Murder is in the Air Page 2

  At the nickname ‘Sniffer’, a single cheer rose from the audience, amid many boos. The old man was cast as pantomime villain.

  Barney had not quite finished. He always went on too long.

  ‘… final ceremony—George’s glorious initiation—the Society of Coopers—trussing in his own barrel, to complete his apprenticeship.’

  George heard his own beautifully crafted cask being rolled across the floor, now knowing it would be placed where the watchers would have the best view.

  Everyone went quiet.

  In they came to fetch him, Barney pulling a funny face, soft Tim with an apologetic smile, and the old man, already in his cups, with that gleam of spite George knew so well.

  George moved towards them, wanting it to be over and done with, wanting to show them that it didn’t take three of them to fetch him.

  The old man scoffed. ‘Thick as two short planks. He knows nowt. You don’t walk. We carry you in.’

  Before he knew it, Tim took hold of his ankles. Barney placed his big hands under George’s back. The old man lifted him by the shoulder so suddenly his head dropped back. Being shorter than the other two men, Dad held him in a way that made George’s head point at the floor, cricking his neck. George remembered carrying grandma’s coffin last year. No one will bear me along like this until I’m dead, he told himself.

  They carried him into the cooperage, towards the cask he had made.

  A cheer went up from the audience.

  A stink rose up to meet George, like fox droppings, like rotten eggs, like old yeast. At the last second, as he thought he would go headfirst, they righted him. Feet in the cask, he felt himself being squashed into stinking sludge. Out came their hammers, hammering around the top edge of the barrel, securing the iron ring encasing stakes of curved wood. George wanted to cover his ears with his hands, but his hands were trapped.

  At him they came, their hands full of filth, spreading it over his neck and face, and hair, every part they could reach. He wanted to cry for the good shirt, for Ruth’s ironing, for his own stupidity. From a rusty can, someone poured smelly water on his head. It ran icily down the back of his neck. He closed his eyes and mouth, but the taste of sugar kissed his lips. What was it? He opened his eyes. Someone split a pillow. Feathers tumbled onto him, sticking to the sugar on his skin and clothes. Something like a muddy piece of carpet was shoved down the front of him.

  He blinked and looked out at them. Faces, laughing, smiling, but not all. Richard, George’s school pal, was there. He had that look, like when he fell off that high wall and was trying not to cry. There was Ruth, ready to pounce, ready to rescue him. He stared to tell her no. No, no. It would be a worse humiliation to have his sister interfere.

  Two hands on his skull pushed him down. He was deep inside the barrel, feathers in his mouth, up his nose, vomit at the back of his throat. He could no longer see or hear.

  He felt the lurch as the barrel was tipped and began to roll across the floor

  Chapter Three

  So, this was the trussing. It made me feel sick to watch. I felt a creeping horror, particularly at the brutality of the father. William had pointed him out earlier, putting his age at forty, looking sixty. Slater Parnaby’s thinning hair had turned grey and his skin was lined. He wore an open-neck shirt under bib and braces overalls, topped with a sagging woolly jumper. He moved like a boxer, light on his feet.

  I glanced at my three companions. Our client, William Lofthouse, was to my left, the local police sergeant to my right, and next to the sergeant, Jim Sykes. They watched without turning a hair. William looked slightly amused. The sergeant saw my shock. He whispered, ‘It doesn’t last long.’

  ‘This is common assault. If you saw it on the street, you would arrest them.’

  ‘Ah, but it’s not on the street. We’re on private property.’ He turned to Sykes, ‘No worse than the initiation for police cadets, eh Mr Sykes?’

  William bent down and whispered in my ear in a way that made me want to kick him in the shins. ‘It’s tradition, Kate. Young George won’t be accepted into the Society of Coopers without his trussing.’

  ‘He’s just a boy!’ The poor lad had looked so smart, and so puzzled, when the three men carried him in.

  ‘It’s nearly done,’ William said. ‘They’ll roll the barrel back into the woodshed and he’ll come out smiling.’

  From the other side, Sergeant Moon also intended to keep me informed. ‘There’s Slater Parnaby’s daughter,’ he said quietly, ‘Ruth Parnaby, brewery queen.’

  I watched Ruth as she watched her father and the two other coopers rolling the barrel back towards the woodshed. They came to a stop, Slater Parnaby produced its lid. Spitting nails into his hand, he took a hammer from his pocket and leaned down, ready to knock in a nail, like a man closing a coffin.

  A woman hooted, ‘Slater’s turning his lad into Houdini!’

  The other two workmen paused, as if unsure what to do. Unless they were feigning, this was not part of the proceedings. How long would this go on?

  As her father hit the first nail, Ruth stepped forward, whipping the hammer from his hand. Bobbing down, she used her foot and the hammer to force the lid from the barrel.

  A breathless silence fell. Ruth raised the lid. Holding it like a shield, she turned to the audience. ‘If there’d been a brewery queen in the fourteenth century, at the very first trussing, she would have had to play a part, and so must I!’

  Tension evaporated. There were cheers as the barrel was righted. The men lifted George from it and tossed him in the air, once, twice, thrice.

  But there had been a look of rage on the face of Slater Parnaby when Ruth thwarted him.

  William was applauding. ‘Now what do you think to it, Kate?’

  ‘Barbaric.’

  After being cramped in the barrel, it took George a moment to find his balance. One of the men produced a cloth and wiped his face. As the applause continued, he was urged to take a bow.

  Looking bewildered, he forced a smile.

  He was patted on the back, his filthy hands squeezed and shaken in congratulation.

  The man who had spoken at the beginning stepped forward, inviting spectators into the bar of the Falcon for a pint on the house, thanks to Mr Lofthouse.

  People began to disperse, for the promised glass of beer.

  William and Sergeant Moon led Sykes and me up a flight of stairs, through a door and along a corridor. William opened another door and we found ourselves in the Falcon, in a large comfortable lounge. Across the bar, I could see another room, the snug. Several of the women from the trussing audience were already in there, deep in conversation. My side of the bar was entirely male.

  ‘What will you try, Kate?’ William asked.

  Since the only title I could remember was Nut Brown ale, I asked for that.

  William congratulated me on my good taste, and asked for a lady’s glass, along with his order for Sykes and the police sergeant.

  William excused himself for a moment while the beer was being drawn, made his way to the feathered and still bewildered young George. William shook George’s hand, had a few words, and slipped him a brown envelope.

  He left George looking still bewildered, but the lad drew back his shoulders and forced what’s called a brave look on his face. In his case, the mask was a mixture of seeming pleasantness and miserable resignation.

  Sykes also noticed this. ‘The lad’s stuck that look on his face like the froth to a glass of best bitter.’

  When William came back, and we sat at a table with our drinks, I said to him, ‘Did you ask Eleanor to come to the trussing?’

  ‘Oh?’ He looked up, mid-sip, a moustache of froth on his lips. ‘She decided not to.’

  It did not surprise me that Eleanor decided against watching this throwback of a spectacle.

  ‘William, when you came to see me, you said that Eleanor believed that your brewery queen Ruth Parnaby ought to move out of the family home, and that she sho
uld have a chaperone. I can see why. The father is a sadist. According to what you told me, her mother is dead or missing. Eleanor is right.’

  William was taken aback. ‘She is eighteen,’ he protested. He did that blustering thing some men do when they want a woman to believe she has entirely misunderstood. ‘Kate, you saw Ruth Parnaby.’ He lowered his voice as if what followed must be shameful. ‘She stood up for George in public. Engaging a chaperone would be a waste of brass on a girl like her. Everybody knows she can stick up for herself. If need be, my wife or my secretary will accompany her to these events. But if you’re volunteering?’

  ‘William, I am not a volunteer. I run a business, just as you do.’

  We were interrupted when a rumpus blew up at the bar. A loud voice said, ‘Keep your snitch out, Joe Finch, before I flatten your ugly mug.’

  A waiter called, ‘Order, order! Ladies present!’

  The room went silent, except for two men, facing up to each other. Slater Parnaby’s fists clenched. The other man, who wore a drayman’s uniform, rocked on the balls of his feet. The drayman’s voice was indignant. ‘All I’m saying is George needs a bath and his hand bandaging. My missus has his clean clobber ready.’

  Slater Parnaby squared up to the drayman. ‘I’ll clean clobber you!’

  Before either man had time to land a punch, both Sergeant Moon and Sykes were on their feet. For the first time, I grasped the meaning of the word ‘collared’. The sergeant grabbed Parnaby, Sykes took Finch. Seconds later, they were through the door. A short quietness lasted, and then conversation resumed.

  Sykes and the sergeant came back to our table.

  William looked suddenly drained of energy. Speaking seemed an effort. ‘Thanks, chaps. I would have had to sack them for fighting on works’ premises. Two good men, Slater and Joe. Well, good at their jobs. I can’t speak for their private lives. I’ll send for them tomorrow and dock their wages.’

  ‘You have a lot to put up with, William.’

  William said, ‘You were a nurse, Kate?’

  ‘During the war, in the Voluntary Aid Detachment.’

  ‘I’m under the doctor, for a touch of jaundice. Eleanor is taking care of me. I’ll be back to my old self before long.’

  I put my hand on his. ‘Jim Sykes will be with you on Monday.’ I stopped myself from saying that everything would be all right which, as things turned out, was just as well.

  Sykes and I walked across the town square towards the car, ready for the journey home.

  ‘Mr Sykes?’

  ‘Mrs Shackleton?’

  ‘How did you and Sergeant Moon know to jump in so quickly, before the fight started?’

  ‘Slater Parnaby turned his empty glass upside down on the bar.’

  ‘I’m no wiser.’

  ‘It means he wants a fight. Might be with a particular person, or just a fight.’

  Chapter Four

  Ruth lay on the lumpy mattress, desperately wanting to sleep. The old man rolled in drunk. He stumbled about, making himself a sandwich, arguing with the cheese. As long as he didn’t drag her from bed to do it, she didn’t care. George had gone out with his mates, celebrating the end of his apprenticeship.

  Even though her gran was dead, Ruth tried to keep to her own side of the bed, not slide into the centre where Gran always ended up. The sheet and pillowcase smelled of soap and had blown in the wind on the line. She had bathed with carbolic soap, washed her hair, brushed her teeth with salt and polished them with soot. So why did that stench of the trussing still fill her nose, throat, behind her eyes? The smell of whatever filth they found to daub on George would never leave her.

  Downstairs, the old man poked the fire.

  Her gran once said they should make allowances for their father and support him in his ambitions. Ruth understood, or thought she understood. A long time ago, when she was tiny, he carried her on his shoulders, her cheek against his hair. They walked to where a cottage once stood, to look for something among bits of rubble and tufts of grass.

  She was too little to know what she was searching for and brought buttercups to her dad. He said that at least she tried, and the two of them would find gold one day. On that day they would have a lump sum. A person needed a lump sum to set up in business. No one ever made money working for someone else. Her dad called Mam useless at looking and called George lazy. What she found out later was that a chest of gold coins had been found in the thatch of one of the cottages. Their dad felt sure they would find a few coins if they looked hard enough.

  He took them back again and again, making them walk, making them search the grass for gold.

  George would not thank her for what she did today at the trussing, his sister coming to the rescue. The old man pretended it was a joke, a put-up job, but he would get back at her in his own sweet time for preventing him from tapping nails into the barrel.

  She tried to make plans. There would come a day when she would call for her mother in a taxi. The plan had always been for the three of them. Mam, George, Ruth. When they made the plan, it seemed so clear. George would finish his apprenticeship and get another job, where the old man would never find them. She would do the same. That would not be easy. She knew that now, from the out-of-work men who came calling at the Barleycorn, asking for a job, any job.

  It might be one more year, a year of being queen of the North Riding, before the three of them could escape. If she won the next round of the contest, Brewery Queen of all Yorkshire, there would be money in it. The old man knew that too. He was playing cagey. ‘You’ll have a lump sum, Ruth. We’ve never had a lump sum.’

  Ruth had to think quickly. ‘It won’t come to me until I’m twenty-one.’

  ‘It’ll come to me then, to keep for you, to invest in a nice little business.’

  Gran and Dad used to talk quietly, in a low whispering when they wanted no one to hear. But the whispering couldn’t last because Gran needed him to speak up. Their voices floated up through the floorboards. He talked to Gran now, but the only voice Ruth heard was his. Buried deep in the churchyard, Gran wouldn’t hear him, or would she?

  The old man told his dead mother about his plans. ‘I’ve made notes. A corner newsagent’s shop, when I have the capital. That would do me nicely, no perishables. There’s a good mark up on sweets and cigarettes. I’ve looked into it. George is an early riser. He’s hopeless now but he has the makings of a man. He could see to the papers before work. Ruth will do the books.’

  Ruth did not want to hear, did not want to listen, but she needed to listen. What were the makings of a man? She did not want George to have such makings.

  He was still rambling about George. ‘Ah keep him all these years and soon as he’s out of his time, he’ll be off and wed.’

  Sometimes he acted as if Gran was sitting there, disagreeing with him. He would argue with her. ‘Oh, he will. He’ll stay with his dad and his old gran. He would never part from Ruth. She’s the one to watch. She’ll look to get her hooks into some rich man. As long as she knows which side her bread is buttered and realises no one ever made money working for a boss.’

  Shut up, shut up, Ruth said to them without a sound. She looked at the clock. Ten o’clock. George wouldn’t be long. The old man was waiting because Mr Lofthouse had given George money.

  The door opened.

  The old man put on a cheery voice. ‘Here he is, my lad, out of his time.’

  ‘Hey-up,’ George said.

  ‘So, where’s my share?’

  Ruth felt her body tense, all her muscles tighten, so much that her arms and shoulders began to ache.

  ‘It’s my money, Dad. I’m keeping it.’

  A chair scraped. A chair fell. ‘Yer bugger, hand it over. As long as yer under this roof you tip up.’

  Don’t answer, George, she willed him. But he did.

  ‘I treated mi mates and they treated me.’

  ‘And did you tell your mates you’re tied to your sister’s apron strings?’

 
Keep quiet, George.

  ‘Oh, I don’t think our Ruth will be wearing aprons, not her, not now.’

  ‘Hand it over. Hand over a quid. You’re not too old that I can’t take my belt to you. You wouldn’t be a cooper if not for me.’

  He didn’t want to be a cooper and you knew it, Ruth said to him, but in her head. She waited for George to ignore him. The only way to deal with the old man is to keep quiet until the madness passes. There are some people there’s no arguing with.

  George answered back. ‘Touch me, or touch Ruth, and I’ll kill you.’

  The old man laughed.

  Ruth wanted to get up, she wanted to run downstairs, she needed to do something. This was all because of the lid of the barrel, the hammer, the nails, and her stepping up and now George not backing down. A sick feeling came over her as she listened to the blows.

  A sound from George. Something knocked over. The old man groaned. George had never hit back before. The outside door slammed.

  By the time Ruth went to the window, George was gone.

  She lay there, still, pretending sleep, dropping off, dreaming she heard her dead grandma on the stairs. Dreaming her smell, of rancid butter. Dreaming the poke in the throat, reckoning always to know when Ruth was not asleep.

  It was the middle of that night when George came back. Ruth heard the window open. The old man, snoring in the next room, would have locked the door against him.

  She went to the landing, avoiding the boards that creaked, and saw George at the bottom of the stairs. He turned round and went back down. Haversack on the table, he put in a pair of socks.

  ‘Where are you going?’

  ‘Will you get my stuff from the drawer? He has a skin on, he won’t wake if you tread softly.’

  The old man snored like a train. She did as George asked, treading softly. He is leaving. She knew this would come.

  Quiet as a ghost, she carried George’s few belongings in her arms, to the bottom of the stairs. He pushed them in his haversack. ‘I won’t be back this time.’

  ‘Have you got your indentures?’ she whispered.

  He tapped his pocket. ‘I’ll find a job.’ He paused. ‘Tell them at work, I’m sorry.’ Straightaway, he changed his mind. ‘Best say nothing. Keep out of it.’