Murder is in the Air Read online

  * * *

  I spotted Rosie and Jim Sykes near the art tent. Sykes wore his American gangster suit. Rosie was beautifully turned out in a light wool coat dress. She was pretending interest in a conversation between her husband and a man wearing a cricket club tie. Many women do take an interest in cricket. She and I do not. Rosie turned away and gave a please-rescue-me look.

  I introduced Rosie to Gwyneth Tebbit. Together we made our way into the art tent. Rosie had not yet seen Eleanor’s exhibition, and was keen to look at the paintings. She was enthusiastic. ‘I said to Jim, we might do this kind of thing more often, now that the weather’s warming up.’

  ‘Yes, you should.’

  Sykes tore himself away from tales of cricket and caught up with us.

  Inside the marquee, filtered sunlight and green canvas created a soft light and a peaceful atmosphere. A goodly number of guests were looking at the paintings, which were displayed to advantage, hung on white-painted boards. At first, I had thought there was nothing so vulgar as a price tag. I then noticed a table with mimeographed sheets naming each numbered picture, and the price.

  Eleanor was standing by a painting of a wood at twilight. She was deep in conversation with an elderly gentleman who was leaning on a silver-topped cane. It looked as if she was on the point of making a sale.

  Sykes surprised me by having developed an appreciation for art. With unusual enthusiasm for him, he wanted to show Rosie a painting of a man fishing, which he had seen in William’s office. They both admired it. He picked up a price list, glanced, and soon put it down again.

  Rosie liked Eleanor’s work too. ‘You should have more jobs like this.’

  Rosie is a sociable person and was soon drawn into hushed conversation with Gwyneth Tebbit.

  Sykes and I left the marquee. We agreed that Eleanor is a canny businesswoman. The garden party was a good way of selling paintings, and of introducing Ruth to some important people.

  ‘Did Harriet come with you?’ I asked Sykes. ‘I haven’t seen her.’ Harriet is my niece who has lived with me since her mother remarried. She shows a keen interest in investigations.

  Sykes smiled. ‘Last I saw Harriet, she was with Ruth. They’d gone to listen to the bandsmen.’ He smiled. ‘Some good-looking young fellows in that band.’

  ‘Good! I’ll welcome anyone or anything that diverts Ruth just now. Did you introduce the two of them?’

  ‘No. I think they just found each other.’

  Ruth and Harriet came into sight moments later. It was time for Ruth to deliver her speech.

  Waiters circulated, carrying trays of beer in elegant stemmed glasses as well as pint-size.

  Harriet came to stand beside me. ‘Harriet, I’m pleased you met Ruth,’ I said.

  ‘We got chatting. Everyone else here is either old, or a child.’

  ‘Thank you!’

  ‘I don’t mean you, Auntie. Ruth and I got chatting because I told her I’d seen her on Pathé News and how good she was. I was asking, which was her brother, because I picked him out in the crowd at Scarborough, and I was right.’

  ‘And have you met him now?’

  ‘Not yet. She hasn’t spotted him.’

  Ruth stepped up to the podium. ‘Ladies and gentlemen, welcome. For those of you whom I haven’t met, I’m Ruth Parnaby, your Yorkshire Brewery Queen.’ She paused for the applause and cheers and then continued. ‘A few months ago, when the contest for North Riding Brewery was first announced, my brother George sent in my photo to the Wensleydale Express and everything just snowballed from there.’ Another round of applause rippled across the crowd. ‘When you arrived here today, you gentlemen may have expected to enjoy a glass of Nut Brown ale, and I hope you will. Ladies, you may never have tried milk stout before, perhaps regarding it as common, but it is uncommonly good. We have samples from three fine family breweries. Please do taste. The liquor—that is what we call the water and minerals mixture—comes from Yorkshire Dales springs and bore holes. The barley is grown by Dales farmers. Nothing artificial is added. All ingredients are natural.’ She raised a glass. ‘Hops grown in Kent, yeast fermented in our own brewery, a nectar with the flavour of our countryside, and better than any medicine, brought to you here today in casks made by my father and brother.’

  ‘Your George?’ someone called.

  ‘Yes, our George.’ Ruth smiled. ‘I am proud to support all Yorkshire brewers. Please raise your taster glass to this most healthy and patriotic of drinks.’

  After Ruth’s uncertainty this morning, she had recovered, overcome her nerves and pleased the crowd.

  William stepped centre stage, and thanked Ruth. ‘My lords, ladies and gentlemen, and especially children, you are invited to inspect our fine shire horses and watch them being groomed. There will be rides on Billy Boy, the Shetland pony. If you don’t know the way, just fall into procession behind our very own Ruth, Yorkshire Brewery Queen. Enjoy the rest of your afternoon. Stay close by and you will shortly hear a poem from the Barleycorn’s very own versifier, Mick Musgrove.’

  As he stepped down, Harriet said, ‘Auntie, I’m going to help Ruth entertain the children. There are a lot of them, and there’s a wild gang of little posh boys looking for mischief.’

  ‘That’s a good idea.’ I had thought Harriet might be bored at the garden party. ‘Did you meet two children called Michael and Monica?’

  ‘I did, and they’re sweet. I want them to have first rides on the pony.’

  * * *

  The first indication that something was wrong came from a wailing child. He did not like the big horses. It was a cheat. Where was Billy Boy the pony? He wanted a ride on the pony.

  Harriet quickly came back. ‘Auntie, this Joe Finch hasn’t arrived with his pony. There’s a man called Phil who’s letting children brush the horses but it’s a pony ride they’re expecting.’

  ‘Don’t worry. Go keep the children happy, make up a story, or get them to hop across the yard. I’ll find Joe.’

  I went to the podium. A fellow with grey hair and long grey whiskers was in charge of the microphone. He listened to my request, putting on a tragic face. ‘Shocking. We can’t have a disappearing pony.’

  The elderly microphone monitor stepped up onto the podium and made his announcement. ‘Mr Joe Finch, calling Mr Joe Finch and his pony. Please make your way to the stables where the children are waiting.’ He paused, scanned the crowd, and repeated his announcement.

  I watched, hoping to see Joe emerge from the beer tent. Sykes came towards me. ‘I thought it was all going a bit too smoothly,’ he said.

  ‘Do you think Joe has had a drop too much?’

  ‘Possible, but I don’t have him down as one who’d disappoint bairns.’

  ‘Perhaps he got the time wrong.’

  Sykes frowned. ‘Rosie and I went for a walk earlier, up to the churchyard. There’s a field runs parallel. At the far side of the field, I saw a fellow leading a pony, same markings as Billy.’

  ‘Joe Finch, has he gone off somewhere?’

  ‘It wasn’t him, not tall enough. Now I’m wondering. If someone made off with his pony, he’d go look for it.’

  ‘See what you can find out, Mr Sykes. I’ll go and see how Ruth and Harriet are getting on. Mr Finch can’t be far away.’

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  I went to the stables. Ruth stood by the shire horses, telling the children a story. Harriet led a hop skip and jump race across the cobbles. A drayman in his distinctive black trousers, frieze jacket and white cap lifted a little girl onto a cart. A small boy was paying too much attention to a horse’s tail.

  ‘Hello,’ I said to the drayman. ‘Are you Phil?’

  ‘Phil Jopling, that’s me.’ He lifted the little boy up to sit next to the girl.

  ‘I’m Kate Shackleton, a friend of Eleanor Lofthouse. Have you seen Joe at all today?’

  ‘No, but he was here earlier. It’s his Saturday for the rota.’

  ‘What rota?’

  ‘On
e person comes in, Saturday and Sunday, to check temperatures and make sure everything is as it should be. Joe went into the brewery to do what needs doing. I know because I went to see. He’d ticked and initialled the sheet on the noticeboard, to show he’d checked, and everything was as it should be.’

  ‘He didn’t lock the door behind him.’

  ‘He would have left it open for me, to get a beer.’

  ‘Didn’t you wonder where he was?’

  ‘Yes. I expected him to be here. I went over to see Yvonne, his wife. She said he’d gone out before she got up this morning. Neither of us worried. Joe is a law until himself. I expected him to roll in at the last minute. When he didn’t show up, it was too late to do anything about it. I couldn’t go out and rustle up a pony.’

  A posse of boys came screeching from a side door of the brewery. This must be the little gang Harriet had told me about. I hurried across, reached out with both hands and grabbed two of them by their collars, which oddly enough gave me a sense of achievement. My first collaring. The rest of the little gang dashed off.

  ‘What’s going on?’ I asked my captives. ‘You shouldn’t be in there.’

  ‘It’s scary. There’s a ghost.’

  The other boy contradicted him. ‘We saw the door to hell, with skeleton faces.’

  ‘Where?’ I asked.

  ‘Down the steps.’ He wriggled from my grasp and ran free.

  I was overreacting. Now that I had a free hand, I took my remaining prisoner’s arm and let go of his collar. ‘Are there any children still in the building?’

  ‘I don’t think so.’

  ‘Why were you all screaming?’

  ‘It was horrible.’ He looked on the point of tears.

  Realising I would get no more out of him, I told him to go back to the garden party and behave himself.

  He ran.

  Something had frightened them. Sykes was right to be concerned about lax security. It surprised me that on a day like today someone had left doors unlocked.

  I didn’t know how many boys were in that little gang, or whether any were still inside. I went into the dimly lit building and found the light switch. An iron staircase with an ornate bannister led to the basement. With my hand on the cold bannister, I reached the lower level. The boys were right about skeleton faces, but the faces were wartime gas masks on hooks at either side of a door. It appeared to me that they gave a warning. Do not enter!

  I had to look, in case one of the children was inside. When I opened the door, my eyes were drawn to large tanks of what must be beer, and a spillage of yeast on the floor. I then looked down at what lay nearest to me. A foot or so from the door lay the body of a man. I moved towards him, but straightaway saw that he was dead. A sudden violent agitation gripped my body. When my head snatched back, I knew that this room was full of gas.

  The man on the floor was beyond help. I turned and hurried away, back up the stairs, hardly aware that I was coughing. At the top of the stairs, I vomited. There was a tightness in my chest. My eyes were sore. When something shocking happens, it can either dull the senses or sharpen them. Perhaps it is a way of the material world coming between us and shock. I noticed a scrap of material caught on the bannister edge.

  I tried to steady myself, to regain my balance, trying not to see the image of that man. But with my eyes closed, I saw him more clearly. He wore a drayman’s uniform. It was Joe Finch.

  Like someone in a dream, I stood and made my way towards the outer door, gasping for air. The brightness of the day dazzled me.

  As if through the wrong end of a telescope, I saw Ruth and Harriet and the children. Harriet came over.

  ‘Are you all right, Auntie?’

  ‘Yes. Time to take the children back to the garden party.’

  ‘Why are you coughing? Where’s your hat?’

  ‘Just lead the children back, now. As soon as they’re safely back in the gardens, find Jim Sykes or the police sergeant. Ask them to come right away, with Mr Lofthouse, and to say the watchman needs to lock the doors.’

  ‘Right, and I’ll come straight back to you.’

  ‘Discreetly!’

  Harriet went across and spoke to Ruth. I waved them goodbye, as if nothing in the world could possibly be wrong.

  Harriet and Ruth led the children away.

  Phil Jopling was at the other end of the yard. When the children left, he came over. ‘What’s going on?’

  ‘Don’t go in the building.’

  I could see that he resented being told what to do. ‘I’ve no reason to go in, missis.’

  My eyes were watering. I coughed into my hanky.

  ‘What’s up?’

  He already knew where I’d been. I could see the horror in his eyes. ‘A group of little boys got as far as the basement.’

  ‘Near the fermentation room?’

  ‘I don’t know what you call it. Fortunately, none of them was hurt.’

  He cursed under his breath. ‘If their parents find out we’ll be in bother. They could be dead, so could you.’

  ‘What is in there?’

  ‘Tanks. Yorkshire slates. It’s where the fermenting happens. The yeast multiplies and bubbles. It gives off a gas, CO2. It’s heavier than air and sinks to the ground.’

  ‘Yes.’ I did not tell him that I had seen what that gas could do. In my mind’s eye, I saw Joe Finch, sprawled on his back, arms akimbo, wearing the same black trousers and frieze jacket as Phil Jopling, his drayman pal.

  ‘Even after the tanks are emptied, it’s still dangerous. Do you want a glass of beer, or a glass of water?’

  The answer was yes, but I said no, in case he wanted to go into the building. He might want to take a look around.

  Phil Jopling was astute. ‘I don’t need telling to keep out.’ He saw Sykes and Sergeant Moon approaching and turned to go. ‘Right, I’ll go shut the stable door. I’m done here.’

  If there was any blame to be laid, Phil Jopling did not want it laying on him.

  William arrived first. ‘What’s up, Kate?’

  I saw that Sykes and the sergeant were close behind him. ‘Let me get my breath, William.’ I did not need to tell this gruesome story twice. I waited until the three of them were listening.

  ‘I went into the building because a group of little boys got in. They’re all out, they’re all safe. I opened the door at the bottom of the stairs.’

  William gawped, his mouth falling open. ‘The fermentation room?’

  ‘Joe Finch is dead. He’s lying in there, a foot or so from the door.’

  William was ready to dismiss my words immediately. ‘You don’t know Joe.’

  ‘Yes, I do.’

  A wispy-haired man in brown overalls came rolling towards us, rattling a bunch of keys.

  William held out his hand. He was trembling. ‘Keys.’

  The watchman opened his mouth. Words were slow in coming. ‘The thing is, Mr Lofthouse—’

  ‘Out of my sight!’

  Sergeant Moon said, ‘Go sleep it off, Tickler. I’ll want to talk to you at the station.’ The sergeant turned to William. ‘Mr Lofthouse, I need to call the fire brigade.’ He opened the door. ‘The nearest phone?’

  William said, ‘In the reception area.’

  Briefly, William put a hand on my arm, either to detain me or for support, and then he and the sergeant went into the building.

  Sykes and I waited in the now empty yard.

  ‘Get William out of there,’ I said to Sykes. ‘He’s not a well man.’

  ‘What about you? You look ghastly.’

  ‘I’ll wait for the fire brigade.’ The door was still unlocked.

  Sykes groaned. ‘Why didn’t I insist on better security before the locksmith came? He’s coming on Monday.’

  There was no point in reminding him that he and I had done more than might be thought possible in the time available. One way to stop Sykes reproaching himself was to give him something else to think about. I told him about the scrap of black
material caught on the bannister. ‘It could be from Joe’s trousers, or from someone else who was here.’

  ‘I’ll point it out to the sergeant.’

  ‘Is there any way of checking what time Joe arrived this morning? He was on the Saturday rota for making various checks.’

  Sykes opened the door and went inside, saying, ‘There’s the clocking in point.’ He came back a couple of minutes later. ‘Joe clocked in at 6 a.m. He didn’t clock out. Phil Jopling clocked in at 9 a.m.’

  Phil Jopling had now appeared at the other end of the yard. I waved him to come over.

  ‘Mr Jopling, do you know if any other employees were here today, besides you and Joe?’ I asked.

  ‘No one else is working today, apart from the watchman. What’s going on?’

  ‘There’s been an accident,’ Sykes said. ‘We need to open the gates for the fire brigade.’

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  The speedy arrival of the fire brigade took us by surprise. Sergeant Moon must have told them not to have their bell ringing.

  Five men got down from the engine. They were wearing heavy duty protective clothing and boots. We watched them put on gasmasks before entering the building.

  Phil simply stood and stared. He then came walking towards me. ‘It’s Joe isn’t it?’

  ‘Yes,’ I said.

  He put his hands to his head, as if he might tear out his hair. ‘Joe, Joe, what have you done now?’ He followed the firemen to the door.

  ‘Wait!’ I stopped him. ‘Let the firemen do their work.’

  ‘Does he need a doctor, the ambulance?’

  ‘The ambulance is on its way.’ The image came back to me of the body. I did not like to tell him that it was far too late for a doctor, but I saw from Jopling’s face that he already knew that.

  Moments later, Sergeant Moon came from the building. He spoke to Jopling. ‘Is Mrs Finch at the garden party?’

  Phil said, ‘No. Yvonne isn’t one for garden parties.’

  ‘Right. I’ll go and see her.’

  ‘Let me come,’ Phil said. ‘Joe’s dead?’