Murder in the Afternoon: A Kate Shackleton Mystery Read online

  ‘Chief Inspector Charles asked me to call, constable.’

  ‘You can’t go in,’ he repeated.

  ‘Where is Chief Inspector Charles?’

  ‘At the quarry. You won’t be able to go in there neither.’

  ‘Who is that in the cottage? And where is Mrs Armstrong?’

  ‘That’s Mrs Sharp sitting with the lady.’ He peered in the window, as if to make certain of his facts. ‘She’s the local police sergeant’s wife.’

  Mary Jane was not with her.

  ‘Where are you going?’ shouted the constable as I disappeared round the back of the cottage.

  ‘To the lavatory.’

  ‘You can’t …’

  I heard no more as I rushed to the privy and slammed the door shut behind me. It was spotlessly whitewashed and the seat scrubbed clean. Neat string-threaded squares of the Daily Herald hung on a nail. I wondered whether Marcus Charles would have that fact reported to him by Sergeant or Mrs Sharp. The Armstrongs wipe their bottoms on a radical newspaper.

  When I came out, Mary Jane was at the window.

  ‘What’s going on?’ I mouthed.

  She raised the window and leaned out. ‘Oh it’s all right. They want me to stay indoors so as not to be upset that they’re searching.’ She pulled a face and lowered her voice. ‘Mrs Sharp has kindly come to sit with me. I can’t very well turn her away can I? That inspector was very nice. I came to lie down. I have such a headache, Kate. I can’t be making polite conversation.’

  You poor idiot. You’re virtually under arrest, and probably will be by the time day is out. ‘Where are Harriet and Austin?’

  ‘Staying at school until the upset at the quarry is over.’

  ‘What about their grandma?’

  Mary Jane pulled an exasperated face. ‘You should hear her snore! We had words and she’s gone home. I’ve promised the kids can visit her on Sunday.’

  ‘You lie down and rest then,’ I said. ‘I’ll see what’s going on.’

  She disappeared from the window. I ladled water from the well bucket, took a drink, and washed my hands.

  The constable must have heard our voices. He appeared, face clouded with suspicion.

  Slowly, I walked back to my motor.

  At the entrance to the quarry, a length of red tape stretched between two portable posts. I popped around to the other side as a uniformed man hurried across to stop me. I got my piece in first. ‘Would you please tell Chief Inspector Charles that Mrs Shackleton is here.’

  He would have liked to order me back to the other side of the tape but satisfied himself with an officious, ‘Wait here please, madam.’

  An eerie silence lay over the quarry. The mason’s hut was cordoned off – a little late in my view. I strained my eyes to try and make out whether the remnants of the sundial still lay in a heap but could not see because of the contour of the ground.

  Beyond the foreman’s hut, the constable approached two men who had their backs to me. I recognized Marcus’s easy stance and his broad shoulders. He turned and acknowledged me, raising his hand in greeting. When he moved towards me, I noticed that the other man held a bloodhound on a leash.

  Marcus drew close, his eyes searching out mine, trying to speak without words. Was it sympathy he conveyed?

  He held out his hand and took mine, holding it with a terrible gentleness. ‘Kate. Thank you for coming. I should have sent a car for you. Are you all right?’

  ‘Marcus, what’s going on?’

  As if it wasn’t obvious, as if I didn’t know.

  ‘I’ll explain.’ He took my arm, to lead me towards the foreman’s hut.

  ‘You’ll be warmer inside. I’ll have someone take you to the station for a cup of tea.’

  ‘No, Marcus. I want to see. I want to see what you’re doing.’

  He hesitated. ‘We’re just getting started. It took longer than expected because I had to wait for Mr McSnout to be brought. His minder had taken him for a walk on the moors and it was a while before we could get them here.’

  ‘Mr Mac who?’

  ‘McSnout’s the number one bloodhound, and McManus his handler.’

  I followed his glance. The man Marcus had stood with a moment ago was showing something to the hound. It was Ethan’s cap, the one Harriet had found under the bench in the mason’s hut, and that she had tried to encourage the sheepdog to sniff and pick up the trail. Harriet had the right idea when she harnessed Billy into service, but the wrong dog, covering the wrong terrain.

  The bloodhound wagged its tail. Head close to the ground, the dog moved at a speedy pace towards the mason’s hut, the handler following, holding the hound on a long leash.

  Two figures emerged from the foreman’s hut to watch.

  Marcus glanced at them. ‘We’ve sent the quarry workers home, all but the foreman and his son.’

  ‘Josiah Turnbull and Raymond.’

  ‘You’ve met them?’ He did not sound surprised.

  ‘On Monday.’ Now was not the moment to speak of the bad blood between Turnbull and Ethan Armstrong, or to say that Raymond would take over Ethan’s house and his job. Perhaps Marcus had already found this out. ‘They’re not exactly disinterested,’ was all I said.

  We were watching the dog. It reached the mason’s hut.

  ‘Yes,’ Marcus said, misinterpreting my comment about the Turnbulls’ interest. ‘The older chap’s deeply cut up by the situation. He and Ethan were sparring partners in politics, but respected each other. We may need his help if Mr McSnout finds something of interest.’

  Someone, he meant, not something. Ethan Armstrong’s body, he meant.

  Turnbull appeared far more subdued than when I had seen him last. He pretended not to notice me, and gazed across the quarry. Raymond stood beside his father. He gave one of those understated Yorkshire greetings – more than a flicker of the eyes if you are close enough to catch it, but less than a full nod. I acknowledged.

  The dog did not, as I had expected, move to the lagoon but led its handler further into the quarry, round a bend, out of view.

  No one spoke, not Marcus or me, or the Turnbulls, or the constable on sentry duty, or Sergeant Sharp who had appeared from somewhere and stood a few respectful yards from Marcus.

  The air hung still. A light fleecy cloud sped by, as if it wanted to be well away from this melancholy scene. The silence crackled.

  After what seemed an age, the dog handler reappeared. He raised his arms above his head and moved them three times, forming an x. Marcus reached for my hand, gave the smallest squeeze. He waved to the police photographer who emerged from the open door of the foreman’s hut. Mr Turnbull cleared his throat and spat in an arc. The photographer took one last long drag on a cigarette, discarded the tab end and ground it with his heel.

  My chest heaved. Not enough air reached my lungs. I stood very still, my mouth open for breath like a just-caught fish.

  Marcus signalled to the Turnbulls, and to the photographer. Mr Turnbull strode past me, Raymond coming after with a wheelbarrow. In the wheelbarrow were picks and shovels.

  Raymond turned to me. ‘It might not be him.’ He tilted the barrow. Pick and shovel slammed against each other. ‘We’ll lift the rocks gentle like, the tools are just in case.’

  After speaking to the dog handler, Marcus walked back to me.

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘There’s a fall of rocks up at the far end. I’ve said not to begin moving anything until I’m there. We’ll have a photograph first.’

  ‘I want to see.’

  ‘No, Kate. This isn’t for your eyes.’

  ‘If Mary Jane hadn’t come to me, no one would be looking for Ethan Armstrong.’ Without meaning to, I turned and glanced at Sergeant Sharp, who hovered sheepishly, waiting for instructions. ‘Marcus, why did you send for me if I’m not to be part of this?’

  ‘Because, Kate, I have reason to believe Mary Jane has some awkward questions to answer, and I want you to be with her when I put them to her.
You know her better than I do. You’ll know whether she is being truthful. And I want you to know that I’m treating her fairly and justly.’

  He was looking not at me but at the dust on his shoes. You want me to know you are treating her fairly and justly because if I think you do not I shall hold it against you forever. Well yes, you are right about that.

  ‘If I’m here for Mary Jane’s sake, then let me be witness to what McSnout has found. Ethan Armstrong was my brother-in-law. Mary Jane will want the truth. And please don’t feel you need to protect me. I was in France during the war, you know that. There can be nothing in this quarry worse than the sights I saw there. The horror lies in imagining, and waiting.’

  He nodded. ‘Very well.’

  He called to the sergeant. ‘Sharp, would you see that we have a stretcher ready, and bring the doctor along as soon as he arrives?’

  The sergeant saluted and went towards the quarry entrance.

  I fell into step with Marcus as he walked the dusty track that led past the crushing shed and on to the far end of the quarry where the dog handler and McSnout stood. The hound’s ears trailed the ground as it sniffed at the rocks.

  Marcus exchanged a few words with the handler, and I caught Mr McManus’s words, ‘Mac’s never been wrong yet.’

  ‘Did you search here on Saturday evening?’ Marcus addressed Mr Turnbull.

  Turnbull wore a red handkerchief tied at his throat. He touched his fingers to it, as if the knot was too tight and might hang him. ‘Aye, sir. We walked the whole quarry with lanterns after what Ethan’s little lass had said. There was no sign of Ethan.’

  ‘And this rock fall, was it just the same on Saturday as it is now?’

  ‘No. A few more rocks have fallen, sir, but not so very many.’

  ‘Have you taken a photograph?’ Marcus asked the photographer.

  ‘I have, sir.’ He was a keen-looking young fellow with a fair moustache. He handled his Thornton Pickard reflex camera protectively.

  Marcus turned back to the Turnbulls. ‘Go to it then, chaps. Steady like.’

  Father and son bent to the task of shifting rocks. They rolled a boulder, pushing it aside.

  Dog and handler turned away from the scene, a look of regret in the bloodhound’s big brown eyes.

  ‘Excuse me, Mr McManus.’

  He paused.

  ‘Would McSnout have followed the man’s scent around the quarry or come straight to the spot? Only I thought perhaps Mr Armstrong, the missing man, had possibly been dragged towards the lagoon on the other side.’

  ‘Could have been.’ McManus held the leash loosely. The dog sniffed the ground. ‘McSnout wouldn’t follow the scent all around the quarry, he’d go to where it was strongest. He knows who he’s looking for.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  We watchers, Marcus, the photographer and I, stood clear as the Turnbulls, father and son, carefully shifted up rocks and stones.

  Raymond let out something like a strangled yelp and jumped back as if scalded.

  Marcus moved closer to look.

  It was a hand, palm uppermost, as if in supplication.

  Marcus signalled to the photographer who moved in with his tripod. We stood as still as children playing statues while the photographer clicked.

  Marcus turned to me, a question in his eyes.

  ‘I’ll stay, Marcus,’

  ‘If you’re sure.’

  After his involuntary cry, Raymond worked with a will, not able to lift the rocks and stones quickly enough for his own liking. Mr Turnbull slowed to a snail’s pace, as though delay might put off the horror of this discovery.

  A sleeve, dusty and torn, click of camera; a ripped trouser leg, the palest of legs smeared with dirt and blood, click of camera; a boot that had come off; another hand; hair stiff with dust, and a face bruised and bloodied, dusted with white; click, click, click. This unreal figure, now revealed, did not look crushed and broken but dirty and dishevelled, almost as if he had only fallen, bruised his face, and then slept deeply.

  Once again the photographer replaced the plate and took another image. So this was Ethan Armstrong, writer of letters, champion of the working man, father, husband, carver of slate and stone.

  Raymond Turnbull did not shift his gaze from Ethan. He bent to touch his hand, as if he might bring him back to life. Josiah Turnbull moved towards his son, to speak to him, or touch him, then changed his mind, stood still, and looked away. Poor Raymond. He appeared in a state of shock. It was not fair. An older man should have had this task. On Saturday he would be married. No young bridegroom should carry such horror to his bed.

  Sergeant Sharp and the constable who had stood sentry tramped towards us carrying a stretcher. They laid it on the ground, making way for the doctor who bent to look at the body. He straightened himself, spoke briefly to Marcus and then squatted beside Ethan, touching his hand and face as if in a farewell.

  When the doctor stood, Raymond pushed in front of the constable. ‘I’ll lift him. Let me and my dad lift him.’

  With great tenderness, Ethan’s old enemy, Josiah Turnbull, and Ethan’s once upon a time apprentice, Raymond Turnbull, lifted the body onto the stretcher.

  Now it was the doctor who led the way.

  The wheelbarrow was abandoned.

  Marcus and I walked behind in procession.

  ‘Let me break the news to Mary Jane, Marcus.’

  ‘Very well.’

  We stood at the mouth of the quarry, watching as the stretcher bearing Ethan’s body was carried carefully towards the waiting vehicle.

  I touched Marcus’s sleeve. ‘She’ll want to see him. Will you take him to her?’

  Marcus did not look at me. ‘I’ve instructed the driver to take him to the hospital. Mrs Armstrong will need to do a formal identification there. I’ll be applying to the coroner to order a post mortem.’

  Ethan Armstrong’s arm suddenly slipped from under the cover and dangled to the side of the stretcher, pointing one last time to the earth. I shuddered.

  Marcus squeezed my arm. ‘Are you all right?’

  ‘Yes. Just … I wonder whether it was an accident, that there was a landslide …’ It would be better to believe that, but then I would have to think that what Harriet saw was an apparition. ‘It couldn’t have been, could it?’

  ‘That’s what we’ll find out.’

  ‘Why did you put a man on Mary Jane’s door?’

  ‘I didn’t want her taking it in her head to come up here that’s all,’ he said evenly.

  ‘And the sergeant’s wife to sit with her?’

  ‘To keep her company.’

  ‘Marcus, the children will be coming home from school shortly, if they see a policeman on the door …’

  ‘The children will stay at school until they’re collected. I talked to the girl earlier and explained that we were looking into her father’s disappearance. She’s a good little witness. Didn’t waver from her story one jot.’

  We had reached the top of the quarry. He moved away from me and spoke to the driver who supervised the loading of the stretcher and the closing of the vehicle doors.

  A moment later, Marcus was by my side. ‘I see you have your car just there. Do you want me to drive you? We can go see Mrs Armstrong together.’

  ‘I’ll be all right.’

  ‘Then I’ll follow. We’ll go in together and you can break the news. I’ll be able to answer any questions she has.’

  He suspected her involvement. Everything about his manner, his voice, remained neutral, but the suspicion trickled under his words and made me feel on edge.

  The short journey to the cottage went too quickly. I wanted an age to pass before having to break such devastating news.

  And the children, soon they would need to know the awful truth. Would we have to see their little faces melt into perplexed misery?

  I stopped the car. Marcus’s driver brought his vehicle to a halt behind me. Marcus leaped out first and spoke to the constable on the d
oor. The constable nodded and moved round the side of the cottage. When Marcus knocked, it was Mrs Sharp, the sergeant’s wife, who opened the door. That infuriated me. A scream crawled under my skin.

  Marcus spoke in a low voice. Mrs Sharp disappeared into the cottage, came back carrying her coat. She and Marcus stood under the apple tree, exchanging a few words, and then she left.

  Mary Jane stood up from where she had been sitting at the table. There were two cups. She and Mrs Sharp must have been having a chat. Perhaps Marcus had instructed her in what he hoped to get out of Mary Jane – any little slips, criticisms of Ethan, complaints about her marriage.

  Marcus came in behind me, close on my heels.

  Mary Jane stared at me, waiting for me to speak, one hand placed flat on the table to support herself.

  ‘You’d better sit down, Mary Jane.’ She did not move. ‘Sit down, please.’ I took her arm and led her to the chair by the fire. She melted into it, shaking her head, knowing what we would say.

  ‘Ethan’s body was found in the quarry. I’m so sorry.’

  She closed her eyes. ‘But the men looked. They searched on Saturday.’

  Marcus stood back and let me explain.

  ‘He was … at the far end of the quarry. Mr Turnbull and Raymond helped recover him. He was …’

  Marcus gave me a warning prod in the small of my back. Don’t say too much.

  ‘Oh my God,’ she lifted her white pinafore and covered her face. ‘Poor Ethan. What happened? Why would he be at the far end of the quarry?’

  Marcus said, ‘We shall investigate that, Mrs Armstrong.’

  ‘Where is he?’

  ‘We’ve taken him to the nearest hospital. Otley.’

  ‘Why? Why haven’t you brought him home?’

  ‘I’m sorry not to be able to do that. The coroner will need to be informed, but I would ask you to come with me and make a formal identification.’

  It occurred to me there was no need to hurry her in this way. Formal identification could wait. I glanced at him quickly. He was not looking at me. You want to ask Mary Jane questions, while she is still upset, while you think she may give herself away.

  He said, ‘Your husband’s body will be returned to you for burial when formalities are completed.’