Mulligan's Yard

by Ruth Hamilton

  Amy had nothing to say.

  ‘You must beg forgiveness,’ James added. ‘Pray for yourself, Wilkinson.’

  The guardian could feel his eyes bulging even further than normal, as if they sought to escape their sockets. What did this man know of penitence, prayer, forgiveness? Catholics were all the same, drunken louts who produced too many ragged children and huge profits for distilleries and breweries.

  James lowered the gun. ‘You understand that you have murdered Eliza? That you placed Margot in danger? Can you not grasp that you have done wrong and that you will be punished by the law of this land? The Light is not true, Peter.’

  At the sound of his given name, the man snarled, causing pain to shoot right through his head. He was Guardian Wilkinson and no-one should use his first name unless specifically invited.

  ‘I know people in America, good men who have investigated claims from Texas. A dry land, as you know, where desiccated vegetation burns quite frequently. From accidents of nature and from men with matches, your Light has grown. As we speak, the Supreme Guardian is on the verge of arrest for fraud.’

  ‘Liar,’ managed Wilkinson, though the effort almost killed him.

  ‘No, Peter. I tell the truth and only the truth.’

  Wilkinson blinked. There was something in James Mulligan’s voice that was almost hypnotic. He felt much as he had when contemplating the Light, when meditating. So this was one of Mulligan’s gifts from the devil.

  ‘Hear me, Peter. Look at me, look at Amy. She is not a bad person. You cannot believe in your heart of hearts that it is right to drag unwilling young women across the Atlantic ocean; nor can you truly believe that any such person would go voluntarily. You are in a dream, Peter. You are the one out of step. The rest of us walk different paths, but the rhythm is much the same. Peter, the Temple of Eternal Light in Texas is under siege by the police who are trying to get people out before it is too late.’

  Wilkinson emitted a single sob. Lies, lies, more lies.

  ‘It is true,’ James insisted. ‘It’s all over for you and for the rest of those poor, misguided souls.’

  A sliver of doubt insinuated its way into Wilkinson’s brain. Was the true temple under siege? No, this was all part of a plot drawn up by men such as this, the unchosen. He moved his head, winced as pain shot through his jaw once more.

  A car drew up outside, then another. Four policemen entered the kitchen, truncheons on alert, feet battering the floor as the beefy men took away James’s gun and dragged Wilkinson to his feet. He was arrested there and then, his rights read aloud before handcuffs were employed.

  Moorhead waited until the back door had closed. ‘Well, there’s nowt as queer nor folk,’ he announced, before plodding up the stairs and back to the warmth of his bed.

  Alone, Amy and James drew breath as if for the first time in over an hour. ‘I should not wish to repeat that experience,’ said James.

  Amy rose and placed her hands in the small of her back, where a stiffness had been born as a result of sitting in such tension. ‘Will he hang?’ she asked.

  ‘Probably not. He may well be judged too insane to plead one way or the other.’

  There was an awkwardness between them now, as if the sudden disappearance of Peter Wilkinson had forced them to face life all over again. ‘I’ll do all I can,’ he said softly. ‘Funeral and so forth.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  ‘And you were brave there, Amy.’

  ‘So were you.’

  He lowered his chin and his voice. ‘No. Nothing brave about a big man hitting a little man. Broke his jaw, too.’

  ‘He was better off asleep,’ replied Amy. ‘Will you go home now?’ she asked.

  ‘No. You will not sleep. Neither shall I.’

  They repaired to the parlour and set the fire, each busy with kindling, coal and paper. Huddled in coats, they sat each side of the fireplace, oblivious to puffs of smoke and crackles of wood. ‘It’ll warm up in a minute,’ James announced hopefully.

  ‘This room never gets warm,’ she answered.

  ‘Then I shall send someone to look at the flue.’

  ‘Not today, James, not today.’

  ‘All right, so.’

  They slept fitfully, both uncomfortable in a chair, each uneasy in the other’s company. It occurred to Amy in one semi-conscious moment that this was the first time she had spent a night with a man, and that she felt no fear of him. What she did feel was inexplicable, a sort of dependence that she objected to, a sense of belonging with him, almost needing him.

  For his part, James watched, watched while she slept, pretended not to be awake when she looked at him. It was the sort of game a twelve-year-old might play, peeping at a girl, acting silly, imagining a kiss, an embrace.

  At about six o’clock, they gave up and made breakfast. Amy managed a slice of toast and three cups of tea, while James, plainly a country man, ate bacon and eggs. When his plate was cleaned, he spoke. ‘Moorhead can take Mona to the shop and the children to school,’ he said.

  ‘But—’

  ‘But we shall see what the day brings, Amy. I have to go to the Grange to see the workmen, but apart from that I intend to be here with you.’

  ‘Thank you.’ The words sounded hollow, unsure.

  The house got to its feet eventually, Moorhead concealing yawns as he fetched wood and coal, Elspeth looking covertly at the young mistress and Mr Mulligan, her head filled to the brim with tales her husband had uttered on rising.

  At eight o’clock, Elspeth answered the door and allowed Gordon Jones into the parlour. Dr Jones had cared for the Burton-Masseys for many years, and his heart almost broke when he saw Amy, so pale, so tired and so alone. Ah, no, here was Mulligan, a fine chap, a rock of a man. ‘Mr Mulligan.’

  ‘Dr Jones. We have had quite a night of it.’

  ‘So I understand,’ replied the doctor. ‘Rumour has it that you were arrested.’

  ‘I was.’ James told the tale while Amy, her face whiter than bleached linen, sat close to the fire.

  When he had heard the full story, Dr Jones squatted low on his heels in front of Amy. ‘There has been a development,’ he said softly. ‘Something I think you should know.’

  Oh, God, not more bad news? She tried to smile at the visitor, failed completely. ‘Is Margot worse?’ she asked tremulously.

  ‘Margot is very well,’ answered Gordon Jones. ‘I was with her an hour ago and she is in fine fettle, eating everyone’s breakfast.’

  ‘Good.’

  Dr Jones glanced at James. ‘Amy, this is about Eliza.’

  ‘Eliza? But Eliza is dead.’

  ‘Yes.’ The doctor took hold of Amy’s hands. ‘The staff at the morgue examined your sister’s body. There will be more detailed investigations, but they did not have to look hard to find out that Eliza was . . . Amy, your sister was already dying.’

  Amy frowned. ‘I don’t understand. He killed her – that man, the one who was here.’

  ‘Yes, yes, he did.’ The doctor cleared a lump of agony from his throat. ‘Your sister’s skull was damaged. There was a growth, Amy, a cancer on her brain. It was large enough to be visible.’

  She inhaled suddenly, a hand to her mouth.

  ‘Eliza might well have been dead within months.’

  ‘No,’ she insisted. ‘There was nothing wrong with – with her.’

  James turned and looked through the window. How much more could this poor woman take?

  ‘Oh, my God,’ she breathed. ‘Oh, God . . .’

  ‘Amy?’ The doctor rose and stepped back.

  She stared into the grate, watched the flames dancing and darting as if they believed this to be just another day. An awareness was creeping over her, pushing its face into her mind, making her think, remember. Eliza. So beautiful, so creative, so . . . cold. Cold now, certainly, but cold in her heart for some time . . .

  ‘Can I get you something?’ asked the doctor.

  ‘No.’ It was all becoming clear, begin
ning to make sense. But first, there was a question to be asked. ‘Dr Jones?’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Something in her head?’

  ‘A brain tumour, Amy.’

  She nodded slowly. ‘Might such a growth have affected her behaviour? She changed so much after Mother died – oh, poor Eliza. We all thought—’

  ‘Calm yourself.’ Dr Jones placed a hand on her head. ‘I brought the three of you into this world. You were all lovely girls, clever, gifted and beautiful.’ He blinked away a mist over his eyes. ‘She changed, yes. There is a theory that severe shock can activate a tumour. Your mother’s death might have made Eliza’s condition worse. That is not to say that the tumour was caused by Mrs Burton-Massey’s sudden death – it was probably there already – but shock may have been a factor in the tumour’s accelerated development.’

  Amy smiled. ‘Thank you.’

  ‘Not at all. Would you like a sedative?’ he asked.

  ‘No. I must visit Margot and arrange the funeral. Although we have to wait for . . . for whatever must be done with Eliza’s body, I shall talk to the undertaker.’ She stood up and shook his hand. ‘Thank you,’ she repeated. ‘You have answered so many questions. But I have one more, one you failed to answer earlier.’

  ‘Fire away,’ invited the doctor.

  She inhaled deeply as if arming herself. ‘The thing on her brain, the tumour. You have said that it might have been made worse by Mother’s death, but could it have altered Eliza’s behaviour, turned her into someone different?’

  ‘The short answer is yes, Amy. The longer version is that we don’t know enough yet about the human brain, though patients with problems like Eliza’s have altered beyond recognition. Their movements, speech and hearing can be affected, as can memory and behaviour.’

  ‘She stopped caring,’ whispered Amy.

  ‘No,’ replied the doctor. ‘Parts of her brain ceased to function. Her soul remained much the same, I’m sure.’

  ‘I thought she was bad,’ explained Amy. ‘The things she did, the icy attitude to me and to Margot. It was all a part of her illness, wasn’t it?’

  ‘Yes.’

  Amy’s shoulders relaxed. Perhaps the wicked Wilkinson had done poor Eliza a favour, because she would not have to linger now in pain and confusion. How easily and readily we judge one another, thought Amy, as James saw the doctor to the door. I believed that my sister was evil, even told her that she was a nasty piece of work. But I was ill-informed and cannot blame myself, as that would be negative and stupid. All the same, I shall direct my prayers to Mother and ask her to keep Eliza with her.

  Had Eliza killed Rupert Smythe? Had she pushed him down those tortuous stairs? Well, Mrs Smythe could not expect an answer now. The blue-eyed boy was gone and . . . and Margot was expecting his child. How simple life had been before all of this.

  James came in. ‘More tea, Amy? I am just about to send Moorhead to take the children to school.’

  ‘Yes, a cup of tea, please. And . . .’ She looked at him, saw a face made dingy by stubble, a creased coat, tired eyes, limp cuffs on a shirt loaned to him by a policeman. James’s own shirt, stained with Eliza’s blood, had been removed as evidence. ‘I don’t know how I would have managed without you.’

  His eyes met hers. ‘You would have managed, Amy.’

  ‘I think not.’ She was uneasy, yet the discomfort was not a bad feeling. ‘I might not have overcome him, James.’

  ‘Oh, you would have stopped him. You are a strong girl, Amy.’

  What was he really saying? And was this the appropriate time to be finding a man attractive, effective and kind? ‘Not as strong as you seem to think, James.’

  He felt a heat in his face, stepped back and went off to brew yet more tea. Brushing aside Elspeth Moorhead’s offer to help, he warmed the pot, set a tray, found spoons, cups, saucers.

  Elspeth carried on peeling carrots. In her almost seventy years on God’s earth, she had learned a thing or two. Even at this unbearably sad time, Elspeth Moorhead recognized a man in love, so the tears that tumbled into vegetable peelings were not all sad. Mr Mulligan would do very well for Amy, very well indeed.

  Twenty-six

  Sally woke at about seven o’clock. The great house was always quiet in the mornings, yet today’s silence was particularly empty, causing her to feel that she was the last creature alive on earth. Ah, she remembered now. The police had been here, then Mary and her two brothers had run away into the night, leaving Sally all alone in a place with fourteen bedrooms.

  She jumped up, splashed her face, dressed quickly. Mr Mulligan was under arrest. The police had reported that Eliza Burton-Massey had been found dead. On the stairs outside her attic room, Sally paused, remembering how kind Miss Eliza had been for a while. Then she had changed, had become sullen and dismissive, almost cruel. Perhaps Eliza had upset some ill-tempered man, but that man was not Mr Mulligan. Poor Eliza. Whatever she had done or been, she had not deserved to die so young.

  Sally knocked, then opened Mary’s door. The bed had not been slept in, so Mary had probably gone for good. Mary Whitworth had accused Mr Mulligan of locking those two brothers of hers in the cellar. Rubbish. And once the cellars had been searched by police everyone knew that there was nothing else down there. So much for the prisoner under the kitchen, mused Sally, as she reached the main landing.

  He had not been home. She looked around the neat room: just a bed, a table, a chest of drawers and a small wardrobe. The man lived so sparsely, as if he meant to leave no mark here. Having sold the inn in town and some paintings from the house, he was now investing in a hydro so that the Burton-Masseys would have a good living once he had returned to Ireland. But would he ever get home? Would he be out of prison? God forbid that he should hang . . .

  What could she do? She cut and buttered a slice of bread, poured herself a cup of milk, carried her makeshift breakfast through to the hallway. When she opened the front door, she saw that his car had gone. So, as well as being under wrongful arrest, Mr Mulligan had lost his car. She glanced sideways in the direction of the larger of Pendleton Grange’s two conservatories, but no-one had arrived yet. A swimming pool was under construction inside the building, while tennis courts and some extra stables would be built when spring came. Would the builders bother to turn up when they found out that their employer had been put behind bars? ‘Ooh, hurry up back, Mrs Kenny,’ Sally pleaded softly. ‘This all wants sorting out.’

  On a whim, she ran back to the kitchen and dragged her outdoor clothing from a peg. She could not work, could not sit and wait while one of the nicest men on earth languished in jail. Something had to be done. Sally wasn’t quite sure how or why, but this all needed to be put right. Mrs Kenny was going to be home this afternoon, but that was hours away. And who had stolen the car?

  The tram terminus was over three miles away by road, so she decided to cut through fields to save time and feet. Sally was on her way to Bolton; Sally would give the police a piece of her not inconsiderable intellect.

  The trouble with grown-ups, Diane decided, was that they kept too many secrets. They knew a lot but, whenever pressed, they said things like ‘You’ll find out when you’re older’, then went off in whispering huddles, thereby making the whole thing even more interesting than it might have been.

  But Diane had her ways, and these ways were aided by the fact that three bedrooms had been created with partitions so thin that everyone could hear snores, coughs, sneezes and even shifts of a quilt on a bed. So she sat upstairs and listened. Within the space of three minutes, she learned that Eliza Burton-Massey had been killed and that Mr Mulligan had been put in prison.

  She indulged in a few quiet tears, then decided to ration the weeping, save it until later. Because Diane Hewitt was suddenly very angry. Mr Mulligan hadn’t killed anyone. The child’s first instinct was to tell her grandmother about the guardian in the woods, but she could not. Last night’s expedition had been explained away by lies, and Ida Hewitt was not fo
nd of untruths these days. Also, Diane could not say how she had found out just now about the murder, or she would be chastised for eavesdropping again.

  Mona was speaking now. ‘Aye, the milkman told me – it’s all over the village, he says. But Mr Mulligan could never kill anybody. And Margot were there and all, stripped down to nowt. Well, he’d not do a thing like that.’

  ‘No, no, you’re right there, Mona.’

  ‘In prison and all,’ continued Mona, ‘for summat he’s definitely not done. I mean, I’m sure many an innocent man dangles on the end of a rope. Police is only interested in tidying up, not bothered who they hang. Courts is the same.’

  ‘Well, the kiddies’ll have to stop at home today,’ said Ida. ‘He always takes them to school – what shall I tell our Diane?’

  ‘Eeh, don’t ask me, love. That granddaughter of yours is as old as the hills any road.’

  Ida coughed. ‘This cold’s hanging on a bit.’ Diane heard the sound of Gran blowing her nose. ‘I’d decided to shift them over to the village school and all, but will we still be living here?’

  ‘Course we will,’ replied Mona immediately. ‘I’ve enough to buy the house if needs must. But it won’t come to that, will it? He’s innocent. And any road, he says he’s going to give the estate back once he’s mended his dad’s doings. So whatever happens, Amy’ll have a say in it.’

  ‘I hope so,’ answered Ida. There followed a sizeable pause. ‘How will you get to work, Mona? That shop’s had enough setbacks, and I can’t see Amy being up to much now that her poor sister’s been murdered.’

  ‘Oh, I can’t think,’ said Mona. ‘Let’s make a bit of breakfast, then decide what’s to be done. But I’ll tell you one thing for nothing, Ida.’

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘I’d like to know where Peter Wilkinson were last night. Supposed to be in Birmingham by all accounts. He’s no more in bloody Birmingham than thee and me. Remember that lass me and James Mulligan found in your old house? That were Wilkinson’s doing. I get a funny feeling yon man’s at the back of this lot and all.’