by Iris Gower
It did not take him long to search the upper floor, the rooms were empty, the servants would be working until the early hours. His spirits dropped as he saw there was no sign of Catherine’s presence, no locked rooms, no evidence at all that anything untoward had happened here.
‘Have you lost your way, sir?’ He turned to see Todd looking at him with a careful expression on his face. Boyo decided to take a chance, it was clear he was getting nowhere alone.
‘I’m looking for a young girl, a girl with red hair; Catherine her name is, have you seen her?’
Todd shook his head. ‘No-one of that description in the hotel, sir and I know.’ He smiled, ‘The place is practically empty, the new owner’s spoiled a good thing, the old customers liked the inn as it was. No, there is no young girl here, sir.’
‘But has she been here; please, this is very important, I must find her.’
The man looked around quickly as though fearing being overheard. ‘What’s it worth to you, sir?’ Todd said.
‘It could be worth quite a lot of money, if you give me the right information,’ Boyo said.
‘Well, I heard of a young girl, such as you describe, being found sick, near to death like. Jacob, who is a bit …’ Todd tapped his forehead meaningfully, ‘he took her to the hovel he calls his house, had old Winnie take care of her.’
Boyo moved closer to him, his shoulders hunched threateningly. ‘How do you know this? Why should she be brought all this way from her home?’
‘The tale is common gossip, this is a small village, see. As for why and wherefore, I can’t answer that, sir, but I tried to tell you that Jacob, he’s a halfwit, see?’
Boyo stared hard at the man. ‘Where does this “halfwit” live?’
‘Dunno that, sir, I told you the gossip; that’s all I know, honest, sir.’ He held out his hand and Boyo thrust some money at him and pushed the man aside.
‘My horse been stabled?’
‘Aye, sir, nice and warm the creature is, rubbed down and fed, like a pig in clover he is.’
Boyo made his way down to the bar. Here, near the fire, a few old men were sitting, obviously locals. One had a sheepdog at his side. Boyo sat down with them and ordered a round, getting information from them might take some time.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
The rain was beating down outside the window of his hotel room but Liam did not notice. Anger raged within him: Honey’s Farm had been sold. First repossessed by the bank, it had later gone to the highest bidder, at least that was what he had been told. The fact that Catherine was missing did not seem to bother anyone, least of all that bastard Hopkins. Something crooked was going on, Liam was becoming more and more convinced that Catherine was being kept out of the way for some reason. He thumped the window-sill in frustration, he had been unable to find the remotest trace of Catherine’s whereabouts, every lead became a dead end. Where in the name of all the saints was she?
The records of the sale named Mrs Bethan Hopkins as the new owner but clearly it was her husband who was behind the deal. Someone had been well-paid to put off all opposition. Liam leaned against the coolness of the glass; now he would have expert help, he had written to a big firm of lawyers in Cork, a firm with which his family had done business for years.
Seamus O’Sullivan had been trained in London, a clever man, a man who, some said, sailed pretty close to the wind to get what he wanted. Seamus had arrived that morning and was installed in the room next door, sifting through the evidence, as he put it.
Liam rubbed his eyes tiredly. Evidence? There was none. Had he not gone over and over every detail of Catherine’s disappearance, asked questions until folks became impatient with him? Still Liam had every confidence that Seamus would ferret around, ask the right questions; at least now he had someone on his side. He returned to his chair and closed his eyes and the image of Catherine rose to the surface of his mind. Where was she, was she lying hurt somewhere, injured, in pain? His imaginings tortured him. He sat up straight and stared down at his hands, at least he was confident that Seamus would sort out the petty crooks who seemed to be running things to suit themselves. Seamus could and would question the Hopkins pair directly, they would not fool him.
Liam had done his best, he had travelled the streets of Swansea, searched from the finest hotels to the seediest lodging-houses and there was no sign of her.
He looked down at the newspaper delivered to the hotel room every morning and the black print seemed to mock him. Why were there no headlines, no questions about the disappearance of an innocent young woman? He pushed the paper away from him. It fell to the floor and the pages fanned out across the carpet. He cursed angrily, bending to screw up the pages, then he hesitated as a name caught his eye.
His mouth dry, he lifted the paper and read the item in the business news; here it was, confirmation of his suspicions. A picture of Boyo Hopkins smiling into the camera stared up at him and he longed to punch the man’s smug face.
The report said that Mr Hopkins was about to extend his business interests throughout Swansea and Liam knew exactly what that meant.
Hopkins wanted power over Catherine, he was offering a bribe in the shape of Honey’s Farm. Perhaps that was exactly what she wanted; perhaps she was, even now, living with the man. Is that where she had been hidden away all this time? It seemed a likely enough explanation.
Liam closed his fists around the picture feeling a cold anger within him, an urge to choke the breath out of Hopkins, to force him to tell the truth for once in his shabby life.
He heard the clock in the foyer of the hotel strike the hour and rose to his feet. It was time he was on his way to meet Seamus in the foyer. He smoothed out the newspaper report, it might prove useful to the lawyer.
‘One day, Hopkins, I will make you pay for what you have done!’ He spoke aloud but his words sounded hollow even to his own ears. He knew, if only he could have Catherine safe in his arms, he would be happy to forget that Boyo Hopkins had ever existed.
Catherine did not remember how long she had lain on the rough ground crying like a lost child but, at last, the sound of the birds in the trees and the twittering of small creatures in the grass penetrated her misery and she knew that it was morning. She pulled herself to her feet, she had to go on, try to find her way to the farm, there she could rest, get back her strength. Once she was fit she could begin the battle to put the farm on its feet again.
As she raised her head, she saw that a stout branch, fallen from one of the trees, lay in the grass beside her; the hand of providence was on her side. She took up the stick and leant on it gratefully.
‘I’ll make it home, somehow,’ she said fervently. Slowly, she began the long walk, trying to ignore the pain in her foot, buoying herself up with images of her kitchen, the fire blazing in the grate, the table laid for tea, cups set on a pristine cloth and the familiar all-pervading scent of the farm around her.
She frowned, what if Cliff Jones hadn’t been able to spare any time to work at Honey’s Farm? The house would be unused and damp, the fields overgrown with weeds, the animals straying, uncared for. It would be an almighty task to begin again but she would do it somehow, she promised herself.
She looked up at the sky and tried to get her bearings. The town was at the edge of the sea, above it sprawled the farmlands, if she headed uphill, away from the coast, surely she would be going in the right direction.
She walked for what seemed hours, her pain numbed now, her movements slow; she tried to lift her mind above it all, to let some deep instinct lead her, there was nothing else she could do.
At last, she came to a familiar landmark, over to the other side of the valley rose the slopes of Kilvey. With renewed vigour, she moved on, forgetting the ache in her bones. She breasted the crest of a hill and tears of weakness came to her eyes, she was on the perimeter of Honey’s Farm.
She was weak with joy as the whitewashed buildings came into sight. She paused for a moment, savouring the sight and then she headed to
wards the gate leading to the house. She pushed it open and took a few unsteady steps forward. The door stood open, the fire was lit and hope blossomed in Catherine’s heart.
‘Boyo?’ her voice sounded strange in the silence. She looked around, the room was a shambles, stale crusts of bread littered the table, cups stood unwashed and she knew that whoever had been in her house, it was not Boyo Hopkins.
She sat down in the old rocking-chair, her head resting against the warm wooden back and, exhausted, she slept.
She was woken by the feeling that she was not alone. She turned, looking fearfully over her shoulder, remembering the way she had been so viciously attacked. She forced herself to move towards the door, her ankle was throbbing, like toothache. Her mouth was suddenly dry. She gave a small scream as the door sprung open and a man with a gun over his arm stood staring at her.
‘What are you doing here, this is private property, can’t you read?’ He gestured towards a sign swinging outside on the fence and Catherine stared at it in disbelief.
‘I can read.’ She held herself upright with difficulty and faced the man. ‘It says that this is private property and it is, it’s my property.’
‘And who do you think you are then?’ The man was the bullying sort, thick of jaw and with a forehead that jutted aggressively over his narrow eyes.
‘I’m Catherine O’Conner, I own Honey’s Farm.’
He gave a slow, unpleasant smile. ‘Not any more you don’t, love.’ He swung his arm in a wide arc. ‘This dump belongs to the Hopkins family, though why they should want it I don’t know.’
‘No! Catherine protested, ‘Honey’s Farm is mine, I haven’t sold it to anyone.’
He shrugged. ‘That’s not what I’ve been told. Now clear off before I set my dogs on you.’
‘But I’ve nowhere to go.’ Catherine fought the despair that threatened to engulf her, she was tired, so very tired.
‘You could always stay here, I suppose.’ The man was looking at her carefully. ‘If you was putting yourself out to be nice to me like.’
Wearily, Catherine shook her head, she hobbled past the man, wanting only to get away from him. Her eyes were stinging, her head ached, she shivered as though she had a fever. Outside the house, she looked out over the hills she loved, the farm which had been hers, the one place she felt she belonged and she flung back her head and screamed out her fear and pain.
‘Clear off you mad bugger!’ She heard the panic in the man’s voice, he thought she was deranged, perhaps she was.
She stumbled away from the farmhouse, downhill towards the town, her throat ached and she felt she could not go on. Almost blindly, in a daze of pain and despair, Catherine found herself back in the streets of Swansea.
Beaten, she leaned against the window of the Grenfell Emporium, wondering if she could pluck up enough courage to go inside and ask for help. She rested her head against the cool glass, her eyes staring into the dim interior and, slowly, she realized that the windows of the emporium were grimy, streaked with dust; the place was empty, closed up, fallen into disuse.
It had begun to rain; heavy, spiteful drops of rain that stung her face and ran down her neck with the chill of icy fingers. Catherine closed her eyes, feeling the sounds of the street receding into the distance; she was weak and ill and she had nowhere to go.
The door of the emporium opened, Catherine heard the jangle of keys. ‘Are you all right?’ The voice was familiar, Catherine forced herself to concentrate.
‘You’d better come with me.’ Hari Grenfell’s face swam into focus. She took Catherine’s arm and led her towards a cab that stood at the curb. Listlessly, she sank back into the cold leather of the seat. ‘Good thing I came to check if there was any mail here for me.’ Mrs Grenfell’s voice echoed faintly in Catherine’s ears.
The cab journey was short but Catherine would not have minded how long it was, she was warm and dry and someone else was taking charge of her life.
The cab jolted to a halt outside the imposing exterior of Summer Lodge, a very different Summer Lodge to the one Catherine had admired from afar. It had been altered, the façade had been changed so that the once grand house now appeared to be an emporium.
‘As you can see, Catherine,’ Hari said, ‘my home is now my place of work; you might have heard gossip about my misfortunes. Anyway, it’s a long story, I’ll tell you about it some time. For now, what you need is care and attention.’
She helped Catherine along a passageway towards the back of the building and into a small suite of rooms. ‘This is where my ladies have their rest times. The stove is kept alight day and night, otherwise the rooms become very cold.’ Hari sounded cheerful, her voice was normal, as though bringing a desperate woman into her home was an everyday occurrence.
She handed Catherine a cup of tea and then set about stoking up the fire. It was only when she had washed her hands that she sat with Catherine, looking at her with obvious sympathy. ‘It’s clear you are very distressed, Catherine, do you want to talk about it?’
Catherine shook her head. Hari leaned forward and put her hand on her arm. ‘Your mother and father were well respected in the area, surely you can trust me to offer a helping hand?’
‘No-one can help,’ Catherine said. ‘I have lost the farm and I don’t know how it happened.’ She shrugged, ‘I know well enough what it means though: that I no longer have a home.’
‘Tell me about it, perhaps things are not so bad as you seem to think. Possibly I might be able to help.’
Catherine shook her head. ‘It’s too late, the farm has been taken from me, I can only think it’s because of my debt to the bank.’ She paused and looked at Hari Grenfell. ‘I have nothing, no home, no money and no friends.’
‘Look, there’s nothing so bad that we can’t make it better.’ Hari smiled reassuringly. ‘For now you can stay here in the house, that’s if you don’t mind the girls coming to and fro to make tea during the shop hours. At least you can spend the night in warmth and safety and try to work out exactly what you are facing.’
Catherine looked around her at what seemed to be a haven of peace. ‘Thank you, Mrs Grenfell.’ There was a constriction in Catherine’s throat.
‘There’s food in the kitchen, bread and a little cheese,’ Mrs Grenfell said. ‘In the morning, I’ll bring supplies from my own kitchen upstairs. In the meantime, I’ll find out all I can about the farm, I have my own sources of information and they are usually reliable.’
She patted Catherine’s arm. ‘It seems that things have changed a great deal for both of us. Don’t look so lost, I’m sure if there is any misunderstanding, it can soon be cleared up.’
She rose and moved towards the door. ‘And by the way, there are some of my things in the wardrobe in the bedroom, a few skirts and coats that I wear when I help out on the shop-floor. Take what you need, I think we are about the same size.’
Catherine looked down at her clothes ruefully, they were wet and mud-stained; she tried to stand and then the room seemed to swim around her. She suppressed a small cry and falling back into her chair, clutched her ankle.
Hari shook her head. ‘You are hurt, why didn’t you tell me?’ she knelt and unlaced the over-large boots. ‘My Lord, will you look at that.’ Hari stared in consternation at Catherine’s bruised and swollen ankle.
‘My dear child, you shouldn’t be walking about on this.’ She leaned back on her heels. ‘That was a stupid thing to say, you obviously had no choice in the matter.’
Deftly, Hari washed and then bound the swollen ankle. ‘I’m not the best nurse in the world but at least that will make you feel a little easier.’
‘You are so kind but I’ll repay you, I promise you,’ Catherine said in a thick voice.
‘Look, my dear, I needed help myself these past weeks. When you reach rock-bottom, there is usually someone to help you up again. Now, I think it might be as well if you were to get into bed and try to rest. Is there anything else you want before I go?’
&n
bsp; Catherine shook her head, her throat was full of tears though her eyes were hot and dry.
‘Try not to worry too much,’ Hari seemed reluctant to leave her alone, ‘I’m going to lock up, now.’ She smiled, ‘Things will seem a lot brighter in the morning, I promise you.’
When Hari had gone, Catherine made her way, with painful slowness, towards the bedroom. The bed was covered in a bright quilt and the pillows were fresh and clean and smelt of lavender. Gratefully, Catherine took off her clothes and slid between the sheets. She turned on her side, buried her face in the pillow and slept.
‘I wanted to bring her up here with me.’ Hari sat at the long dining table, cramped in the small rooms of the upper-floor apartment, barely touching the food on her plate. ‘Poor child, she looks so lost and alone.’
Craig looked at her with wise eyes. ‘Nothing changes, does it, my love?’
‘I don’t know what you mean,’ Hari said, pretending to be offended.
‘I mean that you were always on the side of the underdog and you still have enough humanity to show the rest of the world how shabby it can be.’
‘Nonsense,’ Hari said briskly. ‘How could anyone turn away the poor child? You should see her, Craig, bedraggled and woebegone, her foot badly swollen and signs of bruising around her face. Something has happened to that girl, something she doesn’t wish to talk about.’
‘Well, you have done all you can, you have provided her with food and shelter and tomorrow, I’ve no doubt, you’ll set about interfering in her affairs. That’s the sort of woman you are.’
Hari laughed suddenly. ‘I don’t know why I put up with you, you insult me, you make fun of me and somehow, in spite of it all, I still love you very much indeed.’
‘Quite rightly.’ Craig took up his glass and watching him, Hari thought what a handsome man he still was. There was a touch of grey at his temples, there were creases around his mouth but his lips were still as tantalizing as ever; his body strong, his shoulders broad.
