She had of course agreed to his request and though she would miss those moments in the pretty little church, the walks along the river bank, their confinement would ensure Alec continued to rest.
Ann glanced from the window at a sky suddenly darkened with threatening rain clouds but her eyes seemed to see only the lamplit gloom of a small room, a boy lying on a truckle bed to the side of a black iron stove obediently swallowing medicine from a spoon held to his lips by an elderly grey-haired woman, a woman who smiled at a young man entering the room. But the smile was quickly gone. She reached for her bright knitted shawl, answering the young man with brief hurried words, and left the house.
Ann watched herself ask if anything was wrong while the young man, not understanding her words yet obviously reading correctly the anxiety in her eyes, answered by bending his knees, placing his hands together with his eyes closed before straightening and making the sign of the cross to head and chest.
‘She is gone to church,’ Alec laughed, delighted at guessing the object of the performance, ‘Lars is saying his mother is gone to church.’
But why so hastily?
It had remained unsaid. While she took hot water from the stove to wash utensils used in the preparation of poultice and medicine, the young man Lars amused Alec with shadow pictures, animals and birds his hands and fingers created in the glow of the lamp.
Then Lars was no longer in the room, Maija was taking garments from a deep chest, putting some to one side while depositing others on the cleared table, as Alec lay asleep. A peaceful scene yet Ann felt the tension of it throb again in her veins.
The priest, half hidden by the well of shadows, spoke softly to Maija then beckoned to the younger woman at Alec’s bedside. He began to speak rapidly, only realising he was doing so in Finnish when Ann shook her head.
‘Forgive . . . forgive.’ He shook his own head briefly before he went on. ‘Lars comes to warn the strangers in the village are not come for the buying of fish and beer nor are they Finn. The one with the bruised face is Russian but his companions Lars tells are German. They are like to be part of the force supplied by that country to assist our government suppress the revolutionists. This I fear poses danger for us all.’
‘Danger . . . I don’t understand!’
‘Germany and England are at war, should you and the boy be discovered here you could both be taken prisoner and Maija and her family – maybe the whole village – punished for sheltering you.’
‘But Alec might not be English, we can’t be certain.’
The priest turned momentarily to the sleeping boy and in the dimness it seemed his lips moved in silent prayer.
‘We can be certain he is not Finn. But that I fear might have little relevance; the fact of his being with you, an English woman, will arouse suspicion and seeing what I have of those men leads to the belief interrogation would be far from gentle; the boy . . .’ he glanced again towards the truckle bed, ‘the boy would suffer greatly.’
Ann saw her own reaction, saw herself reach to wake the sleeping Alec, saw the black-robed figure catch her by the arm.
‘Not yet, let him sleep.’
‘But we wouldn’t want Maija or anyone to suffer because of us. We have to leave now, before it is too late.’
‘No, the risk of being seen is too great. In the hour before dawn Aarno and Berndt will come for you. You and the boy will go with them to the fishing. They will try to get you to England, but the journey will not be easy for there are enemy ships in both the Baltic and the North Sea.’
Maija’s sons came as promised.
Beyond the window sounds drifted on the warm afternoon, clucking hens scratching in the yard, grunts of Betsy and her piglets snuffling at the trough, an occasional moo of cows grazing in the meadow, but Ann stood in a world of blackness, a sharp wind biting at her face.
Maija had sorted clothing for her from the chest: trousers, a thick wool jersey topped by a thicker jacket, a bright knitted cap which completely covered her hair and forehead. She held on tightly to Alec with one hand, her own clothes bundled in a cloth bag gripped in the other. Above them cloud heavy and black scudded across the sky; shafts of pale intermittent moonlight played over streets so quiet it seemed the very earth slept.
‘Hei!’
Ann seemed to watch a group of figures, their shapes dark silhouettes exposed in the open space stretching between houses and river bank.
‘Hei!’
With this second ‘hello’ a man shuffled from a doorway, a flash of moonlight revealing something held in his hand. Was the man holding a gun? Her memory of the episode aboard the ferry made her gasp but Aarno swiftly shushed her as he pushed her behind him. A flash of steel blade glinted in the same brief break in the cloud; he murmured softly to his brother who, catching hold of Alec’s free hand, urged them towards the river.
Stumbling after Berndt, dreading every step on that unfamiliar ground would have her fall headlong, a further shout made her nerves scream with fear in case the man’s noise woke the village, and brought on to the street the very people they were attempting to avoid. Then, from the well of shadow cast by a building, another figure emerged, weaving drunkenly towards the one now lifting chest-high the object he held.
‘Olut.’ A man’s voice laughed, errant moonbeams glistening on the bottle waving above his head. ‘Olut ei . . . koskenkova kyllä.’
‘He say no olut, no beer, koskenkova – vodka – is better, no trouble more.’
Berndt’s laboured explanation as the drunken pair turned back in the direction of the houses left a sob of relief in Ann’s throat as Aarno rejoined them, a murmur from him bringing a grin to his brother’s face, a grin echoed when moments later Lars appeared at their side with an empty bottle in his hand.
Fish! Ann’s nose wrinkled at the pungent recollection. They had joined the larger fishing vessel anchored off the mouth of the river, Aarno and Berndt helping herself and Alec on to the deck, Lars carrying her bundle of clothes. Alec had settled immediately, helping with the gutting of fish when preparing meals, working alongside Lars at the nets, comforting her when her stomach rebelled at the sight of food. How many days had it taken for the promised ‘sea legs’? She had not counted but at last she had been able to go on deck. As on her journey to Russia to join her parents the very vastness of the sea, the sheer boundless expanse of water marked by nothing but the vessel on which they sailed, held her speechless. Aarno and his brothers had smiled, trying with their limited knowledge of English to tell her this was the way they preferred, that they hoped to meet no ship that was not a fishing boat.
But their hopes had been dashed. Fresh pictures sprang to Ann’s mind, pictures of a grey overcast sky, of waves chopping fractiously at the sides of the boat, of Lars rushing Alec below deck, Berndt directing her to sit on a coil of rope beside which was a bucket of freshly caught fish, sharp movements of one hand down chest and stomach indicating she begin to gut them.
What followed had been a nightmare of fear.
A boat grey as the waves it sailed upon, a gun mounted on its deck, had drawn alongside; two men in dark blue clothing and round caps were coming aboard, the rifles in their hands jerking accompaniment to staccato demands. But it was the flag stretched taut in the breeze, a flag portraying a large black cruciform shape whose narrowed inner edges were overlain with a white circle and at whose heart stood a crowned eagle with wings outstretched that had held her gaze: the imperial war flag of the German Kaiser.
‘. . . the eagle is pushed from its nest . . .’
Maija’s muttered words echoed. Was it this flag she had stared at with that strange vacant look? Was this the eagle she had spoken of?
‘. . . its wings are broken . . .’
The wings of the eagle of that flag were not broken, they were spread powerfully, arrogantly wide, every contour seeming to express challenge.
At the loud insistent bark of an order shouted over the screech of wind Ann’s mental vision switched to where Ber
ndt stood beside open and empty fish boxes, the shrug of his shoulders and a nod of the head towards nets still in the water signifying a lack of catch.
Irritation lending force the sailor kicked viciously at the nearest box then strode up to the bucket.
‘Ja?’ he snorted eyeing the fat silver-scaled contents. Then again, ‘Ja?’ but in a different tone. Ann shivered with the memory. There was no irritation, only a breathy almost hissed approval followed by a strong hand fastening about her wrist and jerking her roughly to her feet.
‘Nein,’ his companion called, glancing towards their own vessel.
The laughed reply held no meaning but the grip on her wrist as he dragged her towards the hatch had screamed its reason in her brain.
Berndt’s cry of protest and his move to help her, were halted by a rifle jabbed to his middle. Her captor had flicked a thumb to his nose adding insult to another coarse laugh, then letting his own rifle fall to the deck had flung her face down across the closed hatch, his hands throwing her heavy jacket up over her shoulders before snatching at the waistband of her trousers.
The buttons snapping off, the slide of cloth!
Ann felt again the sting of her forehead, the pressure of a hand heavy on the back of her head forcing it against the wooden hatch cover, the touch of rough fingers on her waist.
Lars waved a bottle raised in each fist in an attempt to distract the attacker. But welcome as was the proffered vodka the drinking of it was to wait.
She could not see what the man was doing yet the movement at her back suggested the loosening of his clothes. Ann gasped again, a vicious punch to her spine ending the twist to free herself.
He was pulling again at her trousers, inching them further, easing them on to the swell of her hips, his fingers digging forcefully into her flesh, but all of this was as nothing compared to the dread filling her mind.
‘Achtung.’
The word meant nothing to her but its effect upon the man tearing at her clothes was pronounced. His hands stilled on her body, a ragged intake of breath his only movement.
‘Achtung! Zurück zum Schiff! Achtung! Zurück zum Schiff!’
Called through a megaphone, it carried across the whine of wind and the slapping of waves.
At the obvious command the sailor guarding Berndt called warningly to the other then with his rifle slung across his shoulder and the bucket of fish clutched in one hand, a bottle snatched from Lars deposited with the fish, he proceeded to lower himself over the side using his free hand to cling to the rope ladder.
‘Gott im Himmel!’
The words accompanied a savage kick to her rear; the man continued to swear as he turned to follow his mate, grabbing the second bottle before he too scrambled down into the waiting rowing boat.
Trembling, near to tears as she had been during those terrifying minutes, Ann breathed heavily as the scene faded.
Lars had run to her, shielding her with his body while she adjusted trousers and jacket, then helped her to her tiny cabin, but it had been Aarno with his slightly better knowledge of English who had answered the question of how that man had known her to be female.
It has been days after the ordeal. Aarno had stood beside her on the deck, his tall broad frame etched against a setting sun whose touch on his bronze beard made it gleam golden red against weather-bronzed skin. The same golden light made his blue eyes sparkle, eyes which had blazed contempt.
‘He not care; male, female, he not care.’
Turning from the window Ann’s stomach clenched.
‘. . . male or female, woman or boy, either is acceptable.’
The horror was happening all over again, and this time there would be no one to prevent it.
Chapter 24
The front door! Thomas Thorpe’s nerves screeched. Only one sort of visitor knocked at the front door: the police.
They had found the body. His stomach jolted sickeningly. They had found the body he had thrown into the Devil’s Pool, they were here to arrest him. But how could they be certain it was him had killed that man? Had he overlooked something? Dropped some personal item of his own then missed seeing it in the darkness? Thoughts tumbled chaotically but from beneath the tumult another surfaced. The police could not be certain he was home; he must remain still, make no sound, that way they would assume the house empty and leave, then when darkness fell he could get away.
No, they could not know for sure he was here . . . but half of Cross Street would. Like water on a flame it killed the hope. Though he never invited any neighbour into his home they missed little of what went on in the street; they would have seen him arrive from work, they would be watching even now from behind cheap lace curtains. Maybe at this moment one or two were deciding to come ask was everything all right. He grimaced silently. They would be there to stick their noses in, to angle for anything they could gossip over.
A second brisk rap made his pulses race but years of quick thinking, of covering his own back, left his brain cool enough to think lucidly.
He had met only two people apart from the dead man. Enoch Phillips would see nothing amiss in the borrowing of a horse and trap; the vehicle had been returned to him empty as when it had been loaned. He would know nothing of any help to the police. And Ann Spencer? Despite nerves taut as bow strings Thorpe almost smirked. They had met on the street, what was exceptional in that? He would say he had tried to calm her fear by telling it was not unusual for a young lad to lose track of time, that the boy was probably already back at Leah Marshall’s house. But of course if that was not so and if the lad did not return in a couple of hours then he would organise a search; she would not deny the truth of this, nor would she make any claim against Thomas Thorpe: his threat that the boy would never again be seen would hold Ann Spencer’s tongue very, very still.
Bolstered by his own sense of supremacy he opened the door, his every sense reeling at the sight meeting his eyes.
‘. . . you will never be the recipient of Ann Spencer’s love . . .’
Edward Langley paused in the task of washing down the milking parlour. Much as he tried to prevent it those words cut as deep now as when she had said them. But why on earth should they! He pushed the broom savagely. It was like he had said to her, she meant nothing to him. Then why did he feel like a child who had lost his well-earned penny? He argued with himself as he swept slurry into the yard. She had shown little concern for Leah or for anyone else. His broom stilled as he acknowledged the truth he had tried to deny. The ‘anyone’ was Edward Langley!
‘. . . I ask you to remember what I do is my own business, it has nothing whatsoever to do with you.’
There was the crux of his annoyance, of the angry words he had thrown: he wanted to be part of her business, part of her life, he wanted her to turn to him when things went wrong.
‘. . . you, Miss Spencer, mean nothing to me . . .’
Of all he had said that was the most fallacious; Ann Spencer meant everything to him.
He was in love with Ann Spencer! With a mocking laugh he pushed the broom. Acceptance of that reality had come too late. Watching muddied water seep away into the drain he smiled bitterness at the next thought. He loved Ann Spencer but like the water he brushed away his reluctance to face the truth had swept her from his life.
Leah had accepted that the girl did not wish to remain in Wednesbury, yet deep inside she was hurting too.
He set the broom in its place against the wall of the milking shed and gazed out across the open field towards Leah’s house, a dot in the distance.
Leah Marshall had loved him from birth, and he loved her dearly . . . but there had been room in his heart for another. Now hope of that was gone and he must live with the heartache of that loss.
He inhaled quickly to pull himself together and was halfway across the yard when a sound arrested him.
Birds calling as they settled for the night, the soft lowing of milked cows, the snicker of the horse in the stable? He was so used to these sounds he had t
o deliberately concentrate for them to register. No, none of them had caught his attention. Listening for several seconds then hearing nothing he smiled wryly: now he was imagining things.
Almost at the door of the kitchen he stopped abruptly, every sense alert. There it was again! It had not come from the house. Turning slowly taking care his boots did not crunch on the hard-packed earth, he swept the yard with a sharp penetrating gaze as he listened intently.
The stable! He looked towards the low wooden building. Old Jess could pull a cart, he could nibble at the odd bit of greenery while out on the rounds, he could neigh when the fancy took him but one thing he couldn’t do was laugh; and the sound of a laugh had come from that stable.
Had whoever was in there already been inside the house, had his home been rifled for anything a thief might value? Doors were never locked; anyone wanting to enter would have met no deterrent; but why go into the stable? Unless of course the thief meant to steal the horse along with whatever else he had taken. But if that swine wanted Jess he was going to have to fight for him.
‘I shall show this to him, but he must ask nicely for it.’
Standing at the door left carelessly ajar Edward listened to the speaker inside.
‘I shall tell him it is so easy to do, that he should learn quickly.’
Learn what quickly – how to rob people’s houses? Edward flung the door open, only to stare disbelievingly at the intruder.
Thomas Thorpe looked uneasily at the figure on his doorstep. What he had dreaded a night back, that the man approaching from the hedge was Arthur Clews, had proved groundless but the person confronting him now was even more formidable. He stared at grey-streaked brown hair dull as the eyes which looked back at him, at a body strengthened by years of hard work and a face whose determined expression spoke clearly of a matter to be settled.
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