Mulligan's Yard

by Ruth Hamilton

  He left her where she was, stood up, walked around the shed until he reached the door. There, spread out before him, lay a familiar sight. He remembered Mona Walsh’s ‘new’ house, the place she had taken to get away from Tilly. This was exactly the same – clothes folded precisely and set on a box, the girl naked, sedated, completely vulnerable.

  Reaching for a wrist, he felt for and registered a pulse, then strode over her body towards a stove. He turned up the heat, found a blanket and was just about to cover Margot when a cry interrupted him. ‘Stop,’ commanded the voice. ‘This is the police and you are surrounded.’

  They were here. Relief flooded James’s veins as he saw a dozen lights around him. ‘There’s another behind the shed,’ he called. ‘Eliza Burton-Massey. I think she’s dead.’

  Some of the lights moved, but most stayed. James stood up and placed the blanket on Margot’s body. She would be fine, he told himself, everything would be dealt with by the law. No-one approached him: they were commanding him to stay still, to raise both hands, to stay inside the hut for now. Puzzled, he waited for something to happen. ‘She’s freezing to death,’ he shouted.

  ‘Hands in the air,’ came the barked reply.

  He lifted his arms, lowered his chin. Unthinkable as it might be, he realized that he was being treated as a criminal. He was on the spot, was bloodstained and very shaken. James Mulligan was the prime suspect.

  ‘Step outside the shed,’ was the next order.

  He walked past the open door, hands stretched above his head, feet dragging along frozen earth. It dawned on James then that he might well go to prison, could even be hanged. ‘I did not do any of this,’ he explained calmly. ‘I came to search for these girls – ask their sister.’

  A police sergeant approached. ‘I remember you,’ he said. ‘You were in a house in John Street when that other young woman was attacked not long back.’

  ‘But . . . but Mona Walsh was with me when I found that girl.’

  ‘And you might well have put her there earlier on. I’m sorry, Mr Mulligan, I know you’re well thought of, but here you are, covered in blood, a young girl stretched out on that floor – what do you expect us to think?’ He walked into the shed, uncovered Margot, found no obvious cuts, no wounds. ‘And where’s the blood from?’ he called over his shoulder.

  James turned, fixed his eyes to the sergeant’s face. ‘The blood is from Eliza, older sister to Margot. Margot is the naked one. Eliza died in my arms.’ He held out his hands, raised his shoulders in a gesture of despair. ‘You ask me what I expect. What I expect is that you get that young woman out of the shed and into hospital right away.’

  A constable staggered on to the scene, gagging as the contents of his stomach fought to escape. ‘She’s . . . she’s dead. The other one, round the back – she’s . . . a right mess.’

  Another policeman arrived. ‘Back of her head’s been caved in,’ he said, ‘and, yes, she’s dead.’

  ‘Arrest me,’ advised James. ‘Then get Margot into a hospital as quickly as possible. The man you want is Peter Wilkinson. He ran away when I approached.’

  ‘You said that last time and all.’

  ‘Yes, I believe I did.’

  Two officers led James away to a police van while others ministered to the unconscious Margot. James sat silently on a wooden bench in the rear of the vehicle, wrists cuffed, an officer at each side of him. He felt little fear now that reason had crept into his head, because he knew that he had done nothing wrong. Amy would vouch for him, as would Mona, Ida, Sally and Kate. When he thought of Kate, he almost smiled, almost pitied Bolton’s constabulary. Kate, when she returned from the funeral, would be mortallious troublesome. He closed his eyes, prayed for Eliza, for Margot and the unborn child.

  They took him into the central station, read him his rights, asked him if he had anything to say. ‘Not much,’ he replied. ‘Except that I expect a full apology tomorrow.’

  The police did not know what to make of him. He made no trouble, refused to enter into conversation, would not be interviewed. He simply sat and stared at the officers, drank tea when it arrived, ate toast, changed into clean clothes, would not be drawn out.

  Placed in a cell, he made the best of things, lying down on the thin mattress, pulling a single blanket over his head. But he could not chase Eliza from his thoughts, could not forget the sight of Margot stripped of clothes and dignity, an article, an item, a piece of Wilkinson’s twisted plot.

  At last, he fell into a fitful doze, only to be awakened by a female voice that did not belong to his aunt. He sat up, raked a hand through his hair, listened.

  ‘How dare you?’ she asked loudly. ‘How dare you arrest that man?’ Ah, it was Amy, God bless her. In spite of the condition of her sisters, she had come to plead for him. ‘You will let him go this instant,’ he heard her demand.

  The response was muffled.

  Then she began again. ‘James Mulligan is a person of excellent morals.’

  He rose from the lumpy mattress, walked to the metal door.

  ‘My sister is dead,’ he heard. ‘My other sister is in hospital. You have brought in the very man who saved Margot. Well, let me tell you this, I will have your badges – do you hear? I will have you all sacked.’

  A mumble of voices interrupted her flow.

  ‘I don’t care what his father was.’

  They would have needed to be extremely deaf not to hear, James mused. Amy had no need to shout as she had one of those voices that travel even when reduced to a whisper – and she was not whispering now.

  ‘Damned fools,’ was her next offering.

  There followed some further incomprehensible conversation, then all was quiet.

  Back in his bed, James thought hard about Amy. She had lost a father, a mother, a sister. Her other sister was pregnant, while Eliza, who would be in the morgue by now, had committed murder. God bless Amy, he begged.

  An hour or two later, the door opened. ‘You can go now,’ said a male voice. ‘We have another suspect to find.’

  James closed his eyes. ‘I am exhausted,’ he replied, ‘so I would rather sleep – if you don’t mind.’ Much as he would have liked to comfort Amy, James was finished for the moment and he knew it.

  The officer shook his head. Sometimes, folk were very strange.

  What Kate called the ‘divil’ in James came to the fore at that moment. He would leave when he was ready, not when the police dictated. He had done nothing wrong. ‘Two eggs for my breakfast,’ he said. ‘Runny yolks, if you can manage that.’

  Bravado gone, James had to swallow hard when the policeman had left. What was he doing? Amy needed him. But he wanted a rest, some thinking time, a few hours to get over the shocks. And, yes, let the police be his servants this once, let them make the breakfast. Yet his heart ached when he thought about Amy. Perhaps he should have gone to her . . . No, he was truly finished, depleted, all but vanquished. Using his fingers as a rosary, he did what all good Catholics did, praying earnestly for Eliza, for Margot, for the unborn.

  Mostly he ached for Amy, the woman he loved, she who would be for ever beyond his reach. Oh, God, that Eliza should have died in such a way . . . His fists curled while temper bubbled inside his chest. And Margot, how was she? It was no use. Much as he would have loved to stay and impose upon these inept guardians of the law, he had to get out. Furiously, he rubbed the water from his eyes before banging on the door of his cell. ‘I want a car now,’ he demanded quietly. ‘And a driver, of course. There are several calls I need to make. You may cancel my eggs – I shall be breakfasting elsewhere.’

  The constable peered through the flap in cell number eight. ‘We don’t run a taxi service, Mr Mulligan.’

  ‘You didn’t,’ replied James, his tone still controlled, ‘until tonight, that is. Now, unless you and your colleagues want to see your faces plastered across the front of daily newspapers, you will respond to my demands with untypical alacrity.’

  The young man, who had not
the slightest acquaintance with alacrity, crept away to face the wrath of his duty sergeant.

  James sat down, elbows on knees, his face in his hands. He was not too tired to help Amy, would never be too tired to go to her assistance. Perhaps she would be with Margot at the infirmary, at the morgue identifying Eliza. He would find her.

  The sergeant stepped in, a false smile illuminating irregular features. ‘We’ll take you wherever you want to go,’ he said, the words forced between gritted teeth. ‘But there’s just one thing before you leave.’

  ‘Yes?’

  A notebook was removed from a top pocket. ‘I won’t bore you with all of this, sir. Instead, I shall begin with the trouble at Pendleton Grange.’

  ‘Trouble?’

  ‘Oh, yes, sir.’ The man cleared his throat. ‘“I entered the kitchen and found a Miss Sally Hayes and a Miss Mary Whitworth. They were involved in a loud argument, which was becoming physical. Miss Whitworth pulled Miss Hayes by the hair and dragged her across the room.

  ‘“When the two girls saw us, the fighting stopped. It was then, at two minutes to ten, that I heard a banging noise. This noise was coming from the cellar door. There being no key available I, Sergeant Ian Proctor, together with Constables Eric Thornton and Arthur Mallet, proceeded to remove hinges from said door in order to reach whoever was doing the banging.

  ‘“When the door had been removed, we found two young boys named Jack and Harry Whitworth, brothers of the above-mentioned Mary Whitworth. Miss Mary Whitworth said, ‘The master is the only one with a key. He must have locked them down there.’ We were then advised by Miss Whitworth to search the cellar as Mr James Mulligan visited it regularly and took food and drink with him. Miss Whitworth expressed the belief that someone other than her brothers had been imprisoned in the cellars of Pendleton Grange for some considerable time.

  ‘“Miss Sally Hayes was of the opinion that the two boys had entered the cellar via the coal chute and, going on the state of their clothes, we judged this to be a possibility. The lads agreed that they had slid down the chute and that the coal merchant had unwittingly locked them in. We then searched the cellars and—”’ He closed the notebook with a snap. ‘We searched your cellar, Mr Mulligan, and found . . . you know what we found, sir.’

  ‘Yes.’ James remained unshaken.

  ‘You must have your reasons, Mr Mulligan.’

  ‘I do.’

  ‘And you wouldn’t want that on a front page, I take it?’

  James tutted. ‘Are you blackmailing me, Sergeant Proctor?’

  ‘Not at all, sir. And, by the way, we fixed the cellar door back on.’

  ‘Thank you.’ At last, James managed a slight smile of gratitude. ‘But please give me a car and a driver and we shall hear no more about any of this.’

  James was led to the desk where his belongings were returned to him. He signed the book, then waited on a bench for his ‘taxi’. Seated next to him, a tramp snored and muttered in his sleep, a thin stream of saliva drooling from bluish lips.

  ‘Sir?’

  James stood up.

  ‘Yes, constable?’

  ‘I am your driver,’ the young man said.

  ‘Well, then, take me to Caldwell Farm – it is on the outskirts of Pendleton village.’

  ‘You don’t live there, sir.’

  James sighed in an exaggerated fashion. ‘I may have reached the dizzying heights of my thirties, but I do know where I live.’

  ‘It’s gone two in the morning, sir.’

  ‘And I can tell the time.’

  ‘They’ll all be in bed, Mr Mulligan.’

  James leaned an elbow on the counter. ‘Constable . . . er?’

  ‘Thornton.’

  ‘Yes, well. If one of your sisters had been murdered, if another had been attacked and put in hospital, would you be asleep?’

  Eric Thornton considered the question. ‘No, I don’t think I would, sir.’

  James thought for a moment. ‘Right, you take me to Pendleton Grange, constable. If my car will start in this frost, I shall deliver myself to Caldwell Farm. But if my car refuses then you must take me to the Burton-Massey farm.’

  They sat in the police car and set off northwards. James stared straight ahead, not even flinching when the car lost its grip on slicks of dark ice.

  ‘Mr Mulligan?’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘The cellar – nobody’ll say nowt.’

  ‘Good.’ At last James turned his head and looked at the sturdy young man at his side. ‘Perhaps you should not give me this information, but I am forced to ask . . .’

  ‘Nothing wrong with asking,’ replied the constable.

  ‘How is Margot? Have you heard?’

  ‘Fine, sir. Her sister sat with her till about midnight, after she’d identified . . . you know . . .’

  ‘Eliza’s body.’

  ‘Aye. Terrible business, that.’

  ‘And you are looking for the killer?’

  The driver nodded. ‘Evidence in the hut proves who it is, sir.’

  ‘And that it wasn’t me.’

  ‘Aye.’

  They drove the rest of the way in silence. James worrying and wondering about Amy, remembering the words he had heard her speak at the police station. Margot was going to be well. Eliza, who had killed Margot’s lover, was cold in the morgue. After identifying her sister, Amy must have come straight to the station to plead for his release. She had backbone, but every human had a breaking point.

  His car started. The police vehicle followed it down the driveway, then turned right towards town. James steered left in the direction of Caldwell Farm. Amy should not be alone at a time such as this.

  His hands were sticky with Eliza’s lifeblood. He tried to wipe them on hay, but the blood had crusted and was stuck firmly to his skin. The weather cut through him, ice burning deep into flesh and bone. Caldwell Farm was so near. There were only two resident staff, or so he had been told, an old couple who had been with the Burton-Masseys for many years.

  Stealthily, he crept towards the back of the house. She was in the kitchen, head in hands at the table. She was alone. Amy Burton-Massey was a remarkable woman, not as pretty as Eliza, more handsome than Margot. His teeth chattered. The servants would be asleep, no doubt. According to Stephen, his brother, the Moorheads were more of a liability than a help these days. Uncontrollable molars bit into his tongue; if he stayed out here much longer, he would most certainly freeze to death.

  The door was unlocked and it opened without complaint. Well-oiled hinges gave no warning as Peter Wilkinson admitted himself into the presence of the one remaining Burton-Massey girl. ‘Don’t scream,’ he advised quietly, when she raised her head. ‘It will have to be you now.’

  Amy had no idea what this peculiar man was talking about. Then she noticed the blood, the state of his clothing, tatters caused by . . . by tree-branches? ‘Wilkinson,’ she said, ‘brother of our baker, the post-office man.’

  ‘Yes.’

  She was too exhausted to experience real fear. The full range of human emotions had visited her in recent hours, from terror to relief and now, back to . . . what? This ridiculous figure would have been laughable had circumstances been different. His hair hung down at each side of his head, long strings that were usually plastered across the naked pate. He owned terrible teeth and dough-coloured skin, while his eyes were . . . They were nasty. ‘What do you want?’ she asked, as if visitors at two thirty in the morning were not out of the ordinary. ‘Cup of tea?’

  He nodded, then sat down by the fire, grateful for a little warmth. His eyes never left her as she filled a kettle and set it to boil. ‘A biscuit?’ she asked. Why was he here? And the blood on him – whose was that?

  ‘I would be grateful for something to eat, yes.’

  She bustled about, made him a sandwich, poured two cups of tea, placed herself at the table. ‘Have you been involved in an accident?’ she asked.

  Glad of this suggestion, he leaped in. ‘Yes, y
es, I have. Some fool knocked me off my bicycle.’ A bright idea slipped into his mind and fell immediately from his tongue. ‘I think it was that Mulligan chap throwing his weight about again.’

  Amy nodded thoughtfully. ‘When did this happen, Mr Wilkinson?’

  The man blinked. ‘Oh, an hour or so ago. I was . . . I was studying winter wildlife.’

  ‘In the woods?’

  ‘Yes, yes, and along the lanes, too. A car drove right into me. It must have been him, since Pendleton Grange is the only house on that particular stretch.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘I beg your pardon?’ He made an effort to lift the hair from his neck, tried to place it back where it ought to have been.

  ‘Mr Mulligan was arrested.’

  He forced a smile to stay away from his face. ‘Arrested?’ he managed, after a pause of several seconds. ‘But why?’

  Amy raised a shoulder. ‘My words exactly. I went to the hospital to visit my sisters . . .’ She paused. ‘Margot has been attacked and Eliza . . . is dead. She was murdered.’

  Wilkinson swallowed a noisy gulp of hot tea. This was marvellous. How many birds with one stone? A rock, the crunching of bone, a limp and lifeless body. ‘She was the wrong one,’ he mumbled.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Nothing.’ He waited for further information, received none. ‘Was he arrested for murder?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘That’s terrible.’

  ‘I told the police about that,’ she replied. ‘There is no man less likely to commit murder than James Mulligan. He is not the type.’ A feeling of unease crept along the many paths of Amy’s shocked nervous system. ‘And he could not have been driving the car that knocked you down. He has been locked up for several hours. As I was trying to say a moment ago, after visiting the hospital, I called in at the police station and told the sergeant in no uncertain terms that Mr Mulligan is not the killer.’

  ‘How can you be so sure?’ asked Wilkinson. ‘Many people are capable of terrible sins.’

  ‘Yes.’ Her tone was thoughtful. ‘But not James Mulligan. I feel confident that he will be released very soon.’