The police thought they were onto something when, following an anonymous phone call, they went to a butcher’s shop. The voice on the telephone had informed the police the butcher was in the habit of buying stolen sheep and fowl. The police spent two days trying to persuade the butcher to give them the name or names of his supplier. When, worn down at last, he mentioned a man who lived as far away as Prudhoe, the police picked up a young fellow known as Billy the Badger, which apparently had nothing to do with his poaching activities, but was given him because he always wore a white muffler, the ends tucked into his trouser tops, and on Sundays, when he wore his best, which was a black coat and trousers, his pointed face above this ensemble roughly depicted the night creature of the woods.
Billy the Badger had much more difficulty in proving his innocence, although he admitted to stealing chickens. Yes, he said, he had raided at Screehaugh, but only for chickens. He swore he had never touched their sheep, and he swore by many Northern oaths that he was in Newcastle up till eleven o’clock on the night of the murders.
It took some further persuasion to elicit exactly where he had spent the hours in Newcastle. ‘Pubs,’ he had said briefly at first. When he found this wasn’t good enough for the police, the result of speaking the truth being the lesser of two evils, he gave the name of a woman he had visited.
What happened when he faced his wife and when the husband of the lady in question, who was in the forces, heard of her escapade, didn’t reach the papers. There was a war on and such emotional family matters were really of no account. The police went on searching. They would find the culprits. But they were hampered by the fact that the stealing of hill sheep at this time was becoming a common occurrence.
During the five days between that dreadful night and the day of the funeral, Joe and Ellen Jebeau never looked at each other, nor did a word pass between them. There were no set meals; the whole Smith family was deeply affected and Mary and Helen did only what was absolutely necessary. They cried a lot, and Jessie Smith, appearing in the kitchen more than she had done in recent months, not only cried but wailed, nearly always when Joe was within earshot, and the substance of her wailing was, ‘Left without a breadwinner,’ which nearly always elicited, ‘Oh, Ma, be quiet!’ from Mary.
It was an understood thing that Mr Joe, Sir, as he was now—and that was hard to take in—was still in shock, for he walked about like someone in a dream and would stand staring in front of him for minutes on end.
Mrs Jebeau, too, appeared shocked. As Mary reiterated to the police, she’d had a job to wake her up out of a dead sleep that night, and when she did come to she just couldn’t take in what had happened: she didn’t seem able to speak for ages and she’d had to help her into her clothes.
But in private, Mary remarked to Mick that it was funny how that one always seemed to fall on her feet. She had been ready for the road, then Mr Arthur died. And there she had been again, almost packed to make way for Mr Martin’s wife, when once again fate had taken a hand, and now she was set nicely. And for good, it would seem, for she’d rule Mr Joe, title or no title.
And poor Miss Crosbie. It seemed that she had been knocked silly too. Mary described to Mick how the young girl had stood in the hall, her face cupped between her palms, and gazed about her, while the tears ran down her face and she kept muttering, ‘Oh Martin! Martin!’ Her mother and father had had to help her down the steps and into the car. The house seemed fated somehow. What did he think…? Did he think Master Joe would go off his head?
One part of Joe was telling him he had already gone off his head, but another section kept repeating, ‘It’ll soon be over and then you can tell her. Once you’ve done that you’ll be free.’
He still had the numbed feeling on him, and that in itself was frightening, for as yet he could feel no sorrow for either Martin or Mr Smith. He knew that at night, alone in his room, he should be crying, but no tears came; that in itself was strange, for he’d often cried about small things, such as seeing a fox with its leg in a trap, still alive, its eyes begging for release. He had been too afraid and shocked to go near it, and on that particular night he had cried because of his cowardice. Then he had cried one night following a market day in Hexham, for there he had seen two men fighting. It was in a narrow side street and there were only a few people watching. The younger man had hauled his older opponent from the ground and held him up against the wall with one hand while he pummelled his face with the other, and the blood covered his fist. When the sight elicited from one of the bystanders, ‘I know he deserves it, but enough is enough, and after all, he’s his father,’ another had answered, ‘Aye, you’ve said it: he’s his father; but then, the lass was his wife.’
He puzzled over that, but he kept remembering the older man’s face, and the sadness in it, and the awful fact that he hadn’t retaliated in any way. It was something about the old man’s attitude that had made him cry.
But here he was in a deep tragedy: the man he had loved—yes, really loved—had been murdered, and he could shed no tears for him.
He was dry-eyed at the funeral, and there was a great crowd there. They came to the house on horseback, by car, by bicycle, by farm cart; but most of them followed the hearse on foot; close friends filled the four cabs.
He himself sat in the first cab opposite Martin’s two partners, Mr Alex Beecham, the senior partner, and Mr James Holden, now the junior partner. Martin’s position in the firm had been between the two.
The Smith mourners were all on foot and there were no women present. Dick Smith’s hearse followed that in which Martin lay.
Joe had insisted on this arrangement despite Mr Beecham’s opinion that it wasn’t quite seemly.
The day was cold, with flurries of snow, and people were muffled up to the eyes. But Joe himself didn’t feel the cold; when you were numb already, the temperature made little impression on you. In the cemetery he became aware of Mick Smith walking by his side, but he did not acknowledge his presence in any way.
Later, when like a waking nightmare, the business was over and he was once again sitting in the cab, Mr Beecham leant towards him and said, ‘If you will excuse us we will be returning straight to Newcastle,’ and paused before adding, ‘Sir Joseph,’ which remark drew the young man’s attention to him.
For the first time a sensation pierced the numbness and it caused Joe’s body to jerk and send a message to his brain that created the desire to shout, ‘Don’t call me that, because I’m not a sir. I never was and never shall be; you’ve left the sir in the grave.’
‘Are you all right?’
‘Yes, yes.’ The words were clipped. ‘You said you’d be leaving for Newcastle?’
‘We’d like to make it before dark. With no lighting, the roads can be rather treacherous, you understand, and the weather is seeming to worsen.’
‘Yes.’
There was a long pause before Joe said, ‘I want to see you about…about business.’
‘Yes, yes, any time.’
‘Tomorrow?’
Mr Beecham’s eyebrows moved up slightly, and he said, ‘Yes, if you wish, tomorrow. Say, eleven o’clock?’
‘Very well.’ Joe’s reply was curt and Mr Beecham looked at this young man who, when he had last seen him just a few months ago, had appeared to him to be a schoolboy, immature for his age: but sitting before him now was a young man with no sign of immaturity on his countenance, for he seemed to have aged overnight, as it were. The eyes held a strange expression, and he guessed that even though their gaze was directed towards you their owner’s mind was on something entirely different. He had certainly taken the tragedy badly. Doctor Nesbitt had suggested that the shock had perhaps temporarily deranged him, and up till this moment he had agreed with him, but suddenly now the young fellow seemed to know what he was about. Strange how he had given that start when he had addressed him as Sir Joseph. As yet he wasn’t used to the title; indeed, he was perhaps the first to have addressed him as such. Even so, it had taken some l
ittle effort on his part, for here was this relatively obscure relation who had fallen into an estate, which, although small, was of no mean value, and he had fallen into it by a series of dead men’s shoes. And that was putting it plainly. As fate had a habit of doing, it had played what he termed a rather dirty trick for although Martin and his father before him had both found the running of the estate anything but easy as far as money was concerned, this young man would be better off than either of them, for Martin had only within the last year taken out two very large policies on his life, the second when he knew he was going to be married. He wondered if the young man was aware of this. Well, he would be tomorrow morning.
By right and custom, he himself and James here should be going back to the house for the reading of the will, but this very new Sir Joseph had made it evident yesterday that he wanted no reading done in the house and that he would let them know when he wanted the matter dealt with. Well, he had now let them know, and tomorrow morning he’d be interested to see what his reactions were.
‘So there it is.’ Mr Beecham placed the last sheet of stiff paper on top of a number of others and raised his gaze again to Joe, who was sitting opposite to him, and continued, ‘There is no obstacle to your inheritance, as I can see. The insurance company, in due course, will settle the policies. These were a very fortunate investment.’ He coughed, then went on, ‘They won’t make you entirely independent, but they will ease any worry about the maintenance of the house and estate. And as time goes by, your staff will likely decrease, for the age limits of call-up will rise. You have two men there under forty, isn’t that so?’
‘Yes…Yes.’ Joe straightened his back against the wooden chair, at the same time reaching out and placing one hand flat on the edge of the long polished table and, looking across at Mr Beecham and James Holden, who sat by his side, he said slowly but firmly, ‘I have no intention of…of living in the house after today. I’ve volunteered for the Air Force. And should I survive the war, I won’t live there even then. But I wish to leave the control of the estate in your hands as sort of legal guardians. You will pay whatever staff have to be kept on to keep the house and grounds in order and…’
‘But…but—’ Mr Beecham leant forward over the desk now, his hand on the blotter in line with that of Joe’s, and he said two words: ‘Your mother?’
Joe now withdrew his hand from the desk and, rising to his feet, he looked down onto the upturned faces of the two men and said, ‘My mother may remain in the house as long as she wishes, but the running of it, the accounts and such, I wish to leave in your control. Mary Smith will act as housekeeper and she will submit all bills to you.’ He now watched both men rise simultaneously to their feet, and it was James Holden who, turning to his partner, said almost in a whisper, ‘Her…her allowance?’ On this Mr Beecham, nodding now, spoke in a small voice: ‘We will continue her allowance?’
‘No.’
‘No?’
‘I said no. She can live in the house under those conditions or go. It’s up to her.’
There was silence between the three of them for a moment as they returned each other’s stare; then Joe said, ‘If you don’t wish to act for me I can make other arrangements.’
Mr Beecham’s voice was stiff now as he replied, ‘We have always acted for the house and I shall be happy to continue doing so. But, nevertheless, I must say that I find your orders rather disconcerting.’
Again there was silence between them, but as Mr Beecham stared at this young man, he remembered Martin hinting that his aunt kept the young boy on a tight rein; and he also went further back and recalled Arthur’s confidence and how he had once described his sister-in-law as a frantic leech. Perhaps the young man had something on his side after all. But his measures were definitely drastic, smacking somewhat of retaliation.
‘Good day and thank you. One thing more, when you write to me, would you be kind enough not to use the…the title. In fact, I wish to disclaim it.’
The two older men made no reply to this, and neither of them moved towards the door to open it; nor did they say ‘Good day…’
Joe walked out of the offices into the thick driving snow. The fact that he turned his collar up against the seeping cold indicated that his numbness had been penetrated, yet he was unaware of it.
He was well on his way to the station when he paused and looked up towards a building, and he saw in his mind’s eye Carrie running up the steps, and he recalled her voice saying, ‘Oh, why must you keep on about that!’ The word ‘that’ to which she was referring was love.
How long ago was it? Days or years? Had he ever loved anybody? Yes, he had loved Martin and Harry and his Uncle Arthur. He seemed to love people more when they were dead. But no, he had indeed loved them when they were alive. But there was nobody left to love now, and that was a good thing. Never, never again in his life would he say he loved anybody, for love was a destroyer, love was a madness that turned people into fiends and devils. He was going back now to confront one, one who supposedly did what she did out of love, and strangely he was no longer afraid. When your whole being was overflowing with loathing and hate there was no room for fear.
He said to Mary, ‘Where is she?’ not, ‘Where is my mother?’
‘Up in her room, Mr Joe…’
Mary was finding it difficult to change her way of addressing this new master. She had never yet addressed him as Sir Joseph, because somehow he didn’t look like a sir; he didn’t, in her eyes, fit the title; he was too young. Yet she had to admit he had changed over the last few days. By! He had that, and in more ways than one. She didn’t like to own up to the fact that she now stood a little in awe of him, and she had never felt like that with either Mr Martin or his father before him because, in their own ways, they had both been free and easy.
Leaving Mary staring after him, Joe ran up the stairs, crossed the gallery, and went straight to his mother’s bedroom. He didn’t knock, but paused for a moment before opening the door.
She was sitting by the window at a little table she used as a writing desk, and she jerked round as he entered the room, but she didn’t rise. Neither did he move from where he was standing, just inside the door, for almost a minute; and when he did, he came quickly to the side of the table and stood within an arm’s length of her.
Again they looked at each other in silence, and then he said very slowly, ‘I’ve been to see Beecham and Holden. I’ve made arrangements with them how the estate is to be run. You, Mother, may stay or go, but you’ll have no control of any of the affairs, either outside or inside the house. You can eat free and sleep free, but that’s as far as your privileges will extend, ever. Do you understand?’
He watched her mouth fall open, then he saw her upper lip twitch and her eyelids flutter; then she muttered, ‘No! No! You can’t do it.’ Her words were scarcely audible.
‘I’ve done it…Will you stay?’ He bent towards her now. ‘You’ll have plenty of company: three dead men and a woman.’
They were staring into each other’s eyes now, both mouths agape. ‘You fixed the car, didn’t you; Vanessa Southall’s car? You didn’t expect Uncle to be in it…And then Martin was going to marry, wasn’t he?’ His voice was no more than a faint whisper now but it was as if his words were spraying vitriol on her face, because she tossed her head from side to side as if throwing off the spray. ‘You couldn’t bear the thought, could you, of that girl, that nice young girl, being mistress here? You told yourself it was for me, all for me.’
‘It was, it was.’ Her lips mouthed the words but no real sound came from them.
‘You thought he was on his own, didn’t you? You didn’t count on Dick being so conscientious that he wouldn’t let Martin watch alone.’
He put out his hand towards her now but didn’t touch her, saying, ‘Don’t faint; it won’t help you any because I’ll only revive you with a jug of cold water and make you listen to the finish.
‘Where have you hidden the gun? Where have you put it, eh? I
know every gun in that room. I used to help Martin clean them. But the police never thought to ask if there was one missing, because the lady of the house was fast asleep in bed, wasn’t she? And there was only the maidservant and me. They could even have suspected me had they not found the two sets of footprints in the soft snow right up to the very hedge where Martin was hiding. The poachers had already been and got away with their spoils; or when they heard the shots, they made off. We’ll never know, will we? But you know something, Mother?’ His face was hanging over hers now. ‘I could commit murder at this very minute. I have a great urge to throttle you, but that would prove I’d inherited your madness and I want no trait of you to show in me, ever. Ever!’ He shouted the last word; then his voice dropping again, he said, ‘The very smell of you nauseates me; you stink of death.’ Now he drew himself upwards and stepped back from her, and it seemed to give her space to breathe, for she drew air into her lungs and for the first time she spoke, almost whimpering now: ‘I…I didn’t do it. It’s…it’s you who are mad. And…and you can’t leave me like this, with nothing…My allowance.’
‘You have no allowance. I’ve told you the terms: you are bed and board, as the saying goes, nothing more. And let me tell you this: should you in any way try to get in touch with me, even go to the partners and ask for my whereabouts, I swear before God—’ He now raised his hand in a dramatic fashion and paused before he added, ‘See, I’m taking an oath. I swear before God that I’ll expose you for what you are: a four times murderess.’ He took another step backwards and stared at her for a long moment before saying, ‘This is the last time I’ll ever look on you willingly.’
‘Joe! Joe!’ Her voice was cracked, coming like a broken note from a rusty instrument; and again she appealed to him as she watched him move towards the bedroom door. ‘Come…come back a minute. Oh Joe. Joe.’
My Beloved Son Page 13
