Murder in the Afternoon (27 page)

Sykes was being warned off, but if the Conroys had received bad news about Ethan Armstrong, now was exactly the time to call. He would either be sent packing, or learn something about the friendship between the two men. If Ethan had confided in anyone, it would be his friend Bob Conroy.

Sykes played the interested outsider. ‘I heard there was a bit of activity round the quarry, and that quarrymen had been sent home.’

‘Where did you hear that?’

‘I took some orders by the mill gates,’ Sykes said. ‘I’ll be back to make my deliveries Friday,’ he added quickly, so that the sergeant would feel confident of knowing where to find this travelling salesman if the need arose.

The sergeant adjusted his helmet. You recognise me, Sykes thought. You don’t know me personally, but you recognise another bobby when you see one and you think you must be mistaken and so you are uneasy.

‘You’ll get no joy at Conroy’s farm today,’ the sergeant said.

‘Then I might just make an appointment to call again next time I’m round.’

‘As you like. It’s a free country.’

‘Thank you. Good afternoon, officer.’

Sykes strode on, glancing back to see the sergeant climbing a stile, into a field where four cows grazed. From this, Sykes guessed that the sergeant had not found Conroy at home and was setting off to look for him.

Sykes pushed open the farm gate. In the field to his left, a little girl piled couch grass onto a fire, warming her hands as she did so. Sykes said hello. ‘That’s a grand blaze.’

The girl gave something close to a smile. She was dark as a gypsy, her movements smooth as a wriggling eel’s.

‘What you burning?’

‘Couch grass.’

He looked at her dirty hands, pencil-thin arms and legs. ‘Did you pull it all up yourself?’

She shook her head. ‘Just some.’

In the field beyond was another fire. A black cauldron hung over the flames with two crouched figures beside it, one of the men holding an animal. From this distance, the scene struck him as some ancient ritual of sacrifice. I’m a townie, Sykes thought to himself. Coming here spoils my view of the country entirely.

‘What are they up to?’ he asked the girl.

‘Over thur?’ She looked at him as if he must be stupid.

‘Yes.’

‘Cutting tails.’

‘What tails?’

‘Lambs’ tails.’

This was a girl who did not run to more than two words at a time. Sykes wished he hadn’t asked. ‘Is one of them Mr Conroy?’

‘No.’

A dog began to bark.

The girl threw more couch grass on the fire, turning her back on him.

‘I have a girl your age. She likes chocolate. She won’t mind if you have this chocolate bar and I’ll get her another one.’

She turned. He held out the chocolate.

‘Fur me?’

‘Aye.’

‘Thanks, mister.’

‘What’s your name?’

She thought for a long moment. ‘Millie.’

‘Whose girl are you?’

She did not answer straightaway, as though the question was too difficult, and then the words came to her. ‘Hurs.’

‘Did you know Mr Armstrong?’ he asked the girl, immediately wanting to bite his tongue for putting Ethan Armstrong in the past tense.

She nodded.

‘Come to the farm a lot did he?’

Her canny glance told him she would not give much away, even if she could. She held the chocolate in her hand, close to her chest, as though it would be snatched away. ‘What does tha want wi’ me, mister?’

‘Nowt.’

She broke off a piece of chocolate, popped it in her mouth, and slipped the rest of the bar in her pocket. She stooped for more couch grass. The burning grass crackled. Millie wiped a hand across her smeared face.

Sykes said, ‘There is summat.’

‘What?’

A flash of inspiration led him to say, ‘How did Mr Armstrong and Mrs Conroy get on when he came to see her?’

Mrs Shackleton had said that Armstrong supposedly talked to Mrs Conroy about his troubles. What if it wasn’t that at all? Armstrong and the farmer’s wife were lovers. Conroy had found out. A fight. A deadly blow. That would explain why Conroy was not here when Harriet came running. Conroy was already in the quarry, blood on his hands.

He waited for Millie’s answer, willing her, please give me more than two words.

‘Don’t know.’ She fingered the chocolate bar in her pocket, not looking at him. But he had the feeling of being close to something.

The eye in the back of Sykes’s head blinked. He turned and saw the farmhouse door open. ‘Bye, Millie. Don’t eat the chocolate all at once, lassie.’

The woman at the door watched as Sykes approached.

When he drew close, he saw that she had a round, open face and mesmerising blue eyes. Her look was curious as she waited for him to speak.

‘Good afternoon, madam. I wonder if I might interest you in some very fine hosiery at a reasonable price? No obligation for taking a look.’

She looked beyond him as though he may be some ne’er do well who had an accomplice lurking round the corner, waiting to pounce.

‘I’m Jim Sykes, and this week I’m in the area with some superior items manufactured from viscose which if you touch between finger and thumb I guarantee you will imagine to be silk.’

She hesitated.

‘A lady like yourself would, I’m sure, appreciate the quality.’

She opened the door wide enough for him to step inside. ‘I’ll spare you five minutes. Only because it’s a change to have a salesman who isn’t flogging cattle feed.’

Sykes glanced around the kitchen. ‘You keep a lovely place, and a grand fire, Mrs …’ Just in time, Sykes stopped himself from saying her name.

‘Mrs Conroy.’

‘A lovely place,’ he repeated.

‘I try. It’s a losing battle with men trooping in for their meals.’ She moved from the kitchen towards a door at the far side of the room. ‘Come through, or whatever you have to display will end up smeared with dripping and smelling of smoked bacon.’

He followed her into a Sunday best room, with over-stuffed horsehair sofa and chairs, oak sideboard suitable for a giant’s parlour and enough ornaments to keep an auctioneer busy for a week.

‘Do you manage this place all on your own?’ Sykes waited until she sat down on the sofa, motioning him to put down his case and be seated.

‘I’ve a girl to help, and a woman comes in from the village twice a week.’

‘Well, I take my hat off to you, Mrs Conroy.’ He set the case between them, and flicked open the lid. Drawing out a pair of stockings, he held them up to catch the light. ‘The silkworm himself wouldn’t tell the difference between this and the real thing.’

She took the hose from him with long, slender fingers – a pianist’s hands, but roughened by work. ‘That’s a right nice stocking. What would you rush me for ’em?’

‘How much would you say they’re worth to a lady like yourself with an ankle worth showing to the world?’

They haggled amiably for several minutes. ‘You drive a hard bargain,’ Sykes said, ‘but since I’ve come this far and you’re buying three pairs, you shall have them.’

‘Well, be quick about it before my husband gets back or he’ll be on at me for wasting brass.’

Sykes took out two more pairs of stockings and a sheet of tissue paper.

‘Not so fast. I must make sure that the other two pairs aren’t inferior.’

‘I can see no man will get the better of you, Mrs Conroy.’

She laughed, a warm genuine laugh.

‘Will your man be back soon? Perhaps I can interest him in a pair of socks?’

‘He has socks enough to last a lifetime. His mother used to knit them for him as a punishment.’ She spotted children’s socks. Sykes lifted out a pair of boy’s and girl’s socks. ‘What about something for the children?’

‘I was thinking of that.’

‘How many bairns do you have?’

‘None of my own, sadly, but I’ve two little ones coming to stay who’ve had a dire loss. Stockings won’t make up for that but if I take a pair for each of them, they’ll know they’re welcome when they come.’

‘Might I ask what dire loss the two little ones have suffered?’

‘Their father,’ she sighed. ‘He was found dead in the quarry earlier. The police sergeant, probably you passed him in the lane, he came to tell me.’

‘I’m sorry. You should have said. I would have come another time.’

She went to the dresser, opened the top drawer and took out a purse. ‘Nay, I wasn’t close to the man. But he was a childhood friend of my husband. My mister will take it hard.’

As they stood by the sofa, she counted the money into his hand. I wonder, he thought as her fingers grazed his palm, was there something between you and Ethan Armstrong? When you say you were not close, do you protest too much? The thought lingered as she walked him to the door and wished him good day.

As he drew level with the girl in the field, Sykes balanced his case on top of the dry-stone wall. ‘Millie!’ he called.

She looked up from her fire.

‘Here. A pair of stockings for you.’

Her eyes widened. ‘Why?’

‘To keep you warm, why else?’

The girl took the stockings from him and slid them into her apron pocket.

It was then that Sykes heard the unmistakeable sound of Mrs Shackleton’s Jowett approaching.

He said goodbye to the girl and walked to the gate.

Mrs Shackleton stayed in the motor. She spoke to the children who climbed from the car. Like two little rag dolls with the stuffing knocked out of them, they stepped slowly and cautiously through the gate, keeping to the edge of the path, trying to avoid the mud.

Sykes caught a glimpse of Mrs Shackleton’s face in an unguarded moment as she watched the children. He looked away because the sadness was too naked.

He walked to the car and said cheerily, ‘I never miss an opportunity to show my wares. And that’s what I shall do now, as you tell me what comes next.’

He opened the attaché case and set it on the seat beside her.

‘I don’t know what comes next, Mr Sykes. I’ve just had to break it to those two children that their father is dead.’

He could have choked on his cheeriness. ‘Where’s their mother?’

‘Taken to formally identify her husband’s body. But I know she’ll be questioned.’

‘By your chief inspector?’

‘Yes. Ethan’s tools were hidden under the coal in her outhouse. As if she’d be so stupid.’

People had been hanged on less evidence, Sykes knew, but he kept the thought to himself. ‘I passed the local sergeant earlier. He’s on his way to some far-flung field to seek out Bob Conroy and tell him the bad news.’

‘That’s kind of him,’ Mrs Shackleton said, making a show of picking up a stocking. ‘Unless…’

‘Unless what?’

‘He could be acting on instructions. If I’m not mistaken, Chief Inspector Marcus Charles thinks Mary Jane killed Ethan. He may suspect that she had help from Bob Conroy. Mrs Ledger said both Bob Conroy and Ethan were smitten by Mary Jane, and Ethan won her.’

Sykes held out another stocking, lisle this time, in what he thought of as “unnatural flesh” colour. They had a slightly orange tinge that he had never seen in a human being. Absently, she took it from him. Sykes thought the best thing to say now was nothing, but he said, ‘What about a possible connection between Ethan Armstrong and Mrs Conroy? She’s got something about her.’

Mrs Shackleton looked at him quickly. Two pink spots appeared on her cheeks. It reminded him that he must tread carefully. This investigation was too close to home for her to feel objective about it.

She let the flesh-coloured stocking fall back into the case.

Sykes marched away down the lane, carrying his attaché case. I hurried to the farmhouse, feeling guilty about letting the children go in alone. But at least Georgina Conroy now knew about Ethan, and so it would not be up to Harriet to try and put the bad news into words.

I tapped on the door and went inside. ‘Sorry. I sent the children ahead. I was waylaid by a man selling stockings.’

‘Did you buy?’

‘No. Did you?’

‘I felt sorry for the poor chap. And he has the gumption to get himself out and about and try and earn a living. Not like some poor souls who have the stuffing knocked out of ’em and never see how to put it back.’

Mrs Conroy already had the children sitting by the fire, trying on new socks.

‘It looks as if you two are settling in all right,’ I said, immediately regretting my choice of words which made it sound as if they would be here for the duration. Both Harriet and Austin ignored me. Harriet seemed to struggle to get the heel of the sock in the right place. Austin’s foot was still inside the stocking leg.

With her back to the children, Mrs Conroy cast me a
tragic glance. ‘Eh what a to do. But the bairns can stay here as long as need be. Put Mary Jane at ease over that.’