The Sorrowing Wind (The Apple Tree Saga Book 3)

by Mary E. Pearce

‘No, why should I?’ Emery said.

  ‘Then why are you out here, watching us the way you are?’

  ‘Is there a law that says I mustn’t?’

  ‘No, there’s no law,’ Tom said, ‘or none that I know of, anyway.’

  ‘There’s laws about some things,’ Emery said. ‘There’s a law against bigamy for a start.’

  ‘I ent no bigamist, Mr Preston.’

  ‘You’re both a lot worser to my way of thinking, living together, the two of you, with no sign of shame in either of you. I’m a publican and a sinner but I wouldn’t carry on like that.’

  ‘What d’you want of us?’ Tom asked.

  ‘I’d like to know what became of my daughter.’

  ‘Tilly went off with another chap. I dunno no more’n that.’

  ‘So you say, but I sometimes wonder!’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Never mind! Never mind! I was thinking out loud.’

  ‘You should try looking in Birmingham. That’s where he lived, the chap she went off with.’

  ‘Have you tried looking for her your own-self?’

  ‘No,’ Tom said, ‘’cos I don’t want her back.’

  ‘That’s understandable, sure enough. A lawful wife is something of a hinderment to the likes of you. You better prefer a looser arrangement.’

  Linn still stood at the Pikehouse gate. Emery could see that she was with child. His glance roved over her, full of contempt.

  ‘You yourself was begot in the hedge, Maddox, and it seems it’s a thing that gets passed on!’

  He turned and walked off towards Huntlip, kicking up a cloud of dust. Tom and Linn went indoors.

  ‘Take no notice,’ she said to him. ‘Don’t let it upset you.’

  ‘It don’t worry me, except for your sake,’ Tom said, ‘and maybe the little ’un’s, when he comes.’

  ‘You are not to worry. There’s no need.’

  It was very strange, the way his sight varied from day to day. Some days, especially when the sun was shining, he could see the poppies red along the roadside, the apples ripening in the garden, the white clouds crossing the blue sky. But other days were bad, and once, out in the empty stretch of wasteland surrounding the Pikehouse, he came to a standstill, lost as though in a thick dark fog.

  He was quite alone, and he felt that the rest of the earth had gone; he thought of it as a smoking ruin, crumbling away into a pit, leaving him on the edge of nothing; and he knew a moment of whirling terror. But after a while, putting out his hands, he felt the long feathery grasses that grew high everywhere around him, and their touch reassured him. The earth was still there, unchanged, unchanging, and he must find his way across it, through the gathering darkness. Home was in front of him. Not much more than a hundred yards. He could smell the woodsmoke, and could hear Linn beating a mat. It seemed a long way.

  ‘You should’ve called to me,’ she said, coming to him as he groped along the hedgerow to the garden gate. ‘I’m sure I’d have heard you.’

  ‘I’ve got to get used to finding my way about,’ he said.

  But Linn rarely left him alone after that. She watched over him and was always at hand when he needed her. Their lives were tight-linked. They shared every moment of the night and day.

  Once, when she was rummaging in the cupboard, she said, ‘I didn’t know you ever smoked.’

  ‘I did smoke, a bit, in the trenches,’ he said. ‘Why?’

  ‘’Cos I found this.’ And she put a tobacco-pipe into his hands.

  ‘It belonged to Bob Newers, my mate in the army. I meant to send it home to his people, but what with my getting blown up and that, I never got round to it after all.’

  Until now, whenever he had remembered Newers, he had seen only the space left after the shell had burst in the crater; had seen only the hole in the ground, and the debris falling, bringing down bits of human remains. But now, as he held the pipe between his hands, he saw Newers as a whole man again; felt his solid bulk beside him; heard his voice; and remembered a day at Liere on the Somme, when the first tanks had been seen on the road, making towards Rilloy-sus-Coll.

  Newers and he, in the reserve line, had been drumming up tea when a new chap named Worth had let out a shriek.

  ‘God Almighty! Take a dekko at these monsters! What the hell are they, d’you suppose?’

  ‘What, them?’ said Newers, standing up to look at the tanks. ‘They’ve brought the buns.’

  Linn went and sat beside Tom on the settle. She saw he was smiling.

  ‘Newers could always make us laugh,’ he said.

  Every day now, while the summer weather lasted, Tom worked out of doors, close by the pump where his osiers lay soaking in the trough. He sat on a mat on the paving-stones with a wooden board on his lap, and often when Linn went out to the garden she would stop and watch the basket growing as his clever fingers worked the rods, or reached for the hammer to rap them home, or took up the knife to trim the ends. Human hands, when they worked and made things, always filled her with a kind of wonder.

  ‘I know you’re there,’ he said once. ‘I can see you plain. Well, plain enough. You’ve got your blue dress on, and the new pinny with the big pockets.’

  ‘And what am I holding in my hand?’

  ‘I suppose it’s that medicine again.’

  ‘You drink it up and no nonsense.’

  ‘All right,’ he said. ‘You’re the nurse. But it won’t bring my sight back, I don’t suppose.’

  ‘It’ll help your headaches, Dr Dundas said.’

  ‘It’d be a miracle if that was to give me back my sight. I’d drink a whole bottle every day.’ He emptied the glass and returned it to her. He looked up at her with his sideways stare. ‘It ent very likely, is it?’ he said. ‘Miracles ent all that common nowadays.’

  ‘No, Tom, you won’t get your sight back, I’m afraid.’

  ‘No. Well. It’s not to be expected, I know that. It’s just wishful thinking, as they say.’

  One day when Linn went out to the garden, to pick the last of the kidney beans, she saw Emery Preston again, coming out of Scoate woods. He stood for a while, looking across as though hesitating, then walked off towards Huntlip. She decided not to tell Tom, but the next time her father came to call on them, she took him aside and told him in private.

  ‘I don’t know what he means by it. I suppose it’s to make us feel uncomfortable. In which case he succeeds all too well, ’cos it worries me, somehow, seeing him prowling about like that.’

  ‘I’ll have a word with him,’ Jack said. ‘I’ll tell him to mind his own damned business.’

  ‘I don’t think it’s wise to quarrel with him.’

  ‘Who said anything about quarrelling?’

  ‘I know what you are, Father.’

  ‘It’s no use wearing velvet gloves when dealing with men like Emery Preston. You’ve got to tell them out straight.’

  Jack went to The Rose and Crown the following evening after work. He spoke to Emery regardless of the crowd in the taproom listening.

  ‘What’re you always hanging around the Pikehouse for?’

  ‘It’s a free country. I do as I please.’

  ‘Then hear this!’ Jack said. ‘If you cause any harm to my daughter, or to Tom Maddox, you’ll have to answer to me for it, and I’m none too gentle when dealing with ruffians like you, Preston, so just you watch out!’

  Jack walked out again. Emery turned to his customers.

  ‘He thinks hisself somebody, that chap Mercybright, don’t he, by God? And him just a labourer on Outlands Farm!’

  ‘What’s wrong with labourers?’ Billy Ratchet said, offended. ‘Jack’s all right. He’s a good sort. I feel sorry for him, with that daughter of his turning out so unexpected, living like she do with Tom Maddox and carrying his bastard, bold as brass.’

  ‘You needn’t tell me!’ Emery said. ‘I know how they’re carrying on. I been out there and seen for myself. But it’s what they done, the two of them, to get
rid of Tilly that bothers me, and one of these days I shall find out!’

  ‘Why, your Tilly’s as bad herself, ent she?’ said Norman Rye, calling from one of the small tables. ‘Going off with that traveller like she done?’

  ‘That’s the story that’s been put about! But I’ve got ideas of my own on that score, and I shan’t rest till I know more about it.’

  ‘What do you mean, Emery?’

  ‘You’ll know soon enough, when the time comes.’ Emery went and drew himself a pint of Chepsworth. He drank till the glass was three parts empty and froth had given him a white moustache. His three sons watched him. His customers eyed one another in stony silence.

  On a warm Saturday in late September, a car drew up at The Rose and Crown, and a young man got out, red-faced and sweating. He locked the car door, made a face at the children gathering round, and glanced at his wrist-watch. It wanted five minutes to closing time. He was very thirsty.

  Matthew, in the taproom, called his father to the window.

  ‘It’s him,’ he said. ‘That travelling salesman. You can see the brushes in the car.’

  ‘Are you sure it’s the same one?’

  ‘I’m positive,’ Matthew said.

  When the young man came in, glancing round at the customers, and smoothing his hair with the flat of his hand, Emery stood behind the counter.

  ‘Your name Trimble by any chance?’

  ‘Upon my word! What memories you country folk have got ‒’

  ‘Is it or ent it?’ Emery demanded.

  ‘Yes, indeed,’ the man said, and found himself half way across the counter, with Emery Preston’s enormous hands twisted in the front of his jacket. ‘Good God! What’s the matter? Are you drunk or mad or what?’

  ‘Where’s my daughter Tilly got to?’

  ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’

  ‘The story is she went off with you, in that dinky motor you got out there, and if it’s true, Mr Smarty Trimble, I’ll break every bone in your soft greasy body!’

  ‘Of course it’s not true! I don’t even know your daughter Tilly.’

  ‘You know her all right. You sold her brushes out at the Pikehouse.’

  ‘Did I? Did I? Good Lord, let me see! The Pikehouse, you said? Yes, it does ring a bell. It’s that tiny tollhouse out towards Norton. The young lady’s name was Mrs Maddox.’

  ‘And what else do you remember?’

  ‘Nothing whatever, I do assure you. I called there three or four times, I agree, and sold Mrs Maddox a few little items, but what you’re saying is simply monstrous and I insist you let go of me at once!’

  ‘Monstrous, is it?’ Emery said. ‘Does that mean you’re saying it’s a damned lie?’

  ‘Indeed I am! And I’d like to know who’s responsible for it! I’m a happily married man. I can show you snaps of my wife and kiddies. I can get people to speak for me ‒’

  ‘Never mind that,’ Emery said. ‘Just answer me one more question. Why did you leave the district so sudden, with people owing you money on orders?’

  ‘I was taken ill. I went down with ’flu and very nearly died of it. If it hadn’t been for my wife, God bless her, nursing me for weeks on end, I shouldn’t be here at this moment.’

  ‘Oh, is that so?’ Emery said. ‘And now you’ve come back to collect what’s owing? Well, you’re hopeful, I must say, after so many months gone by.’

  He loosened his hold on the man’s jacket, but continued to look at him narrowly.

  ‘You got a business card you can give me?’

  ‘No, no, I haven’t,’ Trimble said. ‘I’ve had some trouble getting them printed.’ He shrugged himself into his ruffled clothes and tucked his necktie into his jacket. He half glanced round at the few customers in the taproom. ‘But I’ll write my address down if you want it and then you can verify all I’ve told you.’

  ‘Yes, you do that,’ Emery said, and watched as Trimble, with a shaking hand, wrote his address on a scrap of paper. ‘Seems I got the wrong man. I’m sorry I rumpled you up a bit but it ent my fault you’ve been blamed for something you ent done. It’s my son-in-law you can thank for that.’

  ‘Is it indeed? I should like to meet him!’

  ‘Don’t you tangle with Tom Maddox. I shall be dealing with him myself.’

  ‘Right!’ Trimble said. ‘All’s well that ends well, that’s what I say, and no hard feelings either way.’

  ‘Ent you having the drink you came for?’

  ‘No, no, I think not. I’m behind-hand already and I’ve got an appointment at two-thirty.’ Trimble walked towards the door. ‘Let me know,’ he said, ‘if there’s anything more I can do to help you.’

  He drove away from The Rose and Crown and chugged slowly along the Straight, but once out on the main road he opened the throttle and let her go, eager to put the village of Huntlip well behind him, together with its ugly-tempered, violent people.

  At The Rose and Crown, the last customer had now left, and Emery Preston was locking up. He threw the keys to the boy Matthew.

  ‘So now we know where we stand, by God, and it’s what I been scared of all along. I warned our Tilly oftentimes against taking up with Tom Maddox, but she wouldn’t listen, oh no, not she!’

  ‘You reckon he’s gone and harmed her, Dad?’

  ‘He’s done away with her, that’s what he’s done, the same as his father done with his mother, only he’s been smarter about it, the swine, and made sure she ent to be found!’

  ‘What’re you going to do, Dad?’

  ‘I’m going to the police,’ Emery said, ‘which I should’ve done at the very beginning.’

  Chapter Ten

  ‘Detectives?’ Linn said, staring at the men who stood in the porch.

  ‘I’m Detective-Inspector Darns, madam, and this is Detective Constable Penfold. We’d like a word with Mr Maddox.’

  ‘You’d better come in.’

  They stepped in after her and the younger man closed the door. It was not yet six o’clock, but the lamp had been lit and Tom sat beside it on a stool, mending a boot on a last in his lap. Linn stood behind him and touched his shoulder.

  ‘It’s the police. They want to see you.’

  ‘Ah, I heard. I was wondering what it was all about.’ He sat up straight, trying to see them. ‘What am I supposed to’ve done?’

  ‘May we sit down Mr Maddox?’

  ‘You go ahead. Suit yourselves.’

  ‘We’re enquiring into the disappearance of your wife, Mrs Tilly Maddox, formerly Preston. Her father has reported her missing.’

  ‘Has he?’ Tom said. ‘Whatever for?’

  ‘Is there anything you can tell us?’

  ‘She went off with another chap. I couldn’t tell you where she is.’

  ‘What date would that be, Mr Maddox?’

  ‘Early in February,’ Tom said. ‘I can’t say no nearer than that.’

  ‘Did she tell you she was going?’

  ‘No. Not beforehand. Not in so many words exactly.’

  ‘Can you make that a little plainer?’

  ‘She did say she wished she could live in a town. She didn’t like it out here. She said it was lonely and drove her mad.’

  ‘I’d like you to tell us how she left.’

  ‘I came home and she was gone. There was a note on the table there. All her things had gone too.’

  ‘Did you keep the note?’

  ‘No,’ Tom said, ‘I threw it away.’

  ‘Perhaps you can remember what it said.’

  ‘She wrote she was sick of being so lonely. She said she wouldn’t be coming back.’

  ‘Did she say she was going with a man?’

  ‘Not in so many words exactly.’

  ‘What were her words, Mr Maddox?’

  ‘Well, she said she was tired of the way I treated her, and Mr Trimble would treat her better. He would look after her, she said.’

  ‘So you assumed they’d gone off together?’

  ‘I’m
certain of it,’ Tom said. ‘They was thick together. He was here a lot. I saw them once, laughing and talking. He’d got his arm round her, squeezing her tight.’

  ‘Were you jealous, Mr Maddox?’

  ‘No, not a jot, it was no odds to me.’

  ‘I gather you didn’t get on all that well with your wife?’

  ‘You couldn’t gather nothing else, after what I just been saying.’

  ‘What was the cause of your disagreements?’

  ‘Everything,’ Tom said. ‘It was all a mistake, our getting married in the first place. We shouldn’t never ought to’ve done it.’

  The two men were sitting side by side, almost filling the small settle. Tom could see them as two dark shadows; their faces were nothing but paler blurs; but he sensed that the young one was making notes.

  ‘You writing it down, what I’m saying?’

  ‘My constable is writing it down.’

  Inspector Darns was a man of fifty, quiet-spoken, easygoing. He sat relaxed, his hands clasped on the hat in his lap. He was rather interested in the half-cobbled boot on Tom’s last.

  ‘I’m surprised you can see to mend boots. I’d heard you had trouble with your eyes.’

  ‘I can see if I feel,’ Tom said. ‘But it’s true what they said about my eyes. I got blown up during the war.’

  ‘He’s going blind,’ Linn said.

  ‘Were you going blind when your wife was with you?’

  ‘It had started,’ Tom said, ‘but she didn’t know it.’

  ‘Were you resentful, Mr Maddox, when this misfortune came to you?’

  ‘Wouldn’t you have been resentful?’

  ‘You haven’t really answered my question.’

  ‘Haven’t I? I thought I had.’

  ‘Were you upset, Mr Maddox?’

  ‘I wasn’t exactly over the moon.’

  ‘And did you take it out on your wife?’

  ‘Maybe I did. I wasn’t too nice to her sometimes.’

  ‘Did you hit her by any chance?’

  ‘No, never.’

  ‘Not even once, in a temper, perhaps, when she was nagging as she probably did?’

  ‘I never touched her,’ Tom said. ‘Is somebody trying to say I did?’

  ‘Mr Preston is not quite satisfied that his daughter left you for another man. He thinks you killed her, Mr Maddox.’