Maija’s shawl! Unconsciously Ann’s hand reached now as it had then for the patch of colour lying vivid against the green-covered earth, the spread of it holding the promise of protection against the fear threatening to engulf her. Had that fear caused her to cry out like a child whose comforting toy had suddenly been taken away, a cry which like before had been swallowed up in a roar?
But the roar had ended in the savage low-throated growl of a predator whose prey was making a break for freedom.
In the shadowed darkness of the bedroom the hand Ann had stretched out for the imagined shawl, struck blindly at the face leering in her mind; she heard the enraged howl as her fingers clawed at the rough pitted flesh, felt the thud of his body against her own, his strange-sounding words hurling at her like so many stones.
There had been little chance of escaping that hold yet even as anger tightened it she knew she had to try. Squirming, twisting, her free hand lifting to strike again stubble-thick cheeks she had hurled herself backwards attempting to use her body weight to pull herself loose.
It might have worked. In the silence of the sleeping house Ann’s hand dropped defeatedly to her lap. In the seconds after he released her, he raised a hand to the stinging scratches painting scarlet lines on the weather-browned canvas of his face and she had turned to run but in that same moment wind from the river had lifted her hair out behind her like a streamer, a ribbon her attacker had caught. He had snatched her back laughing as she cried out against the painful tug to her scalp, continued to laugh as he drew her close, her spine pressed against the hardness of him. His other hand had pushed inside her torn dress, scaly fingers rubbing rasp-like across the tender flesh of her breasts.
Then from the deepest recesses of her mind, rising above the fear, above the revulsion, had come one thought: relax, let her body rest against his, let the scream in her throat become the soft cry of enjoyment; smile as he turned her to face him, then the moment his guard dropped push with all her strength. He might not fall down but he would at least stagger back and that would give her time to run back to the safety of those pretty painted houses.
The thought had warmed her fear-frozen mind. He was heavy-set, his frame encumbered by thick clothing and sturdy knee-length sea boots where she was lighter and so able to run faster.
But the idea had crumbled, sinking with her into welcome darkness at the sight of the man’s friends coming to join him.
Chapter 21
Had she seen three more men racing in, one grabbing her round the waist trying to hold her back, to deny her the safety of her dark place, or had it been an illusion her brain had conjured out of its own terror?
Rising slowly into paler darkness she had tried to wrap herself in the soft velvet of its blackness so as to hide again in depths where pain and fear held no powers.
Yet darkness had withdrawn its shelter.
Light, yellow flickering light played over her closed eyelids; voices, low hushed voices brushed her ears.
Even though deep down Ann knew she was in Leah Marshall’s house the memory of that moment jolted her senses.
They were men’s voices! The men who had attacked her! Where had they brought her, what would they do with her once they had taken their pleasure? Would they leave her in this place? No! Leaving her alive posed a risk to themselves. They would not chance that. The river! She gasped as if already feeling the breath-snatching coldness of those deep icy waters.
‘Ann . . . Ann is awake.’
Her gasp had caught their attention. She had tried so hard not to tremble. If she could lie still, hold her eyes fast closed, maybe they would leave her alone; they might even tire of waiting to take their sport and leave altogether.
‘Ann, Ann.’
She would not answer, she would not.
Of a sudden she realised someone was speaking her name; had she in her fright cried it aloud, were these men now repeating it in order to trick her into wakefulness?
‘Ann.’
Help me! she had prayed silently. Help me not to breathe!
‘Ann . . . Ann, it’s Alec, please . . . please come back, don’t stay in that dark place.’
‘There is no one here will harm you.’
A quiet gentle voice had added itself to the younger-sounding frightened one yet still her mind had whispered ‘trickery’.
‘Do not be afraid,’ the deeper voice of a man had continued, ‘you are safe in the house of Maija. Her sons rescued you. They were returning from their fishing when they spotted a shawl lying on the ground, and recognised it as belonging to their mother. Maija knits her special design into each garment she makes, it is a tradition with the women of the village; that way they identify their own kin should a fishing boat meet with disaster. Maija’s sons were puzzled as to how the shawl came to be there but then they heard a cry, which came from a woman being half dragged along by a man. Fearing some mishap had befallen their mother they caught up with the man. It was not Maija but a young woman whose mouth was bleeding and her cheek marked with the scarlet weal of a blow. That told all.’
‘It’s true Ann, Maija’s sons took you from that man and brought you here to their mother.’
That was Alec’s voice; he would not lie to her.
She drew a deep breath into her aching lungs, ending the pretence of being still unconscious.
Ann watched the tapestry of the past unfold, saw herself lying on the narrow truckle bed Maija had provided for her use and beside it outlined against the pallid yellow light of an oil lamp the darker more solid shape of a robed priest lifting a cross from his chest to touch it with his lips.
‘The one who attacked you was not a man of this village, he is not of Ruotsinpyhtää, for that we thank God.’
The quiet voice of the priest echoed this explanation while behind him Maija, Alec and Maija’s three tall sons almost hidden in the gloom of the tiny house reverently marked the sign of the cross at forehead and breast.
‘He is of the crew of a Russian fishing vessel anchored at the mouth of the river. On occasion they come to Ruotsinpyhtää for to relax from the long days of their work and leave with no trouble; but that man drank not only Nelos Olut, a very strong beer, but also Salmeikkikoska, a spirit of high alcohol and then despite being advised against it drank several glasses of Koskenkova, a vodka that is even more intoxicating than the others; it was this, too much of drinking, had his mind fall to the wickedness of the Devil.
‘Maija’s sons are happy they were able to save you,’ the priest said with a smile, ‘now they and I together must go to the church there to ask forgiveness of the Lord for the beating they gave.’
Maija’s sons! The scene faded as Ann turned to where the dawn light crept over the tiny windowsill. They had rescued her that evening in Ruotsinpyhtää, saved her from an evil that only hours ago had reared its head again.
‘There you go ladies, it’s been a pleasure.’
‘Ar, an’ a mite too much of a pleasure judgin’ by old Daisy, her be fair skippin’ along of the field.’
‘Just you be sure it’s only Daisy and her girl friends does the skipping and not you.’
‘Me skip, eh lad, them days be long gone.’
‘You know what I mean . . .’
‘I knows you be worried for me lad but there be no need; now you get away and see to your own cows afore they suffers from bein’ kept too long for the milkin’, overfull udders be painful for a beast.’
‘I’ll be sure to apologise and ask forgiveness.’
Ask forgiveness. The priest! She must not let him leave without offering her thanks. Frowning in bewilderment Ann gazed across a room which moments before had been darkly shadowed but was now bathed in clear light, a room empty of anyone but herself. But she had heard him speak, had seen him, seen Maija and her sons! How could they not be here!
‘You go rest, I’ll be back in a couple of hours, the dairy work can wait ’til then.’
‘Now look you ’ere . . .’
Maija. Ann smil
ed. There was the reason the room was empty, Maija and the others had stepped outside.
‘. . . there be naught savin’ a prison cell will keep Leah Marshall from her dairy so lessen you wants to see me put there for latherin’ a man’s backside you’ll get yourself off to Hill Rise, Edward Langley, afore I fetches meself a pair of Scotch Hands from out of that very dairy!’
The words snapped Ann back to the reality of where she was. But it was reality tainted with confusion.
It was Edward she heard speaking in the yard, Edward speaking with . . . but it couldn’t be . . . Leah was lying dead in the next room!
‘You has my thanks lad, an’ I be certain you ’ave that of Daisy and the rest of the girls; it’s given a rare start to their day havin’ a man whisperin’ sweet nothings in their ear. Like many a wench they don’t be averse to a bit of flattery.’
‘Does that include Leah Marshall?’
‘You try that, Edward Langley, and you’ll find out what I can truly do with a pair of butter pats.’
It was Leah’s voice, it was her down there in the yard! Bemusement vanishing, Ann raced from the room.
‘It were naught but a bit o’ tiredness.’ Leah smiled as Ann asked for the third time if she was truly feeling all right.
‘But Mr Langley said . . .’
‘Edward Langley builds walls that don’t be needed, though he builds ’em for reason only of kindness.’
‘He loves you very much, he is concerned for your well-being.’
‘I knows wench, I knows.’ Leah nodded over the teacup Ann filled again. ‘But like I tells him Leah Marshall be good for a few years yet, there be no cause for him to go a worryin’ over what were no more than tiredness.’
Teapot in hand, Ann stared into a fire gleaming with life while in its heart it seemed she saw the face of a woman, pale and still, eyes closed against the world. Leah’s face! Lined with weariness she should have helped prevent.
‘. . . you had no thought for Leah or the fact she might need your help . . .’
The words Edward Langley had shot at her the previous evening rang in her brain. Ann set the teapot on the hob of the cast iron fire grate Leah’s years of polishing had shined to a brilliant sable. He had been partly right, she had not given any thought to the amount of work to be done, to the effect it could have on an already wearied Leah. But I did not leave for the reason you stated, it was not so I could rid myself of Alec.
Ann lifted the quietly steaming kettle from its bracket, carrying it to the pump in the yard.
It would have done no good to have told Edward Langley that. It had shown quite plainly on his face as she had run from the scullery that he thought her embrace of Leah, her garbled thanks to heaven the woman was not dead as she had imagined, was a blatant display of lies to cover her own guilt.
So what would he say of her tonight? What would Edward Langley say of the woman who this time would leave without even the excuse of searching for Alec?
‘Y’be welcome to the usin’, Mr Thorpe, it be a kindness you goin’ out your way to visit of folk too sick to be a gettin’ o’ theirself along o’ the chapel.’
‘Y’be welcome . . .’
Enoch Phillips had replied to the request asking for the loan of his pony and trap. But would the man have shown that same generosity had he the least notion of the real purpose for which his vehicle was borrowed? But he would not know. No one would ever find out, nor would they find the body it had carried.
He had thought the man coming from the hedge was Arthur Clews, he had held that same thought while bringing the stone down several times on the fallen man’s head. But it had not been Arthur Clews.
Thorpe reached for the jacket draped carefully across a chair back then glanced at the black valise lying on the table taking pride of place in the cramped living room of his tiny terraced home, a home which soon would be exchanged for the more comfortable Chapel House. It was heaven itself choosing he become minister; he, Thomas Thorpe, and not the man who had carried that valise. But why had the fellow been among the bushes? Answering a sudden call of nature? He shrugged into the jacket. Whatever the reason he had been there, no one would be asking the question and certainly the fellow would never be giving any answer.
For a moment he had panicked. Someone would be sure to know Clews had come to Chapel House, if not his family then maybe a work mate. They might even be following on his heels right now!
Such had been his fears last night, fears which faded when he had seen the face and realised the man he had killed was in fact a perfect stranger . . . a perfectly dead stranger!
Dressed, ready to leave for work, Thorpe glanced again at the leather valise, its brass fastener gleaming against the dark leather. Should he remove it from the table, hide it away? He rejected the notion; he lived alone, he had no one come to cook or clean, and the house, unlike those of his neighbours, was always locked while he was away, therefore he had no need for secrecy. But there had been every need of secrecy when dealing with that body.
Walking quickly along Portway Road, nodding briefly at the greetings of others making their way towards Monway Steel Foundry, Thorpe’s mind replayed what had followed the murder of a stranger.
The knowledge that the man was unknown to him and so likely unknown to anyone else in Wednesbury had helped calm the last tingle of nerves leaving his brain clear, his thoughts precise.
The body had to be moved; stranger or not a man with his head smashed in would give rise to every kind of speculation not least of which would be the question, ‘What brought him to Chapel House?’ There must be no such question and there wouldn’t be if the body were not found here. The solution was clear, but the method? For a moment it had eluded him but then like a beam of light the answer had flashed in his mind: do with this body as he had done with that of Deborah Marshall. But here caution had intervened. This man must not be taken to Holloway Bridge, he must not be tipped into the brook lest the current not be strong enough to carry the body away; nor must it be left lying on the doorstep of Chapel House while he went to Foster Street to request the loan of Enoch Phillips’ pony and trap. He glanced at the line of bushes. They were thick enough to conceal it given the cover of darkness.
A moment to get his breath; best not to appear flurried should he meet anyone as he left Queen’s Place. That same inner voice cautioned him again to flick leaves and bits of twig from his clothes. Then first listening for any tell-tale sound on the path leading to the chapel he had left.
Had fate led him to choose to go by way of the narrow Queen Street and Cross Street rather than the more direct route crossing over the wider Holyhead Road?
He passed through Monway’s large wooden gates, nodding good morning to the watchman lifting a gnarled finger to a dusty flat cap; Thorpe silently thanked the fortune that had smiled on him.
It had been halfway along Cross Street. He had emerged from an opening which allowed access between the streets, a dark empty patch of ground made darker by the otherwise unbroken fringe of soot-clothed houses, when a figure had hurtled into him.
‘I couldn’t find him . . . I searched . . . I searched all day . . .’
Breathless, half sobbed, the words had poured out as Ann Spencer told of her fruitless search for the lad Alec. But while her mind had been distraught his had functioned with ice-cold logic.
‘He is not on the heath.’
Night had hidden the smile.
‘Alec is not lost.’
‘Where? Where is he? Please tell me.’
Though aware of the need for haste, he could not deny himself the gratification of having her plead.
‘Please . . . you must tell me where Alec is.’
The tears in her voice had thrilled him. This was how he wanted this woman.
‘He is with me,’ he had replied, then before she could speak had continued, ‘If you want him then you will come to Chapel House tomorrow evening at eight. You will come alone, after all payment of the sort you must make should be m
ade in private. Oh . . .’ he had paused, ‘I should tell you, the boy is not in that house; he is well hidden, so well in fact that should you refuse my invitation or inform anyone of what is said here your precious Alec will never be seen again.’
He could have insisted that she go with him to Chapel House that same night, but common sense had advised he finish the business in hand. Besides, it had whispered again, the anticipation of a dish is a delight in itself.
He had left her there, his confidence she would not risk the boy’s safety by calling on anyone’s help lending a spring to his step.
‘Y’be welcome Mr Thorpe, may ’eaven reward your doin’s.’
Enoch Phillips’ call following after the trap driving from Foster Street echoed in Thorpe’s mind, adding its own warmth to the glow of satisfaction.
Heaven had indeed rewarded.
The body he had dragged into the hedge still lay where he had left it. Though the man was of slight build it had proved a struggle to lift the dead weight into the pony trap while every second fearing someone might decide to visit the chapel or come to the house at its rear. But nobody had come and despite the need for haste he had taken time to kick away the marks in the gravel left by hauling the corpse; and that had seen heaven once more bestow its favour.
Clouds which had veiled the sky had parted, allowing moonlight to bathe the house and to reveal an object lying near the doorstep; a bag he had not noticed the man carried. The valise now stood in his living room.
Seated at his desk with a ledger open in front of him Thorpe found that his brain refused to leave the scenes which played so vividly in it.
Where to dump the body?
Needle sharp, the question had pricked again and again.
Where? Where?
Then as he had driven from Queen’s Place it seemed he heard the words repeated each time he left Ebenezer Spittle’s house in Short Street.
‘ ’Ave a care a’ crossin’ o’ the ’eath Mr Thorpe, that there Devil’s Pool just be a waitin’ to cop the unwary.’
Friendship's Bond Page 17
