‘Don’t say such things,’ Ellie told him in a shocked voice.
‘Oh, it’s all right. It doesn’t matter anyway, because they’ll never be able to build a better bonfire than mine.’ He looked hard at her, the smile playing about his mouth but never reaching the cold, calculating eyes. ‘There’s never been a bonfire like mine… ever! It’s like a castle… you know, Ellie? Like the sandcastle mother helped me to build at the seaside.’ He squeezed her fingers in his fist. ‘You remember, don’t you? Ellie? Say you remember.’
‘I remember… of course I do.’ It was all coming back to her. That was the week they spent in Scarborough. She did recall the sandcastle which Johnny and their mother had built and, if she remembered rightly, it took them almost a whole day to construct it out of the crumbling, dry sand. The castle was a magnificent creation, with huge turrets, broad walkways, and a labyrinth of deep, meandering tunnels. The huge structure was completely surrounded by a water-swollen moat. Passers-by had stopped to comment light-heartedly on the ‘wonderful accomplishment’. She remembered also how devastated the boy had been when the tide came in and swept the thing away.
‘I’m trying to build my bonfire exactly like the sandcastle,’ the boy told Ellie proudly. ‘It’s going to have turrets, just the same… and a Guy Fawkes tied to the battlements… where he must burn to death.’ He relished the idea; smiling at Ellie’s surprised expression. ‘Oh, and there’ll be lots of tunnels, too… with little hideaways. Only, nobody but me will know where they are.’ He nearly said ‘and my friend in the barn’. But he stopped himself just in time. A small burst of sweat shivered down his back at the thought of betraying his precious secret; their precious secret. He mustn’t tell his friend that he had almost given their secret away. Oh, no! He must not do that, or his friend might never come to see him again. And the stranger was such a good friend – an exciting and special friend. It was that same friend who had helped him plan his bonfire, right down to the very last detail. Even to the tunnels and the secret hideaways!
The librarian seemed puzzled for a moment, looking at Ellie and the boy through curious eyes, which were magnified three-fold by the strong lenses in her metal-rimmed spectacles. ‘So sorry,’ she said, folding away the newspaper. ‘I’ve been reading about the Government’s plans to build the first Nuclear Power Station in this country. I can’t say I like the idea… not at all!’ When Ellie gave no answer she cleared her throat and looked embarrassed. ‘Sorry, dear. Redborough, you say? Oh, yes!… Redborough… Thornton Place, Redborough.’ She glanced away, looking up the stairs that led to the history and research section. ‘Funny thing,’ she told Ellie, drawing her gaze back and lifting the spectacles from the bridge of her hawkish nose. ‘In the fourteen years I’ve worked here, I can’t ever remember being asked about that particular house… Thornton Place… but do you know, this very day you are the second person to enquire after its history.’ She whipped a clean white handkerchief from the open handbag on the desk and began vigorously polishing the lenses of her spectacles, breathing into them with short, sharp puffs and peering at Ellie through slitted, half-blind eyes.
‘The second person?’ Ellie was astonished, her curiosity instantly aroused.
‘That’s right, dear.’ The thin-faced woman returned the metal-rimmed spectacles to their rightful place on the red dent across the bridge of her nose, and smiled at Ellie through the sparkling lenses. ‘There was a man enquiring before you. First thing this morning, it was. I distinctly remember because I hardly had time to open the doors before he was asking about this “Thornton Place”… wanted to peruse any and all documents relating to it.’ She wagged her head thoughtfully and rolled her eyes up until only the whites showed. After a brief interlude of deep musing she looked directly at Ellie, saying with pride, ‘Yes… a man, middle-aged with a beard, and wearing a brown tweed jacket with a matching trilby.’ She almost chuckled, but the restraints of many years’ discipline would not allow it. ‘I have an eye for faces,’ she said, ‘I never forget a face.’ She might also have added that the man was somehow strange, a secretive sort who spoke in a thick whisper and averted his own eyes from hers. He had made her feel uneasy; suspicious even. But she revealed nothing of this to Ellie who, she cautioned herself, might be an acquaintance of the fellow.
‘Did he give his name?’ Ellie did not know why, but she was suddenly apprehensive. Why would anyone be investigating the history of Thornton Place? True, it was a listed building, and as such could be useful material for students, historians and the like. But, why now? The librarian herself had said she could not recall any previous interest in the house. So, why should someone be interested now? Why now? What was more, it was unlikely to be a student who had called this morning, because the woman had described him as being ‘a middle-aged man, with a beard’. A lecturer, maybe? Someone who had recently arrived at a nearby college, and was keen on old architecture? Yes, that could be it, Ellie told herself, and she felt more at ease.
‘I did not talk long with the man… other than to show him where the records department is.’ She raised her arm and pointed to the stairway. ‘You will need to see the gentleman at the desk there,’ she said, already turning her attention to the next customer – a kind-faced lady who beamed at the boy with friendly eyes.
‘If you’ll just be seated for a minute. Miss Armstrong… I’ll ask him how long he is likely to be. He took the papers into a cubicle some twenty minutes ago.’ The man at the desk was much more to Ellie’s liking. He had that disarming, welcoming manner that put a body immediately at ease. She had been both surprised and delighted to be told that the previous person to have enquired about Thornton Place was ‘actually still in the cubicle… studying all the documents available on the house in question, although little has survived over the years, to tell much of its history. As I told the gentleman… the one or two documents we do have are very old, and very sparse. To be perfectly honest, I haven’t even read them myself.’
Ellie had it in mind to talk with the man who had shown such interest in the house. It might even be possible that he could tell her a thing or two that she did not know, or that might not be in the documents available. She hoped so, because in her deepest heart she suspected that Thornton Place had a sinister past. There was nothing to substantiate that belief, other than the brooding atmosphere that closed in with the darkness. There had been moments also when Ellie had felt other things about the house – things that touched her deeply, but which she could not explain.
Suddenly, the librarian was back, almost running towards her, a look of horror on his face. ‘That man!’ he gasped, frantically wringing his hands together, ‘do you know him, Miss Armstrong?’ His eyes were wide and shocked and a mist of perspiration appeared on his face. When Ellie told him she had no idea who the man was, he put his two hands over his temples and declared in a shattered voice, ‘He’s gone! There’s no sign of him anywhere. And he’s taken the documents with him!’
‘Why would he do that?’ Ellie rose to her feet.
‘Excuse me… I must report the theft at once… those documents… irreplaceable. There are no other copies!’ He scurried away, down the stairs. Ellie and the boy followed. At the lower desk, there was a degree of confusion. The hawkish-faced librarian insisted that the police should be told. There followed a short, fierce argument, during which it was decided that, first of all, the matter must be reported to the chief librarian at the main Medford branch. ‘It will be he who decides whether to involve the police,’ declared the irate man from the records desk.
After a brief but detailed telephone conversation with the chief librarian, the records clerk answered Ellie’s queries. ‘I’m sorry, but there were no copies of those documents… an oversight. And we have no other papers relating to Thornton Place.’ However, he went on to explain that he would make extensive enquiries on her behalf, ‘in due course…although the records office in London and other possible sources are very often understaffed and inundated with work.
All the same, I will do my best, I assure you.’ Now that he had shifted the burden of the theft onto more responsible shoulders, he appeared less fraught. ‘I can promise nothing, though,’ he warned Ellie, ‘but of course, there is a possibility that the thief will be apprehended, and the original documents returned.’
Ellie thought not. Not after the ‘thief’ had gone to so much trouble to remove the documents in the first place. But why? Why on earth should anyone want to remove the records of Thornton Place? There was only one answer, to her mind. Those records were taken in order to prevent them from being examined by anyone else. Or by her in particular! But why? What was it about the house that must be kept from inquisitive eyes? She recalled what the hawkish-faced librarian had said – ‘No interest… for many years… then two interested parties only that very day.’ A disturbing thought flitted across Ellie’s mind. It was almost as though that man had known why she was coming to the library today.
Ellie thought hard. It was suddenly important for her to remember who exactly had known. Her father, of course, and Johnny. The only other person in whom she had confided her intention to trace the history of Thornton Place was Mrs Gregory at the shop. And, if Ellie remembered correctly, she had not been too interested; in fact, at the time, Ellie had wondered whether the busy little soul had even heard her, for she made no comment and quickly changed the subject when her husband appeared. Oh, then of course there was Rosie! The only other person who knew Ellie’s purpose for going to the library today… It crossed Ellie’s mind to wonder whether Rosie might have mentioned it to Alec Harman. After all, he was a regular visitor to the cottage, and a firm friend to Rosie and the feeble-minded one. The feeble-minded one! A cold shiver rippled through Ellie’s being. No. Don’t be foolish, she told herself. But the nagging thought would not go away. The thief had been a man, hadn’t he? Yes, she argued with herself, but the description of the ‘man’ bore no relation whatsoever to the old one. Neither by any stretch of the imagination could it be Alec Harman.
Before leaving the library, Ellie again questioned the records clerk. His description of the thief was exactly the same as the one given to her by the downstairs librarian – ‘shifty-eyed… nervous… middle-aged, with a dark beard, and wearing a brown tweed jacket with trilby in similar cloth.’ The thief was a stranger. He had to be, didn’t he? Didn’t he? Her answer was a chilling feeling, and the certain knowledge that, whoever the thief was, he or she was an enemy. He… or she! The thought had just popped into her mind. He, or she. But that didn’t make sense. She was being foolish now… letting her imagination run away with her.
‘I don’t want to stay and watch the ducks… I want to go home.’ The boy sat on the bank beside Ellie, skimming pebbles into the river.
‘We’ll be going home soon, Johnny,’ Ellie told him, her gaze fixed on the shimmering surface of the water, and occasionally at the ducks that had gathered not far off, hoping to cadge a titbit from the visitors. Her voice was subdued by the thoughts which still disturbed her.
‘You’re thinking about that thief, aren’t you?’ the boy asked, feverishly searching the grass for another small stone with which he might frighten away the approaching fowl. ‘I think he was a ghost!’ he said, with some satisfaction.
‘Don’t talk rubbish,’ Ellie chided. ‘I’m not surprised you’re always having nightmares!’ Suddenly irritated, she clambered down the bank to the path. ‘Come on, we’d better get your uniform, and pay a quick visit to the market. If we hurry, we might just catch the two o’clock bus back to Redborough.’ She had intended shopping for a new outfit herself, but somehow her enthusiasm had been spoiled by the events of the morning.
‘Now. Can we go home now, Ellie?’ The boy stood impatiently by, while Ellie paid the man on the market stall for the bright yellow chrysanthemums. All around them was a hubbub of noise and busy pandemonium. People thronged this way and that, some rushing to snap up the late bargains, and others who just loitered, turning the artefacts over on every stall, before walking away empty-handed. Above the general din there rose a bevy of shriller voices – market traders eager to dispose of perishable goods before the last shoppers deserted them to wend their way home. Medford being a market town, there were any number of fruiterers and greengrocers, each keenly competing with the others in a frantic bid to offload their respective produce at tempting prices. Ellie took the time to buy a week’s supply of fresh fruit and, much to the boy’s growing agitation, she lingered a while by the draper’s stall, where she chose some pretty floral curtain material, a set of towels and a dozen tea-cloths.
‘Please. Ellie… I’m tired. Can’t we go home… please?’ The boy moaned for the umpteenth time, and protested yet again at the increased weight of the shopping bag which Ellie had entrusted to him.
Ellie nodded, threading a path through the bodies that continued to surge and congregate in little, busy pockets. ‘All right,’ she conceded, ‘I’ve almost spent out anyway… and I doubt we could carry any more, even if I did have the money to buy it with.’ She paused, putting the two heavy bags to the ground and flexing her cramped fingers until the blood flowed freely.
The boy waited, impatient, the frustration simmering inside him. His ice-blue eyes scanned the busy scene from every side, quietly noting the faces above him; adult faces – alien to him, and bitterly resented. Suddenly, his unfriendly gaze came to rest on a more intriguing face. It was the worn and grimy face of an old man; a pedlar. The pedlar’s eyes were mingling with the boy’s, making him curious. And a little afraid. As though in a trance, the boy began his way towards the bent figure, whose smile remained locked into the boy’s cool, quizzical eyes. Mocking. Silently beckoning.
In a moment, the boy was standing before the ragged man. Out of the dirt-laden face and the thick, matted beard, the eyes continued to gaze down on him. Eyes like dark, spitting whirlpools. Strange eyes that were both frightening and comforting. Eyes that were old, and yet were not. Eyes that the boy was sure he had seen before. But where? Where? When the voice spoke, it was mesmerising. It held a whisper of madness. ‘Hello, Johnny,’ it said. The boy was not surprised to hear it speak his name. ‘See here… on the tray.’ The brown-clad arms reached out, drawing the boy’s attention to the wooden tray that hung from a thick strap around the tattered shoulders. On the tray was a solitary object. A trinket. Tiny and beautiful it was, and vividly blue. The detail was exquisite. The flower was unmistakable. From the tray, and from the man himself, the powerful scent of lavender rose up to insinuate its way into the boy’s nostrils. Into his head. Into those innate fears which would never leave him. Instinctively, he reeled back. Yet he was compelled to linger, even though his every instinct urged him to run. His legs were like lead on his quivering body. And, in spite of the fear that trembled through him, he was also greatly excited.
‘Take it.’ The mocking eyes dared him. All around the sounds of the market-place droned in his ears. He was a pan of it all, he and the pedlar. Then they were not part of it at all. It was as though the two of them were in another place, another time. Now, the boy remembered! The pedlar reminded him of another such vagabond. The same one who had come to the house where they had lived before. The same one who had given him the fresh, sweet-smelling lavender that had so terrified his mother. His mother. A surge of hatred stabbed through his heart and the tears burned his eyes. She had died… left him in that shocking, cruel way. He would never forgive her for that.
‘Take it I say!’ The voice grew agitated; the brown-clad arms reached out. ‘Use it to curse them. All of them!’ The crazed eyes sought out the trinket, lingering, enjoying. The perfume rose, heightening his pleasure. ‘Lavender,’ he murmured, ‘lavender… and poison.’ Lavender and poison.
The boy was afraid; cold inside, as though something icy had touched him. But now a sense of wickedness took hold of him. He drew his eyes from the pedlar’s smiling face, his sly gaze seeking out the trinket once more. He began reaching forward, eager to touch it, to feel the ha
rd, glittering stones. The moment was close. So very close. But then the spell was rent apart by Ellie, frantically calling his name. In a reflex action, the boy slewed round to see her rushing towards him. When he turned again, the pedlar was gone.
On the bus journey back to Thornton Place, the boy was tempted to tell Ellie about the pedlar. And the lavender trinket. But the temptation quickly passed. She would not believe him for one thing, and, for another, the thought of keeping it secret was a greater temptation. Yes. He would keep it secret! A special secret between him and his ‘friend’ in the barn. It would be good for him to share the strange experience. It would be something that he himself could offer to the secret meetings. He wondered whether his ‘friend’ would come today? He never knew when the stranger would be waiting there. When, on the one occasion he had been bold enough to ask, he was told in a frightful whisper. ‘That is for me to know, and only me! Don’t ever… ever… question my movements again.’ And he never did.
6
‘What in God’s name is that boy building out there?’ Jack Armstrong leaned over on the ladder to look out of the bedroom window. ‘He’s like somebody possessed. He’s got Rosie helping him now!’
Ellie laughed. ‘I’m sure Rosie can’t be much help,’ she said, jabbing the sewing needle into the floral curtain material. Rising to her feet, she carefully draped the material over the chair where she had been sitting. Going to the bedroom window, she also gazed out towards the back of the house and beyond, to the rough pasture land some way from the big barn. What she saw was the boy and Rosie, wending their way from the hedge that skirted the field. They were struggling to bring a huge, fallen branch to the already mountainous bonfire. Seated nearby, on what looked to be a wooden stool, was George – a pitiful, dejected soul, with his arms folded and a look of nervousness about him. Every now and then he jerked his head this way and that, like a bird nervous of approaching predators.
No Mercy Page 12
