Murder is in the Air Read online

  Chapter Thirteen

  I was outside, lifting my suitcase into the dicky seat when Sykes’s car drew up.

  It was somehow reassuring to see that he had reverted to his comfortable style of the dark suit.

  ‘Hey-up,’ Mrs Shackleton.’ He got out of the car and stretched. ‘Something tells me you want me to be quick.’

  He was right. ‘William and Eleanor are in a bit of a state by the sounds of it. I’d like to be there in time to make a few enquiries before I see them.’

  ‘Right then.’

  We went inside, through to the kitchen.

  Mrs Sugden had oxtail soup on the table. The three of us sat down.

  Over the soup, Sykes gave us a brief account of everything that had gone on, beginning with the lack of security and the way that Joe Finch the drayman made free with the premises. He concluded with the death of the secretary and her failed attempt to talk to Lofthouse on Tuesday.

  I asked a few questions, wanting to be clear. ‘Joe Finch was the one who got into a fight with Slater Parnaby, the brewery queen’s father?’

  ‘That’s right, only it might be more correct to say that Slater Parnaby got into a fight with Joe Finch. Parnaby’s a man who likes trouble.’

  ‘Did the police find any fingerprints on the contaminated barrels?’

  ‘None that couldn’t be accounted for. All the culprit had to do was remove the bungs and slip in contaminated titbits.’

  ‘What about James Lofthouse? Is he still in Germany?’

  Sykes produced a sheet of paper from his briefcase. ‘I have a copy of his itinerary, but he hasn’t kept to it. He added Vienna.’

  Mrs Sugden perked up. ‘You know that Miss Merton is fluent in German. She went on walking tours there before the war.’

  Miss Merton is our former neighbour. She keeps house for her brother. They live close by, in the university Vice Chancellor’s residence.

  ‘How would she be able to help?’ Sykes asked.

  ‘She knows people, in the embassy, the consulates, and has German friends. I’m sure she’d make some telephone calls, starting with places James Lofthouse has been staying.’

  Sykes passed the itinerary to Mrs Sugden. She was about to take it into the dining room, having a dread of food being spilled on documents.

  It may take a while for Miss Merton to book a call to Germany, but the Vice Chancellor’s residence was on a telephone line regarded as important. ‘Mrs Sugden, ring Miss Merton now. Give her the most recent details of James’s itinerary, say it’s urgent and we would be forever grateful for information about where he is now. I’ll call by on my way to Masham.’

  I moved the soup plates and brought across the potted meat sandwiches.

  Sykes took a sandwich. ‘The Barleycorn Annual General Meeting looms. Mr Lofthouse is nervous about it.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘He has lost confidence, which could be for all sorts of reasons, but it does seem as if the company is being got at. He needs the support of the Tebbits and they are not playing ball. I checked on the distribution of shares. William gave Eleanor five percent of his shares when they married. Between them William and Eleanor have forty-five percent. Wandering James Lofthouse has ten percent. Mrs Tebbit and her son Rory have forty-five percent, she twenty, Rory twenty-five.’

  I did a quick calculation. ‘So, without James, there could be deadlock if the Tebbits don’t agree with a course of action William decides on?’

  ‘Yes, and the other way around of course.’

  As Sykes gave me the account of his time at the brewery, I realised I was right in thinking that William Lofthouse had not told me everything when he called to see me on the day of his friend’s funeral. He did not want to face what might be a coming storm for his precious brewery.

  When Sykes told me of the cancellation of orders by the two pubs and a small brewery. I asked, ‘Do you think they are connected?’

  ‘It seems likely. They all stem from Ripon. I’d need to look into that more closely.’

  ‘All of this puts a sinister slant on the secretary’s death, wouldn’t you say, Mr Sykes?’

  Sykes agreed. ‘I wish you’d met Miss Crawford. I felt she was on the point of saying something significant on Tuesday, when Lofthouse wouldn’t listen to her.’

  ‘Could you make a guess as to what it could be?’

  He shook his head. ‘I don’t know what she might have heard, but I can guess where she heard it. On Monday evening she went with her neighbour, Mrs Rigg, to the Oddfellows supper meeting in Ripon. The next day she tried several times to talk to Mr Lofthouse, but he shut his ears. It’s almost as if he suspected she might tell something that would make him take his head from the sand.’

  I stood. ‘Time for me to go.’

  ‘Here’s what I’ve jotted down, and a bit of a map.’ Sykes gave me a sketch, showing the road where Miss Crawford was knocked down, the lane where she lived. He marked Miss Crawford’s cottage on the lane, Mrs Rigg’s cottage, and the Murthys’ house on the main road.

  Sykes walked me to the car, saying, ‘I’ll get myself to the library and the newspaper offices, see what else I can find out about the Tebbits.’

  ‘Yes, and let’s hope Miss Merton’s friends in Germany can locate the errant nephew.’

  Sykes leaned into the car. ‘Talking about absences, that reminds me. Mr Lofthouse will need to find replacements for Miss Crawford and Ruth Parnaby. Ruth has gone on working, but in the contract Mrs Lofthouse signed, it was agreed that the brewery queen should have leave of absence.’

  Mrs Sugden came out to wave me off. She had picked up that Mr Lofthouse has a tight fist and asked, ‘Does Mr Lofthouse need telling it won’t be two for one when it comes to fees?’

  ‘The original contract letter was clear, Mrs Sugden.’

  Eleanor, without needing to be asked, had said she would arrange for a cottage to be made ready for me.

  ‘Mr Sykes, come in the Rolls for the garden party. You’ll come won’t you, Mrs Sugden?’

  ‘I’ll see. I’m not a great one for garden parties. I don’t have the right sort of hat.’

  ‘Rosie will help you choose a hat,’ Sykes said. ‘But is it a good idea to let Mr Lofthouse see the Rolls? He might think we don’t need paying.’

  ‘If William sees the Rolls, our modest invoice will come as a pleasant surprise.’

  Chapter Fourteen

  One of Jim Sykes’s skills is giving directions and drawing maps. I was glad of this as I found my way to West Tanfield, and the lane where Miss Crawford had lived. I passed the house with the steep garden that Sykes had described as belonging to Mr and Mrs Murthy.

  Although I was keeping an eye out for the lane, it appeared too quickly, after the overgrown hedgerow. Having overshot it, I carried on a little way, looking for a place to pull off the road.

  An odd sight on my right made me slow down. I pulled onto the verge.

  A well-made, white-haired woman held a spade. She stood on the grass by the side of the road. I got out of the car and went across to her. She was every inch the countrywoman, with a broad weather-worn face, pale blue eyes and a mass of white hair caught up by combs and pins. Her foot was on the spade, now pushed so far into the ground that it stood on its own. She had dug a semi-circle shaped channel, soil piled around the edge.

  This must be the site of Miss Crawford’s death. Flowers were crushed, the ground disturbed.

  ‘Hello’ seemed an odd thing to say, given that I was interrupting her, but I said it anyway.

  ‘Hello,’ she said back.

  ‘My name’s Kate Shackleton. I’m a friend of Mrs Lofthouse.’

  ‘They haven’t been near,’ she said, ‘and I thought they would have.’

  Quick white lie. ‘Eleanor asked me to come because Mr Lofthouse has taken the death of his secretary very hard. He is poorly.’

  She gave the slightest of snorts. ‘They’re going ahead with the garden party. I expect they’ll say Miss Crawford would have wa
nted them to.’

  My first thought was to plead ignorance of that, but my second thought led me to speak up for them, and to make their excuses. If in doubt, plead ignorance. I did both. ‘I don’t know about that, except that they thought long and hard about cancelling. They will be making a tribute to Miss Crawford and considering the best way to commemorate her loyalty and her service.’

  The woman seemed placated. There were bulbs on the ground. She had come to do some planting. I recognised that need, that need to do something when grief brings a standstill. ‘Mrs Lofthouse asked me to talk to Miss Crawford’s friend, Mrs Rigg.’

  The woman relaxed her hold on the spade. ‘You’re talking to her.’

  ‘How do you do, Mrs Rigg? I’m very sorry for your loss.’

  ‘I wish they’d just find the so-and-so that did it.’

  ‘Oh, they will! The Lofthouses will make sure of that. Now, shall we plant those bulbs? What are they?’

  ‘Daffodils from her own garden and mine.’ She looked at my gloves. ‘You’ll get mucky.’

  ‘They’re driving gloves, and soil is clean dirt.’ I began to place the bulbs. ‘What time did Miss Crawford usually set off for work?’

  ‘Eight o’clock on the dot.’

  ‘What time was the accident.’

  ‘That’s the shocking thing. If she’d been on her own timetable it never would have happened. It was more like half past nine.’

  ‘How awful.’

  ‘Almost as if it were decreed. She was so punctual.’

  ‘Do you have any idea why she may have been late that day?’

  ‘No.’ Mrs Rigg began to replace the soil and patted it down.

  I needed to look round Miss Crawford’s cottage, without appearing nosy. ‘I sometimes leave myself a note the night before, about what I have to do the next day. I wonder if Miss Crawford did the same.’

  ‘It wouldn’t surprise me.’

  ‘Shall we have a look?’

  ‘The police have been in. I didn’t go in this morning, but I should. She wouldn’t want milk turning sour.’

  We brought the sadness into the downstairs room that was both parlour and kitchen, yet it felt as if the sadness waited for us. The room was neat and clean, with tapestry cushions on the wooden armchair and footstool. The bookcase held a family bible, Pilgrim’s Progress, histories, novels by George Eliot, Elizabeth Gaskell and Anne Brontë and Ponsonby’s English Diaries.

  ‘Miss Crawford kept a diary,’ I said.

  ‘How do you know?’

  ‘From her bookcase. And I’m judging that she was that sort of person.’

  ‘You’re right about that. She kept it here, on this little table, next to the fireside chair.’

  ‘But it’s not there now?’

  ‘Why do you ask?’

  I told her about William’s distress that he had not listened to what Miss Crawford wanted to tell him. ‘Normally, one would never read another person’s diary, but I am wondering whether something happened, or she learned something that she particularly wanted to say, and if so whether she wrote that in her diary.’

  Mrs Rigg opened the writing desk. ‘It’s not here. Now you have me curious.’ She indicated a pile of typewritten papers. ‘Someone’s been at this. Look how untidy this is. Miss Crawford is so neat with paperwork.’

  ‘What is the typing?’

  Mrs Rigg straightened the papers. ‘Mick Musgrove’s rhymes. Mr Musgrove is an elderly man who used to work at the brewery. He knows lots of traditional rhymes about ale, the cup that cheers, all that sort of thing. Miss Crawford took down his dictation in shorthand and typed them. They’re to be bound and kept in the library for posterity.’

  ‘What a good idea.’

  ‘Miss Crawford was like that. She went to see him when he was at death’s door. He came back to life when someone wanted to hear him recite. He’s on his allotment most of the day now. He grows the sweetest carrots I ever tasted.’

  She went to the stairs. ‘I’ll just see if that diary is on her bedside table. If there was something she wanted to say, it should not go unheeded.’

  I could tell by the slowness of her footsteps as she came down that there was no diary.

  She shook her head.

  ‘Mrs Rigg, when you went to your Oddfellows supper on Monday, was there anyone that Miss Crawford spoke to, a person who might have mentioned something to do with the Lofthouses, or the brewery, that she would have wanted to pass on?’

  She thought for a moment. ‘I can’t think of anything.’

  ‘Nothing at all unusual or different?’

  ‘She did seem a little thoughtful, as we came back. Of course, you can’t talk in that car of Mr Murthy’s because you can’t hear yourself.’

  ‘Is there anyone in particular at the Oddfellows that Miss Crawford was friendly with?’ I asked.

  She looked at me as if I had asked a stupid question. ‘We’re all friendly. That’s what the Oddfellows is, Oddfellows Friendly Society, friendship and mutual help society.’

  She thought for a moment and held up a finger. ‘Ah!’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Something and nothing. When Mr Murthy brought us back, Miss Crawford stayed in the car with him, wanting a word. She had never done that before.’

  ‘Do you know what it was about?’

  She shook her head. ‘I thought nothing of it at the time. All that comes to mind is that Mr Murthy is executor of Miss Crawford’s will. Perhaps she had a premonition?’

  ‘Thank you, Mrs Rigg. You’ve been most kind. I’ll go back and talk to the Lofthouses.’

  We left the house. Mrs Rigg locked the door, moved to put the key under the plant pot, and then changed her mind. ‘I’ll hold onto this, since someone has been in and upset her papers and taken her diary.’

  ‘That’s a good idea. And Mrs Rigg, this might seem an odd question, but can you think of anyone who would have wished Miss Crawford harm?’

  ‘Odd you should ask me that. Sergeant Moon asked the same question. No one would have wanted to harm Miss Crawford.’

  Chapter Fifteen

  The imposing old house on Ripon High Street bore the Oddfellows nameplate. I rang the bell and waited. Just as I was about to go to the side of the house, to find another entrance, the door opened, revealing a lanky, smiling man. His welcoming look made me feel sure we must have met before, until I brought to mind Mrs Rigg’s words about this being a friendly society.

  ‘Hello, I’m Mrs Shackleton, Kate Shackleton. I’m here on behalf of Mr Lofthouse at the Barleycorn Brewery, Miss Crawford’s employer.’

  ‘Hello, Mrs Shackleton. I’m Geoffrey Lincoln, manager, or caretaker if you please. Do come in.’

  He and I had not met before. I would have remembered that warm-as-toast voice, and the tendency to promote or demote himself, to manager or caretaker.

  We stepped into a hallway hung with portraits of gentlemen in ceremonial robes, medallions and antique headgear. ‘Our Oddfellow forebears,’ he explained. ‘We’ll go into the reading room. Can I get you anything?’

  ‘No please don’t trouble.’

  He led us through the house into a book-lined room with a view of a well-kept garden, and a birdbath occupied by a robin. We sat by the window.

  ‘Miss Crawford’s late father was a member in long-standing. Miss Crawford has been honorary secretary since the war, so highly thought of, such a lovely lady.’

  ‘She will be greatly missed at the brewery.’

  We said those much-repeated words that are to hand for such an occasion. He told me that the Oddfellows would be there to do whatever may be useful and helpful.

  ‘We intend to put on the funeral breakfast. She will be buried at the Cathedral.’

  I gave a non-committal reply. Miss Crawford would not have discussed her funeral with her boss. It would be Mr Murthy, her executor, who would have that information.

  I skirted round Mr Lincoln’s questions, and came to my own.

  ‘Mr Lincoln,
on Tuesday, the day after your supper meeting, there was something Miss Crawford wanted to say to say to Mr Lofthouse. He had to leave the office before they had time to talk. In retrospect, Mr Lofthouse thought Miss Crawford had been unusually distracted or concerned. Did you notice any difference in her manner on Monday evening?’

  He bit his lip and frowned. ‘Can’t say I did. Some people can be the wrong side out one day to the next, but not Miss Crawford. She was always the same, well-mannered, thoughtful. She paid attention to people, if that does not sound a peculiar thing to say.’

  ‘Did she talk to anyone in particular, any person who might have said something that would be of interest in relation to her work, or whether she intended to call somewhere this morning before going to work?’

  ‘Not to my knowledge. My wife is the one for chatter, but she is out shopping.’

  ‘When will Mrs Lincoln be back?’

  ‘It could be a little while. She calls to see her mother.’

  ‘Then I’ll be on my way, Mr Lincoln.’ I stood. ‘If there is anything else you think of, perhaps you’d be kind enough to contact me through Mr Lofthouse.’

  The doorbell rang. Mr Lincoln sprang to his feet. ‘That might be Marjorie, loaded with shopping. Excuse me.’

  I heard him talking in the hall, and a softer voice with an Indian lilt answering him. Mr Murthy? The man who had given a lift to Miss Crawford and Mrs Rigg. Please bring him in, I said silently.

  Mr Lincoln did bring in his visitor, introduced us, and excused himself to put on the kettle.

  Mr Murthy was a small man, immaculately dressed and with a courtesy that would not let him sit down until I did. Quickly, I sat down. ‘Mr Murthy, I know of you through Mrs Rigg. I’m here on behalf of Miss Crawford’s employer.’

  ‘Ah, my condolences to Mr Lofthouse.’

  ‘I’ll pass that on.’

  ‘I have written to him. The letter is in the post.’

  ‘You are Miss Crawford’s executor?’

  ‘I am.’

  ‘May I ask you a question, on behalf of Mr Lofthouse?’

  ‘Please do.’

  ‘Miss Crawford was on the point of telling Mr Lofthouse something she regarded as important on Tuesday. Sadly, the matter was left over until Wednesday, when it was too late. I know that she stayed in the car a few moments to speak to you when you drove the ladies back to West Tanfield. Normally I would not enquire about another person’s conversation but if you can tell me anything that would put Mr Lofthouse’s mind at ease, I should be grateful. Mrs Rigg thought it may be in connection with Miss Crawford’s will.’