Murder in the Afternoon (25 page)

Marcus exchanged a few words with the handler, and I caught Mr McManus’s words, ‘Mac’s never been wrong yet.’

‘Did you search here on Saturday evening?’ Marcus addressed Mr Turnbull.

Turnbull wore a red handkerchief tied at his throat. He touched his fingers to it, as if the knot was too tight and might hang him. ‘Aye, sir. We walked the whole quarry with lanterns after what Ethan’s little lass had said. There was no sign of Ethan.’

‘And this rock fall, was it just the same on Saturday as it is now?’

‘No. A few more rocks have fallen, sir, but not so very many.’

‘Have you taken a photograph?’ Marcus asked the photographer.

‘I have, sir.’ He was a keen-looking young fellow with a fair moustache. He handled his Thornton Pickard reflex camera protectively.

Marcus turned back to the Turnbulls. ‘Go to it then, chaps. Steady like.’

Father and son bent to the task of shifting rocks. They rolled a boulder, pushing it aside.

Dog and handler turned away from the scene, a look of regret in the bloodhound’s big brown eyes.

‘Excuse me, Mr McManus.’

He paused.

‘Would McSnout have followed the man’s scent around the quarry or come straight to the spot? Only I thought perhaps Mr Armstrong, the missing man, had possibly been dragged towards the lagoon on the other side.’

‘Could have been.’ McManus held the leash loosely. The dog sniffed the ground. ‘McSnout wouldn’t follow the scent all around the quarry, he’d go to where it was strongest. He knows who he’s looking for.’

‘Thank you.’

We watchers, Marcus, the photographer and I, stood clear as the Turnbulls, father and son, carefully shifted up rocks and stones.

Raymond let out something like a strangled yelp and jumped back as if scalded.

Marcus moved closer to look.

It was a hand, palm uppermost, as if in supplication.

Marcus signalled to the photographer who moved in
with his tripod. We stood as still as children playing statues while the photographer clicked.

Marcus turned to me, a question in his eyes.

‘I’ll stay, Marcus,’

‘If you’re sure.’

After his involuntary cry, Raymond worked with a will, not able to lift the rocks and stones quickly enough for his own liking. Mr Turnbull slowed to a snail’s pace, as though delay might put off the horror of this discovery.

A sleeve, dusty and torn, click of camera; a ripped trouser leg, the palest of legs smeared with dirt and blood, click of camera; a boot that had come off; another hand; hair stiff with dust, and a face bruised and bloodied, dusted with white; click, click, click. This unreal figure, now revealed, did not look crushed and broken but dirty and dishevelled, almost as if he had only fallen, bruised his face, and then slept deeply.

Once again the photographer replaced the plate and took another image. So this was Ethan Armstrong, writer of letters, champion of the working man, father, husband, carver of slate and stone.

Raymond Turnbull did not shift his gaze from Ethan. He bent to touch his hand, as if he might bring him back to life. Josiah Turnbull moved towards his son, to speak to him, or touch him, then changed his mind, stood still, and looked away. Poor Raymond. He appeared in a state of shock. It was not fair. An older man should have had this task. On Saturday he would be married. No young bridegroom should carry such horror to his bed.

Sergeant Sharp and the constable who had stood sentry tramped towards us carrying a stretcher. They laid it on the ground, making way for the doctor who bent to look at the body. He straightened himself, spoke briefly to
Marcus and then squatted beside Ethan, touching his hand and face as if in a farewell.

When the doctor stood, Raymond pushed in front of the constable. ‘I’ll lift him. Let me and my dad lift him.’

With great tenderness, Ethan’s old enemy, Josiah Turnbull, and Ethan’s once upon a time apprentice, Raymond Turnbull, lifted the body onto the stretcher.

Now it was the doctor who led the way.

The wheelbarrow was abandoned.

Marcus and I walked behind in procession.

‘Let me break the news to Mary Jane, Marcus.’

‘Very well.’

We stood at the mouth of the quarry, watching as the stretcher bearing Ethan’s body was carried carefully towards the waiting vehicle.

I touched Marcus’s sleeve. ‘She’ll want to see him. Will you take him to her?’

Marcus did not look at me. ‘I’ve instructed the driver to take him to the hospital. Mrs Armstrong will need to do a formal identification there. I’ll be applying to the coroner to order a post mortem.’

Ethan Armstrong’s arm suddenly slipped from under the cover and dangled to the side of the stretcher, pointing one last time to the earth. I shuddered.

Marcus squeezed my arm. ‘Are you all right?’

‘Yes. Just … I wonder whether it was an accident, that there was a landslide …’ It would be better to believe that, but then I would have to think that what Harriet saw was an apparition. ‘It couldn’t have been, could it?’

‘That’s what we’ll find out.’

‘Why did you put a man on Mary Jane’s door?’

‘I didn’t want her taking it in her head to come up here that’s all,’ he said evenly.

‘And the sergeant’s wife to sit with her?’

‘To keep her company.’

‘Marcus, the children will be coming home from school shortly, if they see a policeman on the door …’

‘The children will stay at school until they’re collected. I talked to the girl earlier and explained that we were looking into her father’s disappearance. She’s a good little witness. Didn’t waver from her story one jot.’

We had reached the top of the quarry. He moved away from me and spoke to the driver who supervised the loading of the stretcher and the closing of the vehicle doors.

A moment later, Marcus was by my side. ‘I see you have your car just there. Do you want me to drive you? We can go see Mrs Armstrong together.’

‘I’ll be all right.’

‘Then I’ll follow. We’ll go in together and you can break the news. I’ll be able to answer any questions she has.’

He suspected her involvement. Everything about his manner, his voice, remained neutral, but the suspicion trickled under his words and made me feel on edge.

The short journey to the cottage went too quickly. I wanted an age to pass before having to break such devastating news.

And the children, soon they would need to know the awful truth. Would we have to see their little faces melt into perplexed misery?

I stopped the car. Marcus’s driver brought his vehicle to a halt behind me. Marcus leaped out first and spoke to the constable on the door. The constable nodded and moved round the side of the cottage. When Marcus knocked, it was Mrs Sharp, the sergeant’s wife, who opened the door. That infuriated me. A scream crawled under my skin.

Marcus spoke in a low voice. Mrs Sharp disappeared into the cottage, came back carrying her coat. She and Marcus stood under the apple tree, exchanging a few words, and then she left.

Mary Jane stood up from where she had been sitting at the table. There were two cups. She and Mrs Sharp must have been having a chat. Perhaps Marcus had instructed her in what he hoped to get out of Mary Jane – any little slips, criticisms of Ethan, complaints about her marriage.

Marcus came in behind me, close on my heels.

Mary Jane stared at me, waiting for me to speak, one hand placed flat on the table to support herself.

‘You’d better sit down, Mary Jane.’ She did not move. ‘Sit down, please.’ I took her arm and led her to the chair by the fire. She melted into it, shaking her head, knowing what we would say.

‘Ethan’s body was found in the quarry. I’m so sorry.’

She closed her eyes. ‘But the men looked. They searched on Saturday.’

Marcus stood back and let me explain.

‘He was … at the far end of the quarry. Mr Turnbull and Raymond helped recover him. He was …’

Marcus gave me a warning prod in the small of my back. Don’t say too much.

‘Oh my God,’ she lifted her white pinafore and covered her face. ‘Poor Ethan. What happened? Why would he be at the far end of the quarry?’

Marcus said, ‘We shall investigate that, Mrs Armstrong.’

‘Where is he?’

‘We’ve taken him to the nearest hospital. Otley.’

‘Why? Why haven’t you brought him home?’

‘I’m sorry not to be able to do that. The coroner will
need to be informed, but I would ask you to come with me and make a formal identification.’

It occurred to me there was no need to hurry her in this way. Formal identification could wait. I glanced at him quickly. He was not looking at me.
You want to ask Mary Jane questions, while she is still upset, while you think she may give herself away
.

He said, ‘Your husband’s body will be returned to you for burial when formalities are completed.’

I pulled up a chair beside Mary Jane and took her hand, peeled the apron back, to see her face.

She seemed not to take in the information. ‘So … do you mean he’s not to be brought home to me, not to be laid out?’

‘That’s right,’ Marcus said. ‘Not straightaway. But as I say, I can take you now …’

She wailed, that is the only way to describe it, a heartfelt wail of pain, and then, ‘Ethan, my poor boy. Is he very disfigured?’

Although I had watched his body lifted free, I suddenly could not remember whether his limbs hung useless from broken bones, whether the mark on his face was a bruise, or dirt.

She turned to me.

I said, ‘He looked to me as though he were sleeping.’

She shook her head as she rocked back and forth. ‘I’ll go to him. I have to see him.’

‘Shall I come with you?’

Marcus went to the door. He spoke to the constable.

She was pale, and looked at me from red-rimmed eyes. ‘How am I going to tell Harriet and Austin? She was right. Harriet was right, and I knew it. I said so.’

‘You don’t have to think about that straightaway. They’re in school, until we collect them.’

‘And what must they be thinking?’

Marcus said, ‘Mrs Sharp arranged for them to stay in the head teacher’s office by the fire. Their teacher is giving them tea. Don’t worry about the children, Mrs Armstrong. The children will be all right. But I wonder if you would be kind enough to help clear up something that puzzles me?’

He did not look at me. The axe was about to fall.

Mary Jane looked white and shaken. She stared at Marcus, reading behind the mask of his grim look. She did not answer.

‘I’m sorry to ask you questions at a time like this, Mrs Armstrong, but I’m sure you understand we must find out everything we can.’

‘Does it have to be now?’ I asked. ‘Can’t this wait?’

‘Best not,’ Marcus said.

The door opened. Sergeant Sharp stepped inside. This was like some weird dance where all the participants knew their routine in advance, and only Mary Jane and I were out of step.

Sharp held out his truncheon. On it hung a canvas bag, covered in coal dust.

Marcus looked at Mary Jane. ‘Do you recognise this bag, Mrs Armstrong?’

Her eyes widened. ‘It looks like Ethan’s tool bag.’

‘Did you put it in the shed, under the coal?’

‘No!’

‘Bring it across here please, sergeant.’

Sergeant Sharp was about to deposit the dusty bag on the table. I whipped a newspaper from behind the coal scuttle and set it down.

Slowly, the sergeant lowered the bag.

‘Open it,’ Marcus ordered.

The sergeant opened the bag gingerly, trying in vain not to blacken his fingers.

‘Withdraw the tools with care.’

Sergeant Sharp first lifted out a chisel, and then a mallet, setting each one carefully on the newspaper.

‘Please inspect the tools,’ the inspector said to Mary Jane.

She stared. In a whisper she said, ‘Yes. They are Ethan’s tools. There’s a carving on the handle of the mallet, a star and his initials.’

‘How do you think they came to be in your coal shed?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘Look carefully at the mallet, Mrs Armstrong.’

She did so.

‘What do you see?’

‘A mallet. Ethan’s mallet.’ She looked at me, as if I could prompt her in what her reply ought to be.

‘And the head of the mallet?’ the inspector asked. ‘There is something on the head of the mallet.’

‘I can’t see anything.’

‘I think our scientific people will find traces of blood and hair there.’

She shook her head. ‘I don’t know what to say.’

I put my arm around her. ‘You don’t have to say anything.’ I glared at Marcus. ‘Is this really necessary?’

‘I’m afraid it is.’

‘I’ve no idea what his tools are doing there. I don’t know.’