‘Well, if you’re sure…’ Miss Drake still sounded less than happy with the situation.
‘I’m sure,’ said Miss Vanstone, swinging her legs round so that she was sitting up. ‘There’s no need to trouble the doctor. I’ll just sit here for a while and then I’ll go home. Be good enough to pass me the Chronicle,’ she pointed to the paper which was now lying on the floor, ‘and then I’d like a cup of tea.’
She was sounding much more her usual self now, and it was with some relief that Miss Drake handed her the paper and left her sitting up on the couch, while she went to make the tea.
Emily was more frightened by her sudden turn than she was prepared to admit, even to herself. This had happened to her once before, at home. Her housekeeper had been on hand that time, and she, too, had been sworn to secrecy. Deep breaths were the thing, slow, deep breaths. By the time Miss Drake returned with the tea tray, Emily was breathing normally and feeling much better. She sipped the tea gratefully, and then turned her attention back to the article in the paper.
Mavis Randall, whose two daughters by a previous marriage had, without her knowledge or consent, been sent to Australia by the EVER-Care Trust, is thought to have confronted her husband over his part in this decision, and it has been suggested that it was this that started a fight that ended so tragically in her death.
Suggested? Suggested by whom, I’d like to know, thought Emily fiercely.
Randall, known to be violent, has not been seen since the evening preceding the murder, when he stopped off at the Red Lion public house on his way home from work. The police are asking for anyone who might know his whereabouts to contact them at Belcaster central police station. He is considered dangerous, and should not be approached by members of the public.
The couple’s infant son, Richard, is being cared for by his grandmother, Mrs Lily Sharples.
Lily Sharples! Emily immediately recognized the name. Lily Sharples! So she was at the root of these scurrilous rumours. This Mavis Randall, who’d been murdered by her husband, must be the mother of the Stevens girls; Lily Sharples’ granddaughters.
I might have known, she thought. I might have known she’d be behind this. You’d think she’d have more important things to worry about with her daughter dead on the floor, the murderer still at large and her grandson to look after.
She remembered Lily’s fury at having the girls sent so far away. Well, thought Emily now, wasn’t I right to send them? They were indeed at risk in that dreadful household. Early rescue from that man has probably saved their lives!
She thought about the letter she’d sent to Daphne soon after her last encounter with Lily Sharples, and she felt that what she’d said was now justified by these subsequent events. Yes, indeed, now she’d got over the shock of reading the account of the murder and the suggestion that EVER-Care was responsible in some way, she began to see that once she put her side of the story, she would have the public on her side. Children should not be left in the homes of such violent men, they should be removed and placed where they could be cared for, and brought up in safety. Her belief in herself and the work of EVER-Care was still rock-solid. She knew she had done, and was doing, the right thing.
Feeling revived by the tea, Emily Vanstone went back to her desk and rang the Belcaster Chronicle. When the call was put through she demanded to speak to Mr Chater, the editor.
‘This is Emily Vanstone of Vanstone Enterprises, and the EVER-Care Trust,’ she began when she was finally connected.
‘Good morning, Miss Vanstone,’ cut in Philip Chater, ‘and how may I help you today?’
‘It’s about the article in today’s edition of your paper,’ she said. ‘I have no idea who’s been casting such unsubstantiated slurs on EVER-Care, but I have to tell you, Mr Chater, I expected better of the Chronicle. I take great exception,’ she repeated the words, ‘great exception to such statements being made about the EVER-Care Trust without any reference to me.’ She paused but when the editor said nothing she went on, ‘The EVER-Care Trust maintains the right to decide what is best for individual girls in its care. We never divulge what those decisions are, to protect the child.’
‘I understand your concern, Miss Vanstone, but the Chronicle has to keep in mind PUBLIC INTEREST.’ Philip Chater spoke the last two words in capital letters. ‘Public Interest is what we consider when printing a story. Have these two young girls been sent to Australia without the consent of their family?’ It was his turn to pause, but when Emily made no answer, he went on, ‘People will want to know, Miss Vanstone. It’s in the Public Interest.’
‘It has nothing to do with the public,’ she snapped, ‘and I have no intention of confirming or denying anything about any of my girls. EVER-Care never discusses our children with outsiders.’
‘Well, I’m afraid, Miss Vanstone, I don’t see that I can be of any help to you,’ said Philip Chater. ‘Indeed, I’m not at all sure why you wanted to speak to me.’
‘I want a retraction, Mr Chater, and an apology for slandering EVER-Care.’
‘Out of the question, I’m afraid,’ said the editor smoothly. ‘If EVER-Care has been sending children to Australia, there is no slander, no libel, as we have simply printed the truth.’
‘And what I also want to know, Mr Chater,’ Emily went on as if he hadn’t spoken, ‘is where you obtained this information. Who made these suggestions that there is a connection between this dreadful murder and EVER-Care?’
‘I’m sorry, Miss Vanstone,’ said the editor, sounding anything but, ‘we never reveal our sources. If you would like to make a statement of rebuttal for us to print in our next edition, of course, we’d be happy to have it, but otherwise I fear there is little more I can do to help you.’ And he cut the connection, leaving Emily Vanstone gripping the telephone in impotent fury.
‘Insolent man,’ she muttered as she replaced the receiver in its cradle. ‘Insolent and insufferable man! We’ll see about you. I’ll speak to Martin.’
‘Have you seen the paper?’ she demanded as soon as Martin answered the phone.
‘Which paper?’ asked her brother-in-law.
‘The Chronicle,’ replied Emily. ‘They’re suggesting that there’s some link between EVER-Care and this murder.’
‘Oh, that,’ said Martin. ‘Yes, lot of nonsense if you ask me.’
‘But it’s slander.’
‘No, it isn’t,’ answered Martin. ‘It’s no more than an idea that’s been floated, it’s not a statement of fact.’
‘People will take it as fact,’ said Emily angrily. ‘They’ll believe what they read in the paper, whether it’s true or not. So, what do we do about it, Martin?’
‘Nothing.’
‘Nothing?’ shrilled Emily. ‘Why not? We must refute it.’
Martin sighed. ‘Emily,’ he said, ‘the less we say about it the better. Ignore it. Say nothing, do nothing, and it will all be forgotten in a couple of days. Making a song and dance about it will only give credence to the whole thing.’
‘But—’ began Emily, but Martin cut her short.
‘Emily, you asked for my advice and I’ve given it to you. What you do with it is up to you.’ And, for the second time in half an hour, Emily found herself holding a silent telephone.
She thought about what Martin had said. His advice had been sound, she knew that, but it didn’t make it any easier to take. Her fury at the Chronicle and its arrogant editor was unassuaged. She wanted to vindicate herself and EVER-Care for the decisions she’d made, but she couldn’t do that without revealing the way she’d gone about it.
She was about to leave the office, when Miss Drake told her that the Daily Drum was on the phone and wanted to speak to her.
‘That rag?’ said Emily. ‘What on earth do they want?’
‘They didn’t say, Miss Vanstone, they just asked to speak to you.’
Emily thought for a moment and then sighed. ‘You’d better put them through,’ she said, and picked up her phone.
‘Emil
y Vanstone.’
‘Ah, Miss Vanstone, good afternoon. This is Steve Roberts from the Daily Drum. I was just ringing to see if you had any comment to make about the murder of Mavis Randall and her connection with the EVER-Care Trust… her children being sent to Australia without her knowledge?’
Emily drew a sharp breath. ‘No, Mr Roberts, I have not. No comment whatsoever.’ And this time it was Emily who slammed down the receiver.
32
‘Hey, Betty,’ Sean Bennett called as he came into the room. ‘What was the name of the place you come from?’
‘Belcaster,’ replied Betty, not looking up from painting her nails bright red.
‘No, I know that. No, the name of the home you was in.’
This did catch her attention and she looked up. ‘Laurel House,’ she said. ‘Why?’
‘Here, in the Drum.’ He held up a newspaper. ‘Laurel House, part of the EVER-Care Trust. That the one?’
‘Yeah, that’s it. Why, what does it say?’
‘Says they kidnap kids and send them abroad without asking their families,’ answered Sean. He held out the paper. ‘Some woman been kicking up a stink about it. Here, have a look.’
‘Where’d you get this?’ she said, glancing at the date. ‘It’s a week old.’
‘I know, it’s my prop,’ said Sean.
Sean worked the tube stations, quietly lifting wallets and purses. With a newspaper under his arm as he hurried through the rush hour crowds, he was almost invisible. Sometimes he waited on platforms, and then he read the paper. He had today, and saw the name Laurel House; the place that Betty had told him about.
‘But have a read of it, Bet,’ he said.
Betty skimmed through the article. It told her nothing she didn’t already know and left out much that she did.
Miss Emily Vanstone, founder of EVER-Care, had refused to be interviewed, the Drum announced, and declined to comment. Why would she do that, enquired the Drum, if there was no substance to the allegations? If there was nothing to hide? ‘What,’ it asked, ‘goes on behind closed doors at EVER-Care?’
Betty tossed the paper aside and blew on her nails to dry them.
‘Yeah,’ she said, ‘that’s the place.’
‘And do they?’ demanded Sean.
‘Do they what?’
‘Do they kidnap kids and send them to Australia?’
‘Not ’xactly, no,’ Betty said, ‘but they did send kids out there. Telling them it was better. I’d have gone, anything must be better’n that place, but she didn’t send me.’
‘Who didn’t?’
‘Old Emily.’
‘The one in the paper?’
‘Yeah, her. She’s the cow what’s the boss,’ went on Betty, ‘she’s the one what holds the purse-strings. It’s her pays the Hawk and them others to keep the place running, but she don’t care what they do, as long as there ain’t no trouble.’
‘Paper says some woman’s saying they took her granddaughters. Said they’d been adopted when they’d really sent them to Australia.’
‘Yeah, I know. I knew them kids an’ all. They was sisters and their gran come looking for them.’ Losing interest in the subject Betty shrugged. ‘More important, Sean, d’you get anything today?’
‘Nope,’ Sean replied, ‘nothing.’ He flung himself down on the bed. ‘How much you got left, then?’
Betty opened her purse. She had precisely three shillings and tuppence three farthings.
‘That ain’t gonna get us far,’ groaned Sean.
Betty had met Sean not long after she first got to London. He was a good-looking charmer who lived off other people. He had got chatting to her in a seedy café in Poplar and soon learned that she was new to London, and even as he smiled at her, his eyes gleamed at the thought of an easy pickings. He’d intended to relieve her of the little money she had and move on, but something about her waif-like figure and the way her brown eyes glared fiercely at him from her pale, pointed face had given him pause.
Tarted up a bit, he thought, she wouldn’t be half bad. Not a looker, but she had something, something perhaps that Sean could use to his advantage. Men were always on the lookout for girls, and Sean already had one or two girls he looked after. Betty was, Sean decided, a definite possibility, so he suggested she shack up at his place, ‘just till you find yourself somewhere’.
Betty had discovered that in London even menial jobs were hard to come by, and though nervous about his offer, she’d accepted, relieved, at last, to have somewhere to sleep. His ‘place’ was one grubby room, with a toilet shared by six other lodgers, in a dilapidated house in Shoreditch, but at least it was dry and a huge improvement on the church porches that had been her shelter since she’d arrived. It boasted a narrow single bed, a wobbly table and a scarred bentwood chair.
‘It ain’t much,’ he said as he opened the door and ushered her in, ‘but the bed ain’t bad. Have a lie down and see.’
They’d both had a lie down and Sean had introduced Betty to another reason to go to bed. Despite being terrified at first, and cowering as far from him as she could, Betty had discovered that she rather liked what he was doing to her, and she shuddered as sensations such as she could never have imagined from her own private fumblings flooded through her.
Not usually a man of great sensitivity where women were concerned, Sean realized that, with a little care, a lot more could be unleashed in Betty. She proved to be a fast learner and to his surprise he found she gave him far more pleasure than the usual quick screw. He decided not to hire her out to his punters but to keep her to himself, at least for now. They’d stayed together and he’d taught her his trade. Already a natural thief, Betty had been a fast learner in this area, too.
‘Got to get some cash,’ he said now, ‘or we’ll lose the room. Mickey ain’t gonna take no excuses come Friday.’
Betty had been thinking about this, too, and now an idea struck her. She waved her hand at the discarded newspaper.
‘There’ll be cash in Old Emily’s desk,’ she ventured.
‘What? Her in the paper?’
‘Yeah,’ Betty nodded. ‘Trouble is getting to Belcaster.’
‘That ain’t a problem. We can hitch. What sort of cash are you talking about?’ Betty told him what she’d taken before she’d made her escape.
‘That’s not much,’ scoffed Sean. ‘Hardly worth going unless we get at least a fiver or more.’
‘It could be worth our while,’ insisted Betty, remembering the knick-knacks up in the Hawk’s abode. ‘There’s other stuff worth having in that place.’
‘Yeah, but there’s always someone there, ain’t there? We don’t want no trouble.’
‘Not on Sundays,’ said Betty.
‘Sundays?’
‘They all have to go to church, and Old Emily’s always in church. Shows everyone how holy she is.’
‘So,’ Sean said thoughtfully, ‘no one’s home on Sunday.’
‘Not in the morning, they ain’t,’ replied Betty. ‘We can watch them all marching along to church, check they’ve gone. Then we’ve got a good hour, hour and a half, before they all come back again.’
‘Hour’s plenty,’ said Sean, who was warming to the idea. ‘Don’t want to push our luck. How’re we going to get in?’
‘Kitchen window. It don’t latch proper. It’ll be stiff, but you can pull it open.’
The next morning found them beside the A4, and with Betty standing, thumb out, at the roadside, it wasn’t long before a large lorry drew up beside her and they had their ride.
They arrived in Belcaster on Saturday evening. It was cold and dark and there was rain in the air.
‘Where are we going to sleep?’ asked Betty, reluctant to go anywhere near Laurel House until she had to.
‘You tell me, kiddo,’ answered Sean. ‘’S your town.’ But Betty had been incarcerated in the orphanage for as long as she could remember, only emerging to go to school and church.
‘I dunno, do I?’ she snapped
. ‘We better find somewhere. I ain’t sleeping rough here.’
Sean actually had nearly ten shillings he’d removed from the offertory box in a Catholic church in Shoreditch, but he didn’t want to use that if they didn’t have to.
‘I ain’t sleeping out,’ Betty repeated adamantly. ‘Come on, Sean, I know you got money. We got to find a proper room.’
Sean gave in, and they found a room in a pub; two bob each, but no breakfast.
With the key safely in Sean’s pocket, they set out to have a look at Laurel House. Following the landlord’s directions to Russell Green, they finally reached streets that Betty recognized, and she was able to lead him to the EVER-Care home. They strolled past, arm in arm, a couple walking out on Saturday evening.
‘Grim-looking place,’ Sean said as he paused to look over the hedge.
‘You don’t know the half of it!’ growled Betty, pulling on his arm. There was a light in the tower room, the Hawk’s nest, but otherwise the house stood in darkness.
At last Sean moved on, and with a wave of relief that left Betty feeling weak, they turned the corner into the next street.
‘Where do we watch from?’ Sean asked.
Betty led him along the familiar route towards Crosshills Methodist Church. ‘They have to pass here,’ she said. ‘You can stand there,’ she pointed to the park gates, closed now for the night, ‘and count the adults.’
Next morning Sean stood leaning on the gate, smoking a cigarette and watching the world go by. Betty was inside the park, well concealed by the bushy hedge. As she had predicted, the small crocodile of girls came past, led by a hard-faced woman, whom Sean assumed was the Hawk, the last few pairs being chivvied along by two other women. The Dragon and Ole Smithy?
As soon as she saw the Hawk, Betty turned her back. The sight of her arch-enemy make her feel physically sick and the sight of the girls, many of whom she knew well, walking obediently in twos, made her suddenly angry. She wanted to shout at them, ‘You don’t have to stay! Break out! I did!’
The Throwaway Children Page 38
