Murder is in the Air Page 7

  William answered her. ‘He must have been speeding or drunk.’

  All Sykes could tell them was that the police were investigating. He thought it best to keep the story simple at present. He confirmed that Miss Crawford’s cat was safe and well.

  Sykes listened to the litany of regret as Eleanor described Miss Crawford as a lynchpin of the company. ‘This isn’t just a personal blow, Mr Sykes, although it is that. It’s a direct hit.’

  William looked pale. ‘It’s beyond dreadful. I feel so bad. She was loyal and conscientious. Yesterday she wanted to tell me something and I wouldn’t listen.’

  Sykes realised that Mr Lofthouse would go on saying this, aloud and to himself, for a very long time.

  It was Eleanor who put the key question. ‘Was it deliberate?’

  Sykes had a gut feeling that the answer was yes. He said, ‘We need to wait on police findings.’

  If the hit was deliberate, the question would be why? Sykes had a sinking feeling that the letters he had just read held if not the answer, an answer. The letters would not explain why someone might see Miss Crawford as a threat, but they explained Lofthouse’s worries about his business.

  Sykes asked, ‘Is this the time to tell me what else has been going on in the company, loss of orders that you might have put down to a run of bad luck?’

  Eleanor looked at William. ‘I told you, you should have been straight.’

  ‘I was straight,’ William said. ‘Losing orders was a run of bad luck. What else could it be?’

  ‘It would be worth looking into,’ Sykes said.

  ‘I asked the landlords about cancelling. It was a business decision, they each said that. I thought that when James came back, he could take it a step further, and meanwhile I’d make sure the accounts and paperwork are in order.’

  It struck Sykes as odd that two landlords came up with the same reply, but he kept that thought to himself for now.

  Eleanor said, ‘What if James does not intend to come back? We had all those letters extolling the virtues of German brewing, and saying how well he got on with people, and went to the opera with Herr and Frau Mensing and their daughter. Don’t you think that was his way of preparing us for the news that he would not come back? Perhaps he has heard something, perhaps he sees the brewery as a sinking ship?’

  ‘Eleanor, we are not sinking. Mr Sykes here is going to steady the course. And this is no time to discuss it, with Miss Crawford dead.’

  Sykes was growing impatient. ‘It was Miss Crawford who pointed me in the right direction regarding the loss of orders.’ He thought he understood why Mr Lofthouse did not want to admit to what might seem like his own failures. ‘Tell me about troubles you have had recently, any setbacks, unexpected changes.’

  Lofthouse took a deep breath. ‘Very well.’

  Sykes already knew from the correspondence, but he wanted to hear the words from Mr Lofthouse. Sykes wanted an acknowledgement from him as to the mess he felt himself to be in. A mess he must be ashamed of, perhaps blaming himself.

  ‘Two public houses in Ripon that have taken Barleycorn beer for sixty years cancelled orders. There’s a small brewery, the Little Ripon. It has no cooperage and bought casks from Barleycorn. They’ve switched to another supplier. These are business setbacks,’ Lofthouse protested. ‘The best thing is to move on. Normally I would have discussed it with two fellow board members, but they have put off talking about it—’

  Eleanor chipped in. ‘Darling, Mrs Tebbit and Rory—Mr Sykes, Rory is Mrs Tebbit’s son—haven’t answered your letter, or the request for items for the Annual General Meeting. They haven’t returned your calls and Mrs Tebbit has not acknowledged my invitation to the garden party.’

  ‘It’s not yet a cause for concern,’ Lofthouse said. ‘It’s three weeks until the AGM. They know my hand is on the tiller. They quite rightly leave things to me.’

  Eleanor soothed her husband. ‘It’s out in the open now, let’s see what can be done. Mr Sykes ought to know the background.’

  ‘I’d like to hear,’ Sykes said, wishing that he had dealt with Mrs Lofthouse and Miss Crawford from the beginning.

  Eleanor continued. ‘Barleycorn is a family business. For historic reasons, the Tebbit family, Mrs Tebbit and Rory, own a forty percent share in the company. They have gone quiet, not even responding to my invitation to the garden party, and that’s on Saturday.’

  William turned to Eleanor. ‘I can’t face going ahead with the garden party.’

  Eleanor sighed. ‘Three days’ notice is too short a time to cancel. It’s too late to send word to everyone. Marquees are booked, the band, catering. We shall have a tribute to Miss Crawford on the day.’

  ‘Listen to me, Eleanor. James isn’t back and—’

  Sykes saw the danger of this conversation becoming a marital row. He steered them back to what seemed important. ‘If I may interrupt?’

  ‘Please do,’ Lofthouse said.

  Sykes would have liked more time before putting his thoughts into words, but time might be in short supply. ‘Miss Crawford wanted to talk to you on Tuesday. She had been in Ripon at the Oddfellows supper the night before. The tribute we could pay to Miss Crawford would be to investigate, to try and find out what she intended to say.’

  ‘How are we supposed to do that?’ Lofthouse asked. ‘Miss Crawford was the soul of discretion. She would not have talked to anyone about business matters.’

  Eleanor cottoned on more quickly. ‘She may not have talked, but she would have listened. Mr Sykes, are you suggesting that she heard something at the Oddfellows supper?’

  ‘It crossed my mind, since cancellations from the public houses and the brewery are all from Ripon.’

  Eleanor chewed her lip. ‘Mrs Tebbit and Rory live in Ripon. They have gone quiet. William, what if Mr Sykes is right? The Tebbits have heard something to the detriment of the Barleycorn? That would explain their silence.’ William was about to interrupt, but she raised her hand. ‘When our lace company began to lose orders, we thought it was just one of those things, and then it multiplied. William, I do think Mr Sykes has a point. And news travels.’

  Lofthouse sighed. ‘I have a feeling James will be back for Saturday, for the garden party. He’ll surprise us.’

  ‘We don’t need more surprises, William.’

  Sykes intervened. ‘Let’s look at the situation objectively. Loss of orders might simply be because a pub decided to change its beer. The Little Ripon Brewery found a cheaper supplier of casks. The Tebbits overlooked the invitation. James may have fallen in love and come back with a German bride.’

  ‘That’s what I wondered,’ Lofthouse said, ‘when he wrote about wanting to go to Vienna. This could just be an arbitrary string of events.’

  Sykes waited for Lofthouse to finish reassuring himself. ‘So, while not being alarmist, and hoping things will turn out for the best, we should prepare for the opposite. If a rival is gunning for Barleycorn Brewery, we must arm against that.’

  Eleanor reached for her husband’s hand. ‘This is what I’ve been afraid of. I watched my father bankrupted. People he thought were friends looked the other way. If someone is trying to ruin us, we must fight back. William, I refuse to watch another business trickle down the drain.’

  ‘Then what must I do?’ Lofthouse’s question was to Sykes, but Eleanor answered.

  ‘Mr Sykes must stay on and see us through the crisis. What you must do now, William, this very moment, is pick up the telephone and call Kate Shackleton.’

  Still, Lofthouse hesitated.

  Sykes felt a sudden impatience. ‘If there is even the remote possibility of a vendetta against Barleycorn Brewery, take this seriously, please, as Miss Crawford did when she telephoned the locksmith, and when she showed me the correspondence about the cancellations.’

  Lofthouse opened his mouth to speak.

  Eleanor put a finger to her lips. ‘William, your next words must be to Kate.’

  William picked up the telephone and
asked to be connected.

  Sykes and Eleanor listened as Lofthouse spoke to Kate, praising Sykes, admitting there had been unfortunate setbacks that could no longer be written off as coincidences. His voice cracked as he told Mrs Shackleton of the tragic death of his secretary. He waited. ‘Thank you, Kate. I am relieved you are able to come.’ He paused. ‘Yes, I’ll put him on now.’

  Sykes took the telephone.

  Mrs Shackleton said, ‘Are you able to come back now, Mr Sykes? You could put me in the picture.’

  ‘Yes, I can do that.’ Sykes was relieved at the thought of going home, where he would be able to do background checks on some of the things that had begun to concern him. This was a two-person job. They would make a plan.

  He was about to hang up when Eleanor Lofthouse said, ‘Don’t hang up, Mr Sykes!’ She held out her hand for the receiver.

  Sykes passed it to her. She began to ask Mrs Shackleton’s advice about the Tebbits’ failure to communicate. She paused and said, ‘Yes that’s the same Tebbit, her husband was a banker, died three years ago, full of charm on the outside, led her a dog’s life. No, I take that back as being unfair to most dog owners.’

  William pulled faces at his wife, indicating that operators may be listening.

  She ignored him, while listening to Mrs Shackleton.

  After a couple of minutes, she thanked Kate for the good advice and hung up.

  Sykes and Lofthouse waited.

  Eleanor Lofthouse took her time. ‘I think Kate has made a very good suggestion.’

  ‘What?’ Lofthouse asked.

  ‘I must totally forget about the Annual General Meeting and business. As a person who has never organised a garden party, I am to call on Mrs Tebbit this afternoon, and ask her advice.’

  ‘But it’s all planned,’ Lofthouse said. ‘Miss Crawford dealt with everything.’

  Eleanor smiled, as if at a simpleton. ‘Mrs Tebbit does not know that, and Miss Crawford left it to me to organise the flowers, and I forgot. So, it is not entirely a lie.’

  ‘If they are not answering invitations and formal letters—’ Lofthouse began.

  Eleanor held up her hand. ‘The son, Rory, is not answering. It would not surprise me if Mrs Tebbit has not even seen the invitation. I will call on her this afternoon. Rory will be at the bank.’

  ‘Don’t ladies usually make calls in the morning?’ Lofthouse asked.

  ‘Oh, for heaven’s sake, darling, catch up!’

  Sykes was reluctant to interrupt, but he thought he ought to warn Mrs Lofthouse. He was surprised that Mrs Shackleton had not thought of it. ‘Mrs Lofthouse, I know the person in question. Mrs Tebbit is a notorious kleptomaniac. You will need to take precautions if she is coming to the house.’

  Eleanor drew on her gloves. ‘Mr Sykes, this is far too important for such niceties. I don’t care if she turns up with a removal van and two heavyweight boxers. We must get to the bottom of this.’

  Chapter Twelve

  Ruth Parnaby was alone in the office. Mr Beckwith had gone for his afternoon perquisite of Nut Brown ale.

  Ruth’s thoughts were on Friday’s All Yorkshire Brewery Queen competition in Scarborough. She sat at her desk, pen in hand, writing employees’ names and Friday’s date on wage packets. This was usually the job she did on Thursday afternoon. The idea of doing it a day early was in order to get ahead of herself. Tomorrow, she would bring in her suitcase. That way, there would be not be the delay of calling home for luggage. Ruth and Miss Crawford would finish work at twelve on Thursday and be straight off to catch the train to Scarborough.

  She was not anxious, Ruth told herself. Everything she could do to put on a good show, she had done. This evening, she would have one more voice and deportment session with her coach, Miss Boland.

  Ruth had seen photographs of Miss West Riding and Miss East Riding. They were both pretty, especially Miss East Riding, who was connected to Scarborough Brewery. There would be a lot of people cheering her on. Miss West Riding came from Sheffield. The other two girls’ parents would be there. Ruth felt a pang, wishing her mother could have come.

  Ruth wrote pay packets in order of departments. She came to Cooperage. It always felt strange writing her father’s name. Slater Parnaby. Each time she did this, it hurt her heart to see how much her father earned, that he had always been on good wages. In the years when they were growing up, he gave their mam so little, and he would snatch something back in the middle of the week if he ran short of booze money. Growing up, Ruth missed nothing. When she looked back now, knowing how much it cost to pay rent and insurance, and buy food and coal, Ruth wondered how Mam managed to feed them. Now Ruth understood that it was because Mam went short. When she said, ‘Oh, I’ve already eaten,’ she spoke with such conviction that for a long time Ruth and George believed her.

  The knock on the office door brought Ruth into the here and now. She put the wage packets in the drawer. ‘Come in!’

  It was the man who had brought the adding machines and went snooping about checking accounts. Mr Sykes.

  ‘Miss Parnaby, Mr Lofthouse asked me to leave word for you and Mr Beckwith. Would you go to the boardroom at three o’clock? Mr Lofthouse has an announcement to make.’

  ‘Oh, it won’t be me, Mr Sykes. It will be heads of departments. Mr Beckwith will bring the information back.’

  She did not want to go, resenting the interruption, needing to finish her work and be off in good time for the coaching session.

  ‘Mr Lofthouse particularly wants you to come, Miss Parnaby.’

  ‘Very well, Mr Sykes.’

  Mr Sykes closed the door behind him. Bloody nuisance, Ruth said to herself.

  That was that then. Miss Boland hated her to be late. She would say to Ruth, ‘You need to be here before curtain up. It’s ridiculous that you are not being given your due time off work.’

  Ruth would not let this boardroom interruption put her behind schedule. In her thoughts, she was already in Scarborough. They would take their luggage to the boarding house, go out for a fish supper. Ruth would have an early night, in a bed that did not dip in the middle, ready for the contest on Friday.

  At five minutes to three, Ruth and Mr Beckwith made their way to the boardroom. Mr Beckwith was very quiet, as if he knew something.

  They took their seats and had to wait for the slowcoaches.

  Mr and Mrs Lofthouse came in on the dot of three. It must be something unusual for her to be here, Ruth thought.

  Ruth heard Mr Lofthouse say the words, “shocking accident”, and then the name, “Miss Crawford”.

  Ruth felt a lurch inside. Her body went limp. It was like when the stuffing came out of her toy dog and his legs dangled and the stitches in his paws came away. She tried to make herself listen to what else Mr Lofthouse had to say but it did not sink in.

  Ever since Ruth left school and came here, with her hair still in plaits, Mrs Crawford had encouraged her, and looked out for her. It was Miss Crawford who came in with the college prospectus and pointed out the courses Ruth must take. It was Miss Crawford who persuaded Mr Lofthouse to meet the costs when she went to classes and to give Ruth time off with full pay for college attendance.

  Ruth could hear her now. ‘An investment in Ruth will be an investment for the company.’

  People were asking those questions, what happened, where, when, how.

  Not Miss Crawford, Ruth said silently to herself.

  When Ruth had the mad idea of sending her photo into the paper for the brewery queen contest, she told Miss Crawford and no one else.

  Miss Crawford said, ‘Why not? Just do it and see what happens. If you don’t do it, you’ll always wonder. Oh, and don’t say you sent the photo in yourself. Kid on that it’s from your George, then you won’t be accused of having a big head.’

  Ruth did not want to hear any more from Mr Lofthouse. All she knew was that Miss Crawford was gone. She felt the tears coming. Don’t show yourself up in public, she said in her head.

 
Mr Beckwith passed Ruth his hanky.

  When Ruth won Brewery Queen of the North Riding, Miss Crawford said, ‘We won’t push the point just yet that you must have six months’ leave of absence. Let Mr Lofthouse have time to get used to the idea.’

  Ruth glanced around the boardroom. Without looking, she knew the old man was there for the announcement, being head cooper.

  When Mr and Mrs Lofthouse left the room, Ruth felt the old man’s hand on her shoulder. She expected a taunt or a sneer.

  She froze, and then shrugged him off.

  He spoke softly. ‘I’ll clean meself up, take the afternoon off and go with you to Scarborough. We might spot a nice little business there. Idiots spend money at the seaside buying sticks of rock, buckets and spades, souvenirs to take home. If we put your winnings in a pokey swag shop stuffed to the rafters, we’ll be King Midas and Miss Moneybags.’

  When she did not answer, he said, ‘I want you to do well, lass. I won’t stand in your way.’

  He could be like this. Part of Ruth wanted him to come, wanted him to be a proper dad whose pipe dreams did no harm. There was too much in the way for that to happen. Ruth remembered her mother’s words: ‘I never know who Slater will be when he wakes in the morning.’

  Sometimes, Ruth let herself think that one day he would change.

  Ruth put Mr Beckwith’s hanky in her pocket. She would wash it and return it.

  ‘Thanks, Dad, but I’ll manage. Miss Crawford arranged everything. The boarding house is booked. I know where to report on Friday morning.’

  ‘Suit yerself.’

  ‘You’ll come in the coach on Friday, with George and the others?’

  The old man sneered. ‘Ah wouldn’t be seen dead with that pathetic bunch. Only just you think on, we share the prize for the good of the family. You wouldn’t be working here if not for me, either you or George, but we won’t be wage slaves forever.’

  Ruth realised her mam was wrong. The old man did not change from one day to the next. He changed moment to moment. Like as not, he would cause trouble at the boarding house. He would get drunk and make an offer to buy them out when his ship came in.