Instinct kept him moving. Hadn’t Mrs Shackleton once said to him that if he were an animal, he would be a bloodhound? But a bloodhound would have tracked its prey by now.
He reached the edge of the wood, where bracken crunched underfoot. Part of him had given up even a shred of hope of finding Bob Conroy. Leave it to the proper police, the voice in his head mocked. You’ll be hard pressed to find your way back to the motor. The movement he saw from the corner of his eye could have been a squirrel, or a crow, but then he glimpsed the figure, sitting on the low branch of a nearby tree, legs dangling, looking like an illustration from a children’s story: the green man, or an agile King Lear, all rags and dirt.
Bob’s face was smeared, his clothing torn. He looked down from the branch with a wild look that told Sykes the man did not remember him, did not recognise him. Bob dropped from the tree and, like a startled animal, ran.
‘Bob!’ Sykes called after him. ‘It’s me, your drinking pal! Wait!’
Bob Conroy ran. He had lost a shoe so surely couldn’t keep up much of a pace, but he twisted and turned through the trees so that now Sykes saw him, now he was gone. A twig cracked. A startled pheasant flapped its wings and came so close to Sykes’s face that Sykes held his hands in front of his eyes. When he opened them, there was no sign of Bob.
‘Bob!’ he called again. ‘Bob Conroy!’
And then he had a thought, and stopped still under a tree, his back to it, looking up at the branches.
Sykes pursed his lips. He repeated the whistle that Kate told him Harriet used when she reached the quarry last Saturday and wanted to let her father know that she was there.
He let out a single long trill, followed by a short one. Paused. Repeated the signal.
After several moments, he heard a sound close behind him. Sykes stood his ground, his back to the tree, and waited.
A hand appeared round the side of the tree and touched his arm. Only with great effort did Sykes stand still.
‘Is that you?’ the voice said.
Sykes did not answer. Slowly, Bob came round from the other side of the tree. His jacket bore scorch marks from the fire. He smelled of smoke and of bracken. ‘You feel real. Not a ghost.’
‘I’m no ghost.’
‘You take different forms, is that it? It’s you. You came to me in the fire. You warned me.’
‘Who did?’
‘You. Ethan. You’ve taken a different … I think … Have I lost my wits?’
He fell to the ground. On all fours, he scrabbled among the tree roots, pulling at a wild mushroom, digging his knuckles into the dirt. He shoved a mushroom in his mouth.
‘Don’t do that, man!’ Sykes said, helping him up from the ground, feeling the tremble of cold or fear that rushed through Conroy’s being.
‘I’m with you now. You’ll come to that farm. It’s not so far.’
‘No!’
‘You’ll be safe. It’s time to … find your shoe. Come with me.’
‘Are you … do you take different shapes now that you’re dead?’
‘Your mind is tired. I’ll take care of you now.’
‘Take me with you. Take me to … where is it we go? Across the river … what’s it called? Didn’t we say that once?’
‘Yes.’ Sykes took his arm. Either the man had run mad or was feigning madness, and if he feigned, then he should tread the boards. If he feigned, it may be because he had murdered a man and wanted to be regarded as mad, not bad.
Side by side they walked back through the wood. And what made Sykes believe Bob did not pretend was that he never winced whether his bare foot touched a stone, or a bramble. He walked like a lamb beside its mother.
‘Where are we going?’ Bob asked.
Trusting Bob’s madness did not extend to a loss of his sense of direction, Sykes asked, ‘How far are we off Otley?’
‘Otley?’ Bob repeated, as though the place were the far side of Tasmania.
‘Yes. That’s where we’ll find Mary Jane. She’s asking for you.’
The long Saturday afternoon stretched into evening. Harriet and Austin stayed outdoors, to play on the swing, Harriet said. But when I looked out, they were perched on the dry-stone wall by the Jowett, watching, waiting for their mother.
Eventually, I went across to them. ‘Why don’t you come inside? We can have a game. Do you have snakes and ladders, or a pack of cards?’
Reluctantly, they gave up their vigil, when I explained that their mother would not be back today, and that tomorrow they’d see their grandma.
Harriet dug out a set of draughts and set up the board on the table. ‘Austin can be on your side, Auntie Kate.’
Again, I had that feeling that she was the adult, obliging me, taking her responsibilities seriously. I had not told them that Mary Jane was at Applewick Hall. It was too close. They might ask to go there and fetch her home.
The room grew more gloomy as dusk gathered. Austin and I won a game. He liked kings, because they could move in any direction.
Harriet took a taper from the mantelpiece and lit the lamp.
Another hour passed before Sykes returned. He joined the game on Harriet’s side and in quick succession the pair of them took two of our kings for huffing.
Sykes supped a glass of dandelion wine and ate a slice of pork pie as we played one more game. He looked through the window. ‘Drawing in dark. I’m sorry to say I’ve put a bit of a scratch on your motor, Mrs Shackleton. You’d better come and take a look while we can still see.’
We went outside and carefully examined an old scratch. ‘I found Bob Conroy. I’ve taken him to Otley Courthouse. The chief inspector’s having a doctor to look at him and he could be sent to hospital. He’s in a state of shock and confusion, with burns to his hands and arms.’
A chill wind made me shiver. The setting sun gave the sky an orange glow.
‘What does Conroy have to say for himself?’
‘Nothing, that makes sense, not to me at any rate. The chief inspector may get something out of him.’
‘How is he?’
‘Raving. Incoherent. He said that he realises now there never was a lost lamb. That Ethan was right. His brother was murdered. I tried to calm him down.’
‘Is there any news of Millie?’
A pair of wood pigeons came to rest on a nearby tree.
‘No. Let’s hope someone has taken her in and that she’ll be found soon.’
He was holding something back. ‘Spit it out, Mr Sykes. What else did Bob Conroy say?’
Sykes stared at his muddy boots. He rubbed the side of his sole against a tuft of grass. ‘Nothing of consequence. What persuaded him to come along quietly, come to Otley station with me, was when I said he would see Mary Jane.’
I knew what he was not saying: that Bob Conroy and Mary Jane conspired over Ethan’s death. Sykes was no longer looking at me, but staring at the scratch on the car.
I turned back and looked at the cottage window. The scratch on the car story had not fooled Harriet and Austin. They peered out, reading our moves. We would have to go back inside. Before we did, I said, ‘I don’t know whether Conroy is guilty of murder or not. What I hate is that he makes it appear that Mary Jane wanted rid of Ethan and she didn’t. If treacherous Conroy ever does cough up for a decorative window for the church, it should feature a full-length Judas. Mary Jane’s fond of Bob Conroy, that’s all.’
Was it all? I didn’t know. If anyone else were doing as I did now, trying to be convincing, I should think they had a weak case.
‘What do you want me to do, Mrs Shackleton? Shall I go on looking for the little girl?’
‘I’ll go inside and ask the children. Perhaps they may know Millie’s hiding places.’
Harriet and Austin were back at the table, pretending interest in another game of draughts.
‘Mr Sykes says that your uncle Bob is being looked after by a doctor. He’s going to be all right. But do you know where Millie may have gone? We’re worried about her.’
‘Run away,’ Austin said. He leaned on the draughts board, knocking a couple of pieces to the floor.
‘Where might she have gone?’
Neither answered.
‘Did she say where she came from?’
Harriet picked up the draughts pieces. ‘From that place you said, that I measured.’ She set the pieces back on the board.
‘From Blackburn?’
‘No, the other place. Clitheroe.’
‘You make a start on the game. I’ll be back in a minute.’
Outside, I told Sykes what the children had said.
‘I’ll pass it on to the chief inspector shall I, Mrs Shackleton? He can have a call put through. But I don’t see the child will have found her way back there. And surely Mrs Conroy will have already told them all they need to know.’
A streak of red in the sky promised a fine day in the morning.
‘How about you go over there tomorrow, Mr Sykes? I know it seems unlikely, but perhaps Miss Trimble didn’t die because she claimed to have seen Mary Jane by the quarry. Perhaps she died because of some connection with Clitheroe.’
Sykes waited, his long-suffering what’s-she-up-to-now look asking for more information.
‘Miss Trimble’s cousin Clara is married to the verger at Clitheroe Parish Church. Mrs Percival Watmough.’
‘Why would I contact her?’ Sykes sighed. ‘That’ll be a great assignment. Sorry to burst in on your trouble, but my boss thinks your cousin Aurora Trimble was poisoned, and it could have been because of something you said. And there’s a girl with some sort of Lancashire accent who’s gone missing.’
‘I’m sure you’ll handle it beautifully. If you look in the folder on my dining room table, you’ll find photographs. There’s one of Millie.’
‘All right. I’ll see what I can do, but it will be Millie I’m searching for. I can’t go around claiming a woman was poisoned when we’ve no evidence, and the police aren’t investigating that.’
‘We don’t know what they’re investigating. Marcus tells me what he thinks it’s helpful for me to know.’
Sykes nodded, but with no great enthusiasm. ‘All right. I’ll go tomorrow.’
‘How will you get there?’
‘I’ve a pal with a motorbike.’
‘Don’t tell me, he owes you a favour.’
Sykes laughed. ‘How did you guess?’
When he had gone, and I went back inside, Harriet said, ‘We usually have a bath on Friday and last night we didn’t.’
‘Well then, you must have a bath tonight. Tell me what to do.’
Ten o’clock Saturday night. Harriet and Austin had gone to bed. I sat in the rocker by the fire, in Mary Jane’s cottage, feeling useless.
‘When will Mammy come back?’ Austin had asked, as he waited his turn for the bath, and again when I tucked him in bed.
‘I can’t say for sure, but it will be soon.’
‘Tomorrow?’
‘We’ll see.’
He snuggled down into the bed.
‘How do you know our mam?’ Harriet was sitting up, retying the thread that fastened the end of her single plait.
I considered telling her that I was more than a courtesy aunt, that I was the real thing. But piling on such information seemed an unnecessary burden. ‘Our families have known each other for a long time. Your mam and I will tell you all about it one day.’
She left it at that. I trod carefully down the stairs, holding the candlestick, disinclined to climb into Mary Jane and Ethan’s bed. Lantern in one hand, coal scuttle in the other, I went outside.
Setting the lantern down, I shovelled coal. It was madness to think Mary Jane would have hidden Ethan’s tools here. If she had been guilty, she could have left them in the quarry, or tossed them into the river. Whoever put the tools there did it for the purpose of casting suspicion on Mary Jane.
I still had not let the quarry foreman off my list of suspects, in spite of the fact that Marcus no longer appeared to show any interest in him, or in his son who had married today in the local church and would no doubt be taking over this house in the not too distant future. He would be the one coming out here to shovel coal.
In the darkness and quiet, the scraping of the shovel along the coal shed floor sounded like Satan’s orchestra, tuning up for a night of evil symphonies. I filled the bucket, breathing in the coal-dust smell. In the lantern light, black cobs shone like dark diamonds.
When I stopped shovelling, another sound caught my ear, a rustling, a brushing, as though a small animal dashed for cover. Perhaps I had disturbed some night creature.
I shook off the feeling. The countryside is full of such sounds, and though only a quarter of a mile from the centre of the village, this was countryside.
Back in the cottage, I picked up the tongs and mended the fire. Unaccountably, I thought of my mother who has never in her life made a fire, and of my original mother, Mrs Whitaker, who no doubt had times in her life when simply having fuel for a fire would be a luxury.
Well, this would be a good fire, just for me. I would sit in the chair, and pass the night. I went to the basin to wash my hands. The blind was raised, thanks to Austin’s certainty that his Mammy would look through the window when she came back, to see if they were here.
As I reached to draw down the blind, a movement caught my eye. Someone was in the Jowett, and had ducked out of sight. Probably a curious village lad. Well, I wouldn’t risk the local daredevil making off with my motor for a bet. I opened the front door, trod silently down the path, reached the car, and jerked the door open.
A small shriek of alarm came from a gnome who tried to dart past me. I made a grab, and caught a wriggling child.
‘What are you doing?’
I set her down, expecting her to run. She seemed beaten, with as little energy as I had myself. ‘I’m cold.’
It was the Millie from Conroys’ farm. ‘Where have you been? You’ve had half Yorkshire scouring the countryside for you.’
‘I’m cold.’
She was, too. Shivering.
‘Come inside. Be warm.’
‘Don’t send me back.’
Afraid she would dash away, I took her hand. ‘Come on. It’s all right; everything’s going to be all right.’
If ever I had children, I would say to them, Never believe a person who tells you that everything will be all right.
Once inside, she shrank back towards the door. The light from the fire and the lamp filled the room with shadows.
‘Sit by the fire and warm yourself.’
She walked to the hearth and held out her hands to the flames that burned through the newly placed coals.
‘Not too close or you’ll get chilblains.’ I poured her a glass of milk.
She took it from me, and drank.
‘Drink slowly.’
I could get the hang of ordering children about. Perhaps I had missed my way and should have been a school mistress. Although there was the slight drawback that she seemed not to be listening.
She looked all about her, as though expecting some trap. ‘Where is the kind man?’
That would have to be Sykes. ‘You mean the man with the stockings?’
‘And chocolate.’
‘Tonight he’s with his own children.’
‘Are you his mother?’
I think she meant wife, but I didn’t argue. ‘No. I’m here to look after Harriet and Austin.’
The child looked half starved, inside and out. I lifted a shawl from a hook behind the door and wrapped it around her shoulders. There was a small buffet, just the right size for a changeling creature. I set it by the fire. ‘Sit there. I expect you’d like something to eat.’
She stared into the fire.
I had begun to slice bread. My hand slipped. I barely missed chopping off my index finger. Was she the one who had set fire to the cowshed? I had let in a little fire raiser. That’s why she ran away.
I could see it now. Mary Jane release
d from police custody without a stain on her character, standing before the charred ruins of this cottage. Sergeant Sharp saying, ‘Sorry, Mrs Armstrong. It would appear that Mrs Shackleton inadvertently let in a small arsonist. She and your children were quickly incinerated. We righteous villagers were asleep in our beds at the time.’
‘Here.’ I handed the child a plate with buttered bread and a slice of ham.
She wolfed it down. ‘I’m warm. I’ll go now.’
In her haste to be off, she knocked over the buffet.
‘It’s too dark and cold. Stay here for tonight.’
She thought this over.
‘Where?’
‘Where you please. There on the rug. I’ll find a blanket for you, or there’s a bed upstairs.’
‘Here.’ She sat down in the centre of the peg rug.
I slid into the rocker, passed her a cushion and Mary Jane’s shawl. For a while, she gazed into the fire. Perhaps there would be a variation on a theme and instead of matches, she would easily manage the tongs and place lighted coals in strategic places about the house.
She lay down, her head on the cushion, and let her eyes close.
When she was soundly asleep, I lifted her in my arms and carried her upstairs; her stick-like arms and legs hanging in a way that reminded me of Ethan Armstrong on the stretcher, his fingers pointing to the ground.
Pushing open the door of Mary Jane and Ethan’s room, I carried her in, awkwardly turning back the covers, and lay her on the bed. Several fleas had jumped from her to me during the three or four minutes this journey took.
Sorry, Mary Jane. You’ll have to boil all your sheets, if you ever get back.
I stood by the bed. She had woken, but pretended to be sleeping. There was something like an electric current of caution running through her. I would have to watch out that she didn’t come downstairs, steal a taper and set about her work.
Murder in the Afternoon: A Kate Shackleton Mystery Page 26
