by Jane Jackson
Warm beer-tainted breath against his face, a grating voice warning, ‘Keep your mouth shut or else,’ then they were gone.
He tried to summon the energy to shout. He ought to move. The effort was beyond him. He felt horribly sick and his insides quivered like jelly. The side of his head was throbbing. Lifting a bruised aching arm he touched it carefully and felt sticky warmth. The bleeding worried him less than the sharp stabbing in his ribs each time he breathed. The beating had been brutal and merciless. What if they had not been interrupted? Would they have killed him?
Footsteps approached, stopped. Bryce felt supporting hands under his arms. ‘I thought it might be you.’
He squinted up at the shadowy figure. ‘Marcus? What are …?’
‘Come on, up you get.’
The ground rose and fell, his head throbbed and spun, blackness threatened and his legs shook as Marcus helped him to his unsteady feet.
‘How –’
‘I followed you along the street. I thought about trying to catch you up, maybe suggest a drink, but you disappeared. Then I saw Albie hanging about on the corner. His father and uncle never let him out by himself. He’s far too valuable. He didn’t look at all happy to see me. So when he took off I followed.’
Bryce clung to Marcus’s arm, swaying, his head bent. ‘He said I’d broken the rules. But I haven’t talked –’
‘Someone has. I hear the law has been asking questions. I’m not surprised.’ Marcus snorted. ‘The man’s a fool. I warned him. The money he demands for the use of those boys is sheer extortion. Sooner or later someone was bound to want him taken down a peg.’
Wincing and moving with great care Bryce straightened up. ‘Will he stop now?’
‘What an innocent you are. Of course he won’t. There’s a vast amount of money involved here. Besides, it will never come to court. Quite apart from the fact that no one would be willing to give evidence, half the local judiciary would have to declare an interest.’
Bryce stopped gingerly flexing bruised limbs to stare at him. ‘You can’t mean –’
‘Can’t I? You don’t know the half of it.’
‘No, and I don’t want to.’ Carefully bending down, Bryce picked his broken camera out of the gutter. ‘Bastards! I only bought it today. One of them stamped on it.’
‘Which should tell you two things. That’s what you can expect if you talk out of turn. If they can afford to smash your camera rather than steal it to sell later they’re not short of money. Come on, I’ll take you back to my place, get you cleaned up. You could probably do with a drink.’
‘Thanks, but I’d rather go home.’
‘How are you going to get there?’
‘My horse is at the livery stable.’
‘You’re mad. You’ll never make it.’
‘I’ll be all right.’ Though he was shivering with shock and ached all over, nothing would have induced Bryce to remain in town overnight.
‘Well, if you’re determined to go I won’t try to stop you. Though if you’ve any sense you’ll hire a cab. You can tie your horse on behind.’
The cab driver wasn’t keen. But when Marcus explained that Bryce had been injured trying to stop his camera being stolen, the driver had leaned forward, sniffed suspiciously then agreed for double the normal fare.
During the drive home Bryce realised he couldn’t spend the rest of his life in constant fear of discovery, blackmail, betrayal or further beatings. Reaching the outskirts of the village he paid the remainder of the fare and unhitched his horse.
Too stiff to climb into the saddle he led the animal down the hill over the bridge and into the shoeing shed beside the forge. Knotting the reins through the iron ring he left the horse and walked up through the moonlit street.
The glow through the glass at the top of the door told him it wasn’t too late. He knocked. A few moments later he heard approaching footsteps. A bolt was drawn and a key turned. The door opened. They looked at one another.
Bryce swallowed. ‘Sorry. I shouldn’t have –’ he began to turn away.
‘Yes, you should.’ Edwin pulled the door wider and stood back. ‘I’m so glad you did. Come in.’
Chapter Twenty One
Stepping hesitantly over the threshold, still not sure what he was doing here, Bryce’s nerves tightened as he saw Flora Bowden hurrying down the stairs refastening the buttons on her cuffs.
‘My dear life! Whatever have you done? Accident was it? Fall off your horse? Your clothes is in some mess. You got blood all down the side of your face.’ She frowned and her breath hissed between her teeth. ‘If you been fighting you got no business coming –’
‘That will do, Miss Bowden,’ Edwin interrupted. ‘Please go on back to bed. Come with me, Mr Damerel. We need to clean up that cut on your forehead.’
‘‘Tis never your place to go doing things like that, Reverend!’ Flora scolded. Bryce caught Edwin’s eye and started to turn away as she continued with audible reluctance, ‘I s’pose I could –’
‘I wouldn’t hear of it.’ Again Edwin cut her short. ‘Thank you for offering, Miss Bowden, but I’m perfectly capable. I dealt with far worse than this during my time in India. Besides, weren’t you telling me earlier what a busy day you’ve had and how tired you are?’ Closing the door he turned the key. Then lightly touching Bryce’s arm he gestured towards the far end of the tiled hall.
As Bryce followed he heard Flora Bowden thump heavily up the stairs muttering, ‘‘Tis never right nor proper.’ Annoyed that he had been invited in, she was clearly furious at being dismissed with her curiosity unsatisfied.
As they entered the big kitchen Edwin went at once to the range and stirred the embers into a blaze with fresh coal before pulling the big black kettle over the flames.
A few minutes later Bryce was seated at the scrubbed kitchen table not sure he should be there but too weary to move. He watched the minister make a pot of tea then pour the remainder of the hot water into a large basin to which he added several spoonfuls of salt.
‘An excellent antiseptic,’ Edwin explained. ‘Don’t move.’ He left the kitchen, returning with two clean towels and a bottle of brandy. ‘Being both Methodist and a minister I’m teetotal. Yet I’d be foolish indeed to deny the medicinal powers of brandy.’ After pouring the tea he added milk then liberally laced one of the cups before pushing it towards Bryce. ‘Drink, it will do you good.’
Taking a mouthful of his own tea he began tearing a piece of soft clean rag into strips. ‘That’s a nasty head wound.’
Bryce’s trembling made the cup rattle against its saucer as he tried to pick it up. Gripping it in both hands he raised it to his lips inhaling the brandy fumes as he swallowed. It burned its way down spreading instant comforting warmth and soothing ragged nerves. He cleared his throat.
‘It was just a stupid accident. But I didn’t want the family to see me looking like this.’ He bit back a wince as Edwin gently bathed the caked and crusted blood from his face. The water in the basin turned pink then red. He closed his eyes. Why had he said that? Because he couldn’t sit here indefinitely without speaking. He waited for Edwin to ask why he hadn’t simply ridden to his uncle’s house? After all John Ainsley was a doctor. More importantly he lived at the lodge, only a few hundred yards from Damerel House.
‘Of course not.’ Dropping the now crimson rag into the cooling water Edwin carefully dried around the wound. ‘That’s quite a swelling. It’s not actually bleeding. But to keep it clean a bandage would –’
‘No. No, I’ll let the air get to it. It will heal more quickly.’
‘And a bandage might excite unwelcome attention. I should have thought of that. Nor do I blame you for wanting to avoid such an event. Mrs Chenoweth would immediately assume you had deliberately acquired this injury for the express purpose of diverting attention away from her.’
Surprised, Bryce looked up and met Edwin’s rueful grin.
‘It is not always easy to be as charitable as one might wish.
’ Sitting down Edwin picked up his cup. ‘I’m truly glad you came. I’ve been hoping for an opportunity to apologise for my behaviour the last time we met. You were looking for help.’
‘No –’ Bryce began in automatic denial, but Edwin carried on as if he hadn’t spoken.
‘Because I was tired, I knew I wasn’t at my best and wouldn’t be able to give you the attention you needed.’ His grimace was both wry and shame-faced. ‘Only I didn’t explain myself very well, did I?’
Bryce tried to shrug and gritted his teeth to stifle a groan as his ribs and shoulder protested. Sweat broke out on his forehead. Raising the cup once more he swallowed deeply.
‘Are you bleeding anywhere else?’
Bryce shook his head.
‘Anything broken?’
He pressed one hand to his ribs. ‘Just bruises and strains I think.’
‘Arnica ointment is good.’
Bryce gave a brief nod. ‘Grace has got some.’
‘How is she?’
‘Better, I think. But very quiet. You know, thoughtful?’
Edwin reached for the pot. ‘Another?’
‘It’s late. I should go.’ He didn’t want to move. It was quiet here, and sanctuary of a sort.
‘Have some more tea,’ Edwin urged. Without waiting for an answer he filled both cups and added another dollop of brandy to Bryce’s. Lifting his own cup he rested his elbows on the table and sipped.
The silence stretched. Within Bryce tension built, bubbling up like molten lava inside a volcano. Eventually it reached the surface.
‘It wasn’t an accident,’ he murmured. Something shifted inside him as the admission triggered a wonderful sense of release. ‘It was a beating.’
Edwin nodded and continued sipping his tea.
‘Aren’t you going to say anything?’
‘Such as?’
‘Well, I don’t know. Ask why, for a start.’
‘If you want me to know you’ll tell me.’
Bryce swallowed. Bending his head he passed a hand over his face then rubbed the back of his neck. ‘I – It’s not – easy.’
‘Perhaps not. But will telling me be worse than what you’ve already suffered? What you are still suffering?’
Raising his head Bryce saw on the minister’s features the same lines of strain his shaving mirror reflected back at him each morning. Meeting Edwin’s gaze he glimpsed torment but there was no sense of identification. Edwin was troubled but he was normal. Not like him.
Slowly, painfully, he related the whole miserable story: his awareness of being different, an outsider; his loneliness and the embarrassing attempts at matchmaking by friends and family. He spoke briefly of Tarun. Shyness and remembered wonder made him stumble over disjointed phrases as he tried to describe recognition, attraction, gratitude. By the time he reached the events of earlier that evening the teapot was cold, his voice hoarse.
‘I didn’t choose to be like this,’ he said bitterly. ‘No one in his right mind would deliberately choose a life that would label him evil, perverted, a criminal. I swear I didn’t know they were using children. When I saw – when I realised – I tried to stop them. The child was crying. I thought he was an innocent victim.’ He gave a bitter laugh. ‘He attacked me, accused me of interfering and causing trouble for him with his father. Tonight his father beat me for breaking the rules.’
‘The child is a victim,’ Edwin said quietly. ‘Though he may never recognise it. Do you regret what you did? Trying to protect the boy?’
‘No. How could I? I may be a misfit,’ his mouth twisted bitterly, ‘a pervert. But a child –’ he shook his head flinching at the pain. ‘That’s wrong, wicked. No, I don’t regret it. But I can’t stay here.’
‘In the village?’
‘In Cornwall. I shall go back to India. Not just for the family’s sake. Though obviously if I’m living abroad people here are far less likely to hear anything that might cause gossip or a scandal. When Richard gets married he won’t want to travel any more. Someone will have to find new species to increase the Hawkins rhododendron collection. Who better than me?’ He paused. ‘But the real reason I’m going is because in India I was truly happy for the first time in my life.’
A smile flickered across Edwin’s mouth. ‘You were fortunate. Some people never achieve that.’
Bryce was deathly tired. His bruises were stiffening and he ached all over. Yet for the first time in months he felt a spark of anticipation, a glimmer of hope. He had made his decision and the relief was incredible. ‘Thank you for listening. For not condemning me.’
‘What right have I to condemn anyone?’ Edwin glanced away his features tightening in a spasm of anguish. Bryce wondered if the minister was ill. He looked exhausted. Before he could enquire Edwin straightened in his chair.
‘Have you not heard the saying: do not judge a man until you have walked a mile in his shoes? When do you plan to tell your family? About returning to India, I mean?’
‘As soon as possible.’
‘And your injuries?’
Bryce shrugged, and winced. ‘My horse shied, threw me off.’
They both stood up.
Edwin extended his hand. ‘Good luck. I hope you find – happiness.’
Bryce gripped the outstretched hand. ‘Thanks. You too.’ He hesitated, then blurted, ‘Are you and Grace –’ He stopped short as a spasm tightened Edwin’s features. ‘Sorry, none of my business.’
Reaching for the doorknob Edwin smiled with effort. ‘I’ve known despair. I learned how to deal with it. But hope – hope is far more difficult.’
Wickram Pearce, the senior partner and grandson of the original founder of Pearce, Grylls and Curgenven, laid several documents on the broad oak desk. ‘Please read each of them carefully, Mrs Renowden.’ He hesitated.
Sensing concern, she glanced up at the portly, balding figure, formal in black coat, pinstriped trousers and stiff collar. Behind his wire-rimmed spectacles his pale eyes held concern.
‘You are quite sure–?’
‘Yes, Mr Pearce. I’m quite sure. I’m also very grateful to you for the speed and efficiency with which you have managed everything.’ They both knew he’d had little choice. Without actually saying so she had made it abundantly clear that if he wasn’t able – or willing – to do as she asked, and quickly, she would take her business elsewhere.
Dorcas had little interest in money for its own sake. Its use lay in what it could do. In this instance it had ensured completion within a few days of arrangements that under normal circumstances might have taken weeks. But these were not normal circumstances. Without money neither her plans, nor their achievement, would have been possible.
‘It is always a pleasure to assist a valued client like yourself, Mrs Renowden. While you read through the papers I shall fetch two of my clerks.’
Dorcas focused on the neat copperplate. She glanced up as the two clerks attired in black suits and stiff collars entered the book-lined office.
Mr Pearce cleared his throat. ‘Mrs Renowden, are you entirely satisfied that the documents accurately represent your wishes?’
‘I am.’
‘Then will you kindly append your signature to each one?’ Uncapping his gold-nibbed pen he offered it to her.
She signed, watching as each clerk added his name as a witness. When they had finished, retreating as silently as they had come, the attorney picked up the documents and scrutinised them to ensure the ink was dry.
She knew he did not understand or agree with what she had done. But it was her money, her decision. Though she would not see the effect, this act was reward enough.
A few minutes later she took her leave. Climbing into a cab she gave the driver directions.
Almost an hour later she alighted.
‘Please wait for me. I won’t be long.’
She crossed to the front door and dropped the polished brass knocker twice. A liveried manservant led her into a large room furnished with valuable antiques and pi
eces obviously kept for sentimental reasons. Though unusual the overall effect was comforting.
A few moments later Mary Prideaux entered, greeting her visitor with a smile that did not entirely hide her puzzlement.
‘Good afternoon, Mrs Renowden. Please sit down. May I offer you some refreshment?’
‘No, thank you. I won’t keep you long. There is something you should know. What you do with this information is up to you. You will not see me again.’
A few minutes later as her hostess sat stiff and blank-eyed on a faded sofa Dorcas quietly left the room. She had not come out of malice or jealousy. But after so many lies and so much deceit it was time for truth.
Back at the cottage she changed into old clothes and cleaned every room from top to bottom. As the evening approached she built a bonfire of her unsold canvases including her final disastrous effort. As they crackled and burned she threw into the leaping flames everything that might conceivably link her with Henry. Then she bathed. Tying a robe over her nightgown she made herself a cup of tea, lit the oil lamps, sat down at the table and wrote to Grace. After that she packed.
Soon after dawn the following morning, dressed in a travelling costume of holly green skirt and jacket over a cream high-necked blouse, her hair piled up beneath a smart hat trimmed with pheasant feathers, Dorcas walked through the cottage, checking that everything was clean and tidy.
She opened the cottage door to the cab driver’s knock.
He glanced at the two suitcases standing side by side. ‘That all?’
‘Yes, that’s all.’ They had been Zander’s. She was glad she had kept them.
‘Holiday, is it?’
‘No. A longer journey.’
Shrugging, he carried the cases out. Dorcas locked the door and put the key under the flowerpot at one side of the path. The gate squealed as she closed it.
‘Need a drop of oil on they hinges,’ the driver said. Helping her in, he swung himself up onto the driving seat, picked up the reins and clicked his tongue. The horse broke into a brisk trot. The clop of hooves and grinding rumble of wheels was loud in the sharp morning air.
