Murder is in the Air

by Frances Brody

  The maid answered Eleanor’s call, straightening her cap, making no attempt to disguise the fact that she wished they would get on with their backgammon and leave her be.

  ‘Jenny, please ask Daniel to drive to Musgroves’ farm and see if Miss Parnaby is visiting. If so, he is to bring her back. Not as an order mind, but as a polite request, as if we knew about it and wished her to ride back in comfort.’

  ‘Very well, madam.’ Jenny now seemed not to mind having been disturbed for such an interesting task.

  Backgammon went unfinished. Eleanor refused to contemplate anything other than that Ruth was at this moment being walked back from the farm by one of the Musgrove family.

  I now felt two contradictory emotions. The comfort of knowing that Ruth was with friends at a farm a few miles away, and the fear that came from picturing her having fallen on the way back and broken an arm or leg.

  It was not until William’s driver came back to report that Ruth left the farm four hours ago that my skin began to crawl. He said that two of the Musgrove brothers had gone out with torches.

  Before leaving, I used the Lofthouses’ telephone to call Mrs Sugden.

  I avoided saying, It’s nothing to worry about. ‘I may not be back tomorrow after all. We haven’t seen Ruth since this morning. I’m sure she’ll turn up but would you please alert Mr Sykes.’

  ‘He starts another job tomorrow.’

  ‘I just want to keep him informed.’

  Mrs Sugden naturally wanted to know whether there was anything she could do, while at the same time knowing there was not. I felt sorry at having given her something to worry about.

  Eleanor saw me out. ‘Are you all right to walk back on your own?’

  ‘Of course.’

  We agreed to let each other know if Ruth turned up.

  When I got back to Oak Cottage, Harriet was looking out for me.

  ‘Slater Parnaby was here again. When you sent me to see if he really had made a dinner, I thought he was lying. But he came to say that he searched the woods and the path by the river, whistling for her, asking people to look out for her. She’s not with any friends. Now he’s gone to the police.’

  ‘I’ll drive to Bedale. She may be with her mother.’

  ‘She won’t! She saw her yesterday, on our way back from the event in Tadcaster.’

  ‘If she walked back alone from the farm—’

  ‘It’s no distance to her. She wouldn’t have wanted Adam’s dad or one of his brothers to walk her back. They took it badly when she and Adam broke up. Mrs Musgrove is the one who understands.’

  I knew that Harriet was more likely to be right than wrong on this. It was time to follow up on Slater Parnaby’s report to the police.

  Saying little to each other, we walked into the deserted town. I had that scooped-out feeling that comes when you speak of someone in the past tense. When we last saw her, what she was wearing, where she was going.

  Sergeant Moon was not on duty. The young constable had contacted him after receiving reports from Mr Parnaby and Mr Lofthouse that Ruth was missing.

  I was proud of Harriet. Top to toe, she described what Ruth was wearing, a bottle-green dress, flared at the hem, a small black hat with brim, and court shoes.

  ‘You leave this with me,’ the constable said. ‘Sergeant Moon will be in shortly. I’ll come and see you before the evening’s out. Try not to worry too much. Ruth knows her way around. She has a good head on her shoulders.’

  When we left the station, Harriet said, ‘I’m stupid. She knows I don’t like her father, so she didn’t tell me she was going to have dinner with him. When she called round to tell him to stop spreading lies about Miss Boland, he asked her to come for her Sunday dinner. She didn’t answer him. It’s what you said. I judge people and I don’t hide what I think.’

  ‘Slater Parnaby could be lying. And remember, Ruth is as strong-minded as you. She may want to keep some things to herself. Has she mentioned any other boyfriend?’

  ‘There’s been no one since Adam.’

  Harriet and I sat in the kitchen at Oak Cottage, the lamps lit in the windows, front and back, to guide her home. At almost midnight, there was a knock on the door, which I had locked and bolted. The dog barked.

  It was Sergeant Moon.

  I slid back the bolt and turned the key.

  ‘You do right to lock yourself in, Mrs Shackleton.’ He stepped inside. I could see from his face that there was no news.

  ‘Now don’t be alarmed, but I’ll need an item of Ruth’s clothing. This is just a precaution.’

  Harriet stood. ‘I’ll fetch something. Her rubber boot socks?’

  ‘That would be grand,’ the sergeant said, ‘perhaps a scarf as well. We’ve two dogs coming.’

  At the word dogs, our dog came from his blanket under the table and put his head on my lap.

  ‘Is there anything else we can do, Mr Moon?’ I asked. ‘Will you tell Ruth’s mother?’

  ‘I thought of it, but she’ll be sleeping. I’ll leave it a few hours. I know what she’ll say, that Slater Parnaby has done something to her.’

  Harriet came down, carrying a pair of socks and a scarf. ‘Mr Parnaby showed Ruth an article from the paper about the kidnapping of a film star couple’s child.’

  ‘Did he now?’ The sergeant opened a bag for Ruth to drop the socks and scarf in. ‘If that’s his game she won’t be far away. I’ll have the town crier call out the news. We’ll find her.’

  It was raining stair rods when the sergeant left. What started as a light shower would now make searching with bloodhounds near impossible.

  Chapter Fifty-One

  Ruth saw by the lantern the old man had left that this had been a keeping place, a stone-cold keeping place below the long-demolished cottage. The walls were a yellowing distemper with long streaks of damp where rain seeped through from above. Brick columns supported a deep stone slab by the wall where chopping and cutting must have taken place. It dipped in the centre from years of use. Her father’s familiar, carefully folded army blanket was neatly set on the slab and next to it a khaki knapsack. She put the blanket in the dip and hoisted herself up to sit and think what to do. The old man would come back, there was no doubt about it. She was the goose who would lay his golden egg, he thought. He was the goose she would slay. No, he was not that. He was what he had always been, the fly in the ointment. She looked up. There were hooks in the ceiling where meat and game would have hung.

  Next to the slab was a long shallow sink. In the corner was a water pump. As her ears attuned to what had at first seemed total silence, she heard the faint sound of murmuring water. The water would be foul. A haven for rats. I will come through this, she told herself. George would have crumbled. Her mother would go mad with terror. I am stronger than the old man, Ruth said. I will better him, but how?

  In spite of the blanket and her coat she began to feel the cold. It was as if this cellar had been waiting for a warm thing to encircle, and stab with ice. The old man had been crafty, waiting until George was gone. George would have been onto him. That newspaper article the old man showed her made sense now. Clever Slater Parnaby thought he would extract money from his tight-fisted employer, Mr Lofthouse.

  When she was reported missing, and she would be reported missing, the old man would be the first suspect. Harriet would tell the police about the newspaper article.

  Now that she was here, Ruth felt she had been waiting for something like this to happen, some great turning point that would change her life and set her free. Instead of giving hints to Harriet, she should have said, if ever I am killed, or my mother is, or we go missing, you must look in the cellar of the cottage that isn’t there.

  But how could a sane person say such a thing?

  Ruth opened the knapsack. There was a crust of bread, a piece of cheese, a rasher of crispy bacon and a bottle of tea. He did not intend her to starve. Not yet, anyway. He had included a candle and a box of matches. All these were good signs. Ruth was not hu
ngry. Mrs Musgrove had fed her, as she always did.

  While you have strength, Ruth told herself, try the trapdoor. She slid from the slab, taking the lantern. The light from the lantern cast her own shadow across the floor. He had thought of everything. There was a bucket by the wall, with water in the bottom, to make a suitable lavatory. Tied to its handle by string was a neat supply of newspaper squares.

  He wouldn’t come back, not tonight. It would be too far and too obvious. He would be at home, acting surprised, upset, outraged that she had left home and gone among folk who cared nothing for her.

  Ruth climbed the stone steps, set down the lantern, and pushed at the trapdoor with both hands. It did not budge. She bent down, stood on the top step and put her shoulder to it. There was not the slightest movement. He had weighted it with rocks.

  Slowly, and with a sudden hopeless feeling of dejection, she went back down the steps. A voice came into her head. ‘It is important for girls and boys to be active and to go on being active.’ Ruth was back in the schoolyard. ‘Exercises, exercises, we must do our exercises.’

  Ruth remembered them. She must keep moving, keep warm and keep her spirits up.

  No use screaming, crying, banging the walls, she must save her energy, and think, and pray, and hope, and make her rations and the lantern last.

  She placed the knapsack in the centre of the dip in the stone slab, where she could feel her way to it, and she switched off the lantern.

  When darkness became total, Ruth shivered. This place was colder than the schoolyard in winter. She heard the voice of Miss Stafford, gathering children together in the yard. ‘Exercises, exercises, we must do our exercises. Jump your legs out and back, fling your arms out and back, out and back. Run on the spot, run, run, run.’

  Chapter Fifty-Two

  Ten minutes after Sergeant Moon left, Harriet and I still sat by the fire, staring at the same log that was busily burning. This would not do. If I were Annie Parnaby, I would not want a police sergeant to decide that I should sleep until morning and then get on with my baking, not knowing that my daughter was missing.

  I stood. ‘Harriet, at 3 a.m., I am going to fetch Annie.’

  ‘What about me?’ Harriet asked.

  ‘You and Sergeant Dog stay here, lock and bolt the door behind me and only let in Ruth, if she finds her way back, or the police.’

  Harriet said, ‘I’m not just looking into the fire. I’m trying to see pictures. In the log, I can see a cave, the hermit’s cave. He might have tied her up and put her there. And there’s Roomer Common, she told you to go for dog walking, and she took me to see the cottage. Is there something in that?’

  ‘I don’t know. We can’t go there in the dark and the rain, but I can find my way to Bedale.’

  Driving in the darkness before dawn, the world looks different, roads feel longer, trees closer than in daylight. I wished I were going to see Annie Parnaby to tell her that everything was all right. Her son, safely in Scarborough, but she would know that. Her daughter safely in Oak Cottage, where she should be. Instead we had no idea where Ruth might be, only guesswork.

  At a halfway point, I wondered if Sergeant Moon was right and I was wrong. Annie was not in robust health, mentally or physically. Perhaps she should be left in ignorance until we had definite news, but I was on my way and not prepared to turn back. The hope that lurked was that Ruth may have said something to her mother that would give a clue to her whereabouts.

  This time, I parked directly opposite the gate to the bakery, so that my car could be seen. I had not remembered to bring a stool to help me climb over the neighbours’ wall.

  As it turned out this was not necessary. Annie must have been looking out of an upstairs window and spotted the car.

  I heard her draw back the bolts. The gate slowly opened.

  She was in nightdress and dressing gown. ‘What’s wrong?’

  I went into the yard. ‘Let’s go inside.’

  I half expected her to say that we would spoil the bread, but we went in.

  ‘Annie, do not panic, do not fear the worst. We are looking for Ruth. She didn’t come back to the cottage yesterday.’

  ‘He’s got her.’

  ‘That is possible, but we will find her. Can you think of anywhere he would have taken her?’

  She blinked and bit her lip. Her breath came in short bursts. When she finally spoke, it was not the wail of despair that I expected. ‘I don’t know. He’s a cunning brute. People, people like you, you can’t imagine how bad he can be.’

  ‘If there is anything, however small, that might give a clue as to where he has taken her—if he has her—tell me.’

  ‘I can’t think.’

  I had broken the news too suddenly.

  ‘But I will think. If I shut my eyes, I’ll be able to see her. I picture them all the time. Often, I’m right, or they tell me I am.’

  As she spoke, something about her and about the room altered. It was as if a light was switched on, or a window flung open.

  ‘Then will you come back with me?’ I asked.

  Annie went to the door that led to the stairs. ‘I’ll get dressed.’ She paused and turned. ‘That dresser, all that’s in it is mine. Take that washed flour bag. Put everything in it.’

  I did as she said.

  The fire blazed, hot as hell. Orange and red flames licked the fireback, catching the soot. I emptied the dresser as instructed, into the bag that was still dusty with flour. The smell of baking bread grew stronger.

  Annie was soon back down, dressed and carrying another large, washed flour bag stuffed with belongings.

  ‘Have you got your money, Annie?’ I asked, thinking of the ‘escape fund’ that Joe Finch had helped her build.

  She tapped her middle. ‘Aye.’ She picked up a large knife from the table. ‘And this’ll be for Slater Bloody Parnaby if he’s harmed a hair of my girl’s head.’

  I cleared my throat as a waft of smoke curled into the room. It was from the chimney soot but made me realise that we could not leave without telling someone. ‘What about the bread?’

  ‘Bugger the bread. He’ll smell it burning. Let him see to it himself.’

  ‘Where is he, Annie?’

  She tucked the knife in her bag. ‘I don’t know, but we’ll find him.’

  ‘I don’t mean your husband. I mean the baker.’

  ‘His house is on the other side of the shop.’

  ‘Come on. I’ll tell him we’re leaving.’ Now was not the time to discuss how the Great Fire of London started. ‘What do you call yourself?’

  ‘Annie Scarth.’

  ‘We must tell the baker you are going, and he has to see to the ovens. Otherwise the venerable town of Bedale will be ashes by 6 a.m.’

  We went into the yard, and then into the street. She stayed with her back to the gate while I knocked at the baker’s house next door.

  No answer. I took off my shoe and banged. No answer. I tried again.

  An upstairs window opened. The man looking out wore a nightcap. ‘What’s going on?’

  ‘Mrs Scarth is leaving. The ovens are on. You’ll have to see to the bread.’

  Annie stepped forward, ready to cross to the car.

  The baker saw Annie and started to call to her. We did not stay to listen.

  I put the flour bags with her belongings into the dicky seat as she climbed in the front.

  The noise of the motor prevented our talking, but there was little we could have said.

  Chapter Fifty-Three

  Ruth now knew her way around this cellar in the dark. She knew the slab, the sink, the water pump, and where she had placed the bucket. When she heard a fumbling at the top of the stairs, the slightest movement of the trapdoor, she snuffed the candle. The knapsack was on her back, with the lantern and what was left of the bread. She had eaten the bacon and cheese, drunk the cold tea and smashed the bottle. She knew exactly where the broken bottle was and would use it.

  The trapdoor was raised.


  The old man said, ‘Ruth? It’s your dad. Who else would it be?’

  She said nothing, although her breathing sounded to her to be too loud.

  His voice became wheedling. ‘I know you’re there.’

  She did not answer.

  ‘You and me must help each other. We’re the only ones left.’

  She did not know whether he meant that he and she are the ones who did not leave Masham, or were his words more sinister? He had hunted down her mother and brother because they abandoned him.

  Ruth cursed the smidgen of light that came from the trapdoor. He must have propped it open. At least she would get out. If she made a dash for it and failed, perhaps neither of them would get out alive.

  ‘I have a difficulty, Ruth, and you are clever.’

  She would have liked to say, ‘Not clever enough, or I wouldn’t be here.’ She said nothing.

  He came down the stairs, lighting his way with a torch, saying, ‘You are clever, but not wise in the ways of the world, which I am.’

  He saw her now, and she him. He shone the torch in her face. ‘When you were in Standard Two, Miss Stafford said you were good at sums, good at solving puzzles.’

  Ruth was blinded by his torch. She said, ‘It’s too late to be talking to me about a school report.’

  He directed the beam of the torch away from her. ‘You thought I didn’t pay attention. You thought I wasn’t proud of you. You were wrong.’

  He was good at tormenting. She knew that. He was good at sticking the boot in a weak spot. Don’t show weakness. ‘Are we leaving now?’

  ‘Not yet. As I said, I have this little difficulty.’

  ‘I have a bigger difficulty, and he is wearing your shoes.’

  ‘I was cursed with a clever girl in the house, but I never stood in your way. Now you have to help me. You want to go to Manchester, don’t you, to be in this competition, what is it, Northern Brewery Queen? Everyone in it gets a prize, and the winner gets a very big prize. It would be sad to miss it.’