Read Online Murder in the Afternoon by Frances Brody - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Frances Brody
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union. It’s in one of the tins on the stairs. He’s the treasurer and collects the dues. And before you ask, I’ve already looked. There’s not a penny missing.’
‘What else is on the stairs, in the biscuit tin that won’t close?’
‘Policies, marriage and birth certificates. Look if you like.’
She expected me not to, but I fetched a couple of tins and began to look through. ‘The police will do this, if they ever take Ethan’s disappearance seriously, and so I might as well do it now.’
‘Do as you like. I’m the one who asked you for help. But this one’s of no interest to you.’
She picked up an Oxo tin of recipes and returned it to the stairs. I glanced through the papers in the biscuit tin. ‘You have Ethan’s life insured.’
‘And he mine. But I wouldn’t do him in for it. A poor man who’s healthy is worth more alive than dead.’
She picked up a bucket from under the sink. ‘I need water from the well.’ She sighed. ‘When your new parents took you from our house in White Swan Yard, I cried. Perhaps I cried because they didn’t take me.’
The bucket clanked against the door as she went out. I returned the tin containing the policies to the stairs, and checked the Oxo tin. Under the recipes was a Yorkshire Penny Bank book, in Mary Jane’s maiden name: M J Whitaker. She had three hundred pounds in the account, which had been opened in 1911 with one hundred and fifty pounds. That was an enormous amount for a girl who worked in service. What’s more, she had never made a withdrawal. Her occasional deposits were never less than twenty pounds. Whatever Ethan had given her for housekeeping, or even if he had tipped up his wages, she would not have come up with such lump sums. 1911. Twelve years. I calculated that the date of the first deposit was a year before Mary Jane’s marriage. From what little I had gleaned so far about our shared history, a legacy seemed highly unlikely. The poor, not the rich, give up their children for adoption. I returned the bank book to its hiding place, below the recipes, and replaced the tin on the stairs. Mary Jane may indeed be my long-lost sister, but she didn’t know me at all.
Seven
Walking to Conroys’ Farm would give me time to think. Mary Jane gave me directions but would not come herself, saying she would stop where she was, in case of news.
The sun shining across a glorious expanse of meadow and flowers on the other side of the dry-stone wall made it hard to imagine Ethan had met some foul end. This beautiful place struck me as a perfect spot for children to grow up. Mary Jane kept her cottage spotlessly clean. She grumbled, but I could imagine why she might be loath to leave. I wondered just how much she was hiding from me, and why. God knows I’m a fine one to talk. I don’t go around advertising the fact that I’m having an affair with a man from Scotland Yard; that last year I came close to making a big mistake with a philandering psychiatrist; that I’ve made decisions that almost lost me my valuable assistant, and that I carry a secret that holds a man’s life in the balance. Not to mention that five years on from receiving the
missing presumed dead
telegram, I still expect Gerald to walk through the door.
Next week, I have arranged to make yet one more visit to Catterick Hospital. I am not so stupid as to imagine Iwill find Gerald there. But there is always the faint possibility that he was overlooked in a small hospital, having lost his memory, or that he was found in France and brought home. So if Mary Jane has some secret bank account, that’s her affair. Or is it? Does the fact that she’s asked for help in discovering what happened to Ethan give me the right to pry into every corner of her life?
An old carthorse glanced at me before returning to the business of chomping grass and clover. A fingerpost pointed out the footpath to Little Applewick.
I followed a broad dirt track, leading to the river and the old stone
‘What else is on the stairs, in the biscuit tin that won’t close?’
‘Policies, marriage and birth certificates. Look if you like.’
She expected me not to, but I fetched a couple of tins and began to look through. ‘The police will do this, if they ever take Ethan’s disappearance seriously, and so I might as well do it now.’
‘Do as you like. I’m the one who asked you for help. But this one’s of no interest to you.’
She picked up an Oxo tin of recipes and returned it to the stairs. I glanced through the papers in the biscuit tin. ‘You have Ethan’s life insured.’
‘And he mine. But I wouldn’t do him in for it. A poor man who’s healthy is worth more alive than dead.’
She picked up a bucket from under the sink. ‘I need water from the well.’ She sighed. ‘When your new parents took you from our house in White Swan Yard, I cried. Perhaps I cried because they didn’t take me.’
The bucket clanked against the door as she went out. I returned the tin containing the policies to the stairs, and checked the Oxo tin. Under the recipes was a Yorkshire Penny Bank book, in Mary Jane’s maiden name: M J Whitaker. She had three hundred pounds in the account, which had been opened in 1911 with one hundred and fifty pounds. That was an enormous amount for a girl who worked in service. What’s more, she had never made a withdrawal. Her occasional deposits were never less than twenty pounds. Whatever Ethan had given her for housekeeping, or even if he had tipped up his wages, she would not have come up with such lump sums. 1911. Twelve years. I calculated that the date of the first deposit was a year before Mary Jane’s marriage. From what little I had gleaned so far about our shared history, a legacy seemed highly unlikely. The poor, not the rich, give up their children for adoption. I returned the bank book to its hiding place, below the recipes, and replaced the tin on the stairs. Mary Jane may indeed be my long-lost sister, but she didn’t know me at all.
Seven
Walking to Conroys’ Farm would give me time to think. Mary Jane gave me directions but would not come herself, saying she would stop where she was, in case of news.
The sun shining across a glorious expanse of meadow and flowers on the other side of the dry-stone wall made it hard to imagine Ethan had met some foul end. This beautiful place struck me as a perfect spot for children to grow up. Mary Jane kept her cottage spotlessly clean. She grumbled, but I could imagine why she might be loath to leave. I wondered just how much she was hiding from me, and why. God knows I’m a fine one to talk. I don’t go around advertising the fact that I’m having an affair with a man from Scotland Yard; that last year I came close to making a big mistake with a philandering psychiatrist; that I’ve made decisions that almost lost me my valuable assistant, and that I carry a secret that holds a man’s life in the balance. Not to mention that five years on from receiving the
missing presumed dead
telegram, I still expect Gerald to walk through the door.
Next week, I have arranged to make yet one more visit to Catterick Hospital. I am not so stupid as to imagine Iwill find Gerald there. But there is always the faint possibility that he was overlooked in a small hospital, having lost his memory, or that he was found in France and brought home. So if Mary Jane has some secret bank account, that’s her affair. Or is it? Does the fact that she’s asked for help in discovering what happened to Ethan give me the right to pry into every corner of her life?
An old carthorse glanced at me before returning to the business of chomping grass and clover. A fingerpost pointed out the footpath to Little Applewick.
I followed a broad dirt track, leading to the river and the old stone
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