Mulligan's Yard

by Ruth Hamilton

  ‘Yes.’

  She turned and looked at him; his profile was clearly delineated even in this poor light. ‘Your face has softened,’ she whispered, surprised as soon as the words were out.

  ‘Perhaps I have softened.’

  Amy produced a hollow laugh. ‘Still a tough businessman, Mr Mulligan.’

  ‘I try.’

  This was nothing to do with Margot, Amy realized with a jolt. She was in a small metal world, a wheeled container that took people from place to place, and the electricity was in here, in the car. She turned her face, rubbed a hole in mists of breath and stared out through glass that merely reflected herself. Then she saw him there too, watched as his head moved slowly until he was watching her. No.

  ‘We must go, Amy,’ he told her.

  Away from, or towards? she wondered fleetingly. Then Margot crashed into her mind once more and she pulled herself up. How could she daydream while Margot was in trouble?

  ‘Amy?’

  Although she owned a short name that lived for just a split second before falling from his lips, she heard the caress. She was not in love. She had no intention of being in love. ‘Let’s go, then.’ Her voice shook, moved air in the car until it shivered, reminding her of Sunday mornings when church bells rattled the atmosphere. ‘I am walking into hell,’ she said quietly.

  ‘There is supposed to be no hell on earth,’ he answered.

  ‘Oh, yes, there is.’ Hell was a father wounded in body and mind, a man who gave away the security of his family at the turn of a card. Hell was a mother dying young, a heartless sister, another who was probably pregnant. It was a shop that would not care for itself, a household run by a woman too young to be in charge. Hell was sitting beside a man who might comfort her, a man she began to fear. No, no, she had no fear of James Mulligan. Her terror had been formed within herself, because some kind of magnetism was luring her in his direction. ‘Yes, hell is here,’ she insisted.

  ‘It will be all right,’ he promised.

  ‘Will it?’ Tears pricked, threatened to tumble again.

  ‘Believe me, Amy.’

  ‘I shall try.’

  He moved the car to the lane, turned left and carried on towards Caldwell Farm. Camilla’s van was slewed at a crazy angle, wheels turned as if she had stopped while taking a sharp bend. Immediately James’s mind was on red alert. What had happened here? Had Margot lost the child? Was Rupert back from London and on the prowl? Had something terrible taken place?

  ‘Perhaps she wants to talk about A Cut Above.’ Amy referred to the shop’s planned meeting at the Pack Horse Inn, an occasion for which Camilla Smythe would be catering. ‘We’re having a fashion evening,’ Amy concluded hopefully. No, no, that had already been discussed. So what had brought Camilla out in the dark and in weather that was uninviting?

  ‘Perhaps Camilla simply needs to visit a friend,’ he suggested.

  ‘I don’t know why,’ Amy said quietly, ‘but I don’t want to go inside.’

  She was a woman of instinct, he told himself. All females suffered from instinct, but this one was brighter than most, alert, antennae always at the ready. ‘It must be done,’ he said.

  ‘Yes, I do realize that. After all, we cannot set up house in a car, can we?’

  Set up house. James felt sure that he could never set up house at all, let alone with a woman as precious as this one. ‘Come along now,’ he said brusquely. ‘Whatever, it must be faced.’

  Knowing this to be true, she stepped out of the car and gazed upon a world that seemed peaceful snuggled beneath its light blanket of snow. After taking a last look at sanity, Amy Burton-Massey stepped into the future. By her side, a dark-clad tower of strength walked with her. Because of his presence, she found the ability to compose herself. And, in spite of everything, she found herself hoping that he might always be there.

  Camilla pulled herself away from Elspeth’s restraining arms. ‘I have to go back up there,’ she shouted. ‘Please, I beg you not to stand in my way.’

  Elspeth, frailer than she had been, now almost in her seventies, released her hold. ‘Don’t,’ she begged, freeing Camilla suddenly. ‘There’s trouble enough in this house . . .’ The words died. She had not the strength to argue.

  Camilla, having banged herself against a wall, rubbed her shoulder. ‘I have to get there before she does. I am trying to prevent further problems by getting Eliza out of here. Yes, I must arrive first and make an effort to—’

  ‘What?’ Elspeth, breathless after her exertions, sank into a ladder-backed chair. ‘Get where before what happens?’

  Camilla inhaled to steady herself. ‘I have to reach Eliza before Mother does.’

  Elspeth closed her eyes, placed elbows on the table and cupped her chin with her hands. She had had more than enough. Mona and Margot were in the parlour, sitting as still as stones, plainly expecting the roof to fall in. Miss Eliza was upstairs in a huff, while Camilla, face as red as her hair, was storming about the kitchen like a lioness hunting prey.

  ‘She killed my brother,’ announced Camilla, with certainty, as she paced the floor. ‘I know she did, I know it, I know it.’ To emphasize her words, she punched the air with balled fists.

  Elspeth shook her head. It was all beyond her and she could contain the situation no more. ‘Do what you want,’ she said wearily. ‘To be honest, I’m getting to the stage where I couldn’t care less.’

  ‘I know he was a rotter but—’

  ‘Please,’ begged the housekeeper, ‘just don’t tell me any more, because my head’s fit to bust.’

  ‘Sorry, but—’

  ‘Be sorry somewhere else. I don’t mean to be rude, miss, only . . . well, I can’t take no more and that’s the top and bottom.’

  ‘Sorry,’ repeated Camilla. ‘She, of course, doesn’t seem to care about anything.’

  Elspeth, who knew that Camilla referred to Eliza, kept her counsel. It had been her experience on this particular day that the least said was the soonest mended – well, the soonest avoided. Elspeth did not like Eliza, but murder? Was she capable of that? She probably was, thought Elspeth. There was a mean streak in the middle Burton-Massey girl, a downright nastiness that seemed not to have visited Margot or Amy. Such an angel, too, such a gentle, sweet person on the surface . . . ‘We share a name, you know,’ whispered Elspeth. ‘Eliza and Elspeth are both Elizabeth.’

  Camilla looked at Elspeth and felt like holding on to her, felt like clinging to anyone human, but she knew that she would find no comfort today. ‘Rupert’s dead,’ she mumbled. ‘My brother is dead, Elspeth. And my mother is convinced that Eliza was involved.’ She paused. ‘So am I.’

  Elspeth felt the same, though she made no effort to speak. When it came to the madam upstairs, nothing would surprise Elspeth, nothing at all.

  Margot looked at Mona. ‘So he’s dead,’ she whispered. The whole house had been shaken by Camilla’s loud declarations. ‘Well, at least I won’t have to worry about being forced to marry.’

  Mona noticed that there was little sorrow in the girl, no apparent feeling for the man who had fathered the unborn child. ‘Don’t you care about him being dead, then?’

  Margot studied her bitten nails. ‘Yes. Yes, I feel sorry for his parents and for Camilla.’ She looked up. ‘And very worried about Eliza. If what Camilla shouted is true, then Eliza might go to prison – or worse.’

  ‘No regrets for him, love?’

  The younger woman nodded slowly. She placed both hands on her stomach and stared through the window. ‘He might have improved, you know, might have settled down and become decent. But I have my doubts.’ After a few seconds, she rose and paced the floor. ‘I miss my father. But, then, I knew him, you see. This little one will not miss Rupert, as he will never have known him.’

  ‘Might be a lass.’

  Margot smiled sadly. ‘No, it’s a boy. I know it’s a boy, Mona.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Oh, yes.’

  They heard the car, wait
ed, listened as Amy entered the house. She was talking, and the answering voice belonged to James Mulligan. ‘I’ll take him on one side,’ whispered Mona. ‘Give you two a chance to be alone.’

  ‘No need,’ replied Margot. ‘He knows about the baby. He saw me riding and knew I was trying to . . .’ Her voice died. ‘This child has survived so much, Mona. I cannot give him away.’

  ‘No. I’ve known that since this morning, love.’

  Another car arrived. ‘Who’s that?’ asked Margot.

  ‘We seem to have a houseful,’ said Mona. She hoped that this was not the police, prayed that Eliza would not be arrested.

  A door slammed, then another voice arrived, loud, hysterical. ‘Where is she?’ screamed a female.

  ‘Mrs Smythe,’ Margot mouthed.

  ‘Where are you going?’ Amy’s voice from the hallway was cut off by the sound of Helen Smythe’s screams.

  The woman pushed her head into the parlour, scanned Mona and Margot, retreated. ‘Where is your other sister?’ she demanded.

  ‘In London,’ answered Amy.

  ‘She’s here.’ Helen Smythe’s voice took on a hysterical edge. ‘The police in London said she had returned home. My son is dead. He was pushed down a staircase by your sister. She may have fooled the police, but she can’t pull the wool over my eyes.’

  James Mulligan entered the parlour, nodded at the two occupants before stepping out again and closing the door. Mona did not know what to say, what to do. The situation was changing by the minute, and the chances of Margot getting to talk to Amy were looking slim.

  The door opened once more and Amy stepped inside. Her hands, shaking with nervousness, clutched each other in an effort to stop the tremors. ‘There is going to be merry hell,’ she told the parlour’s occupants, ‘so tell me and be done with it, Margot.’

  Margot gulped down a lump of panic.

  ‘Come on, love,’ begged Mona.

  Amy crossed the room and knelt before her sister. ‘Margot, I love you. Many people love you.’

  The tears began to flood silently down the younger girl’s face. Mona, suddenly experiencing a choking sensation, got up quickly and stood by the window where her own eyes began to leak away the tensions of the day.

  ‘Pregnant,’ wept Margot.

  ‘I know, dear,’ soothed her sister.

  ‘Rupert.’ The name was fractured by a sob into two separate syllables.

  ‘Yes, I know that, too.’ Amy kept herself outwardly calm. James had shot upstairs to deal with whatever was happening with Camilla and Mrs Smythe, and Amy’s first duty, as head of the clan, was to minister to the youngest of the wounded.

  Margot’s weeping subsided. ‘Eliza came home.’ She drew in a shuddering breath. ‘And she’s in her bedroom and Camilla went up earlier and we all heard her shouting that Rupert is dead and Eliza killed him.’

  Amy placed her head in Margot’s lap, felt the little bulge, wished that she had paid closer attention to this beloved sister. ‘Sweetheart, I am so sorry about Rupert. I know you loved him a great deal.’

  Margot laid a hand on Amy’s head. ‘No, I thought I loved him. And, you know, I am sorry he is dead because he won’t get the chance to redeem himself in this world.’

  The older sister sat back on her heels, each quivering hand clutching one of Margot’s. What a way for this to happen, what a terrible, lonely route Margot had taken to merit the words about to be spoken. ‘Margot.’ Amy squeezed the nail-bitten fingers. ‘You have grown up, sweetheart.’ Yes, Margot was a woman now.

  James held on to Helen Smythe’s flailing arms, pulled her against the door. ‘If you try to attack Eliza one more time, I shall fetch a policeman.’

  Camilla, who was shielding Eliza against the opposite wall, was witnessing a scene she could not have imagined in the worst of nightmares. Her mother had gone wild. Helen Smythe’s hair, which, apart from the odd trim, had not seen scissors in years, had escaped from bondage and was spreading in fine wisps all over her face. Between the fronds, mad eyes darted from side to side, narrowing malevolently each time they alighted on her proposed victim. Camilla, shocked to the core, pressed her weight against Eliza Burton-Massey.

  ‘A policeman?’ screamed Helen. ‘Bring one, bring ’em all, because I want this creature arrested for murder.’

  ‘She has already been questioned,’ said James, his tone as reasonable as possible given the circumstances. ‘You heard her, Mrs Smythe. The death of Rupert is being treated as an accident.’

  Helen bared her teeth. ‘She followed him down to London secretly. She was probably trying to force him into marriage.’

  Eliza, who was not in the least frightened by the scene, decided to put the woman straight. ‘I had no interest in your son as a potential husband, Mrs Smythe. The room in the attic was cheap; I rented it while I looked for work.’

  ‘So,’ spat Helen, ‘he took an interest in you, tried to kiss you, I suppose? And you killed him.’

  You are getting warm, Eliza mused, since your darling son was trying to rape me. Well, this woman would never believe that. Who would believe it? She was her own sole witness. ‘I was reading,’ she said clearly. ‘Someone tapped on my door. The landing outside the room was very shallow. I imagine that he stepped back and stumbled.’

  ‘Imagine all you like,’ yelled Helen. ‘You saw our money and you chased after him.’

  Eliza smiled. ‘Had Rupert been the last man on the planet, I would not have married him, Mrs Smythe.’

  James shivered. The involuntary movement passed right through his body and trembled along the arms of the woman he held. Staring into the lovely eyes of Eliza Burton-Massey sent fear right into the depths of his soul. No matter what the police believed, James realized that he was almost certainly in the presence of a killer.

  Eliza returned his gaze steadily. She intended to lay claim to him at the earliest opportunity. In fact, had she thought things through before leaving Lancashire, she might have missed out London altogether. James was the one for her.

  ‘How dare you?’ cried Helen. ‘When your family is brought so low, you are in no position to make choices. We managed to put a stop to the business between Rupert and your sister for the same reason. Not good enough.’

  ‘Your son was the lowest life-form in England,’ said Eliza, the words undecorated by any emotion. ‘He probably took the virginity of my younger sister.’

  Helen renewed her struggles. ‘Let me go, let me go!’ she called repeatedly.

  James hung on for as long as possible, releasing his hold only when Helen managed to turn and rake nails down both sides of his face, catching a corner of his left eye in the process. She then leaped across the room and drove a fist into her own daughter’s stomach, causing Camilla to drop like a felled ox. Immediately, Helen laid into Eliza, pummelling and scratching, taking handfuls of hair, then throwing the girl on to the bed.

  Eliza rolled and dropped to the floor, grabbing Helen’s legs and pulling until the woman fell heavily. ‘Touch me again,’ she whispered, ‘and I shall do murder.’ She rose to her feet. ‘No one touches me,’ she said, her breathing still easy and even. ‘Remember that, Mrs Smythe.’

  As all this happened within a matter of seconds, James and Camilla had been powerless. James wiped blood from his face, dabbed at the sore eye, while Camilla, winded, struggled back to her feet. ‘Mother?’ she screamed.

  ‘Get her out of here,’ snapped Eliza.

  Camilla turned on the girl. ‘I know you did it. I know you killed my brother.’

  ‘You know nothing,’ Eliza replied, her eyes fixed to the woman on the floor.

  ‘You may have had reason to strike out,’ continued Camilla. ‘Did he attack you? Did he?’

  James helped Helen Smythe to her feet, placing her in a small nursing chair just inside the door. Helen, winded and shaken, made no attempt to speak.

  ‘This is my bedroom,’ said Eliza clearly. ‘A bedroom is a sanctuary, a private place. No-one should ever enter another p
erson’s room without invitation.’ She turned to Camilla. ‘So take that woman you call Mother away from here, please. And do not come back, ever.’

  Camilla, afraid and hurt, gathered up her mother and led her from the room.

  Eliza sat at the dressing table and rearranged her disordered hair. ‘It’s a good thing that I can spare some of this,’ she remarked, tossing her head, ‘because that dreadful woman took enough to make a wig, I’m sure.’

  James sank into the chair recently vacated by Helen Smythe. He could not believe his eyes. Here sat Eliza, probably a murderess, certainly a cool customer, preening, applying powder, a dab of rouge, some lip colour. Her hands were steady as she stroked a pencil across beautifully arched eyebrows, while she coloured in her lips. She was a fascinating piece of work.

  She turned and awarded him a brilliant smile. ‘There,’ she said, ‘no lasting damage.’

  His tongue seemed to have stuck. What might he say to a creature such as this? How dutiful a daughter she had been, how pretty a pianist, how lovely a sister. ‘What have you done?’ he achieved, after some seconds.

  ‘What have I done?’ She raised shoulders and hands. ‘Nothing. It was an accident, James. You do believe me, don’t you?’ She fastened an alluring smile to her lips. ‘James, apart from Amy, you know me better than anyone.’ She sidled up to him. ‘We have always been good friends, you and I.’

  His feet felt as if they had been riveted to the floor by steel bolts. She looked like a very beautiful film star, one whose acting went into every slow step. ‘You were a good friend to Sally, if you remember,’ he said. His feet still refused to budge a fraction. ‘But you dropped her when it suited you. The girl was devastated; she worshipped you.’

  She stopped moving for a moment. Ah, yes, she had tried to persuade the girl to travel to London with her. ‘Sally is a servant,’ she said now. ‘I tried to help her, but one can only do so much for the under-educated.’

  James inhaled in an effort to keep his fury contained. ‘Sally Hayes is one of the cleverest people I know,’ he said softly. ‘She is an avid reader and not just of fiction.’