Timmy’s eyes were itchy, his throat sore. He was hot and felt miserable. Pansy told him not to complain. Said it was only a cold and that it would soon pass. When the red rash appeared on his face and neck she took him to the surgery. She had never seen measles before. The doctor said she must keep him inside and away from school. Though frail-looking, Timmy was a fit lad and the doctor was confident the infection would pass in a week.
But by the end of the week Timothy was confined to bed. The rash had spread all over his body, and the cough, which had developed suddenly, was exhausting him. For three nights neither he nor Pansy slept, then finally, when he was too exhausted to clear his lungs, he drifted into sleep – a deep, deep sleep. Though Pansy begged with him to wake, at times shaking his limp body, he never stirred. He never ate or drank and only twice did his eyes open, but they were glazed and he saw nothing. He never spoke and the few sounds he made were incoherent. Hour after hour, Pansy sat beside him mopping his brow while the fever boiled inside him. She wished Alice were home and prayed for Sunday to arrive as she had promised to come home on her day off. Because she was a nurse, Pansy was convinced Alice would know what to do.
But Timothy Pugh couldn’t wait for his sister’s visit. He died in his mother’s arms on the Saturday morning. He was nine years of age.
Chapter 17
The attic
‘Come on, luv, I thought you’d be pleased I made it through the war without a scratch,’ Crowther crowed. ‘And the war changed me. You’ll see!’
Pansy felt exasperated. She didn’t want Stanley’s attention. Or any other man’s for that matter. What she wanted was to be left alone. But Crowther was not prepared to listen.
Whenever she went out, he followed her. She would catch glimpses of his reflection in shop windows trailing a few yards behind her. She would see him waiting on corners or standing outside shop doorways, or loitering by the post box. Sometimes he would launch himself at her, questioning her angrily, demanding to know what was in her basket, how much she had spent, how much money she had left. Other times he appealed to her good nature, begging for a few shillings to tide him over.
Even in the evenings, he gave her no respite, constantly tap-tapping on the kitchen window until she succumbed and looked out to see his face pressed against the pane – tongue distorted, lips squashed, eyes staring. Afraid and desperate, Pansy would try to escape his taunts by running upstairs to hide, but he would lob tiny pebbles at the bedroom window, not hard enough to crack the glass but loud enough to remind her he was still there.
‘I can’t take any more,’ she cried, as she stood shaking in Lucy’s arms. ‘He won’t stop.’
‘Goodness, Pansy, look at the state of you! Why didn’t you tell what was happening before now?’
‘Because last time you said I was encouraging him. Now I’m not. I keep telling him to go away but he takes no notice.’ There was real anguish on her face. ‘You must do something,’ she begged. ‘Help me. I’m worn out. I’ve lost my energy. I feel tired but I can’t sleep. I used to like working but now I hate going outside. I avoid people. I don’t want to talk. I don’t even look forward to Alice’s visits. Please help me.’
Lucy waited until the sobbing stopped. ‘You remember Miss Pugh, your Aunt who lives in Ilkley?’
Pansy nodded.
‘Could you stay with her for a week or two?’
‘Probably. But what about my job?’
‘Say you are sick or taking a holiday. If they stop you, there are plenty of other houses to clean.
‘What will Alice think if I’m not here?’
‘I’ll talk to Alice. She’ll understand. And I’ll get James to take you in the car.’ Lucy paused. ‘As for Stanley Crowther, I’ll speak with the constable again.’
Pansy tried to smile.
‘I just wish you’d told me sooner, before getting yourself into this terrible state.’
Miss Pugh opened the door apprehensively. She didn’t recognize her niece, Pansy, the small slim woman with the suitcase in her hand, or remember James Oldfield who was standing behind her. Jogging the memory took a little time and explanation, but once the jumbled pieces were reassembled she was happy to invite Pansy to stay with her.
Stepping inside the big house, Pansy was both surprised and appalled by the state of the living-room and wondered about the condition of the rest of the three-storey house. Miss Pugh had always been an extremely particular person. Everything was always in its rightful position. Always spick and span. Neat and tidy. Nothing was ever out of place.
But today the living-room was a shambles. A blackened saucepan sat in the armchair by the fire. A pile of dirty clothes was sitting on the coal scuttle. A slice of bread left on top of the writing bureau was curled and dry, and a quarter-inch of dust coated the furniture.
Seeing the worry on Pansy’s face, James felt concerned. His instinct was to leave immediately and take Pansy with him. He was afraid that living with the elderly spinster and taking on the responsibility of minding her would drain her even further, and she was not strong enough for that.
‘I want to stay,’ Pansy said. ‘Aunty needs me. Besides, it will give me something worthwhile to do and I want to repay a little of the kindness she showed me when I was ill, when Timmy was born.’
Reluctantly James conceded and by the time he was ready to leave, the two relatives were reminiscing happily. Noticing the soft smile which had returned to Pansy’s face, he felt satisfied. That expression had been absent for some time.
As he drove back to Horsforth, James decided Pansy would be fine living with Miss Pugh, just so long as Crowther didn’t know where she was. He would never find her there, James thought.
Lucy held the chair steady, while James swung himself up through the hole in the bedroom ceiling and into the attic. The candle, she handed him, flickered from the lack of air in the roof cavity.
‘Is there anything up there?’ she called.
‘Lots of cobwebs! My old jigsaws. Empty boxes. Tea chests.’
From below, she could hear him shifting things about.
‘James, be careful.’
For a while there was no answer then his head poked down through the hole. ‘Smells like we’ve got rats in one of these boxes. Can you manage to take it?’
As he lowered the tea chest, a shower of dust floated down and settled on Lucy’s hair. She sneezed.
Peering in the box she could see where the rats had their home. A felt tea-cosy lined with scraps of paper and cloth had made an ideal nest. In the centre, eight pink-skinned babies, no bigger than Lucy’s thumb, squirmed like a collection of juicy caterpillars.
After transporting the chest to the back garden, James scattered the contents of the tea-cosy on the ground beside the back wall. Not having the heart to kill the babies himself, he was sure the crows, which roosted in the chestnut tree, would quickly make a meal of them.
With a small fire of dried leaves and twigs, James burned the nest and its lining. The felted cloth was damp and smoked before igniting, but the stained newspaper which had been underneath it, burned brightly. As the newsprint curled James noticed the bold header: The Bombay Chronicle, and beneath it in smaller letters, the words: English language edition.
Beneath the rat’s nest was a stack of similar papers which James fed to the fire. But, on delving under those, he uncovered a cache of unusual items – a long leather glove, its stitches rotted along the seams. A tarnished spur. A crested pendant and a military jacket decorated with gold-braided epaulettes and metal buttons. The uniform had obviously fostered generations of moths. Lifting it out made him sneeze.
The only item, apparently not affected by the years, was a black wooden box. It was the size of a gentleman’s toilet case and was wrapped in a length of canvas. Uncovering it, James realized it was an item of value. It was old and the workmanship was exquisite. The smooth lid was inlaid with shards of mother of pearl depicting an elephant drinking at a waterhole. The box’s hinges were metal, bla
ckened, but definitely silver.
James shook it gently. It didn’t rattle. As he raised the lid he expected to see a moulded velvet lining housing an assortment of gentleman’s toiletries. But the ebony box contained neither partitions nor lining. It was crammed with letters and papers and pieces of folded parchment. Beneath the papers were other items – a ring box, a gold fob watch with chain, a wad of bank notes and two purses. Without opening it, James could feel that the purse made from animal skin contained coins. But the other purse interested him more. It was handmade in black silk with an exotic dancer embroidered on the front in coloured threads. Inside was something hard. Between his fingers, it felt like gravel or small pebbles. Loosening the string, James tipped the contents into his palm.
‘Mother!’ he yelled.
Sitting across the table from Lucy, James rolled the stones over with his finger. They resembled tiny transparent marbles, glassy but chipped. The colour was a beautiful cornflower blue.
After examining the birth, death and marriage certificates, old school reports and personal letters, Lucy put them to one side. She was busy gazing at the other papers which had almost filled the box. The legal documents confused her. Title deeds. Leases. Stock certificates.
‘It appears Edward’s father had several holdings and Edward had shares in a sapphire mine in Kashmir.’ Lucy looked at the stones on the table. ‘Sapphires? Is that what they are?’
James shrugged his shoulders, amazed. ‘Is there anything else?’
The coins in the purse included some sovereigns. The fob watch was in a gold case. The wad of banknotes consisted of old notes, both English and foreign. There were cufflinks, a tiepin and an elegant brooch set with a large red gemstone.
‘A garnet?’ suggested Lucy.
‘Or a ruby! This lot could be worth a small fortune! What do we do with it?’
Lucy didn’t think twice, ‘We pay a visit to Proctor and Armitage and let them sort it out. These things obviously belonged to Edward or his father.’
‘But why did he leave them in the attic?’ asked James. ‘Had he forgotten about them?’
‘I wouldn’t think so. I’m sure he intended to come back and collect them one day. He didn’t expect to die so suddenly.’
‘But he lived a very simple life.’
‘That was his choice,’ said Lucy.
‘But if these are his, who do they belong to now?’
‘The lawyers will know.’
‘But didn’t Edward leave the residue of his estate to you.’
Lucy nodded.
‘Then they could all be yours!’
The contents of Pansy’s letter came as a surprise.
Dear Lucy,
I am writing to let you know I have decided to stay in Ilkley indefinitely. My aunt needs someone to care for her. She is quite forgetful and prone to wandering. I found her on the road the other morning. She was wearing only her nightdress and slippers and it was bitterly cold. As I am her only relative, I feel it is my duty to care for her, but besides that, I like it here in Ilkley. It’s peaceful and no one bothers me.
If it is not too much trouble, there are two favours I have to ask.
Could James please bring me the rest of my belongings?
The other thing, I beg to ask – can Alice and her husband, Bertie, move into my cottage? Alice says they can afford to pay a small rent. She says they have looked at rooms elsewhere but they are disgusting, and with the baby due in only six weeks, Alice is getting desperate. She told me it would be impossible for them to continue living with Bertie’s parents as it is causing too much strife between them.
I hope you will be able to help them out.
Your dear friend,
Pansy
After confirming her thoughts with James, Lucy sat down and wrote two letters. The first was addressed to Mrs Pansy Pugh. In it she told Pansy that she and James would deliver the rest of her personal possessions the following Saturday morning and advised her that they would arrive in Ilkley about eleven.
The second letter was addressed to Mrs and Mrs Albert Bottomley. Wording it carefully, Lucy asked Alice and Bert to visit her at the cottage to discuss a lease to be made out in their names. She suggested a rent of seven shillings and sixpence a week. If that was agreeable, they could move in immediately.
Chapter 18
The Cow and Calf
The sudden clucking of the hens alerted Alice. She knew it was Crowther or a fox, and as it was broad daylight, she settled on the former. Peeping through the lace curtain she saw the man leaning over the hen house. When he walked towards the door she drew back. The handle rattled. Then she heard him shout her mother’s name.
‘Pansy, Pansy,’ he called, his voice was polite at first, but it soon rose in both pitch and urgency. Then the tapping began, first on the door, then on the window. From the room’s shadows, Alice watched him as he pressed his face against the pane. Unable to see anyone inside, the man stepped back and looked up towards the bedroom. Picking up a handful of soil, he lobbed it against the window. It showered back into his hair. Alice could see his exasperation festering.
The squawk of the chickens drew Alice back to the window. One of the birds was hanging limply from the man’s hand. She didn’t see him break its neck but saw the ball of warm red feathers as it disappeared inside his jacket. When he climbed over the wall and headed for the lane, she ran through the house to the front room.
Though Alice had not seen Crowther for many years, she recognized him as the man who hawked rabbits, the man who had wheedled his way into her mother’s life, the man Lucy had warned her about. No doubt he had come back looking for Pansy, unaware she had moved to Ilkley. Standing in the hall, Alice watched the brass knob as it turned. She’d locked the door just in time. Outside, Crowther cursed and rattled the knob. Then there was silence. Alice held her breath not knowing what to expect. The gate creaked on its hinges. Venturing into the front room, she watched as Crowther mounted his bicycle and rode off down the hill. Alice was trembling. She felt sure he would be back, but didn’t know when.
‘Let me explain,’ the solicitor said. ‘Firstly, we are not certain of the viability of these foreign title deeds. Though they appear authentic and indicate Mr Edward Carrington was the rightful owner, it is possible the properties have been disposed of and new deeds may have been drawn up if these originals were considered lost.’ He paused. ‘These matters will need investigating. Of course, if the rates and taxes were unpaid for many years, it is possible the properties were sold to offset any accrued debt, which would mean they are worthless.’
Mr Armitage continued, ‘With regard to the various property leases, we must assume they all expired some years ago, unless we can find some record of the terms being renewed.’ He turned to the next document in the file. ‘Of course, with all these investments being located in India, the problem of tracing and verifying them is made doubly difficult.’
‘The same applies to the stocks and bonds,’ interrupted Proctor. ‘I have to warn you, Mrs Oldfield, these documents may not be worth the paper they are written on.’ He paused. ‘On the other hand—’
‘The gemstones,’ said Mr Armitage, ‘could be worth a considerable amount because of their number and size. But I am not an expert and we should arrange to have these valued by a professional.’
Lucy nodded, ‘Of course.’
‘I have no doubt they belonged to Mr Edward Carrington and from the colour would assume they came from Kashmir. I doubt there will be a contest over proof of ownership.’
‘Then there are the coins, notes and other curios—’ the old gentleman added. ‘It may take some time to finalize this matter. Return mail to the Indian sub-continent can take several weeks.’
‘Should I notify Captain Wainwright, Edward’s brother-in-law of this discovery?’ Lucy asked.
‘For what purpose?’ asked the solicitor.
‘Wouldn’t he, or his late wife, be a beneficiary if this is part of Edward’s estate?’
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‘Indeed Lydia Carrington-Wainwright was Edward’s sister, but because she was married to the captain, Edward saw no reason to make provision for her. On the other hand, our client saw your situation as quite dire and therefore instructed us that the residue of his estate was to pass to you. It will just be a matter of time before we can ascertain the value of the box’s contents but as soon as we hear anything, we will let you know.’
‘Open the door, Pansy!’ The muffled shout came through the letterbox. The tone was intimidating.
‘Come on Pansy! Why won’t you let me in? I just want a bit of company. Five minutes’ chat. Com on, luv. It’s dark and cold out here. Don’t be mean.’
Getting no response Crowther wandered round to the back of the house and rattled on the kitchen door. It was locked also. A few moments later he began tapping. As expected, his repertoire had not changed. When the stones hit the bedroom window Bertie Bottomley was ready to move.
After shouting abuse at the silent house, Crowther walked back towards the lane where he had left his bicycle.
Slipping quietly out of the kitchen door, Bertie followed him. Hiding at the other side of the lane, James waited in the shadows.
When a light came on in the hallway, Stan Crowther grinned, swaggered up to the front door and waited until he heard the key turn in the lock.
‘Now you are seeing sense at last,’ he said when Alice let the door swing open. Taking one step forward, she pointed James’s rifle at Stan Crowther’s stomach.
His chin dropped.
‘Get away from here and don’t come back!’ she yelled.
‘Wait a minute, luv,’ he said, laughing nervously. ‘Put the gun down. I just came to say hello to your mam. We used to be good friends.’
Through Glass Eyes Page 14
