thank you. That might cheer up Mrs Tebbit. I’m waiting for the lilac to come out. That’s my favourite.’

  ‘Mine too! Oh, and while I remember, did Miss Crawford leave her gloves here when she called on Wednesday morning?’ I was taking a chance. If the maid knew Miss Crawford had been killed, she would wonder why I was enquiring after a dead woman’s gloves.

  ‘No. She couldn’t have because she didn’t come in. Mr James Lofthouse wasn’t at home to Miss Crawford.’

  So, James was not at home to Miss Crawford, but the knowledge that she knew he was back must have given James a fright. All he need have said was that he intended to surprise his uncle by arriving back from his travels in time for the garden party.

  Sykes had described Miss Crawford as astute. What did she know that caused James’s guilty conscience to make him panic?

  Short of searching the Tebbits’ premises for a damaged car, there was little else I could do here. I needed more information. In the hope of having the police help me with my enquiries, I set off for Masham.

  Chapter Nineteen

  The door to Masham police station was propped open with a shoemaker’s last. I guessed that was not for the sake of fresh air but to be as inviting as possible to anyone who might have the least shred of information about the car and driver that killed Miss Crawford yesterday.