Murder is in the Air Page 12

  ‘Why would Rory Tebbit recommend Joshua Tetley?’

  ‘It could have been any big brewery that offered a discount in order to get a foothold in this area. My contact at the Chamber of Commerce didn’t know of any link between Rory Tebbit and Tetley’s Brewery. Rory Tebbit would have pointed out the financial advantages of going to a large company. He was not interested in improving Joshua Tetley’s business.’

  The penny dropped for me. ‘So, there need be no financial gain for Rory or James from the pubs switching to another supplier. The idea is to run Barleycorn Brewery into the ground and force William Lofthouse to bow out gracefully. Our good chaps James and Rory will then shake their heads sadly at William’s misfortune, step in, and create their empire.’

  ‘And Rory’s bank connections will allow him to source a loan on favourable terms. In a few years’ time, he would win back the two pubs who switched to Tetley.’

  The waitress approached with our rice puddings. Sykes’s rice pudding was brown. He thanked her. ‘She knows I like a spoonful of cocoa stirred in.’

  There was a little thinking time while we ate our pudding.

  ‘It was a careful plan,’ I said. ‘Miss Crawford upset the apple cart yesterday morning when she went to the Tebbit house to confront James. He panicked. He may have taken the car from the garage and driven off, hoping to see his uncle before she did, and then he saw Miss Crawford on the road. In that moment, the solution presented itself. He could wipe her off the face of the earth, keep his secret, and stick to the plan.’

  ‘How do we prove it?’ Sykes asked.

  ‘I asked Mrs Rigg what time Miss Crawford usually left for work. She told me she left at eight o’clock for her eight thirty start. The collision time was put at half past nine. That morning, I believe she left at eight as usual, but cycled to Ripon to confront James. He must have known that he would not be able to bamboozle and charm her.’

  Sykes scoffed. ‘That wouldn’t work with Miss Crawford.’

  ‘I’m guessing that he told the maid to say he was not there. The maid preferred to hint at the truth, and say he was not at home. Miss Crawford then set off for work, prepared to tell Mr Lofthouse what she knew, and what she guessed. James panicked. He took Mrs Tebbit’s car and drove after Miss Crawford.’

  Sykes nodded. ‘The Murthys’ little boy said the car drove slowly, stopped, drove quickly. He was keeping her in sight. You could be right. But we would need evidence of sightings, and to find the car, check the car and the bike for damage.’

  ‘If needs be, I’ll follow up my Oddfellows’ source at the Tebbit house. Servants don’t miss a trick.’

  Sykes frowned.

  ‘What is it?’ I asked.

  ‘If we’re right, and James Lofthouse thinks he has got away with manslaughter—’

  ‘Or murder.’

  ‘He and Rory might turn up for tomorrow’s garden party with more tricks up their sleeves.’

  ‘Then go see your friend the sergeant, Mr Sykes. Tell him what we know, or even what we think we know. He’ll take it better from you.’

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  On the journey to Scarborough, Ruth was happy to be sitting in the front passenger seat, next to the Lofthouses’ chauffeur. She looked out of the car window, waiting for her first sight of the sea. It felt extraordinary, dizzying, to think of herself at the edge of the land.

  The Grand Hotel took her breath away. This was the largest building Ruth had ever seen. A lift took her and the Lofthouses to their adjacent rooms on the top floor. Ruth felt sure she would lose her way going to and from the bathroom. She might forget her room number and make an idiot of herself by asking for help. Part of her wished she and Miss Crawford could have been in the boarding house, looking forward to a fish supper.

  She went for a walk on the beach, leaving off her stockings and carrying her sandals so as to feel the sand under her feet.

  In the hotel dining room, Mr and Mrs Lofthouse tried to put her at ease and that made Ruth feel worse because it meant that her nerves were showing. Mr Lofthouse looked at the plan for tomorrow, laid out in a brown folder headed Yorkshire Brewery Queen Contest.

  He put on his reading glasses and cleared his throat. ‘Eleven hundred hours, North Pool in swimming costumes, sashes, tiaras, suitable footwear. Twelve hundred hours, Seafront procession from North Pool to The Spa. Fifteen hundred hours, Contest and Formal Judging.’ Mr Lofthouse took off his reading glasses. ‘I’ve known battles to be less well planned than this.’

  Mrs Lofthouse tried to put a stop to him. ‘It’s all in hand, William. Ruth and I know what we are doing.’

  For about ten minutes, Ruth was glad to be alone in her room. After ten minutes, she wished the other contestants were here with her. Miss Jarvis of Scarborough and Miss Blunkett of Sheffield might be feeling just as nervous as she was. They would be up against each other but in it together. Ruth went to bed just after nine o’clock. She woke, thinking it was morning. It was three o’clock. After a long time, she managed to drop back to sleep. Waking with a jerk she knew she had better try on Mrs Lofthouse’s swimming costume again, with its vivid colours and bold geometrical shapes. She looked at herself in the big mirror. It was not her style. People would look and say, that’s never her own swimming costume. The day dress was pretty but now she realised how old-fashioned it looked.

  When she got up the next morning, Ruth saw that her hair was standing to attention in the shape of three deformed fingers and a question mark. It was while she was brushing her hair, a hundred times, that she thought everything might turn out well.

  She did the deep breathing Miss Boland had taught her, and her voice exercises, and her stretches. In her mind’s eye, she saw her mother.

  ‘Mam, today will go well. You, me, George, we will be together again.’ The other girls’ mothers would be here today. Ruth had Mrs Lofthouse, who was young and glamorous.

  The four-leaf clover brooch was in the pocket of her bag. As instructed by Miss Boland, Ruth pinned it out of sight, under the lining of her cloak, and that made her laugh because it was so silly. Ruth looked at herself in the mirror and said, ‘Nobody else will have had an opera singer teaching her how to breathe and providing her with a lucky charm.’

  That made her laugh, too, and Ruth felt glad to be alone.

  There was a tap on the door. Ruth went to see.

  It was Mrs Lofthouse. She said, ‘Shall you and I go down for breakfast soon?’

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  On the day her beautiful daughter would be taking part in the competition in Scarborough, Annie drank her first cup of tea of the day, in the room where she felt safe, where she had felt safe these seven years.

  Early each morning, Annie began the day’s baking. She had a safe job at Bedale Bakery. Even in dark days, people had to eat, though not all of them did.

  She would have loved to see Ruth, to be there, to sit with George, and cheer. But Slater would be there. He would sneer at a charabanc trip to the seaside but enjoy it because he would be able to mock.

  She was a safe six miles from the home where Slater had almost strangled her. The children had come running down the stairs, yelling at their dad to stop, stop, stop. George pushed in, grabbing his dad’s arms, trying to make him let go. Ruth jumped on her father’s back, pulled his hair and sank her teeth into his ear.

  Slater flung his children off.

  George cried with frustration. Slater mocked him, calling George the big baby. Ruth looked at her father and said, ‘I will kill you.’

  Annie feared for Ruth, but Slater simply said, ‘How will you kill me?’

  ‘I will wait until you are asleep, but your dead self will know who did it.’

  Annie stepped in front of Ruth, expecting that Slater would knock her flying.

  Slater said, ‘For four long years, I waited for a bullet in the head. Do your worst.’

  The next day, George said to his mother, ‘We have to go away.’

  Annie already knew
that she was the one who must go away, for the sake of the children. Slater had never hurt them, only her. It wasn’t right that they should see his rages. She was the one who set off his rages. If she went away, they would have peace and quiet.

  Annie told George and Ruth to write to their Granny Parnaby and ask her to come. It would be for the time being. Annie would save her money. She would find another job, where she could bring the children. They would be together again.

  Slater would never expect that Annie could start again, take a job, have somewhere to live, somewhere to bring her children. Joe Finch found Annie the job at the bakery. He saw the sign in the window. He sang Annie’s praises to the baker. For the baker’s agreement to cash in hand, accommodation, no questions asked, Joe gave the baker a firkin of ale.

  The baker did not want children above his bakery.

  Joe came to tell Annie that Slater’s mother had moved into the house to look after them all. Annie wanted to be with them, but it was not so urgent then. George and Ruth were safe. They were doing well at school, had their friends, came to visit her at the bakery on Sundays.

  Joe called on Annie every week, when he made his deliveries on the Bedale round.

  Each night she fell into bed, the box bed next to the fire that never died. There was no need to go outside. She would scurry into the bakery shop, with a full tray, and scurry out again.

  She heard the customers talking. One customer named her The Scurrier. Mostly they paid her no heed. Another customer, who heard the owner call, ‘Annie!’ named her Annie-in-a-hurry.

  When she came here, she chose a new surname. Scarth. Scarth was the name that came to her lips. Scarth was the name of the person who assisted with the registration of births, marriages and deaths in Mashamshire. Somehow that seemed right. Because if she had not fled, the Mrs Scarth whose name she stole would have another name to write in the book of deaths: Annie Parnaby.

  When George and Ruth came to see her, she toasted teacakes.

  Sometimes the children hitched a ride on a cart, or they walked one way and caught the bus back.

  One year, Granny Parnaby saw to it that George got a bike for his birthday. The children cycled to Bedale.

  The next year, Granny Parnaby saw to it that Ruth got a bike for her birthday.

  If Granny knew where the children went, with a bottle of water and an apple, she never said.

  For seven years, the three of them planned. For seven years, Annie saved what passed for wages. She knew she must not take them out of school, where George was good at woodwork, and Ruth was clever.

  Annie knew she had brought something else to the Bedale Bakery. It tucked itself in with her few belongings, hidden in a skirt pocket, dabbed itself with lavender water behind her ears, combed itself into her hair, and ticked its way into her heart. She had brought fear, and the fear grew.

  She could step into the yard when she had to. But it was best not to think beyond the high wooden gate, not to go beyond the high wooden gate.

  It took a long time for George and Ruth to suspect that Annie no longer wanted to go outside, no longer could go outside. When they wanted her to go out, it was natural for her to tell them they had come a long way. They must sit and rest and have that toasted teacake with melting butter. Besides, it was safest not to go out, in case she was seen, and someone told their father.

  * * *

  Late on the Friday of the Yorkshire Brewery Queen contest, George was at the bakery gate, whistling to let his mother know who it was. He had come from Scarborough. Knowing that the works charabanc would call at a pub or two on the way back, he caught the train, changed trains, got himself to Ripon fast as he could.

  As he listened to his mother cross the yard and draw back the bolts on the gate, George wondered if they would all be together again, Mam, himself and Ruth. Because the truth was, he had fallen in love. He had fallen in love with Miss East Riding. Bernadette Jarvis, tall, and slender as a fairy, her skin dark as an Italian’s, her straight thick hair with a sheen like polished jet. She was the one. She had something George could not name.

  After the contest, Ruth had introduced George to Bernadette.

  Bernadette introduced George to her father, Mr Jarvis, Head Brewer at Scarborough Brewery.

  George heard himself saying that he was out of his time at Barleycorn Brewery, and a good cooper. Now that Barleycorn was no longer supplying casks elsewhere, he thought that Mr Lofthouse might release him from his obligation.

  ‘All in good time,’ Mr Jarvis said. ‘You come along with me. I’ll treat you to a stick of rock. Let the lassies talk amongst themselves.’

  He doesn’t want a cooper for his daughter, George thought. He said, ‘I’ve always been interested in brewing, Mr Jarvis. I helped the assistant brewer no end of times.’

  The stick of rock said Scarborough, all the way through. George knew this was not just a stick of rock. This was a good omen for his future life.

  At least Mr Jarvis had not told George to sling his hook.

  Instead of going on to Masham, George would stay the night in his mam’s upstairs room. She must come to the Bedale picture house with him tomorrow to see the Pathé News film of the Yorkshire Brewery Queen contest.

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Sykes and I had waited at the Falcon for the call to tell us that the Lofthouses and Ruth were back. All the lights were on at Barleycorn House. Beryl opened the door, smiling. The gramophone music played ‘Spread a Little Happiness.’

  William poured champagne. Whatever misgivings he may have had were gone, for the moment. He proposed a toast, ‘To Queen Ruth!’

  We raised our glasses.

  Ruth has a mercurial quality. She gave a brilliant smile as she thanked Mr and Mrs Lofthouse, and then raised her glass to make her own toast. ‘To Mr and Mrs Lofthouse, for making this possible.’

  Sykes, Ruth and I drank to Mr and Mrs Lofthouse.

  Ruth proposed a second toast. ‘To dear Miss Crawford who encouraged me every step of the way, from the moment I first came to Barleycorn Brewery. We will always miss you.’

  ‘To Miss Crawford,’ we echoed.

  I wanted to know everything about how the day had gone. To Ruth, it was a blur. Eleanor gave the best account. She told me of the thousands who turned out to see the parade along Scarborough seafront. Two shire horses, their plaited manes entwined with red, white and blue ribbons, pulled a decorated dray where the queens of the East, West and North Riding, dressed in their finery waved to the crowds from their plank seats covered with velvet cushions.

  Misses East, West and North Riding graciously tolerated the gauche Pathé News compère who made the introductions. The judges tried to look serious, and as if they weren’t ogling as each girl paraded in her swimming costume. Each entrant said a little about herself, and where she came from. They then walked on individually in their prettiest day dresses and said what they hoped to achieve, and what would make them a good ambassadress for the brewery industry.

  Ruth joked. ‘It was your bathing suit that won the day, Mrs Lofthouse.’

  ‘Not at all,’ Eleanor insisted. ‘You spoke so well, and you are the only one of the three to work in a brewery.’

  We made our way into the dining room for a light supper. For a time, all anxieties were forgotten.

  I was sitting opposite the door. When Beryl came in, I could see from her face that she was not here simply to clear the table.

  ‘Excuse me, Mr Lofthouse,’ Beryl said. ‘Sergeant Moon would like a private word with you in the library.’

  We all knew that it must concern Miss Crawford’s death. Sykes and I sat tight. Eleanor wanted to go in with William, to hear what the sergeant had to say. William patted her arm. ‘Leave this to me. You’ll know soon enough.’

  The French clock on the mantelpiece ticked. The fire crackled.

  Eleanor stood. ‘What on earth can Sergeant Moon be saying that takes so long?’

  An uneasiness settled around us. I felt a sense of dread
. None of us volunteered reassurance, or an answer we did not have.

  Ruth made the first move. ‘Mrs Lofthouse, thank you so much for today, and for this lovely celebration, and for letting me stay in the cottage.’ She stood. ‘Please say goodnight to Mr Lofthouse for me.’

  Eleanor said, ‘Someone will walk you back.’ She moved towards the bell.

  ‘Please don’t trouble. It’s no distance. I’ll go now and see you tomorrow, in good time for the garden party.’

  It was another ten minutes before William returned, looking dazed. He remained standing, holding on to the back of his chair for support. His knuckles turned white. ‘I have some bad news. Eleanor, you may not be up to hearing this.’

  Eleanor got up from her chair. She went to William, saying, ‘Sit down. Whatever it is, you can tell me.’

  William sat down.

  Eleanor turned to Sykes. ‘Mr Sykes, pour us all a brandy, would you?’

  At the cabinet, Sykes took out the brandy and four brandy balloons. I knew the nature of what was coming, but not the detail. I guessed what this was about and was glad to have told Eleanor that James was back. That news must, in some small part, have lessened the shock.

  William took a sip of brandy. When he spoke, it was in a flat monotone. ‘James has been arrested, charged with theft of a vehicle, and wanton and reckless driving. The police are considering a charge of manslaughter. He mowed down Miss Crawford.’

  ‘I want to say there must be some mistake,’ Eleanor said. ‘But there can’t be can there?’

  ‘No mistake,’ William said. ‘James took Mrs Tebbit’s car, drove it straight at Miss Crawford. He tried to blame Rory, but Rory was at the bank. James said he hadn’t left the Tebbits’ house, but one of the staff saw him go to the garage. He then said that he was on his way to see me.’

  ‘Why was he at the Tebbits’?’ Eleanor asked. ‘Kate, when you told me he was back, I felt sure you must be mistaken.’