Murder in the Afternoon (33 page)

Harriet waited at the window until Mrs Conroy came back inside, until she heard her climb the stairs and go back into the room next door. Austin still slept. But you never knew with him. Sometimes he pretended. The room was too dark to tell if he was pretending or not. Harriet listened to his breath, too even and quiet for him to be awake.

Harriet lay down. What if Dad is not dead? This is all some mistake or some dream. A story. She would not have to go to school and be stared at. She would not be half an orphan. If she went to sleep, she might wake in the middle of last week when everything was normal and ordinary.

How long she slept, she did not know, or whether she slept at all. Something woke her. She moved her feet left and right. All she felt was the crumpled sheet beneath her heel and the top sheet on her big toe. She sat up. The bed was flat at the bottom and on either side. It wasn’t like him to get up for a pee. He’d prefer to wet the bed.

She felt suddenly scared. What if he had not been asleep earlier, when Uncle Bob made his racket? He might have
gone downstairs, let himself out, and tried to find Uncle Bob in the cowshed. No. He would have wakened her. He was too afraid to be brave.

The light at the window was not like morning, and not like the moon. Harriet went to look.

Flames licked from the wall of the barn. Red sparks flung themselves into the darkness. She flung open the window, and smelled smoke.

Trust the moon to slide behind a cloud when you needed her. Jupiter shone brightly, but not brightly enough. Sykes took out his torch. He felt like bloody Goldilocks because where else could he go but the three bears’ cottage – the Armstrong cottage where he would risk a few hours’ sleep and be careful not to eat porridge or break baby bear’s chair.

The wind was behind him now and it brought a tang, a dryness, something like smoke. He turned to look at the sky. It was lit red over the farm. Sparks flew into the sky. For a moment, Sykes stood like a statue, as if some master of ceremonies had put on a display and demanded his appreciation. And then he started to run, back towards the farm, along the track, past the ominous quarry with its forbidding shadows, up the dirt road, along the farm track. And by the time he reached the farm track, he was not alone.

Someone else had seen the fire. A man came running out of the farm cottage, pulling a cap onto his head. ‘Bloody hell fire,’ said the man. ‘It’s the cowshed. My beasts! My poor beasts.’

‘How many are there?’ Sykes asked, catching the sound of his own panting, wishing he had not spoken.

‘Four.’

Sykes could hear the braying of distressed cattle and the barking of a dog.

It was like a circle of hell come to life. Wind blew the smoke and sparks towards them. Sykes thought he saw the girl he had given chocolate to, saw her flit by and disappear behind a great lumbering shape that in this light looked more wild elephant than milking cow.

‘The beasts is free,’ the man said and ran past the burning cowshed towards four wild-eyed creatures that mooed and bumped into each other as though at any moment they would dash back into the flames.

If the wind changes, the house will catch fire, Sykes thought. He saw a bucket by the horse trough. Sykes lowered the bucket into the water, filled it, and threw it on the flames. Useless.

The man paid no attention to the fire. Sykes was vaguely aware that he was talking to the cows, smacking their flanks.

Sykes heard her before he saw her. The shriek came from behind. He turned to see the woman who had bought stockings. Mrs Conroy. ‘Bob, my poor Bob.’

A banshee wail came from the house and a small nightgowned figure charged in their direction.

That must be the little girl, Sykes thought. I saw a shadow before.

But it was a different girl, and she called a name over and over. ‘Austin, Austin.’

‘Back, Harriet, back!’ Mrs Conroy ordered. ‘Stay clear.’ She grabbed the child’s arm.

‘Where’s Austin!’

‘Austin?’ The woman stared at the flames, at Sykes and back at Harriet. ‘Oh my God.’

Harriet pulled free and ran towards the burning cowshed. Sykes caught her and held her fast. ‘You don’t know he’s in there, and if he is there’s no helping him.’

She struggled and kicked. ‘Let me go!’

One kick hit Sykes where it hurt and as he involuntarily relaxed his grip, she wriggled free. She ran towards the cowshed. The girl – he remembered her name, Millie – appeared from nowhere, like a wisp of smoke. She blocked Harriet’s path, tripping her, catching hold of her as she fell. For a moment, the two girls struggled on the ground, Harriet screeching to be let go.

A rafter fell into the burning cowshed, sending out sparks and new flames shooting to the sky. Choking black smoke billowed into the farmyard. Sykes began to cough. He stuffed his hanky over his mouth.

When he picked up Harriet again, all the fight was gone out of her. He carried her into the house, kicking the door shut behind him to keep the smoke from entering.

‘Austin,’ she said. ‘Find Austin.’

‘I will. I’ll find him.’

Or his charred bones, his ashes.

They were on the stairs. Sykes was carrying her to a bedroom, but which one he didn’t know.

She pointed.

‘You go back to sleep, and keep the windows shut.’

‘Austin,’ she whimpered. ‘Find Austin. He’s with Uncle Bob. Millie told me.’

Mrs Conroy called up the stairs. ‘Is he there? Is the little one there?’

Slowly, Sykes came down the stairs. Mrs Conroy stood at the bottom, staring at him. He shook his head.

‘You’re the stockings man.’

He felt accused, unmasked. ‘I was walking back from the pub. I saw the flames.’

She closed her eyes. ‘The little lad sleepwalks. He must have walked outside when I opened the door. I’d made Bob stop outside because he was reeling drunk, and the little lad …’

‘Are you saying he went in the cowshed?’

‘I left the door, but only for a moment. I was in the yard with Bob. A moment’s all it takes.’

Harriet was on the stairs. ‘Look for him. Somebody look for him.’

Sykes pulled out his torch. ‘I’ll go. You search the house, Mrs Conroy. I’ll search outside.’ He added quietly, ‘Your poor husband must have dropped a cigarette.’

She indicated a row of pipes on the mantelpiece. ‘He doesn’t take them out. He only ever smokes the odd roll-up if someone hands him one.’

Mrs Conroy called after Sykes, ‘Don’t try and save that damn barn. Just find the child.’

In the yard, the farm worker stood, watching the flames.

‘There’s nowt we can do, gov. Bob must’ve let the beasts loose when he could have saved his life. But that’s Bob. He loved them beasts.’

‘If the wind changes, get Mrs Conroy and … Get Mrs Conroy and Harriet out of the house.’

‘Aye. I’ve thought of that. And I’ve teken the beasts downwind.’

‘Did you see the little lad?’

‘No.’

‘What about Millie?’

‘She’ll be with the beasts, talking to them.’

‘Show me.’

Sykes’s torch shook as he shone his and the man’s way across the yard to the barn. Four pairs of cows’ eyes looked at them expectantly. But there was no sign of Millie, or of Austin.

On a cloud I saw a child,
And he laughing said to me:
‘Pipe a song about a Lamb!’

William Blake

At dawn, Sykes stood with Sergeant Sharp in the farmyard. A sullen red glow lit the grey ash and charred wood, which was all that remained of the cow shed. Do I tell him now, Sykes asked himself, or keep quiet?

Sergeant Sharp poked with a stick at the hot ash, as though searching out a lost roast chestnut. ‘Poor Conroy. What a shocking end.’ He shook his head. ‘Mrs Conroy thinks Austin Armstrong sleepwalked, matches in his pocket. She says she caught him trying to set fire to the hen hutch last week.’

‘That makes no sense to me.’ Sykes drew the toe of his boot away from the hot ash. ‘No kid would come out in the middle of the night and start a fire. Cigarette more likely, or combustion.’

‘Bob wasn’t a cigarette smoker. A kid would do it, if it’s in him to do it. Fire raising takes a hold of some kids, like a disease. But you did right to take him and Harriet home, away from the scene.’

‘It was only Harriet I took back to their cottage. Austin was already there.’

‘Run off, guilty like. I’ll have a word with that lad. You see it’s in him. It’s in him to do summat bad and run off.’

Sharp was determined to think badly of the children, even after his experience of misjudging Harriet. Sykes decided what he would do.

From beyond the farm gate came the distant sound of a motor engine.

‘That’ll be the fire engine. They’ll search this lot and find poor Bob.’ Sharp sucked a finger and held it in the air. ‘We’re fortunate the wind didn’t carry the fire to the house.’ He held out his hand. ‘Thank you for what you did. Lucky you was nearby.’

‘It would have been luckier for everyone concerned if I’d seen Bob Conroy through his own door and not just to the farmyard gate.’

‘Leave it to me now,’ Sharp said. ‘You get off home. Where do I get in touch with you if needs be?’

Sykes pulled out his notebook, scribbled his name and address, and handed it to the sergeant. ‘Shall I call in to the station when it suits you?’

‘Aye. You do that.’

Sykes turned up his collar and pulled down his hat as he turned his back on the burned-out building. The fire brigade engine had reached the gate. Sykes lifted the latch, swung the gate open and waited until the vehicle chugged through.

Behind it was one of the North Riding Alvis motors, Chief Inspector Charles sitting in the back seat. Bad timing. The chief inspector had spotted him. Sykes clutched his ridiculous attaché case, having retrieved it when he took Harriet back to the cottage. He’d be mortified if asked to open it and reveal the solitary pair of artificial silk stockings. He stopped a grin. Be a bit rich if the chief inspector bought a pair for Mrs Shackleton.

Chief Inspector Marcus Charles looked straight at
Sykes, and then through him. He remembers me all right, Sykes thought, but he’s choosing not to let on. Damned if I’ll acknowledge you then. I’m no toadeater. The man’s probably busy loathing me because I spend more time with Mrs Shackleton than he does. But at the thought of Mrs Shackleton, Sykes knew that he would have to speak to the man, even at the risk of having been discovered somewhere he shouldn’t be. No difficulty about that. If asked, Sykes would simply say he had arranged to meet an old chum in the Fleece last night, and got chatting to Conroy. And if the chief inspector believed that, he’d believe anything.

My mother is the most relaxed of women. Dad and I once speculated about this. Dad maintained she was simply born that way. I came to the conclusion that her permanent state of equilibrium is due to her privileged girlhood in her family’s country pile where Care, Want and Anxiety not only never appeared, they did not exist. She is now aware that there are worries in the world and that life does not run along smooth lines for everyone, but it is as if the difficult side of existence is somehow slightly unreal and does not touch her in a deep part of her being. This makes her very comfortable to be with. It is rare for her to fall into a tizz. So when she telephoned to me in an agitated way, asking me to meet her in Marshall & Snelgrove’s café in Leeds at ten o’clock, I knew something was up. I especially knew something was up when I arrived at a minute to ten and she was already sitting at a table, sipping coffee.

Of course she never comes straight to the point and so we chatted about her journey from Wakefield and I told her about visiting Mary Jane in Otley Courthouse.

‘Goodness me, was it very horrid?’ she asked.

Well, it’s a gaol as well as a police station, Mother, and she is near enough to being charged with mariticide
. But I said,
‘It’s a not an unpleasant part of Otley. And Mary Jane could have been in a worse frame of mind. But you didn’t ask me here to talk about that.’

‘No, you’re right. Only my information seems so trivial by comparison.’ She brought out a letter from deep within her reticule; someone as grand as my mother would never carry a simple handbag. She sighed. ‘This came by the first post this morning, from the well provided woman. I opened it, as you instructed.’

I took the letter from her and read.

Dear Mr Wright

I thank you for your communication and your suggestion that we meet with which I heartily concur and look forward to that event.

It is good of you to think of seeing me in so salubrious a place as the Griffin Hotel. However, I prefer to meet privately if that is agreeable to you. You were kind enough to give your address. I know my way well to Wakefield and instead of meeting at the Griffin, I shall call to see you in your home on Sunday afternoon at four o’clock. If this proves an embarrassment to you in respect of your landlady, I shall be glad to be introduced as a distant relation on this one occasion!

Although this may appear a bold venture on my part, be assured that I am a respectable and childless widow of a generally retiring nature, left well provided by my late husband and sometimes longing for a little male companionship.

I trust this will be agreeable to you and that you will excuse my boldness. Be assured that from my point of view our meeting will hold you to no further obligation unless you are so inclined.

I remain, sir, yours sincerely

Gertrude Alexander (Mrs)