Murder in the Afternoon (36 page)

‘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 released 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.

I gave up on the thought of slipping to the outsales department of the Fleece and buying a bottle of gin. It was too late anyway.

She opened her eyes.

‘Whose child are you?’ I asked.

‘I’m nobody’s child.’

‘What’s your full name?’

‘Millie Featherstone.’

‘How do you come to be in Yorkshire, when you’re a Lancashire lass?’

But her eyes had closed. I left her sleeping.

Next I looked in on Harriet and Austin. Harriet was wide awake.

‘Who’s come in?’

‘Only a little girl who was lost. The girl from the farm.’

‘I’m glad she’s come. She pulled Austin from the fire.’

‘What?’

But Harriet closed her eyes and would say no more, except, ‘Don’t tell on her. She didn’t mean it.’

The rap on the door came so gently that at first I thought it must be the wind, blowing a bough of the apple tree.

I opened the door to find Marcus, standing a little way back. ‘You should call out to ask who it is,’ he said. ‘You never know who might be wandering about on a night like this.’

My first thought was for Mary Jane, that something had happened to her, or that she had confessed.

‘Come in.’ He stepped inside, and for a moment we stood in the light of the lamp.

‘Sit down, Marcus.’ I returned to my chair.

He remained standing. ‘I can’t stay long.’

‘Are you on your own?’

‘I have a sergeant driving me. He’s in the motor. I stopped a little way down the lane so as not to disturb the children with the noise of the engine.’

Marcus reached for a bentwood chair from the table. He sat astride it, his arms folded across the chair back. ‘Bob Conroy …’

I interrupted him by pointing to the ceiling, and reminding him that the children may hear.

He lowered his voice to little more than a whisper. ‘Bob Conroy has confessed to killing Ethan Armstrong. He says Mr Armstrong worked out who must be informing on his political activities, and when he challenged him about it, Conroy admitted everything.’

‘But he’s sold the farm. He’s going away. Why would it matter so much that Ethan knew?’

‘He couldn’t bear the shame of what he’d done. He felt sure Ethan would denounce him to everyone, including his own wife, and Mary Jane, so he killed him.’

‘Do you believe this confession?’

He looked at the fire, and then at me. ‘No. I think he’s trying to protect Mary Jane.’

In spite of his low tone of voice, I felt a sudden horror that Harriet would be out of bed, her ear to the floorboards.

‘He could be telling the truth, Marcus.’

‘It’s possible. I’m keeping an open mind. Ethan Armstrong had married the woman Conroy loved. There’s been talk in political circles that Mr Armstrong planned to stand for parliament.’

‘That’s why Special Branch took an interest in him?’

‘Yes. He was charismatic, a born leader. Conroy and he were school chums and comrades, and perhaps Conroy couldn’t bear the thought that he would forever be held in contempt by a man who – apart from his mad politics – was better in every way than Conroy himself.’

‘Marcus, your men searched this cottage and the
outbuildings. Have you ordered a similar search at the farm?’

He hesitated. ‘Not yet.’

‘And those papers of Ethan’s I handed over, has anyone gone through them?’

‘Yes. Most of it was familiar, a few surprising names.’ I felt sick at the thought that I had handed over the names and addresses of working men who only wanted better conditions and pay. But I put the thought aside and clutched at another straw. ‘That advertisement by a well provided woman seeking a well provided man, Dad thought it might be some sort of code, but I asked a friend to write a letter. It’s a real person, Marcus.’

He listened while I told him about Mr Duffield’s letter, written as Mr Wright, and the reply, and the meeting scheduled for tomorrow afternoon.

‘Please don’t get your hopes up, Kate. There was probably some perfectly simple explanation as to why Mr Armstrong had that cutting in his possession. He was interested in all sorts of social issues and women’s rights – at least in theory.’ A tone of slight rebuke entered his voice. ‘You’d no need to go to the lengths of having a reply written to the advertisement. I would have had the box number checked. Saved your friend Mr Duffield and this enterprising lady a little embarrassment.’ He was about to say something flippant, but thought better of it.

‘Have you told Mrs Conroy that you have her husband in custody?’

‘Sergeant Sharp paid her a visit. He told her that Conroy is being treated in hospital for burns and shock, and that he’s under sedation.’

‘I expect she was mightily relieved.’ She would also be relieved to know that Millie was safe and sound.

‘What is it, Kate?’

‘The little girl, Millie, she turned up here not long ago, frozen and half starved. She’s terrified of getting into trouble. I’ve fed her and put her to bed. Do you think … I mean, having another child here would help Harriet and Austin …’

That was not entirely true. Harriet and Austin had each other and tomorrow would be with their grandma. It was Millie who worried me. If she really had set fire to the cowshed, she needed help, not punishment.

Marcus did not seem concerned about Millie. He nodded. ‘I’ll have someone call on Mrs Conroy and tell her we’ve found the child and she’s being taken care of. Is she hurt?’

‘No. Just dirty, exhausted and flea-bitten.’

He smiled. ‘Well, it’s very noble of you. We both have our work cut out.’

‘I expect this means we won’t see you for Sunday dinner at my parents’ tomorrow?’