The Black Candle

by Catherine Cookson

  As Joe walked along by the line of beech trees, now bursting into full leaf but with their lower trunks still embraced by the tangle of bramble, he, in his turn, was being watched by Fred himself, hidden at the very same spot where they had last year picked the blackberries which had led to the separation in the family. He had seen Joe first coming over the field towards the path, and the sight of his brother had startled him. What he was on the lookout for were the horses that had to come across that field if they wanted to get onto the woodland path. He was waiting for one particular rider, and were he to see him tonight it wouldn’t be the first time he had passed him on this very road. It would be truer to say the rider had passed him, and at a gallop.

  But after he had seen Joe enter the wood he impatiently settled down to await his return, for he could do nothing until his brother was out of the way; even were the fellow to come past now, he wouldn’t approach him.

  Up till these last few days he had been too afraid even of the idea of approaching the man, knowing what Joe himself would do to him if he found out, and that before he might let on to Andy Davison. But then, his wily rather than intelligent thinking made him call himself a silly bugger, for if he tackled the fellow on the quiet and they came to some agreement, who was to know? Not Joe or anybody else. And the fellow would be bound to want it kept quiet; everyone knew he was to be married in a matter of hours, and that the girl was rich, and he’d get her money, and so he wouldn’t want exposure. Now, would he? No. He saw himself as a dim-witted fool not to have taken the chance to bring up the matter with the man before this. And what’s more, so he put to himself and, as he thought, cleverly, the threat of exposure would definitely put a stop to his gallop in this form of whoring.

  It was almost half an hour later, and he had become weary of waiting, when he saw Joe again. He came walking briskly out of the wood, but instead of continuing along the path by the beech trees, he went straight on to the field, which meant he would be making for the town.

  Fred walked up on the inside of the avenue of trees until they ended in the wood; then he pushed through the bramble and onto the path and kept on walking.

  The trees were now forming quite a canopy overhead, and further dimmed the light. He didn’t like the feeling, and when quite suddenly they thinned out into a kind of glade, he diverted a few steps from the path and stood with his back against a broad trunk and so positioning himself that he could see either way along the woodland.

  He had been in this watchful position for but a few minutes when he heard the sound of horses’ hooves. Then, there they were, two horses and riders. The horses were bespattered. They had likely been hunting, he thought.

  He remained still, and they passed him without noticing him. Unless they had been deliberately looking for him, in this light he must have merged into the dark trunk and the shrubs dotted here and there in the glade. But he quickly realised that the man he was after was not one of them.

  He let out a long breath; then once more he was alert, for now there was another horse and rider approaching.

  He brought his back from the tree and stood waiting, but again the rider was not the man he was looking for and also passed him without apparently noticing him.

  Five minutes later he made up his mind to go back home, having concluded that instead of being out riding the fellow was more likely getting stiff with his pals, as was their custom a night or so before a wedding, when there he was.

  Although the twilight was deepening he made him out from a distance. He was a distinct figure, and what was more he was walking his horse, not even trotting it.

  As the man neared him and as if he had practised the whole scene, he almost jumped into the middle of the path and put up his hand, calling, ‘Stop a minute, mister!’

  Lionel Filmore drew his horse to a halt and looked down on the workman, saying, ‘What is it?’ The man didn’t look a beggar so he didn’t bawl at him to get out of the way, but repeated, ‘What is it?’

  ‘I’d like a word with you, mister.’

  Lionel Filmore’s tone now changed, and he cried, ‘You get out of the way, and this minute!’

  When Fred put up his hand to grab the rein near the bit and saw the whip being lifted and about to come down on him, he cried, ‘Don’t do that, mister! I’m warnin’ you. I want a word with you, and it’s about Lily Whitmore. Remember her?’

  He watched the man in the saddle stiffen, and feeling he was on the right road, he said, ‘You’re to be married the morrow, or the next day. Lily’s bairn was born a fortnight or so ago.’

  ‘What are you talking about? Get out of my way!’

  ‘There was five pounds in a little wash-leather bag. It was down the road there behind you; you gave it to her, on a Sunday. Aye, on a Sunday. Well, how would it be if she brings your son up to see Miss Victoria Mordaunt? She’s thinkin’ about it, but she could be persuaded otherwise. D’you get me meanin’, mister?’

  It seemed to be minutes before Lionel Filmore slowly brought his leg over the horse’s back and stepped down onto the path. Every part of his body was taut. He couldn’t believe this was happening to him. He had thought he was all set.

  He had hated the signing of that paper with that bitch’s terms; but two thousand a year was two thousand a year, and on top of this she was still allowing Victoria a dress allowance of five hundred; and she was even paying for the honeymoon in Paris. He had put that to her, standing facing her in that office: ‘Is the honeymoon off?’ he had said, and had sarcastically added, ‘The cost of that will bite deep into my allowance.’ If ever he had hated anybody in his life, he had hated her at that moment, and he knew the feeling was returned. But now there was a new hate in him. He felt he wanted to get this fellow by the throat and choke the life out of him because he was threatening his whole existence. Lily Whitmore. He had even forgotten her existence. And she had borne a son. My God! He had a son. Bastard or no, he had a son.

  Well, he supposed he could have had a son a number of times before, but surely he would have heard about it. But here he was now, hearing about it, and God Almighty, at this time! My God, yes; let that stiff bitch hear of this and there would be no two thousand a year. Even if Victoria would have accepted his infidelity and the fact of the son, that devil in hell would cut off the agreement as if by a stroke of lightning. Oh, he knew her type.

  He now glared at the man before leading the horse a few steps into the wood and looping the reins over a branch. He then walked on, still within the trees but keeping to the edge of the clearing. Why he was doing this he didn’t ask himself; he only knew he wanted to be well away from the path.

  When he stopped he turned to Fred, who had followed him, and was now standing a yard or so away from him. ‘You want to bargain, you want money? Is that it?’ he asked him.

  ‘Aye, speaking plainly, that’s what I want, money. An’…an’ I’ll see she’s looked after.’

  ‘I had the faint idea that she had married someone.’

  ‘Aye, she did. That’s me brother. But he’s not the kind to see to his wife or the bairn. Now me, I like to see justice done.’

  ‘And you’ve waited until the last moment to see that it’s done?’

  Fred grinned now, and hunched his shoulders as he said, ‘Aye. Aye. You could say I’ve got me wits about me. I’m not very well in health; I take to me bed quite a bit; but up top’—he tapped his forehead—‘it’s in good condition.’

  Lionel Filmore was staring unblinking at the face that was becoming less distinct, for he was seeing the fellow as through a red haze, but he let him go on talking and when he heard him say, ‘I think we could manage on fifty quid a month,’ his mind immediately reckoned up to six hundred pounds a year out of his new windfall. It wasn’t to be thought of.

  No! No! My God! No! His whole life ruined, finished, ended by this slob.

  His hands shot out from his sides, clutched at the shoulders, then grappled towards the fellow’s throat; and the attack was so sudden and fierce
that Fred had no time to retaliate before he felt himself falling backwards, with his fists that should have struck out in blows, fully opened into widespread fingers to save his fall. His head hitting the root of a tree and the body falling on top of him stunned him for a moment and he became inert. And it was in this moment that Lionel Filmore, loosening one hand away from the throat, groped into an inner pocket of his coat and brought out a small sheath knife that he used for getting stones out of his horse’s hooves. It was when the man under him attempted to throw him off while yelling at the same time, that he drove the knife into his neck, and so close was his face to the other’s that he saw in the dimness the startled look in the eyes before he himself sprang up.

  His hand on the knife covered with blood, he stood gasping as he looked down on the inert figure with the blood spreading from the neck and down the dark coat.

  As he took two stumbling steps backwards he became aware that his hand was held out, the knife still gripped in it, and that both were dripping blood.

  Leaning against a tree and using his left hand, he pulled from his pocket a large white handkerchief with which he hastily wiped his hand, but as he did so the knife dropped from it, the point piercing the soil between the roots of the tree, while the bloodstained handkerchief hung slack from his fingers, and immediately the significance and horror of what had happened created in him the urge to get rid of this bloodied thing, but he restrained himself from throwing it to the ground. Then stooping, he grabbed up the knife and was about to put them both back into his inner pocket when he hesitated: the inside of his jacket was lined with grey silk.

  He looked wildly about him now as though for a place to throw both the handkerchief and the knife from him. Casting his eyes downwards, he walked halfway round the tree before digging his heel into what looked like a soft patch of soil, then bending with the intention of scraping at the soil with his hand, he again hesitated. He had noticed a thickish twig lying almost at his feet, and with this he scraped at the soil until his efforts were checked by a crossing root.

  Almost in panic now he rolled the handkerchief round the knife and aimed to thrust it under the root. But although he could manage to wedge only about an inch of the covered blade under it, his panic was urging him to be rid of these things, and like an automaton that had been wound up to full pitch he frantically kicked the soil over the small hole, pressed it down hard with his heel, then with the side of his foot he raked some loose leaves over the protruding roots.

  He now stood for a time, one forearm supporting him against the tree, and as though the automaton was now running down, his movements became slow as he took steps back to where the bloodstained figure was still lying.

  He could barely make it out for his gaze was misted with sweat, yet he thought it moved; but as he stared at it he knew it was his imagination. Nevertheless, he skirted it widely in his eagerness to reach the clearing again. Here the twilight seemed like bright daylight compared to the gloom behind him…

  He untethered his horse, but he found he hadn’t the strength as yet to lead him, and he stood leaning against the animal’s side for a moment before, taking the reins, he walked with him along the path. But he had gone not more than twenty yards when he was startled so much that he caused the animal to rear its head and step sharply to the side.

  Slowly, he turned his head to see Douglas, who had called out, ‘Hello there!’ coming towards him through the trees.

  ‘What’s the matter? Are you hurt?’

  He found he had to wet his lips twice before he could speak, saying, ‘He…he threw me. I…I took a gate back there in…in the farm field.’

  ‘Good lord! He’s never done that before, has he? He’s as sure-footed as, well, as a lynx. You’ve always said so yourself.’

  ‘There’s always a…a beginning, a first time.’

  ‘You hurt anywhere?’

  ‘No. No, just a bit shaken. He sprang…he sprang a shoe. Well, it’s a bit loose; I think that must have been the reason. It probably caught on the bar. I…I can’t blame him.’ He tried to smile but found he couldn’t stretch his lips when Douglas said, ‘No, you’d never blame a horse, no matter who else you blamed. Well’—he laughed—‘what I mean is…Oh, what does it matter? Go on, get yourself home; and I would take a hot bath. Good job it isn’t tomorrow, isn’t it?’

  For answer Lionel drew in a deep breath, made a small motion with his head, gave a light tug on the reins, then walked forward.

  Douglas watched him until the path, zigzagging away, led him out of his sight. And as he turned away the thought occurred to him that Lionel hadn’t asked what he was doing alone here in the wood at this time. But then, he wouldn’t; he had never taken an interest in anything he had done; and especially not in his stone work that was now providing him with a livelihood, and a good one, so much so that he was contemplating starting a real business. Of course, up till recently the word business would have aroused his father’s ire and brought exclamations of open disdain from his brother. But Lionel was now having to change his tune, for business was going to support him for the rest of his life, or at least for as long as he remained in favour with Bridget. My, there was a young woman for you! One had to admire her, if for nothing else, for her business acumen. And, in a strange way, he admired her for more than that. She was such good company. She must be the only woman with whom he had ever been able to hold a conversation made up of words of more than two syllables.

  He was on his way back to the gully with the intention of walking along it to see if there might be one or two more pieces of available and suitable stone that, with some manual help from the yard, he could get out of the ground without having to employ diggers. But it would soon be dark, especially where the gully ran through the wood itself. But then there was the clearing. He’d go as far as that, and if there was anything suitable he would come back tomorrow with the men. No; he wouldn’t be able to come back tomorrow. It was the eve of the wedding, everybody would be on their toes. Although the reception was to be held at Bridget’s house, their yard men would be busy sprucing up the trap and the brake and themselves preparatory to carrying the bridegroom and the staff to the church. On this thought he did not walk back through the woodland but kept to the path that led back to the clearing. And he was halfway across it when he imagined he heard a strange sound like a moan. He stopped. Perhaps an animal had been caught in a trap. Oh no, he hoped not! There was now a law against traps, but still the devils set them.

  He waited, but hearing no further sound he went towards that part of the gully where there were a number of large boulders exposed. These, however, he concluded, would be much too soft for what he required.

  It was as he turned away to retrace his steps across the clearing that a sharp wind met him and he turned up the collar of his coat. He didn’t like the cold, likely because he had little flesh on his bones. If ever he made enough money he would go and live in a warm country, an island perhaps, one inhabited by kindly natives. And he wouldn’t need a house, he could sleep out on the sand, and he would live on fruit and home-made wine, and live to a hundred and one.

  Huh! Why did he think such ridiculous thoughts? Who wanted to live to a hundred and one? Who wanted to go on living at all at times? If he reached thirty that would be enough. He had been told that during early childhood his life had been despaired of a number of times; after reaching the age of twelve it would seem he improved somewhat physically but not, his father would have it, emotionally. On one occasion, when deep in his cups, his father had kindly put it that he had shamed him on his first trip when he threw up at the sight of the fox being given its deserts by the dogs; on another: who other than a girl would cry at the sight of kittens being bagged and drowned in the tank?

  However, he could recall the great day he had kicked his father and clawed at him when his father, enraged at having been thrown twice in the one day, had tethered his horse in the yard and lashed out at it with his whip. He himself still had the mark down the s
ide of his ear where the whip had been turned on him.

  But why was he thinking these old thoughts? All because he had felt cold from that blast of wind and had the silly vision of the warm island again.

  He stopped. An animal was just in there to the right of him. Had it earlier been caught by another it would have been dead by now and half eaten. He moved slowly towards the thicket; and then his hand went to his mouth but hardly covered the gape as his mind yelled, Oh my God!

  Three steps more and he was bending over a man who had one hand tight to his neck, with his face covered in blood. He bent nearer, saying, ‘You’re hurt. You’ve been hurt.’

  The wet, blood-laden eyelids lifted, the mouth opened, and the blood dribbled from it. Then the lips came together as the man spoke.

  ‘What is it? Yes?’ He couldn’t distinguish what the man was saying. It sounded as if he was asking for someone called Billy. Then he made out the words, ‘get’ and ‘go’, and he nodded at him, saying, ‘Yes. Yes, I’ll go. Lie…lie still. I’ll go and get help.’

  As he was about to straighten up the man spoke again. It was a mutter but he made out his own name because he said ‘Filmore.’ And he answered him, nodding vigorously, saying, ‘Yes, I’m Mr Filmore. Now I’ll be back as soon as possible. Just stay quiet.’

  He shot from the thicket across the glade and onto the wood path. There, he hesitated for one moment. Where was the nearest house? To the right was a farm, but it was very nearly as far as the factories and the town. To the left of him the nearest habitation was his home.

  He had always been able to run, but he had never run as quickly as he did now. Yet it took him ten minutes before he arrived, panting, in the yard, there to stand gasping as he called out to Jimmy Fawcett and Ron Yarrow, the stablemen, ‘Get the c…cart ready! The flat cart. Quick! D’you hear? There’s a man bleeding to death in the wood…back there.’