Murder in the Afternoon (5 page)

‘I helped Mam all morning in the house and out in the garden. Which I have to do because she’s making me a Whitsun dress and Austin Whitsun breeches and shirt, and she can’t do everything. When it come to dinnertime, I said should I take summat to Dad and she said no, he was coming home. Me and Austin went along to the shops on Town Street, to the butcher and the bread shop. I got a cream bun with a hat on, and he got a jam tart.

‘After we’d eaten us buns, Mam said where was her Woodbines, and I said I’d forgotten them. She said go get them and I said my legs ached and my arms ached from carrying shopping. And she said Oh all right then and went off herself. That was when I got the basin and put the boiled peas in it and cut a piece of cold bacon and covered
it with a teacloth and said to Austin, come on, and shut up about it, and we’ll be back before she comes home.’

Harriet impressed me. Her story came out in a matter of fact way. The row between Mary Jane and Ethan had been a petty squabble about what time Ethan would come home. Nothing that would make her slip to the quarry and murder her husband while her children were doing the shopping.

The path began to climb steeply. Scrubby bushes on the bank sloping down to the river turned a dusty white, which must mean the quarry was close by. And then I could smell it, a powdery dry smell that caught the back of my throat.

The track dropped and led us to a road that was little more than a bridleway. The quarry stretched before us stark and strange, a ravaged landscape. I reached for Harriet’s hand, more to reassure myself than her.

‘Harriet, is this what it was like on Saturday, or was there anyone here?’

‘They’d all gone home. I whistled for Dad, but there was no answer. I didn’t like to go walking through, just the two of us, but I’d come this far, so I did.’

‘Can we do that now?’

She ran her tongue across her lips. With a stab of guilt, I remembered that the poor child had not had so much as a sip of tea, for which she was greedy, nor a slice of bread.

Harriet led the way along a rough path, saying nothing. We walked by a huge shed. Her breathing became louder.

‘What’s that?’ I asked. The building to our right looked like a photograph I had seen of an enormous shack in a deserted gold rush town.

‘It’s the crushing shed.’

We passed a huge crane. A slope led up to a little hut
perched on top of rocks. When we had passed that, our way dipped down, and then became level.

She stopped by a makeshift three-sided shed, constructed of planks and corrugated iron, open at the front.

In front of it stood a long workbench. Beyond the workbench, on the ground, lay scattered pieces of blue slate.

‘Was that the sundial your dad was working on, Harriet?’

‘I think so. It wasn’t broken when we came. It looked finished. At first I thought he must have gone home, by the road, and that was why we had missed him.’

‘And where exactly did you see him?’

‘Just there, lying just inside the hut.’

‘Did Austin see him?’

‘I don’t think so. I made him stay there.’ She pointed to the end of the table. ‘He was scared. Some people say the goblins come out when the men leave the quarry.’

‘Did your dad speak to you, or make any sound?’

‘No.’

‘Did you speak to him, or touch his hand?’

‘Yes I did. He didn’t answer. His hand was cold. But the stone is cold. So he would be cold.’

I went into the hut. She did not follow.

There was a rusty brazier and a blackened kettle. On the shelf to my left were tools and tin mugs.

Harriet followed my gaze. ‘They’re not Dad’s tools. But that’s Dad’s mug and spoon. And them’s Raymond’s mallets and chisels.’ She pointed to the bench that ran along the back. ‘Mam and me made them cushions for Dad and Raymond.’

‘Raymond was your Dad’s apprentice?’

She looked pleased that I wasn’t entirely ignorant. ‘Dad’s apprentice, until he came out of his time. Raymond’s a mason in his own right now.’

‘Was Raymond working with your dad on Saturday?’

‘Only Dad worked on the sundial. Only Dad worked Saturday afternoon. Raymond is courting. He’s to wed next Saturday. He and Polly will live with Raymond’s mam and dad or Polly’s mam and dad. Raymond’s mam is nice but his dad is a nasty piece of work. Polly’s mam and dad are nice but they have no room.’

Thanks to my persistence, the poor child was so busy trying to tell me everything that she did not know what to choose and what leave out.

She stared intently at the interior of the shed, as though still seeing someone there. She pointed to the place where she would not step. ‘Here. He was lying here, with his head turned away from me. His cap had come off. Look – there it is!’

She pounced, forgetting her reluctance to step into the shed. From under the bench, she reached for an old tweed flat cap that once upon a time had boasted a check pattern.

She clutched the cap. ‘I know Mam hopes I’m mistaken and I wish I was, because I don’t want Dad to be dead. Sergeant Sharp believes I’m a little liar. I’m not.’

We left the hut. I picked up a large piece of slate with a smooth edge. Looking at the slate gave me something to do while thoughts raced through my brain. The way Harriet told her story, it had to be true.

A delicate straight line had been etched into the piece of slate. A wavy design decorated the edge.

‘It wasn’t smashed when we came.’ She stood as still as the stone that surrounded us on the quarry slopes.

What anger and hatred lay behind the smashing of the
sundial, I wondered, and had that same anger and hatred been directed at Ethan? His craftsmanship was impeccable. I could see that from the fragment of blue slate with its smoothed edge. Why would he disappear? If we were to believe the worst, and imagine him to be dead when the children found him, what had happened to his body?

She followed me round the back of the hut. There were footprints there, and why should there not be? But one of the footsteps was no bigger than my own. Treading lightly, I measured the footstep against mine. I took out my camera. The light behind the hut was not very good, but I adjusted the setting and got as close as I could without distorting the footprint.

Now I regretted the child being here. Should I pretend I wanted a guided tour, just to give me an excuse to search? And what would I find? Any footprints, any clues, would be covered in dust, trampled by Saturday’s search party, washed by last night’s rain.

All the same, I took a look around. The place gave me goose bumps. This might be what the other side of the moon looks like. In the distance was a grey mountain of rubble, as if there had been a landslide.

What was I searching for? A scrap of cloth caught on a stone, a stain that might be blood, a clutch of hair? Most of our lives we do not look down, nor up either, but straight ahead. I stared at the ground. Sandy, stony, and giving away nothing.

Harriet stood ramrod straight, watching me. I should take her home. She had been through enough.

Her eyes met mine. ‘I want you to look at summat.’

‘What?’

She held out her hand. Led by her, I walked across the quarry, up and down the hilly ground, along a straight
patch, by the crane, all the way to the other side where the hill sloped and a stubborn ash tree, white with dust, clung to the rock face.

The ground became soft. A jolt like an electric shock went through me as I saw what looked like a heel mark, and smoothness on the ground, as though it had been scraped flat. And again, another heel mark. It would not be enough to simply photograph these marks on the ground. I must measure the heel mark. It was too small to belong to a quarryman, unless there was a young boy here. Of course there could be some entirely rational explanation.

‘Just a minute, Harriet. I want to take a photograph, to remind me of what the quarry looks like.’

I sat on a boulder to prepare the camera. This boulder would be my landmark. I would take a picture of my find, and the boulder, and of the straight line that led from here.

If I were right, and I wanted so much to be wrong, someone had dragged a body in this direction. That would explain why, by the time the man from the farm came back with Harriet, the body was gone.

Harriet watched as I took a photograph of this patch of ground, feeling uncertain even as I did so that this really did mark the spot where a body had been dragged. More likely it marked a spot where my sense of foreboding gathered in dry dust.

When I had taken the photograph, Harriet grasped my hand, tugging me to come with her. We continued our walk across the uneven ground.

At almost the furthest point, near the far slope, she stopped. The large, dark pool of still water formed an almost perfect menacing circle.

‘What if he fell in there?’ she asked. Her grip tightened on my hand.

Before I had time to answer, a piercing whistle shot through the quiet morning. We both jumped at the same time. I turned to see where the sound came from. A figure stood at the other side of the quarry. He lifted his hands to his mouth to form an angry trumpet.

The words weren’t exactly clear, but his meaning was obvious enough. We stood our ground.

‘It’s Raymond’s dad,’ Harriet said quietly.

‘The nasty piece of work?’

‘Yes. He’s foreman.’

‘What’s his name?’

‘Josiah Turnbull.’

‘He charges like a bull.’ The man was bearing down on us so fast that I willed him to trip and fall flat on his face. ‘Don’t let’s give him an audience, Harriet.’

I pointed my camera at the pool of still, dark water, and took a shot.

He was behind us, letting out some furious yell that turned into the words, ‘What the blue blazes you playing at? We don’t abide skirts here.’

I turned to face him. He wore cap, old corduroy trousers and ancient tweed jacket. The red muffler tied at his throat matched the colour of his bursting cheeks. His huge twin-peak nose had been broken at least once. An old scar started above his eyebrow and crossed his cheek in wayward fashion. He stank of stale beer and tobacco. With a shovel of a hand that was missing its little and ring fingers, he tried to grab my camera.

I was too quick for him. ‘Please calm down, Mr Turnbull.’

‘Don’t you order me in my own quarry. I bark orders
here. Gerron home and give yer husband his breakfast.’ He turned to Harriet. ‘You tellin’ yer mad tales again?’ As he looked at Harriet, he saw the cap she clutched. He moved his shovel hand, as if he would take the cap. Harriet plunged the cap inside her coat.

While, he was momentarily silenced by the sight of Ethan’s cap, I said, ‘I asked Harriet to show me the quarry. I’m Mrs Shackleton, here to investigate on behalf of Mrs Armstrong.’

He stared at me, and then at Harriet. The pause was brief.

‘Well you can ’vestigate somewhere else.’ He stepped even closer. Another inch and his bulk would topple me. Turnbull and I eyed each other, which hurt my neck. Harriet gulped, but did not budge.

‘Were you among the men who searched the quarry on Saturday night, Mr Turnbull?’

I sounded more confident than I felt. He was a man unused to being challenged and just for a moment, he faltered.

‘What if I was?’ He glared at Harriet. ‘Yer dad’s slung his hook. He took the hump because he’ll get no support for a strike here. Satan had a silver tongue an’ all and you know what happened to him.’

‘Last I heard, Mr Turnbull, Satan was alive and making grand progress. Do you mind telling me when you last saw Mr Armstrong?’

His toecap touched my shoes. ‘Aye I do mind. And you’re trespassing.’

His bad breath formed fiery clouds that scorched my scalp and travelled.

This was more than a nasty piece of work. This was a violent bully. ‘I dislike threatening behaviour, Mr
Turnbull. I hope when you consider you’ll talk to me in a more courteous manner.’ Some hopes. Hell would freeze over. The quarry would sprout blue roses. ‘Come, Harriet.’

She threw back her head, gave him one more stare and we stepped round him, towards the quarry exit.

‘Posh bitch!’ he yelled.

The words hit me between the shoulder blades.

Harriet began to cry, but not until we were well away from Turnbull. ‘He wouldn’t be so rude and nasty if my dad was here.’

I searched for a hanky. ‘I know. You stood up to him very well. I’m proud of you.’ I didn’t add that it would stand her in good stead for all the other big bullies she would meet throughout her life.

I felt shaken by the incident, not least because of having exposed Harriet to such an encounter.

We retraced our steps to the mouth of the quarry. ‘Which way did you go on Saturday, Harriet?’

‘We turned left here.’ She pointed to the path we had just walked along. ‘Only I went across the bridge to the farm.’ She paused, as if waiting to be asked another question, then continued. ‘I went to the farm because it was nearest and I thought Uncle Bob would come back with me and fetch Dad home. Do you want to go to the farm now?’

‘No. You must go home and have your breakfast. But I would like you to show me the village. I’m going to call in to see the policeman.’