Murder in the Afternoon by Frances Brody Page B

was a suspicion that Ethan’s attempt to call a strike had tipped the colonel over the edge. Of course he could have sacked Ethan without a reference, turned him out of the tied house, made life exceptionally difficult. It made no logical sense that he would murder, or arrange for murder. But under that charming mask was a hard-nosed businessman, with sons ready to inherit, and who wanted to hold on to what was his.
    In the rose garden, one or two of the bushes showed promising buds. It was too early for roses. I heard the sound of someone at work, a rhythmic tapping that chimed with birdsong from the concealing hedge. I approached cautiously, not wishing to startle Raymond and cause his hand to slip and ruin a second sundial.
    I need not have worried. He ignored my presence and continued with his work. Nearby was a wrought-iron seat. I made for that, as though watching men at work was my chosen vocation in life.
    He’ll stop in a minute, I thought. He’ll stop because he’s nervous and my watching him might make him uneasy.
    He stopped.
    ‘Don’t let me put you off.’
    ‘Did you want something? Only this is supposed to be a surprise, and if Mrs Ledger saw you come in this direction …’
    ‘Raymond, will you do something for me? It will mean going back to the quarry when you finish work here.’
    ‘Is it to do with Ethan going missing?’
    ‘Yes.’
    He came across to the bench. ‘Tell me what you want me to do.’
    ‘Ethan was carving four flowers on the sundial, to cover a flaw in the slate. It was his final touch. Will you look through the fragments? If there are four flowers, then he had finished the work. I don’t know whether it will help to find that out, but it might.’
    ‘You think he’s dead don’t you?’
    ‘Yes I do.’
    ‘Me too.’
    ‘Raymond, who would want to kill Ethan?’
    I held my breath during Raymond’s pause, half expecting that he would accuse his own father of killing Ethan. Although I tried to look impassive, he read my glance.
    When he finally spoke, his shyness prevented him meeting my eye. ‘I’m in the Quarry Workers’ Union. We voted for a strike. Word got back to my father, he’s the foreman – you met him earlier – exactly how everyone voted. Ethan knew there was a traitor in our midst. He said to me no matter where he went, there was always a boss’s nark or a government spy. He said people must be afraid of him to watch him so closely, and that gave him heart. If someone has harmed Ethan, it wasn’t my Dad. Dad’s a bully. He tackles people who can’t fight back. Only this is what I want to tell you. Ethan said he’d found out who it was went telling tales.’
    ‘Did he tell you who?’
    ‘He wouldn’t. He just said he would make sure it never happened again. If you heard Ethan speak, you would understand how his mind works. He says that battle lines are being drawn. He talks about the promises that were made when he went to war. Better housing, homes fit forheroes, decent schooling. He thought he was fighting for a better world. And what have we got, that’s what he asks. Well, the answer’s nowt. The working man got nowt. I’m getting wed on Saturday, and it’s a choice of stopping with her mam and dad, who haven’t space to scratch, or my mam and dad. And my dad knows I’m in the union. He doesn’t let me forget it. You saw what he’s like.’
    I had indeed seen what Mr Turnbull was like, bully, big bruiser, with no love for Ethan or his politics.

Ten
     
    As I walked back from the Hall, skirting the reservoir, passing the allotments, I tried to make sense of what I had learned so far. Both Ethan and Mary Jane had longings to be elsewhere, in a different kind of life, but something held her here; him, too, if my guess was right. Wanting to move on in life reminds me of a person who spoils for a fight but thinks better of it because there is no one nearby to hold his coat while he rolls up his sleeves. Perhaps Mary Jane blamed Ethan for caring