Mulligan's Yard

by Ruth Hamilton

Eliza laughed. ‘Such a philanthropist, James. You even lifted the Hewitts out of the slums.’

  ‘A worthy trio,’ he replied. How could Eliza remain so cool when, only moments earlier, she had been engaged in a physical fight with a woman at least twice her age? He found his feet and backed away from her, his hands guiding him through the door and towards the landing. ‘Are you going to push me, too, Eliza?’

  She stopped moving, blinked slowly. ‘What?’

  ‘You pushed Rupert. Will you do the same to me?’

  ‘Of course not, James. I love you, have loved you for the longest time and,’ she pulled herself up, straightening visibly, ‘I did not kill Rupert Smythe,’ she said emphatically.

  ‘Ah.’

  ‘And what do you mean by “ah”? Am I to take it that you, along with those dreadful Smythe women, believe that I could deliberately take a human life?’

  ‘Did he attack you?’ James asked.

  She inclined her head to one side. ‘He tried several times to kiss me, but I would not allow it. Who knows what his intentions were when he came up to the attic?’

  ‘If it was self-defence, Eliza, you must inform the police.’

  This was incredible. She stood now within a stride of the man of her dreams, and she was losing him. She was gorgeous and she knew it. For as long as she could remember, men had almost fallen at her feet. Fallen. She blinked again, saw the man’s body tumbling, rolling, crashing. ‘I thought you liked me.’ The words emerged in a childlike tone. ‘You listened to my playing – I played for you, only for you.’

  He watched her closely, saw that her expression changed only slightly as she spoke. ‘What are you, Eliza? For your mother, you were perfect. Then, when she died, you became manipulative, cold, unfeeling. Or were you like that all the time? Is life a play, a stage where you strut and act out scenes to suit yourself?’

  She shook her head slowly. ‘All I wanted was to get out, to go and see the world.’

  ‘And the world does not want you – is that it?’

  Eliza raised her shoulders. ‘I came back because Rupert Smythe died. I could not remain in a house where a friend had died, and I needed the comfort of my family, the safety of my home.’

  ‘You need nothing, you need no-one,’ he said.

  ‘I need you.’

  He paused. ‘You could have moved to another house in London.’ Again, he waited. ‘But offers of work did not come in – am I right?’

  ‘It was early days,’ she answered quickly.

  ‘Yet you gave up and came home, to a place you despise.’

  She blinked again, more quickly this time. ‘I needed to come back to think,’ she said. ‘To think.’

  He gazed on her as she retreated into herself, saw the light in her eyes dimming, noticed that the corners of her pretty mouth were now down-turned. She had killed the father of her own niece or nephew, the lover of her younger sister. At this moment, she resided in a place where none of that had happened . . . No. Amy had been right after all. There was hell on earth and Eliza was a part of it, was possibly reliving the events that had taken place in London. ‘Eliza?’

  She frowned. ‘James?’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Don’t you love me?’

  He breathed deeply. Standing at the top of a staircase within reach of Eliza Burton-Massey was not a good idea. ‘No,’ he replied, ‘I do not love you.’

  ‘Ah.’ The syllable emerged slowly, as if she had to give great thought to the response. Everyone loved her. She was universally admired and desired. This man could surely be no exception to the rule? He was playing hard to get, she decided, was trying to make the seduction scenes more interesting.

  Well, two could play that game. She brushed past him, failing to notice how he shrank back as she passed. ‘I am going out for a walk,’ she announced to the house in general when she reached the hallway. ‘I need to clear my head.’

  James slid down the wall and crouched at the top of the stairs. She had gone and the air was fresher.

  Twenty-two

  Mary heard the banging just after seven o’clock. Sally was in another part of the house, busy being in charge while Mrs Kenny attended a funeral. With her feet up on the fireguard, Mary was taking advantage of a day without the sarcastic Irishwoman. She sipped at hot, sweet tea and meandered through a Bolton Evening News, her feet and legs warmed by glowing coals, head propped on a cushion normally reserved for Kate Kenny’s brief spells of respite.

  Mary was not best pleased. For a start, her younger brothers had disappeared from the face of the earth and Mam would need an explanation. Then, to add insult to injury, Sally Hayes had been appointed boss in the absence of the housekeeper. Mary had served months at the Grange before the arrival of madam. Ah, well, let her do it all; Mary had no intention of budging till the man of the house returned.

  When the cellar door rattled, Mary almost shot out of her skin. The person trapped down there had finally managed to escape. It might be a mad creature, she thought, as she dropped the newspaper and placed a fist against her heart. Perhaps Mr Mulligan had some weird relative down in the cellar, a human who was not quite human, a thing with red eyes, long beard, black stumps for teeth.

  For several seconds, she remained glued to her seat. Where was bloody Mulligan? He was the sort of man you could set the clock by, usually home by six, dinner in the kitchen, long chats with Mrs Kenny, then down to the cellar, up to bed. Mary and Sally always left the two adults alone in the evenings, coming down into the kitchen only to clear up and make a bit of supper for themselves. Well, his dinner would be dried to nothing tonight . . . the door rattled noisily again.

  The trouble with Pendleton Grange was the thickness of the doors. The doors upstairs were not as heavy, but eavesdropping on the ground floor was almost an impossibility. The cellar door was the most substantial of all, a great heavy thing, inches thick, four long black hinges required to keep it in position. And some poor beggar was trying to get out of the prison below this very kitchen.

  A thought dawned. Harry and Jack had disappeared very suddenly this afternoon and the coal had been delivered. Oh, God. Had they slid down the chute? She stood up and crept across the floor, placing her ear against solid oak. Had they gone down there? And, if they had, was something torturing them?

  Whatever, thought Mary, she was in trouble. Harry and Jack were her brothers, so she could well be blamed for their misadventures. As for whatever lived down there, Mary was afraid to death of it. She bent to the keyhole. ‘Jack?’ she shouted, in a tremulous whisper.

  ‘Mary?’

  Blood and stomach pills, they were locked in there. ‘Have you found him?’ she whispered again.

  ‘Who?’

  ‘The bloody prisoner.’ Shouting in whispers was having a serious effect on Mary’s vocal cords. ‘The one what’s being kept down there.’ She coughed, then pressed her ear against the hole once more.

  ‘Just a load of coal,’ answered Jack. ‘All the other rooms is empty and there’s just one locked. We couldn’t hear nobody, neither. We come down through the coal-hole because you didn’t find no key. And we’re thirsty.’

  ‘Keep quiet while I think.’

  Mary paced about the kitchen. If one of her brothers had fallen down the chute, that might have been accepted as an accident. But both? No, hang on, she told herself. Perhaps the story might work if one had fallen down the chute and the other had gone to the rescue. Only why hadn’t they shouted to the coalman? Oh, God, what was she going to say?

  ‘Mary?’ The stage whisper shot out of the keyhole and right across the room.

  She returned to the cellar. ‘Shurrup,’ she snapped. ‘Little Orphan Sally’s about and if she hears you my job’ll be took away. You have to wait.’

  ‘We’re thirsty.’

  ‘I know. Keep quiet while I think.’

  ‘Mary – we’ll die!’

  She filled a small watering-can at the sink, brought it to the cellar door. ‘Put your mouth against t
he keyhole.’ She poured. ‘Did you get any?’

  ‘A bit,’ replied Harry.

  Mary spent ten full minutes repeatedly emptying the watering-can through the keyhole and into her brothers’ mouths. Then she ordered them to go away from the door while she had a long ponder. There had to be another key somewhere. But where? She had searched the kitchen from top to bottom, drawers, cupboards, pots and pans, bread-bins, potato baskets, tea-caddies, flour containers, fruit boxes, sacks, shopping-bags.

  He would come home eventually, would go down the cellar to do whatever he did . . . Mary shot across the kitchen yet again. ‘You there?’

  Harry’s voice answered. ‘We’re hungry.’

  ‘Well, if you think I’m shoving bread and dripping through this here keyhole, you can bloody think again.’ Her brain was in a whirl. ‘Get back down with the coal,’ she ordered. ‘Mr Mulligan’ll be here any minute.’

  She waited for a response, ear flattened against wood. ‘There’s a gap,’ said Harry. ‘Only a little ’un, but you could shove summat under it.’

  Mary looked up at the ceiling. ‘Jaysus,’ she muttered, in an almost perfect imitation of Kate Kenny. ‘Not one more word,’ she said to the keyhole. ‘I’ll do what I can, then bugger off away from this door.’

  ‘Right,’ came the answer.

  There followed five or so minutes of frantic activity while Mary cut bread so thin as to be almost transparent. She covered the results with smears of plum jam and posted them beneath the cellar door. The boys grabbed and pulled, causing bits to break away, while Mary, frantic about the mess, used a dull ham-knife to push crumbs towards her starving siblings. When the two daft beggars got out of there, she would kill them, she really would.

  ‘What are you doing?’

  Mary swung round to face Sally. ‘I were – I were scraping summat up off the floor,’ she replied. ‘I don’t know where it come from, like.’

  Sally was not amused. She was worried about Mr Mulligan, who was seldom as late as this. ‘I might go down to the cottage,’ she said, ‘to see if he brought Diane and Joe back home.’

  ‘Please yourself, Sally.’ Mary spoke loudly, her mouth as near as possible to the keyhole.

  ‘Stand up,’ advised Sally. ‘I hope you’re not trying to get down there. It’s nothing to do with us, whatever’s in the cellar.’

  ‘I’m cleaning – I told you.’

  Sally looked at the clock, picked up the bread-knife. ‘Have you been eating bread and jam?’

  ‘Why? Is it a crime?’ Mary sauntered towards the table.

  ‘You’ve made enough mess.’

  ‘I’ll see to it.’ The older girl could see that Sally was in a bit of a state. ‘I don’t know why you’re worrying, he’s big enough to look after himself.’

  ‘It’s just a feeling,’ mused Sally out loud. ‘As if there’s something wrong. Have you ever had a feeling like that?’

  Had she ever? Here stood Mary Whitworth, two daft thirteen-year-old lummox-headed brothers in the cellar with God alone knew what, jam all over her hands, job hanging by a thread. But she wanted Sally to go out. ‘My mam always says you should follow them feelings,’ she said. ‘They’re called sixth sense.’

  ‘Yes, I’ve read about that.’ Sally sat down at the table.

  Oh, heck, thought Mary. Surely Little Orphan Sally wasn’t going to start being friendly, didn’t intend to kick off with a nice chat while Jack and Harry were just yards away?

  ‘One of us should look for him,’ Sally said.

  ‘I’m frightened of the dark,’ replied Mary quickly.

  ‘You?’ Sally almost laughed. ‘Frightened of nowt, you. If your family were frightened of darkness, there’d be a lot less burglaries down in Bolton.’

  Mary refused to be riled. What Sally had said was probably true, but Mary still didn’t like it. People had to live and—

  ‘I hope he hasn’t had an accident,’ said Sally now. ‘I’m not that keen on motor cars. I mean, you can tell a horse what to do, but an engine’s not the same.’

  ‘No,’ replied Mary. ‘He could be in a ditch.’

  That did the trick. Sally leaped from her chair, grabbed her outdoor things from a peg and dashed towards the door. She turned. ‘Mary?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘If he comes back, tell him I’m looking for him.’

  ‘Right. I’ll tell him to go and look for you while you’re out looking for him.’

  Sally fixed a stern eye on her opponent. Mary didn’t realize it, but she was picking up a lot of Mrs Kenny’s words and mannerisms. The difference was that Kate Kenny, underneath the witty comments, was a decent person. ‘You want to shut yourself in a drawer with all the other knives,’ commented Sally, ‘keep all the sharp edges in the one place.’

  Mary offered a rather stiff smile. ‘I were only trying to cheer you up,’ she said, ‘take the edge off things, like.’ Even now, she could not resist goading Sally.

  ‘You’ll cut yourself, you will,’ snapped Sally, before leaving the house.

  Mary felt as if she might be sick. She leaned over the huge kitchen sink and retched fruitlessly. Where was the key to the padlocked outside coal doors? And, even if she found it, would Daft Harry and Dafter Jack be able to climb the steep chute?

  She gave up the idea of vomiting and returned to the fireside. With no other options to choose from, she was going to have to sit this one out and deny all knowledge of her brothers’ predicament. Except – oh, heck. There’d be all sorts of crumbs and bits of jam on the other side of the door. And once Mr Mulligan opened it . . .

  Mary, like the rest of the Whitworth clan, had one saving grace to her credit. To a man, all the Whitworths were excellent sleepers. She nodded, leaned her head on Mrs Kenny’s cushion, woke with a jolt, wondered what was going to become of her. But the fire was warm and the chair was comfortable.

  Within five minutes of Sally’s leaving, Mary Whitworth was fast asleep and dreaming of coal cellars, coal doors and keys.

  ‘There was a light, Gran, honest.’ Diane stood with arms akimbo in front of the fireplace. ‘In the woods, I saw a light. It flickered a bit, then it went out.’

  ‘Don’t be daft,’ replied Ida. She was working on a difficult pattern, lots of slipped-over stitches, four colours and very fine wool. ‘I promised Amy this for tomorrow, Diane, so I have to get on with it.’ She changed needles. ‘Look, there’s nobody in the woods this time of year and this time of night.’

  ‘I saw it, too,’ piped Joe.

  ‘Aye, well, you always see everything our Diane sees.’ Ida grinned at him. He was stronger, fitter and, at last, he was getting a bit cheeky. In Ida’s book, lads were right to be on the cheeky side. ‘Put that kettle on, Joe. Mona’s been gone ages – I wonder where she’s got to.’

  ‘She’ll be talking,’ answered Diane. ‘She’s usually talking.’

  ‘Aye,’ replied Ida. ‘She’ll be gabbing away with Amy and Margot.’ Mind, there hadn’t been much gabbing today. Margot and Mona had sat there like a pair of dummies, and Ida had felt as if she had been in the way. ‘In me own house, too,’ she muttered to herself.

  ‘Did you say something, Gran?’ asked Diane.

  ‘Just reading me pattern,’ lied Ida. ‘Make some toast, love, that fire’s settled nice now.’

  Diane skipped about as if walking on air. She was unbelievably happy. Every morning, she rode in a motor car to school, then, when school closed, she and Joe walked down to Mr Mulligan’s office to do a few jobs, shopping, sweeping up, dusting. They also got lent out to other folk, the butcher, the laundry where Mona used to work, a grocery in Deansgate. She and Joe were always getting tips and extras like sausages, a pat of butter, bread. Life without stealing was wonderful.

  She will come soon, will submit herself to me and to the Light, because all is ordained by a greater power, a plan devised before and beyond the scope of mere mortal flesh. I see the fields of Texas, dry as dust and waiting for the rain. We shall plant ourselves here
in the desert; we shall fertilize the barren place, shall bring life where all is brown and bare. I see the wood as it begins to burn, bush of Moses resurrected from the word, from the Bible. Praise the Lord, for my moment is at hand.

  Sally pushed the door inward. ‘Mrs Hewitt?’

  ‘Eeh, love.’ Ida put down her knitting once more. She had almost finished the second sleeve and could sew the item together in the morning. ‘It’s cold out,’ she chided, ‘and black as hell. Whatever are you doing? Get sat down here now. Diane, pour her a cup of tea – she looks frozen to the bone.’

  Sally sat and shivered.

  ‘What on God’s earth is Kate Kenny thinking of, letting you out on a winter night?’ asked Ida.

  ‘Gone to a funeral. There’s only me and Mary, and she’s up to something.’

  ‘Whole family’s up to something,’ Ida mumbled. ‘Who died?’ she asked, in a clearer tone.

  ‘A friend in Chester.’ Sally blew into chilled hands. ‘She said she’ll try to be back tomorrow afternoon some time, but she couldn’t promise.’

  Diane pushed a cup into her friend’s cold hands. One of the best things about living in Pendleton was that Diane had made a friend of Sally Hayes. Slightly older and wiser than Diane, Sally retained enough childishness to enjoy skipping, hopscotch, bowling a hoop and playing ball. ‘What’s happened?’ Diane asked.

  Sally took a few grateful sips of sweet tea. ‘It’s Mr Mulligan – he’s gone missing.’

  Ida pondered. ‘Is he not . . . you know . . . ?’

  ‘No, he’s not in the cellar, Mrs Hewitt. His car’s not at the house – he never came home.’

  ‘Well, he brought these two back at about a quarter to six,’ said Ida. ‘He had Amy in the car, because he always takes her home, too. Well, usually. Sometimes Camilla Smythe does it if she happens to be in town.’

  Sally took a larger draught of tea. ‘I don’t know what to do, I suppose I should go up to Caldwell Farm.’

  ‘Not on your nellie,’ replied Ida quickly. ‘The big house is just about halfway between us and the farm – you can’t go traipsing that far, Sally.’