I shuddered. ‘My God. Must you?’
‘Yep,’ he snapped. ‘I ain’t his broken-hearted mixed up old man, nor his old man’s doting childless wife. I don’t buy that deprived upbringing excuses all codswollop. I grew up with too many kids who didn’t know their fathers’ names and have since made bloody good to spare one small tear for our Francis. Let’s get off this road.’
He was silent till he took the next side turning off the main marsh road and drew up in a tractor entrance to a field. He switched off the engine. ‘So his mother and Johnnie had it off but couldn’t marry as she already had a hubby, but no other means of support, and Johnnie was a minor just out of school, dependent on parents who cut up nasty and packed him off to Canada for two years. Tough, yes. Not as tough as it could’ve been had his legal father not had the decency and generosity to play ball if only to spare his good name. He still played bloody ball and continued supporting a child he knew was not his after his wife died and up to his own death, when the wife’s brother took over. The world’s stiff with orphans who’ve been raised happily by uncles and aunts. Uncle must’ve been a charitable and broad-minded bloke, or he’d not have told Francis the truth and allowed Johnnie access to his son. Uncle could have refused. He was the legal guardian, and natural fathers have no rights in law. Francis wasn’t deprived of affection; he was bloody loaded with father-figures plus our Helen teetering around in the background longing to be a mum-figure as she couldn’t have kids of her own. But I do believe her story about never feeling she could trust him even when he was a lad and what she said about Renny sharing this view. “Uncle Renny” to Francis when he was a kid. Christ. When poor old Uncle Renny walked in on Francis having that slop session with you, that signed his death warrant. Francis recognized him all right and though Renny had always kept his mouth shut for Johnnie’s sake, even ‒ I’ll bet ‒ to Angie, with Sue dead Francis was not taking chances on Renny’s opening his mouth to you. I think Renny would’ve done just that, if he’d had time. He hadn’t taken much of a shine to you until he realized you were a kid the same age as his daughters. He wouldn’t want anyone to do dirt to them and he wasn’t doing it to you. Sue plus girl friend dead. You just might be next on the list. He had to talk to you ‒ only he never had time.’ He slapped himself impatiently. ‘Where in hell are my fags?’
I found the packet on the floor. ‘Here.’
He grabbed it from me and in the lighter’s flame I saw the anger in his face. I kept quiet as he hadn’t finished and I had quite a few things on my mind.
He said, ‘He no more gave a damn about rubbing out old Renny than when he risked rubbing out his old man with a load of shot just to keep him out of the road while you were around to minimize your chances of spotting the family resemblance. The Smiths and all their classy chums must never know the hideous truth. Very nice people, the Smiths. And Mr Smith is a lawyer. The less he heard about Francis’s past, the better. No wonder the Evans-Williamses were so on edge when you first arrived, then being experienced hotel-keepers recognized they’d overdone the ice and fell over backwards with the big hallo. My turning up was a right bonus for them ‒ and sonny’s shotgun kindly handed them another. Why worry? Only winged. But I’ll bet Harry caught on last year when Francis first made his play for Angie and breathed the word in Walt’s ear. So Walt sent me horsing over and horsed over himself.’
I said absently. ‘Walt likes Mr Smith a lot. Years ago when he was young and Walt’s father died, Mr Smith managed to save Walt’s mother and her five kids from being evicted from their tied cottage and got her the tenancy for life. She’s still in it and Mr Smith still hasn’t sent in his bill. Walt wouldn’t tell me or anyone anything that might harm Mr Smith. I see now Walt was hinting that Francis might be out to get you. I knew what he meant but was too dumb to see who.’
‘You weren’t alone.’ He took the subject back to Mrs Evans-Williams’s confidences last night, and I thought of the relief she had tried so hard to keep battened down. ‘Poor old Johnnie, broken-up as hell, blaming himself for everything and refusing to accept it was Francis who shot him.’
‘He can’t really believe that.’
‘Don’t be bloody dumb again! Of course not. His story and he’s sticking to it like he’s stuck to the story that he only insisted on moving from Cornwall to be nearer but not too near the boy. Never one word, she said, about feeling the need to keep an eye on him after the Scottish caper ‒ just in case, she said ‒ remember?’
I remembered. And something else she had said. (‘Perhaps it wasn’t his fault. Please, never breathe a word of this to Johnnie or anyone, but ‒ well ‒ there was bad blood on his mother’s side. Her father was a drunkard and killed a man in a brawl and there was a terrible scandal and then he was put away as unfit to plead or something. It was all a long time ago, but I’ve always been sure that was why his uncle never married. He was a doctor. He knew about these things and it’s no good pretending, blood is thicker than water and these ‒ well ‒ things ‒ can be handed on to later generations.’)
David was still talking: ‘even if the brewer’s offer was good, can’t have been much fun at their age leaving their cosy pub, crossing the country and starting again from scratch. But Johnnie wanted to watch over the son he’d always longed for and she wanted what Johnnie wanted. And Francis knew they’d let him get away with one murder they couldn’t prove, so why not use them again? Of course he pussy-footed in and out of the joint as he pleased. It bloody was his home from home.’
‘As was Harbour Marsh. Which was why they didn’t fancy the idea of my sitting around sketching.’
‘Yep.’
We sat in silence for quite a while and listened to the croaking frogs, the slither of the slight wind in the dark rushes, the shrill scream of a hunted rabbit, the hoot of a solitary owl, the distant sighs of the sea, and our own thoughts.
‘David.’
He didn’t turn his face from the blackened windscreen. ‘Yes?’
‘I know what you’ve been saying, but why do you really think he killed Sue?’
‘For the same reason he killed Angie and his former girl friend. Sue’d served her purpose and was dispensable.’
I breathed a little more easily, but still very carefully. ‘Helen’s right. Must be insanity in the family.’
‘Balls. He wasn’t insane. Just a cold-blooded killer.’
‘Normal people aren’t killers ‒’
‘Never heard of wars, Rose? Or are you going to tell me every bloke who carries a gun for his country is a nutter?’
‘That’s totally different ‒’
‘The only difference is that in war the killing’s legalized. If there wasn’t a streak of the killer in the normal male psyche, no government on earth would ever be able to raise an army. I’m not sure it’s in the normal female psyche, as those who have the literal sweat of producing life are less likely to enjoy taking it. To kill is a male primitive instinct most of us manage to control if only for our own self-preservation. The law preserves us, so we preserve the law, unless we have the conceit to think we can beat it. He had. As for all that nice handy bad-blood eyewash ‒ remember we got it from Helen who must’ve got it from Johnnie who almost certainly got it from his parents. Naturally, they’ll have blamed the woman. Who in hell doesn’t? And she was in her twenties and married and Johnnie was under age at a time when the conventions mattered a hellish lot more than now. They’ll have slung every bit of mud they could scrape up at her. Maybe her dad was an alcoholic; maybe he did kill a bloke in a brawl. Or maybe dad had just had the odd one too many when a fight started up and he got involved and rather than face that scandal some smart lawyer managed to brush it under the carpet with an insanity plea ‒ if that’s what happened. How do we know it’s true? How can anyone be sure of getting at the truth of a forty-year-old story handed on verbally and finally coming out of an openly hostile mouth third or fourth down the line?’
‘I suppose you’re right.’
&nbs
p; He swung round to face me. ‘You’d know I was bloody right if you’d stop thinking with your emotions and go back to using your brain. Francis used his but good. Every move, every word he said to you, carefully thought out. Remember what you told me about that slop session. Were those the words of a madman? Or the words of a very smart operator who knew just how deep to dig in the knife to get your empathy?’
I didn’t answer until my mind had rerun that conversation. He sat still, not touching me, not even smoking. ‘Yes. He had a good act. I’ll say! No guy was ever more astounded than when I told him about your car ‒ and there’s a bit I haven’t yet told you in here. He actually tried to blame you for that one.’
‘Oh, aye?’ There was an odd note in his tone. ‘Why’d he think I’d done it?’
‘To give you an excuse ‒ no, alibi ‒ he actually said, “alibi”. God, am I dumb to have missed that Freudian slip till now. To give you an alibi for hanging around me.’
‘Bright as they came, that lad.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘He got it in one.’
‘What?’ I was furious. ‘Do you mean you ‒’
‘Hell, love, I didn’t intend the bloody job to blow up. I merely wanted to bugger up the engine a bit, (a) as he guessed, to give me a good excuse for hanging around a little longer to try and work out what, if anything, was going on, and (b), just in case that bathroom job had someone’s name on it, to get in ahead before the next near-miss connected with the inn. Even the most superstitious start asking awkward questions about a fourth.’ He laughed quietly. ‘I sure buggered that one up. I didn’t spot the petrol leak. I’ve told the insurance bloke I’m not claiming on it. This is why the replacement’s taking longer. It ain’t one. New sale.’
I was shaking my head slowly from side to side but that hadn’t cleared it. ‘You ‒ you ‒ buggered up your own engine to that extent? You? The wonder boy of BCC! Einstein junior? The eyes and ears of the county constabulary ‒ joined the wrong wires?’
‘That’s right. Like old Walt said, when a lad’s courting his mind’s not where it should be.’
‘My darling idiotic man’ ‒ I put a hand on his arm ‒ ‘you could’ve been burnt to death ‒’
‘Like two nights back.’ He caught my hand and held it between his own. ‘Maybe,’ he said softly in a voice he hadn’t used for two nights, ‘maybe you’re right not to ask me to wed you, my love. If you want to make sure there’s no daft blood in the family, don’t hitch with Lofthouse. Hand him a screwdriver to fix up a neat wiring failure and he blows up his own car; show him a bit of vital evidence floating in with the tide and he closes his eyes for his afternoon nap; send him hot-foot after a killer and he forgets to take off his glasses though the night’s dark as the inside of a cow’s stomach and he can’t see a bloody thing with them on.’ He kissed my hand. ‘Dead right, Rosie. You’d not want to hand on my blood to your kids. There’s always the strong chance the little sods might take after dear old dad.’
I laid my free hand on his. ‘So you know?’
‘Now. I’d wondered sometimes while I was away. It could’ve been wishful thinking. It was last night that I caught on. I saw the expression in your lovely face when our Helen was going on about blood being thicker than water and uncle staying single. And why shouldn’t he? Maybe he loved a married woman, or the girl he loved had died and he didn’t fancy second-best, or maybe he fancied lads but being of his generation kept that to himself and made do with cold baths. But when I saw how you looked, I knew I’d wasted a lot of sweat over the way Francis looked at you down by the nethouse. I saw then that, for all you’d said of his passionate devotion to Sue, he fancied you like the cat fancies the canary. If Renny reckoned Francis had your name next on the list, I think he was right ‒ and your chum Sir Norman thinks the same though he doesn’t know about Renny as we’d enough for him without that. I’ll bet it crossed his mind, same as it did mine in the event, that Angie had a better motive than you put into words for pulling that Luger on you. She knew enough about blokes to know Francis wasn’t popping in on you to be neighbourly. You were younger, much prettier, and loaded. She was already in so deep over Sue that she’d not much to ride and one hell of a lot to gain if you met with another of those nasty fatal accidents.’
‘That means you think Francis killed her ‒’
‘Because you were next on the list? Maybe. And who was on the list after you? But on that one, Francis, Angie ‒ the lot of us ‒ were on to a dead duck. You weren’t kidding when you said once was enough. But it was only last night I properly understood why. It’s not the late Charles D. He’s dead and gone ‒ and so are all the Endels but you and that’s the way you want to keep it. You’ve decided the Endel blood, like the entail, dies with you. After you, Lofthouse can have the lot even though he doesn’t bloody rate it or want it. Just you, Rosie.’ He hesitated, then went on unsteadily, ‘You know I love you like hell and have since I first met you and you hated my guts. I know you don’t hate them now and haven’t for years. Up to the other night I just thought you liked me. After that ‒ and last night ‒ I’ve been wondering ‒ am I another reason for your determination to stay a widow? Or is that just more wishful thinking?’
‘No.’
His hands gripped mine and for about a minute we just looked at each other in the darkness. Then I had to say it. ‘I love you, David. I’d love to marry you, but I won’t. It wouldn’t work. Dirty tricks don’t. I’ll never risk handing on my Endel blood and you know exactly why. You may say now you don’t give a damn if we never have kids, but you will, duckie, you will. You’ll probably want to clout me for this, but family man is written all over you.’
‘Oh, aye? Thanks for spelling it out and ‒ just thanks so bloody much ‒’ He pulled off his glasses, pulled me into his arms and kissed me as if for the first time. ‘I’ll say this for you, love,’ he muttered, ‘whatever you are, life isn’t dull when you’re around ‒ and when you’re not around it isn’t life ‒ just existence.’
Later, he said, ‘Dirty trick, eh? Family man, am I? Like they say, you learn something new every day. This lot needs sorting out, but not tonight as I’m too bloody happy to think straight. Tell you what. Once this Harbour business is all cleared up, why don’t we get right away from the marsh on our own? There must be some place somewhere where we’ll have the time to give time to our own problems. Will you come with me?’
‘Just good friends on a jolly spree?’
‘What else? Seeing you’re still determined not to make an honest man of me. Deal? Right. That’s settled then. Time we made tracks for Endel. I don’t know about you, love, but this return to the British way of life has aged me fast and I’m more than ready for my bed.’
Also by Lucilla Andrews
If you enjoyed Silent Song, you will also want to read these other stories by Lucilla Andrews.
The Print Petticoat
A moving story of heartache and hope in the Maternity Unit of a busy 1950s teaching hospital.
Joanna Anthony is a dedicated Nursery staff nurse at St Gregory’s Hospital. The nurses and doctors share laughter and tears as they tend to the mothers and babies in their care.
There is time for romance, too. After five years together, is ambitious Dr Richard Everley finally ready to settle down with Joanna? And what of the two other young doctors who have more than a professional interest in her?
It takes a serious illness for Joanna to understand where, and with whom, her future really lies.
Read The Print Petticoat from Amazon UK
Read The Print Petticoat from Amazon.com
Read The Print Petticoat from Amazon AUS
The Secret Armour
There’s romance for Nurse Maggie on the wards of a 1950s teaching hospital. But is she in love with the wrong man?
Nineteen-year-old nurse Maggie Howard is completing her training at St Benedict’s Hospital. Life on the ward is hard and the Sisters are strict, but Maggie and her set mates, Al
ice and Rose, love their work. That’s not all that Maggie loves, when against all advice she falls for a dashing patient, David Corford.
Maggie will experience happiness, heartache and misunderstandings. And throughout the emotional ups and downs, young houseman George Hartigan is always there to provide a shoulder to cry on.
Will Maggie risk her career and future happiness over her love for a handsome patient?
Read The Secret Armour from Amazon UK
Read The Secret Armour from Amazon.com
Read The Secret Armour from Amazon AUS
The Quiet Wards
Young nurse Gillian Snow is blamed when a dangerous drug goes missing during her shift on the ward of a 1950s teaching hospital. But who took it?
Twenty-one-year-old Nurse Gillian Snow finds her career in jeopardy when a dangerous drug disappears from the drug cupboard under her care. The situation also affects her romance with dashing house-surgeon Peter Kier.
Moved from her ward to do other duties, Gillian experiences the happiness and heartache that comes from nursing both children and accident victims.
As she struggles to understand who took the drug, and why, Gillian finds support and truth from some unexpected quarters.
Marsh Blood (The Endel Mysteries Book 2) Page 18
