Ida Hewitt remained silent for several minutes while James accepted a sandwich from his housekeeper, while he ate it, while the table was cleared. Then she spoke. ‘When you give up on life like I did, when you ignore your family and neglect them, it’s a selfish way to carry on. I grieved something shocking when my lad died, but I weren’t the only one to suffer a loss. Trust me to make a song and dance of it. So when Guardian Wilkinson came to my house, he made things a lot easier, bringing food and soap, bits of clothes, all kinds of stuff. In a way, he helped me to . . . what’s the word? . . . to indulge meself.’
James placed a hand on Ida’s. ‘You must also forgive yourself,’ he begged.
She blinked rapidly. ‘I hope you’re wrong, but he is a bit peculiar, like.’
‘Mona told me about his childhood.’
‘He never had no childhood.’ Ida’s tone was sad.
‘So now he tries to steal the childhood of others. I think he may also be trying to become a man.’ James squeezed Ida’s fingers. ‘There’s a rumour that he’s impotent.’
‘Aye.’ Embarrassed, she paused for a few seconds. ‘But . . . but we all thought that were a good thing, as if he’d dedicated all his energy to the Light, nowt to distract him.’ She sighed, shook her head slowly. ‘Same as Catholic priests if you think on it. But there were a price, eh? See, folk same as Mona and Tilly, they give money and food. When it comes to people like me and mine . . . well, they want our girls. But as for what happened down John Street tonight, I’m not sure you can lay that at his door.’
James decided to hang for the full sheep. ‘Ida, I went to the temple and I accused him face to face. Looking at him, listening to his terror, I knew I had the right man. Later, when I told a police sergeant my opinion, I got a lecture about blackening the name of a man whose charitable works make him a legend in his own lifetime. But the police were not there earlier, in the temple. They didn’t see the fear, the trembling.’
Kate blessed herself hurriedly before speaking to Ida. ‘If Mr Mulligan’s convinced of the man’s guilt, then he’s probably right. He’s a knack of knowing folk better than they know themselves.’
Ida gripped the edge of the table. There’d been talk, but she’d not heard everything, as she had depended totally on visitors. ‘The cleansings,’ she whispered now.
‘Yes?’ James leaned closer to her.
‘The cleansings only work if they’re not talked about. Far as I can make out, most lasses just get their faces and feet washed. But our Diane said the odd one came out a bit shaky, like. Usually quiet girls in borrowed frocks, girls from poor homes. Happen they got tret different. I mean, our Diane used to say she didn’t like him and wasn’t going in for cleansing. Ooh, it makes you wonder.’ She stopped speaking, was plainly deep in thought.
‘Could we talk to some of those girls?’ asked James.
Ida pondered for another moment. ‘No. Even if something did go on, they’ll likely say nowt, because they’ll want to go off abroad for a better life. And they’d be too embarrassed, most of them.’ She paused again. ‘No, no, it can’t be right. He wouldn’t do something as bad as that. Would he?’
Kate took a rosary from her pocket and twisted it about like a set of worry beads. There was something in James Mulligan’s eyes, in his voice, in the set of his jaw. She cast her mind back through the years, remembering the hardships he had overcome, the sheer, dogged determination that had driven him onward until he had become the finest and best-educated of men. He had several gifts, one of which was the ability to teach, another the talent to absorb and analyse information at the drop of a hat. He had most folk summed up within minutes. She shivered. Her nephew, the person she loved most in the whole world, had come upon evil tonight.
‘I’m all right, Kate,’ he whispered.
There he was again, reading her mind, understanding her soul. ‘What will happen?’ she asked him.
‘Oh, he’ll strike again. The police will talk to him, but unless the girl remembers something, he’ll get away with it. As for my opinion, I obviously carry little weight with the guardians of the law. I’m just another immigrant. No, worse than that – I’m the foreigner whose father was a vagabond.’
‘Won’t he get caught?’ asked Ida.
He lowered his chin, pondered for a moment. ‘In the end, he will. But how many young women will he target in the meantime?’
‘You might have scared him off,’ ventured Kate uncertainly.
‘His sickness is too deep for that.’ James drained the last dregs from his cup. ‘He will follow where his uncontrollable fantasies lead him. We’d need to be watching him twenty-four hours a day and seven days a week.’
Ida gulped. ‘What if he kills somebody?’ she asked.
‘I did all I could,’ replied James. ‘The police probably think I’m the cracked pot, not him. Ah, well.’ He stood up. ‘Away now, Ida. I’ll drive you and the young ones home.’
When James and the Hewitts had left, Kate Kenny lit a candle and placed it in a blue dish at the feet of the Immaculate Conception. The statue, serene and beautiful, always calmed Kate. Mary had been Kate’s strength when her husband had died, when her little boy had been stillborn just weeks later.
‘I’ve a terrible foreboding,’ she said aloud. ‘Mother of God, I beg you to watch over James. After all my brother did to him, he surely deserves some peace.’ Then Kate Kenny knelt on the kitchen floor and said her rosary. Soon, it would be Christmas, the time of the greatest of all miracles. She placed herself where she had always sought to dwell, in the hands of the Blessed Virgin.
Camilla Smythe had a homely face, and hair that looked as if it had been left to go rusty in the rain. She was her own woman, with her own style and a set of morals that would have been a credit to any practising clergyman. As an unpretty female, she had long owned the knowledge that a queue of suitors was not likely to form, so she made the best of her life by running a successful business and by staying loyal to her friends.
In Camilla’s book, family was another matter altogether. Had she been offered a choice, she would certainly not have picked a father who wandered towards retirement via the golf course, a mother who preached one thing and did the opposite, and a brother who . . . who was beneath contempt.
She stared at her reflection, saw large, white teeth, a too-big nose, freckles and a new, angry spot on her chin. Rupert was so beautiful on the outside, an alley-cat within. She didn’t know what to do about him; she did know that she would like to take the biggest whip from the stables and lash him to within an inch of his aimless, stupid life.
What to do? she asked herself for the umpteenth time. Tell Mother and watch while that not-so-good woman stopped Rupert from going off to London? Tell poor Amy? Father? Father was more interested in his handicap and making ‘good contacts’ via the nineteenth over at Birkdale.
Rupert, daft boy, was planning to run away with Eliza Burton-Massey. Camilla, astute when it came to measuring people, was not fond of Eliza. The girl was odd. She seemed to alter whenever she felt so inclined, one minute the dutiful daughter, the loving sister, the next moment a calculating monster ready to take off into her own future with never a backward glance at her sisters. Like a chameleon, Eliza Burton-Massey changed her colours to accord with her background; now she was intending to change her environment, too. Well, let her.
Camilla dabbed eau-de-Cologne on her aching temples. She wished with all her heart that she had not overheard a certain conversation between two people who were not worth the worry. But she had heard. At approximately four o’clock this afternoon, while Mother and Father were safely out of the way, Rupert had brought his latest lady-friend home. They had not entered the house; they had sat in the stables discussing plans for Eliza’s escape from Caldwell Farm. Camilla, trapped in the stall belonging to her favourite mount, was now in possession of facts that would upset several applecarts in the New Year.
‘Perhaps I am not such a good person after all,’ she told her reflection. A plan was forming
almost of its own accord, and she was concerned about her attitude towards the subject of Rupert and Eliza. The plan was simple: all she needed to do was . . . nothing. They deserved one another. Rupert, only too recently allied to Margot, was now about to run away with Margot’s sister. Eliza, so precious, so treasured by Amy, was, in truth, a selfish and untrustworthy piece of work.
‘Eliza will go off anyway,’ she muttered. ‘She might just as well be with Rupert. Then she will know somebody in the city.’ As for Rupert, let him sink or swim – it was time for him to make a go of things beyond the reach of his mother’s restraining embrace.
‘What about Amy, though?’ Amy had taken her mother’s death badly, then Camilla’s mother had waded in to separate her beloved boy from Margot. Even so, Eliza and Margot were old enough to do as they pleased. In the long-term, Amy was going to suffer anyway. Why should Amy have the responsibility of Eliza and Margot? Of the three sisters, Amy was the most practical, the nicest. There was no chance of her getting on with her own future while Eliza and Margot held her back. ‘Let them all go,’ Camilla said firmly. It was with Amy that Camilla’s loyalty lay; she would be on hand to offer comfort to Amy when the time came. There, the decision was made.
Nevertheless, there was one thing she had to do. She brushed the hated hair, failing to be impressed by its sheen, washed an uncomely face without seeing the intelligence in her own eyes, the generosity of the mouth. Burning with an anger that lit up her features, Camilla crossed the landing, knocked, waited for her brother to allow her to enter his sacred space.
He was lying face downward on the bed, bare feet dangling over the edge, hair ruffled, hands flicking the pages of a magazine on his pillow. ‘Ah, dear sister,’ he drawled.
Camilla sat in a bedside chair, wriggling until she achieved some comfort among the discarded shirts and trousers. ‘Do you never clean up after yourself?’ she asked.
‘What? And disappoint the servants? They’d have nothing to do if we all looked after ourselves.’
She studied him, took in the long, lean bones, the handsome face, the silk pyjamas. He was the very embodiment of the term ‘fop’, all polish on the outside, and inside, just a shallow, muddy pool instead of a soul. ‘Will you have servants in London?’ she asked.
‘Not sure. I expect Mater will have fixed something.’
‘Just as she always does.’ Camilla’s tone was harsh.
He rolled over and sat on the edge of his bed. ‘Ooh, I say,’ he hooted. ‘Who rattled your cage, old thing?’
‘She even got the job for you.’
‘Jealous?’ he asked.
‘No.’ She wanted to hit him and hit him until the silly smile disappeared. ‘I could never be jealous of a person as mean-minded and facile as you are. But I want you to know this. Eliza Burton-Massey is another just like you. She’ll get what she wants even if she has to leave a trail of corpses.’
‘W-what?’ he blustered.
‘You expect to share her bed, I take it? Is Amy on your list, too? After all, it should be fair shares. I don’t doubt that you took the youngest one’s virginity, so why not all three?’
His jaw hung slackly.
‘Eliza will have her own way, Rupert. I very much doubt that your wishes will come under her consideration.’
At last, brain and mouth clicked into gear. ‘What on earth are you talking about?’
‘The stables. Today. About fourish.’
‘You – you eavesdropped?’
She noticed his heightened colour and a vein throbbing in his temple. ‘Yes. By the way, your temper is showing.’ Used to getting his own way for most of the time, Rupert was not enjoying this confrontation. Camilla smiled. ‘Bank clerks need to be servile, you know. Pull your horns in.’
‘I shan’t be a clerk for long.’
‘But Mother will not be there to push you onward and upward. You will be forced to fend for yourself for the first time in your life. How on earth will you manage?’
His lip curled. ‘She’s done a lot for you, too. I never heard you complaining when she set you up in your little cookery business.’
‘I know, and I’m grateful. But if Mother were to interfere in any relationship of mine, I would tell her that she is a two-faced mess. I mean, she preaches equality of the sexes, pleads the cause of women, yet she could not allow you to associate with Margot Burton-Massey. Worse than that, you allowed Mother to separate you from a girl you supposedly loved.’
Rupert sniffed. ‘Margot was a mistake.’
Camilla laughed. ‘You’re the mistake.’
‘So what are you going to do about it?’ he asked.
‘Nothing.’
‘What?’ The clearly defined eyebrows shot upward.
‘Nothing,’ she repeated. ‘Except this. I tell you now that Eliza has a rather special kind of power. She will eat you for breakfast and spit out the bare bones. Really, I look forward to news of your life in London, because it promises to be quite interesting. In fact, I shall visit you – perhaps at Easter?’
‘Don’t bother,’ he barked.
‘That’s a terrible thing to say to a sister who is concerned for your welfare.’ She paused for a few seconds. ‘You know, the greatest favour I could do for you would be to tell Mother. She would certainly refuse to pay the rent on your pied-à-terre if she knew about Eliza. But I intend to do nothing for you, Rupert. Eliza is an extraordinarily beautiful woman who will fare very well in London. She can sing, dance and play the piano extremely well. When her name is up in lights, she will surely be beyond the reach of a simple little bank teller.’ She smiled, nodded thoughtfully. ‘You are in for a wonderful time.’
Rupert, all bravado on the outside, was secretly afraid of venturing into the big city. Eliza was a necessity – he could not possibly make the move on his own. Knowing his own weakness and worrying that it might show in his face, he retrieved his magazine and flicked the pages.
‘There’s always been a woman, hasn’t there?’ said Camilla. ‘Mother has been your cushion, and you cannot go to London by yourself, so Eliza is going to be your soft landing when things go wrong. Well.’ She stood up. ‘Eliza hides her prickles beneath a layer of softness. Take care. Take very great care. After all, we don’t want you getting hurt, do we?’
Rupert watched his sister as she left the room. She was a great ugly carthorse who would never get a man in a million years. She was also clever, bright enough to see right through him. Camilla knew his faults, his Achilles heels; she knew that he was afraid to go south alone. ‘Bitch,’ he spat.
Camilla prepared for bed, her thoughts fixed on Amy and the New Year. She could not remember a time when she had wished anyone ill, and a part of her failed to understand her current attitude to Rupert and to the Burton-Massey girls. Was she turning bad? Oh, what a mess. She went over and over the problem, yet always returned to the same point. She felt guilt-ridden, amazed at herself. But although she tossed and turned all night, Camilla’s resolve stayed firm. Amy would survive. Rupert? Never.
Sally Hayes was alone in the kitchen and drinking her cocoa when James Mulligan returned from Ida Hewitt’s cottage. Her eyes smiled at him over the rim of her mug. ‘Mrs Kenny said to tell you she’s had enough and she’s gone to bed.’
‘I see.’ He sat opposite the girl. She was about the same age as the naked child in the scullery at 13 John Street. His blood boiled at the thought of Peter Wilkinson walking freely in the world. ‘Sally?’
‘Yes, sir?’
‘Never go out alone at night, especially at the weekends.’ Wilkinson often spent weekends with his brother in the village of Pendleton. ‘Take someone with you.’ Diane Hewitt now lived in Pendleton. Wilkinson had intended to prepare Diane for emigration. Surely he would not touch a child so young?
‘Right, sir.’
‘Do you still go for walks with Eliza Burton-Massey?’
‘No. She doesn’t bother with me any more.’
James heard the sadness. ‘Where did you walk,
Sally?’
‘To the stables or through the fields. Sometimes, we went into the woods.’
‘And did you ever meet anyone?’
She shook her head.
He arranged his next question carefully, as he did not wish to alarm Sally unduly. ‘Did you notice anybody? Not someone you’d meet or talk to, just . . . a man hanging around. I think he’s related to Mr Wilkinson at the post office, the man who sells those wonderful cakes.’
Sally frowned. ‘I know who you mean – he’s the ugly one. Miss Eliza used to laugh and pretend not to see him. Oh, he stared so hard at her, but that’s because she’s very beautiful. Miss Eliza said he was the frog and she was the princess, but she’d no intention of kissing him to turn him into a prince.’ Smiling, she paused. ‘But that was when she was my real friend, before I said I wouldn’t go to London with her and . . .’ The words melted away.
‘Sally?’
‘I wasn’t supposed to say about London. Please don’t tell anyone. She wouldn’t be my friend at all if she knew . . . Oh, please. Miss Eliza hardly ever comes to play the piano now. She’d stop altogether if she knew I’d said about running away.’
‘You have my word.’ Perhaps Eliza would be safer in London. Perhaps all the young women of Pendleton and Pendleton Clough should escape while the going was good. Was it possible that Wilkinson might be planning to spread his wings outside the town? Could he be working his way north towards the villages?
‘Thank you, sir.’ She rose and took her cup to the sink, rinsed and dried it, walked to the door. ‘Good night,’ she called.
‘Good night, Sally.’
He sat alone with his thoughts, bone weary after an evening that had seemed to go on for ever. Now he carried the knowledge that Eliza was probably planning to go away. He could not warn her family because he had made a promise, and he had no intention of betraying Sally. What a disaster.
Had it not been for his own father and Mr Burton-Massey, James would still have been in Ireland. His life there had been so easy, simple, predictable. What would he not give now to be planning lessons, chasing boys away from the orchard, listening to young voices raised in song or in laughter?
Mulligan's Yard Page 19
