Murder is in the Air

by Frances Brody

  My first thought was how stupid James had been. He must have thought himself invulnerable. After all his planning and scheming, to do something so blatant and expect to get away with it was madness.

  William took out a cigarette. Sykes lit it for him. William inhaled. ‘James is being held at Ripon. He will appear before the magistrates tomorrow.’

  ‘Whatever possessed him?’ Eleanor asked. ‘He knew how important he was to you. Over all these years, you’ve brought him along to take over the business.’

  ‘Sergeant Moon tells me that James is looking to me to stand bail and find him a solicitor.’ It seemed possible that we would sit in a glum silence, interspersed with talking in circles. I said, ‘Mr Sykes and I have been doing some investigating. We found out only today that James was back in the country, though I suspected yesterday when Mrs Lincoln at the Oddfellows claimed to have seen him. I can give you the background. We believe James and Rory were behind what you thought was a run of bad luck. You may not want to hear what we have to say just yet.’

  ‘Yes,’ William said. ‘I want to hear.’

  Eleanor put her arm through his. ‘So do I.’

  I said, ‘William, Eleanor, we’ll tell you what we’ve learned, but it’s where you and the Barleycorn go from here that matters.’

  The four of us remained at the dining room table for a long time. Sykes gave chapter and verse of his conversations with the landlords of the White Horse and the Swan, and made the link between these two pubs, the Little Ripon Brewery and Ripon Bank’s assistant manager, Mr Rory Tebbit. We listed key dates. I referred to the sightings of James, and the fact that Miss Crawford had called at the Tebbit house asking to see him, no doubt wanting to confirm or dismiss her own misgivings or suspicions.

  Of the four of us, I have the most legible handwriting. Beryl and the chauffeur were sent to the brewery to fetch foolscap and carbon paper. I wrote down everything that would build the case against James Lofthouse and Rory Tebbit. I half expected William to break under the strain but he bore up with a steeliness that surprised me.

  ‘I want the Barleycorn shares back from the pair of them, James and Rory,’ William said. ‘Sergeant Moon had the suggestion that if I put up bail and engaged a solicitor, there could be a price. James would forfeit his shares.’

  Sykes is usually a master of self-control. Suddenly, his eyes appeared ready to pop. He said, ‘Mr Lofthouse, you owe James nothing. Miss Crawford is gone, James and Rory have robbed you of business and income, undermined the brewery, wasted the money you advanced James to visit breweries in Germany and brought discredit on your good name. We have a solicitor who would happily draw up such a ream of charges that your nephew would sit in his prison cell for years, contemplating an empty purse and a bleak future. Mrs Shackleton and I are here to look out for your interests and that is what we will do.’

  I was proud of Sykes and immediately backed up his words. ‘William, Jim Sykes is right. Set aside any remnants of avuncular feelings. You have other responsibilities, to Eleanor, the baby, your workforce, and loyal drinkers of Nut Brown Ale—’

  ‘—and Ure Milk Stout and the Fireside Brew,’ William said, ‘and the new brew, when it’s ready. That’s what I can never forgive, that he was willing to sink the company, after going on two hundred years of hard work.’

  ‘There is also an obligation to your rhymester Mick Musgrove. If James is let loose, Mr Musgrove will take revenge for Miss Crawford’s death. He will hack James to pieces with an axe and hang for it.’

  William showed admirable decisiveness. ‘I won’t attend the hearing at the Magistrates’ Court tomorrow. James is on his own. I see him now for what he is, selfish and a bad lot.’

  Eleanor had been slow to drink her brandy. She poured the remains of hers into William’s glass. ‘William darling, with the help of Kate Shackleton and Jim Sykes, we will come through this bad dream and wake to a new day and a fresh start.’

  We raised our glasses to that.

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  On Saturday morning, I opened my bedroom window. Ruth was up first. I could hear her moving about downstairs. With a picture-book blue sky, no whisper of a breeze and not a cloud in sight, this was perfect garden party weather.

  I put on my dressing gown and went downstairs.

  Ruth was at the kitchen table, with pencil and paper. ‘I heard you moving, Mrs Shackleton. There’s a jug of heated water for you in the little room.’

  ‘Thank you!’

  As I washed in the small partitioned room with its decorative basin and neatly set out toiletries, I could hear Ruth practising her speech for the garden party, stopping, and starting.

  ‘It’s no use,’ she called. ‘I wanted to thank Miss Crawford, but I can’t say her name without choking. And I’m so sad for Mr and Mrs Lofthouse.’

  ‘Then stop for now,’ I called back. ‘Take a walk round the garden. Come back and tell me what flowers are growing.’

  When I was dressed, I went into the back garden. Ruth was sitting on a bench. After debating with myself, I decided she ought to know about James Lofthouse being taken into custody for causing Miss Crawford’s death.

  Ruth was shocked, but not entirely surprised. ‘No one liked him. He swanned about getting in the way and being important. We could never understand why Mr Lofthouse set so much store by him.’

  ‘You are the one bright spot for Mr and Mrs Lofthouse just now, so be brave. The brewery is going through a difficult time. Today isn’t about passing on sadness to guests. It’s about putting on a good show, making sure the brewery thrives, and that everyone has a job there this time next year. Do your Miss Boland deep breaths and be the queen.’

  ‘You’re right.’ She relaxed a little. ‘I’m glad you’re here, Mrs Shackleton. If I’d gone next door to Miss Boland—and she’s very good, gave me a lot of confidence, and tips—she would have helped me with what to say, but not what to keep quiet about.’

  I told her about the two additional children on the guest list, from a homeless family.

  ‘Oh, I know about them,’ she said. ‘Mrs Finch gives them their dinner on a Sunday. I’ll look out for them.’

  She went back in the house for her bag. ‘I’ll be off. All my things are at Barleycorn House. I’m having breakfast with Mrs Lofthouse.’

  ‘I’ll see you at the garden party, Ruth. Good luck. Everyone will be on your side and thrilled to bits at your success.’

  * * *

  As I set off for the garden party, I heard a call, turned and saw Miss Boland, music teacher and Ruth’s coach, seated at her open window. She beckoned to me.

  I walked along the path to the door.

  ‘Thank goodness!’ she said. ‘I thought I’d be sitting here the whole day!’

  ‘What’s the matter?’

  Miss Boland said, ‘I saw Ruth earlier, but I wasn’t quick enough. She was in a world of her own and didn’t hear me call. Do come in!’

  Miss Boland appeared distressed. She was seated on a tapestry upholstered chair, wearing the same black wool jacket and a long black serge skirt. She would have cut an imposing figure had one leg not been rather awkwardly outstretched onto a piano stool. ‘It’s my ankle. I went over on it.’

  ‘Let me help.’

  ‘I don’t want any fuss,’ Miss Boland said.

  She pointed to her leg and hitched up her skirt so that I could see her swollen ankle ‘I’m a wounded soldier.’

  ‘Oh, Miss Boland, what happened?’

  ‘All I did was go out to meet the milkman. On the way back in, I don’t know how I did it, but I missed the step and somehow twisted my ankle.’

  ‘Let me see.’ I moved closer, stopping myself from saying that I used to be a nurse. I was a schoolgirl once, but don’t go around announcing the fact.

  ‘You can look, but I’ll take off my own stocking thank you very much.’ She waved me away.

  ‘I’ll fetch my first aid box.’

  ‘Please do. And my feet are clean.’
<
br />   ‘Let me get you a drink first.’ The glass on the table beside her was empty.

  ‘A glass of water would do nicely. There’s a jug in the scullery.’

  As I went for the water, I looked at the posters and photographs I had only glanced at when I came in a few days ago with Ruth. Evidence of Miss Boland’s career covered one wall, with photographs and posters of La Bohème, Madam Butterfly and The Magic Flute. Two posters featured a much younger Miss Boland. In one she stood alone, arms outstretched, a look of anguish on her face. In the other, she was with a male singer.

  I gave her the glass of water and went next door for my first aid kit.

  When I returned, Miss Boland had rolled off both stockings, ‘For comparison.’ For a large woman, opera star size, she had dainty feet with a high arch and long toes. I complimented her.

  ‘My best feature these days!’

  ‘Very useful for standing centre stage and belting out your arias. I see you are a singer.’

  ‘Yes, so if you hurt me, I’ll scream tunefully.’

  I could still recognise that imposing figure in the woman who now winced as I examined her ankle.

  ‘Sorry. I’m afraid it’s a sprain, and you’ve pulled the ligaments on this side.’

  While I attended to Miss Boland’s ankle, cutting strips from a roll of plaster, I talked to keep her mind off the ankle. ‘Are you teaching Ruth to sing?’

  ‘You’re wondering what my lessons have to do with creating a successful brewery queen?’

  ‘I suppose she may need to sing the national anthem, or perhaps there’ll be a song about best bitter.’

  ‘She could do that in style. She has a good voice.’

  I asked what sort of coaching Ruth needed. ‘She seems so self-assured. Does that come from you, or naturally?’

  ‘A bit of both. I concentrate on her breathing, and her projection. She and Mrs Lofthouse write her speeches. I listen to them and give a few tips on posture, where and how to breathe and pause. Remaining composed, walking well, it’s all to do with breathing. Nervousness, tension, that can wreak havoc on the throat. As long as a person breathes correctly, she will speak well, and put people at their ease. There is nothing worse than a nervous, choppy speaker.’

  I finished strapping her ankle. ‘Keep that leg raised. Rest as much as possible. Have your walking stick by you. You will have a significant amount of pain.’

  She refused aspirins.

  ‘Tell no one,’ she insisted.

  ‘Of course not. Now, have you eaten?’

  She told me where to find a fruit cake and cheese, insisting that would do nicely. ‘I’m right as ninepence. People may stop sending their children for lessons if they think I’m past it. A hobbler with a stick.’

  ‘Anyone can go over on their ankle.’

  I refilled her glass and left aspirins and the water jug close by. ‘Drink plenty of water.’

  She relaxed back in her chair. ‘Oh, I know that. All singers know the need for hydration.’ She took a sip. ‘It’s such a nuisance. Don’t get old, Mrs Shackleton!’

  ‘I’ll try not to. Now I’m going to the garden party, but I hope you’ll have supper with us tonight.’

  ‘That is kind of you.’ She waved her stick at a shelf in the corner. ‘Reach down a bottle of dandelion wine, my contribution.’

  ‘Thank you. Do you need me to fetch more water?’

  She did not. ‘But I always tell people staying in Oak Cottage, the water is from a nearby spring not at all stirred up, no rats. Now, what time shall I hobble round for supper?’

  ‘I’m not sure, but Ruth will be here. We’ll call for you and lend you an arm apiece.’ I put the wine on the table. ‘See you this evening. Sorry you’ll be missing the garden party.’

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  The gates of Barleycorn House were wide open. I walked along the gravelled drive towards the house. In the corner of the tennis court, a band began to play.

  Pots of flowers had been placed on either side of the front door. The porch was filled with red and white carnations. The sound of a band led me round to the back of the house and the extensive grounds. In the tennis court, a brass band played.

  Ruth’s nervousness of this morning seemed to have vanished. She was at the centre of a group, chatting and smiling.

  William came strolling across. ‘Hello, Kate. Good to see you.’

  ‘And you, William. How are you this morning?’

  ‘Let’s keep walking, towards Eleanor’s art marquee. People are less likely to stop a walking, talking target.’

  ‘Any more news?’

  ‘I woke up realising that I have been getting James out of trouble all his life. That’s what has been hanging over me. I spent months hoping he would come back changed, ready to take on some responsibility. Now I know that is not going to happen, I can shoulder what I need to shoulder and carry on. It’s as you said last night, I have Eleanor and the baby to think about.’ He laughed.

  ‘What is it?’ I had not expected a laugh from him today.

  ‘Eleanor said this morning, not many breweries have their very own queen. I’m warming to the idea. I can’t pretend that everything is as it should be. I pity Mrs Tebbit, for having Rory as a son. Do you know what he had the temerity and insensitivity to say?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘That he wouldn’t have risked damaging the Lanchester by reckless driving. Whatever it takes, I will get that young man off the Barleycorn board.’

  ‘William, I admire you for still being on your feet and dealing with everything.’

  He looked stronger somehow. I was unsure why when another man might have been scraping himself up from the floor, and then I realised. ‘William, you know your enemy now. Before, everything must have seemed random and out of your control. You are back on course.’

  ‘Thanks to you and Sykes.’

  ‘You’ll pull through. I’m sure of it.’

  ‘Thank you, Kate.’ He raised a hand in salute to a man who was approaching us. William said, ‘My solicitor. I’ll squeeze in a word.’

  ‘Yes, do that. I’ll find Mr Sykes. He’s bringing Mrs Sykes, and my niece Harriet.’

  ‘Jolly good, Kate. And you see that lady over there, in the purple, talking to Eleanor?’

  ‘Yes, it’s Mrs Tebbit. We have met, but a good while ago.’

  ‘Lovely lady,’ William said. ‘I sent the car for her. Rory had the good sense to keep away.’

  There was no sign of Sykes, Rosie and Harriet. I saw that Mrs Tebbit was suddenly standing alone, looking a little lost. Eleanor had been swept up by a group of admirers.

  Mrs Tebbit turned away, heading for the house.

  I kept my distance, remembering Eleanor’s remark that Mrs Tebbit had her eye on a jade frog in one of the cabinets in the music room, an ornament Eleanor disliked.

  By the time I reached the music room, Mrs Tebbit was gently closing the door to the cabinet. Eleanor must have left the door unlocked on purpose. I retreated and hovered by the porch, admiring the flower arrangements.

  My task was not to unmask a thief or make a citizen’s arrest. My task was to be kind to Mrs Tebbit. She was a shareholder in Barleycorn Brewery and needed to be kept on side, in spite of her errant son. It was not hard to feel kindness towards her. She was a plump, pleasant woman with a round powder puff face and a slightly nervous manner.

  When others were catching up with friends’ news and making new acquaintances, she was secreting a frog about her person.

  ‘Hello, Mrs Tebbit. I’m Kate Shackleton, I’m the person who brought the posy and the note of thanks from Eleanor after you helped her choose flowers.’

  She reacted as if I had thrown her a lifeline when she was drowning. ‘I’m pleased to meet you, Kate. Anyone who is a friend of Eleanor’s is a friend of mine. I’m Gwyneth.’ She had mercifully chosen to forget that I once shadowed her at a party, coming between her and her object of desire.

  ‘Shall we go see Eleanor’s paintings, Gw
yneth?’

  ‘If it’s all the same to you, Kate, I’ll take a turn around the herb garden.’

  ‘Alone or shall I come?’

  ‘Do come. I am alone too much. My son Rory would have been with me,’ Mrs Tebbit explained, ‘but he was called away somewhere this morning. He works at the bank. It keeps him very busy.’

  Poor Mrs Tebbit. I had a feeling that Rory would not work at the bank for very much longer. Even a person whose father was once on the board, even a person who inherited his father’s shares, might not be welcome in an institution that had a reputation to consider.

  There were seats in the herb garden. Mrs Tebbit took a small pair of scissors from her reticule and cut sprigs of mint and rosemary. ‘Which scent makes you feel most melancholy?’ Mrs Tebbit asked.

  I said rosemary. She said mint.

  Once that was decided, I thought we would make our way towards Eleanor’s art tent, but Gwyneth Tebbit wished to confide in me.

  ‘My daughter has a herb garden. She lives in Mortehoe, Devon with her husband and three children. My grandchildren that I’ve seen only once.’

  ‘That’s a shame. When will you see them again?’

  ‘Soon. There is a small house in Mortehoe that I intend to rent. I haven’t told my son yet, but I have put the Ripon house up for sale. It’s mine, my family house.’

  ‘Thank goodness for the Married Women’s Property Act,’ I said.

  She smiled. ‘Rory will know soon enough. I have told William Lofthouse that I will sell him my shares in the brewery. He ought to have a controlling interest, you see. William’s grandfather and my grandfather were cousins, and that’s how shares came to me and Rory. I take no interest whatsoever in the brewery and if Rory has the least bit of sense, he will now do the same, and leave brewing to brewers.’

  She did know something. It may only have been that James Lofthouse took her car, but the police would have talked to her.

  ‘I’m sure William will be glad of the opportunity to buy the shares,’ I said.

  ‘It will be better that way. I’ve always liked William, and his first wife, and now Eleanor. I pitied them for being stuck with James. He was a bad influence.’