Murder is in the Air Page 11

  There was no one at the counter, and so I rang the bell. Sergeant Moon appeared a few moments later.

  ‘Hello, Mr Moon.’

  I was glad that Moon and Sykes had hit it off on the evening of the trussing. At least the sergeant knew who we were, and why we were here.

  ‘Hello, Mrs Shackleton. I heard you would be coming,’ he said. ‘Mr Sykes called in to say he was going back to Leeds for a day or two. Good of you to call in.’

  Sykes had told him about a child’s drawing of a car. Now it was my turn. I would have hesitated about imparting Mrs Lincoln’s sighting of James Lofthouse yesterday, when it was hearsay. Now I had corroboration of a kind from the Tebbits’ maid.

  ‘I have some information for you, Sergeant.’

  ‘Everything helps.’ He raised the counter and invited me to come through.

  I followed him into a small interview room. We faced each other across the standard issue table.

  ‘What is it you have to tell me, Mrs Shackleton?’

  ‘May I ask, are you leading the investigation into Miss Crawford’s death?’

  ‘I am. It will only go to HQ if Northallerton become impatient.’

  ‘They may have become impatient at the thought of child’s drawing of a car?’

  ‘That child’s drawing was a useful piece of information.’

  Useful, or more than that? I was curious to know whether the police were checking who owned a Lanchester. Unsurprisingly, he did not tell me.

  He waited for me to speak. I must go first in the information stakes.

  ‘On Tuesday, Miss Crawford wanted to talk to Mr Lofthouse. He put it off until the next day, which was too late of course.’

  The sergeant folded his arms. ‘Mr Sykes told me that.’

  ‘And did you find out what she wanted to say?’ I asked.

  ‘We have our ways, but mindreading isn’t one of them.’ In spite of his sarcasm, the sergeant looked mildly interested. It had not occurred to him to consider trying to find out what a secretary might have needed to say to her boss.

  ‘She wanted to tell him that his nephew James has been seen in Ripon.’

  ‘How do you know? And if you’re right, why didn’t she come straight out with it?’

  The sergeant was asking me two questions, and in a disbelieving voice. This did not inspire me with confidence in him.

  ‘Miss Crawford may have hesitated to speak because Mr Sykes was in the office at the time and she wanted a private conversation.’

  I stopped myself from saying that it was because Miss Crawford suspected James Lofthouse of being behind the Barleycorn’s recent misfortunes.

  ‘Your source, Mrs Shackleton?’

  ‘Reliable, Mr Moon.’

  ‘James Lofthouse is in Germany.’

  ‘According to our sources, James left Germany ten days ago by ferry from Hamburg.’

  The sergeant jotted a note. ‘Why would he come back without telling anyone?’

  My truthful answer would be that James wanted to create chaos at the brewery in order to change the balance of power and give himself an advantage at the Annual General Meeting when he and Rory Tebbit would swoop in for the kill. Such a blunt reply might push the sergeant into dismissing my information. It would be better if, eventually, he could come up with the answer himself.

  I said, ‘He would come back without telling anyone either to surprise Uncle William by turning up at the garden party unannounced, or for another reason that demands secrecy.’

  He let out a low whistle. ‘That’s a big leap of imagination.’

  Sometimes it is better to take a step back. ‘Well, you have my information about James.’

  ‘It is noted, Mrs Shackleton.’

  ‘I hope it may be as useful as Mr Sykes’s information about the Lanchester. Has the car been found?’

  ‘Not yet. There are too many places a car could be hidden, abandoned buildings, old barns, stables. We’ve alerted landowners, farmers, schoolchildren, asking them to look out for a damaged car that must have been driven by a lunatic. No one in their right mind would risk damaging such a car by running a person down.’

  ‘So, it was a Lanchester?’

  The sergeant took a breath that lasted long enough to make me think our conversation would be entirely one way. Sykes and I would offer information, Sergeant Moon would scoop it up.

  Finally, he said, ‘Mrs Tebbit reported the vehicle stolen. It belonged to her late husband.’

  That explained why Mrs Tebbit had taken to her bed. I would feel unwell if my car was taken from the garage and used to knock down a cyclist. ‘When was it reported stolen?’

  He tightened his lips.

  ‘Mrs Tebbit will be coming to the garden party tomorrow. I could ask her, if you’d rather not say.’

  ‘The car was reported missing when I called at the house yesterday, asking to see it. Of course, we don’t know when it was stolen.’

  ‘Sergeant, if I had a Lanchester, I would know when it went missing.’ This was not entirely true. The Rolls-Royce given to me by a grateful client sits in a garage. I last looked at it in February, when all neighbours were asked to look in outbuildings for a runaway child.

  The sergeant explained: ‘The Tebbits may not have noticed it was missing. It is not the main car of use. Mr Rory Tebbit has a sports car, and he walks to work, being so close to the bank.’

  I could not decide whether Sergeant Moon was being discreet, or whether he was a throwback, one of those men who doff the cap to the gentry and the well-to-do, and look elsewhere for miscreants. That was a shame. I had liked the man, until now.

  Our chat was at an end. He said: ‘You can tell Mr Sykes that the Murthys’ little lad would be a credit to the force. He deserves ten out of ten for drawing and a star for observation.’

  ‘I’ll tell him.’

  He walked me to the door, saying, ‘You have Mick Musgrove’s rhymes that Miss Crawford typed for him.’

  ‘Yes. Who would be a good local printer?’

  ‘Enquire of Miss Thistlewaite, the stationer on Park Square.’

  That would keep me busy and out of his hair, he thought. I waited for his final question. Surely it must come.

  It did.

  ‘Where does this informant imagine that James Lofthouse is staying?’

  ‘He is staying with the Tebbits.’

  * * *

  Sykes had passed Miss Crawford’s spare key to me and given me directions to her office. It felt strange and unsettling to enter the austere room that had played such a large part in the dead woman’s life. I almost felt her looking over my shoulder as I picked up the telephone, crossing my fingers that Mrs Sugden would answer.

  She answered.

  ‘It’s me, Mrs Sugden.’

  ‘I knew it was, but I couldn’t pick it up and say that could I? I always know when it’s you.’

  ‘I need Mr Sykes to come back. There have been developments.’

  ‘He’s on his way. He said if you rang to say he would see you at the brewery, or else at half past one in the Falcon. If you get there first, he’ll have the roast beef.’

  ‘What prompted him to set off for Masham?’

  ‘Am I allowed to say on the telephone?’

  ‘Just say it.’ We were no longer on a party line at Batswing Cottage. To an operator, our exchanges would sound both mysterious and dull.

  ‘He telephoned the Lanchester motor company. They gave him the names and addresses of Lanchester owners who live in the North Riding.’

  Chapter Twenty

  At noon, I tapped on the door of the wages office.

  A voice called, ‘Enter!’

  ‘Mr Beckwith?’

  ‘That’s me.’

  Mr Beckwith was sweating. He looked flustered. His desk was covered with time cards and wage packets.

  ‘Hello, I’m Mrs Shackleton, Kate Shackleton. Jim Sykes is my colleague. Mr Lofthouse asked if I would come and see how you are getting on and whether you need a hand.’<
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  His face lit up. ‘Yes, I could do with a hand.’

  ‘Tell me what to do.’

  ‘You can sit at Ruth’s desk and fill in the amounts on the wage packets.’

  This was not what I had expected but I happily agreed. He gave me a wire basket stacked with timecards, each with an employee’s name and department on the top line. ‘On the reverse of the card, you’ll see the figures you need for the wage packet, which is gross pay, tax, any other deductions and net wage.’

  I set the basket down on Ruth’s desk.

  Mr Beckwith scooped a pile of wage packets into another basket. ‘They fell on the floor. Sorry. Sort the departments, and then the names in alphabetical order and they’ll match the timecards.’

  ‘I can do that.’

  ‘Are you all right while I go for my break?’

  ‘Yes of course.’

  It was a soothing task and did not take long. When Mr Beckwith came back, bringing the scent of his complimentary pint of beer into the room, he was more cheerful.

  ‘You’ve done it, Mrs Shackleton.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘You’re almost as quick as Ruth.’

  ‘What else can I do to help?’

  ‘Two lists came over this morning in Mrs Lofthouse’s handwriting, about the arrangements for Saturday’s garden party. The assistant brewer has one list. This one’s mine.’ He read it to me. ‘Check with schoolteacher about plan for children’s games. See Joe Finch about pony rides. Here’s an item I don’t relish, recruitment of secretary and wages clerk.’ He sighed. ‘So, they’ve decided Ruth has to have her time off. I suppose it’s only right.’

  I picked up a pencil. ‘I’ll talk to Joe Finch about pony rides.’ Joe Finch was Mr Sykes’s “person of interest”, the man who delivered more barrels of beer than were officially paid for.

  * * *

  I breathed in the smell of the stables. Joe Finch stood grooming a shire horse, expertly using a dandy brush in short brisk motions. I could have sworn the horse smiled.

  I introduced myself. ‘And I know you’re Joe Finch.’

  ‘Aye, and some of us have to miss the trip to Scarborough tomorrow, but me and Cleopatra, we’d just as soon be here, keeping an eye on things.’

  I said, ‘Mr Beckwith asked me to see you about the plan for Saturday, regarding pony rides.’

  Joe continued his brushing. ‘I’ve worked this out with Ruth. She gives a speech. At the end of the speech, she invites children to follow her to the stables. I introduce my pony, Billy Boy. I’ll tell the kiddies what a poor state he was in when he came to me, how I turned him into a beauty, and that he likes children who are quiet and kind. My pal Phil will keep them entertained, showing them the correct way to groom a horse and letting them sit on the cart until it’s their turn for a pony ride.’

  ‘That sounds good. I’ll tell Mr Beckwith you have it all planned.’

  ‘The thing is, there’s two kiddies that have been left off the list. I know that Miss Crawford had invitations with a space for a name to be filled in. I’m wondering will you write their names on the list and give me two invitations. The kiddies I have in mind deserve a treat.’

  ‘I don’t see why not.’ I took out my notebook. ‘And what about the children’s parents?’

  ‘The children are Monica and Michael Burns. The parents won’t come, John and Elizabeth. They’re down on their luck, you see. They’d feel out of place.’

  Sykes had told me about the homeless family. I hoped the brother and sister would not feel awkward or be ragged by the other children.

  ‘Will Monica and Michael be able to fend for themselves?’

  The horse nudged him to continue the grooming. ‘They’ll be grand,’ Joe said.

  ‘I’ll find invitations and leave them at the desk with your name on.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  ‘Mr Finch, there’s one person I haven’t met and am curious about. Mr James Lofthouse.’ There was a brewery full of people I hadn’t met, but just one who interested me at present.

  Joe kept his gaze on the horse. ‘You haven’t missed much, not in my opinion.’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘Mr William Lofthouse, now he’s a man who worked his way up, though he didn’t need to. Mr James Lofthouse, he came in at the top and never stopped looking down, looking down at others, and up for himself.’

  ‘So, you wouldn’t like it if James came back?’

  ‘He’ll make changes for changes’ sake. He’ll get rid of the horses and buy vans. Me, I do as I’m told, but I couldn’t live without horses. James Lofthouse has no soul.’

  ‘Some people seem to love him, Mr Finch. Why would that be?’ I had no idea whether anybody did love James, but I wanted to provoke Joe. William Lofthouse had given the impression that James was the apple of his eye and his chosen heir. Eleanor had sent money from the brewery queen account so that James could visit Vienna. Mrs Tebbit was giving him houseroom. Yet Joe had taken a strong dislike to the man.

  ‘Love or loathe, all the same to me,’ Joe said. ‘People see what they want to see. I know what I know.’

  ‘What’s that?’ I asked. ‘You can tell me, Joe. I don’t tittle tattle.’

  Joe Finch’s vehemence surprised me. ‘When James Lofthouse knew I helped out at a stud, he wanted me to nobble a horse we were taking care of. He put it in a way he could deny it. There’d be an advantage to me if the second favourite won. We both knew what he was saying.’ Joe Finch put the brushes back in place and stroked the horse’s neck. ‘There’s not many bad people round here, but he’s one.’

  I thought of Ruth’s swimming costume, cut in two by her father. ‘And Slater Parnaby, what do you make of him?’

  ‘Sniffer Parnaby is mad and bad in his own way. He can’t hide it, he can’t help it, and he doesn’t try. He’s good at his job. Fought like a madman in the war and has the Military Cross and Bar to prove it.’

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Sykes and I sat at a corner table in the Falcon. It is occasionally necessary to analyse our clients, their motives, weaknesses and setbacks. It was an interesting change to do this over roast beef and a mutton chop. Sykes had a pint of Nut Brown, I had finished my sherry.

  Sykes, with the benefit of having spent more time at the brewery, had very definite ideas. ‘William Lofthouse loosened his hold on the company’s reins because he was distracted by his marriage, weakened by jaundice and expected that by now James would have returned and be pulling his weight.’

  ‘So, he slowed down, and now finds it hard to bounce back, especially after the blow of his new brew turning sour.’

  ‘He ought to bounce back,’ Sykes said. ‘He has Eleanor behind him. She is surprisingly sharp for—’ He stopped mid-sentence.

  I filled in the blank. ‘For a woman?’

  ‘For a woman in business, especially since her father went bankrupt, but I suppose that explains it. Once bitten and all that.’

  We ordered rice pudding. When the waitress had gone, taking our compliments to the chef, Sykes said, ‘The chef is her mother.’

  He re-arranged the pepper and salt pots, something he does automatically when gathering his thoughts. He opened his notebook. ‘The cancellation letters from the two pubs and the brewery that decided to buy its casks elsewhere, arrived over a period of two weeks, just before and after James arrived back from Germany. It must have been set up beforehand.’

  I could guess who did the setting up. Small wonder that the Lofthouses had stopped receiving letters from James. He had been busy exchanging messages with his chum. ‘Rory Tebbit?’

  ‘That would be my guess too,’ Sykes said. ‘I went in each of the pubs that cancelled, and asked for a Nut Brown. They’re already selling Joshua Tetley’s bitter. I had a word with the landlord of the White Horse. He told me that customers miss their Nut Brown Ale, but that the switch was “a business decision”. He would not go into details. The landlord at the Swan told the same story.’

  ‘Does “
a business decision” sound like the sort of explanation a landlord would give?’

  ‘Yes, if he had been talking to his adviser at the bank. The Little Brewery used the exact same words. They, the White Horse and the Swan all have one thing in common. They have their accounts with the Ripon Bank, under the care of Rory Tebbit.’

  That was impressive work by Sykes, but he is in his element when it comes to shenanigans. Call me old-fashioned, but I like to think of banks as being above board.

  It was difficult to believe that the Ripon Bank manager would not keep a close eye on his staff, and I said so.

  ‘It’s hard to believe that Rory Tebbit would be allowed to coerce clients into changing suppliers. I met the manager, Mr Murthy. Miss Crawford and he were neighbours, on good terms. When she asked if Rory Tebbit had mentioned seeing James Lofthouse, Mr Murthy’s instinctive response was to pull the trick of not confirming or denying. He struck me as being straight as a die. Although it did annoy me that he probably made Miss Crawford feel humiliated for asking.’

  ‘Mr Murthy was following the rules. Rory Tebbit works under him, to learn the business. He puts his own twist on what constitutes business.’

  Both Sykes and I excel in squeezing information, but he takes the cap when it comes to financial dealings. Sykes could run the Bank of England.

  I asked, ‘How do you know Tebbit advises those two pubs and the Little Ripon Brewery?’

  ‘I enquired about opening an account, and spoke to a helpful young clerk, pretending I knew more than I did. Tebbit is an assistant manager, building up his list of clients. Mr Murthy ought to watch out.’

  So that was how Sykes did it, not such a mystery after all. ‘Then tell me, so I’ll know for future reference, how would an assistant bank manager get away with recommending a switch of suppliers?’

  ‘I’m guessing Rory’s three clients are in hock to the bank for an overdraft or a mortgage. That means regular contact with the person who looks after their accounts.’