The Maltese Angel

by Catherine Cookson

  ‘Just what I say. My wife died this morning from a catapult shot that carried a flint.’

  It was a thin voice that seemed to pipe in as Seth Mason said, ‘People don’t die from catapult shots.’

  ‘No?’ The bark made Seth Mason retreat a step and he muttered, ‘Well…well, I mean…’

  ‘She…she wouldn’t do that. Mischief, yes, mischief: she gets up to mischief, but not that, not that.’

  ‘Mr Mason—’ Ward’s voice seemed strangely calm as he now went on, ‘that flint burst a blood vessel in my wife’s brain. And I have only this morning been awakened to the fact that all my ill-fortune over the past years: fires, maiming of my animals, shooting innocent little dogs, and all other irritations I’ve had to put up with, have come from the hand of your daughter. Everybody seems to have known this, but they have been protecting you. Well now, murder cannot be protected. If I had my hands on her this minute, there would be another one. This I promise you. But that would be letting her off lightly. What I’ve come to tell you is, I’ll have her certified before this day’s out.’

  ‘No, no. Oh Ward, no, no.’

  The voice caused them all to turn and look at the frail figure of Gladys Mason; and when her husband gripped her shoulders crying, ‘Go back! Go back!’ she answered him, ‘Leave me be, John. I must speak to Ward.’ And she pressed herself from his hands and, moving to the threshold of the door, she looked at Ward and pleaded, ‘Please, don’t do that, Ward. I beg of you. I’ll…I’ll see that she causes you no more trouble.’

  ‘What more trouble can she cause me, Mrs Mason? She has killed my wife. Didn’t you hear? She has killed my wife. Your mad daughter has killed my wife. You say she can cause me no more trouble. I have two girls, remember, and she’ll not rest until she gets them an’ all, if not me before that. Can’t you take it in, woman? She’s mad; and she won’t stop at one.’

  ‘Don’t you speak to my mother like that.’

  Before Ward had time to respond, John Mason cried at his son, ‘Shut up, you! Shut up! If you had kept your eyes open and done what you were…’ He again put his hand to his head; then, as if a surprising thought had struck him, he said sharply, ‘What proof have you got, Ward, that Daisy has done this thing? There’s hardly a lad in the village that hasn’t got a catapult.’

  ‘Granted. But George Holden’s sons, young Peter and Alan, saw her.’

  ‘Oh, those two.’ It was the thin voice of Seth Mason piping in again. ‘They are noted liars, and thieves into the bargain. We caught them raiding our chicken run only a few weeks ago. Didn’t we, Pete?’

  ‘Aye, we did that. And either of them would say anything to save their own skin.’

  ‘She was in the wood. They saw her. She chased them.’

  ‘Aye, she could have, likely because they were using the catapult. Ward’—John Mason’s bent shoulders seemed to straighten—‘she’s been up to mischief, I admit, and there’s something to be said on her side, as you only too well know. What you did turned her brain. But murder? No. No. I won’t have it. Anyway, she hardly ever leaves the room up above, except to go for a short ramble now and again. And then one or two of us keep an eye on her as much as—’ He stopped…then he pointed to Seth, saying, ‘Go up and tell her she’s wanted downstairs.’

  As Seth was about to pass his father to enter the house, he paused for a moment, saying, ‘What if she won’t…?’ Only to be cut short by his father’s voice crying at him, ‘Bring her down!’ Then turning to Ward, he said, ‘Come indoors a minute, will you, and we’ll clear this thing up one way or another. There’s one thing I’m sure of, she won’t lie to me.’ And he stepped back, at the same time pressing his wife aside to allow Ward to enter before them.

  It seemed to Ward that the kitchen hadn’t changed in any way since the last time he had sat at the long, white kitchen table and had eaten a good meal amid laughter and joking about different members of the church community. The breakfast crockery was there on the table now.

  He stood some distance from the end of it, waiting, as were Mr and Mrs Mason and their son, their gaze directed towards the door at the far end of the room. No-one spoke and the silence became eerie until it was suddenly pierced by a high female voice, crying, ‘Leave me be! will you? Leave me be!’

  When the far door opened it seemed that the bulky figure had been thrust into the room and that it was about to turn round again in protest, when it stiffened. Ward saw the head slowly turn to look at him, and the expression on the face seemed to be no different from the one he had looked on at their last meeting all those years ago, except, as the body had, so it had swollen to almost twice its size: for the figure now walking heavily towards the end of the table was enormous.

  Her father checked her, saying, ‘Sit down, Daisy. I want to talk to you.’

  It was as if she hadn’t heard her father speak, for she took no notice of him. Instead, putting her two hands flat on the table, her fingers began to tap out a regular beat.

  When her mother said sharply, ‘Don’t do that, dear. Sit down. Do what Dad said,’ she again made no response; nor did she when her brother Pete barked at her, ‘Do what you’re told and listen to Dad, or you’ll find yourself in hot water.’

  When his father reprimanded sternly, ‘Pete!’ his son cried back at him, ‘Well, get on with it. Ask her the question you brought her down for.’

  Putting a hand on his daughter’s shoulder, John Mason said, ‘Look at me, Daisy. Did you take a catapult and fire it at Mrs Gibson? I want the truth.’

  She glanced towards Ward, then looking back at her father and a sly smile coming over her face, she answered him with, ‘You never let her out, do you?’

  Mr Mason’s head dropped onto his chest for a moment before again looking at his daughter and demanding, ‘Did you fire a catapult? Did you take a catapult out?’ then attempting to shake the large solid body as he demanded further of her: ‘Answer me truthfully! You know what can happen to you if you don’t behave. Now, have you been out these last few days and taken a catapult and fired it at Mrs Gibson, causing her to die?’

  The bulky body seemed suddenly to come to life, normal life, and in a voice of enquiry, she said, ‘She died?’

  ‘Yes. Yes she did, Daisy. Mrs Gibson has died from a catapult shot.’

  Mr and Mrs Mason and their two sons watched Daisy turn and look fully at Ward; and a thread of despair ran through each of them as the habitually dull expression on her face turned to one of glee, her voice then expressing this feeling as she cried, ‘I got her, then. I knew I would one day. Payment. Payment. I said I’d make you pay.’

  ‘Oh, dear God!’ As Mrs Mason dropped onto a chair and John Mason turned away for the moment from the sight of his daughter, she cried at Ward: ‘By way of payment, eh? By way of payment.’

  It was at this that Ward found his voice, and he cried at her: ‘And you’ll pay, too, you mad hussy, for I’ll have you in the asylum before the day’s out.’

  ‘Asylum? Asylum?’ and she shook her head. Then again she was shouting at Ward and in a voice that sounded normal now, ‘Oh no, you won’t! Oh no, you won’t!’

  What happened next came so swiftly that not one of the three men could have prevented it: grabbing up the bread knife that was lying across a wooden platter on which lay half a loaf of bread, and with the artistry of a knife thrower, she levelled it at Ward’s face.

  Whether or not he saw it coming, he never knew; but his body instinctively stretched upwards and to the side which took his face and neck away from her blade, to be conscious that it had found a target when he realised he was pinned to the side of the delph rack against which he was now leaning. In the confusion he was aware that the long wooden handle was weighting the blade down. Then, as his body bent forward, the knife slid to the floor, leaving him standing in a daze, watching the blood soak into his shirtsleeve where it was rolled up above the elbow, then stream down his forearm.

  There was a queasy feeling in his stomach; then he became aw
are that the kitchen was empty except for Mrs Mason and himself and that the yelling and squealing were coming from a distance.

  Mrs Mason’s words came out on a trembling stutter: ‘It…it isn’t deep, Ward; it…it’s ju…just gone through the top.’ She had torn his shirt sleeve apart, and now she was wrapping a towel around the wound, saying, ‘Ke…keep the end under your oxter, Ward, and…and the lads will ge…get you to the doctor.’

  He pressed her away from him, and as he turned towards the door to go out, she muttered, ‘Oh, Ward. Ward. I’m sorry. I…I’m s…sorry for us all.’

  His left arm pressed tight to his side and his right hand holding the towel onto the top of his shoulder, he walked across the farmyard. And he wasn’t surprised at all as he was about to enter the first field to see Carl standing in the shadow of a hedge. And Carl’s greeting to him was, ‘Oh! master. Good God! What’s happened?’

  And the strange reply he received was, ‘Run on home. Harness the trap. I want it straight away.’

  ‘You…you’re sure you can manage? I mean…’

  ‘Do what I say.’

  As Carl sprinted from him Ward told himself that it was as well this last incident had happened, for it would help to put her where she should have been a long time ago.

  Twice he leant against a drystone wall, not because there was a weakness in him, but because he was pondering as to why he himself hadn’t suspected the source of his misfortunes: everybody had seemed to know the culprit but himself. One thing he could have understood was that his friends had kept quiet because they feared the result of his knowing.

  He reached the farm gate to see Carl leading a horse and trap into the yard, with Billy tightening the horse’s girth as he moved. Annie was there, too, with the girls one on each side of her, and Patsy standing apart, her forefinger nipped tight between her teeth.

  On seeing her master, Annie pushed the girls to one side and, hurrying towards him, said, ‘Dear Lord in heaven! Come away in and let me see to that. Oh, this is surely a day that God didn’t make.’

  As she made to take Ward’s free arm, he pressed her aside, but he did not speak; nor did he look at his daughters as they cried to him, ‘Oh, Daddy! Daddy!’ But with a heave he pulled himself up onto the trap, where Carl was already seated, the reins in his hands, and with a muttered, ‘Get going,’ they rode out of the yard.

  It wasn’t until they had gone some distance that he again muttered, ‘Make for Doctor Patten’s;’ and within five minutes the trotting horse brought them to the doctor’s cottage, which lay just outside the village at the church and cemetery end.

  When Carl jumped down and ran up the path towards the door, it was pulled open before he got there by the doctor’s old housekeeper, who exclaimed, ‘Oh; I thought it was himself. He’s out. But he should be back at any time. He hadn’t sat down to his meal when he was called again. With one thing and another, he’s done a day’s work already. What is it you will be wanting?’ Then she looked beyond him, and after a pause said, ‘Oh. Oh, yes; I see,’ only to exclaim louder now as she looked along the road, ‘Speak of the devil! Here he comes, and it looks like he won’t be sitting down to his meal again.’

  When Philip Patten drew his horse to a stop alongside Ward’s trap, he stared at the blood-soaked arm before asking quietly, ‘How did that come about?’

  ‘A knife. She aimed at my throat. I want you to come back to Doctor Wheatley’s with me; I’m having her put away if it’s the last thing I do this day.’

  Philip Patten made no comment, but he held Ward’s gaze for some seconds before he jerked his horse forward and turned it in the road, by which time Carl had taken his seat again and set the horse at a trot in the direction of the village.

  Again many of the villagers stood and gaped as Ward Gibson, his arm covered with blood, was driven through the village, followed by the young doctor on horseback.

  It was evident that Doctor Wheatley had not gone without his breakfast, which never varied: no matter what he had imbibed the night before, he was ready for his steak topped with two fried eggs and also for a mug of tea into which a raw egg had been beaten. It was said in the village that it was his plain diet that had prevented his indulgence in raw spirits from eating away his innards.

  One of the rooms of his well-equipped house he used as a surgery, and there he was confronted by the three men, towards not one of whom he had any kindly feelings.

  ‘Well! What’s this? Been getting yourself shot?’

  When Ward made no reply but just stared at the bloated face and figure before him, the doctor bawled, ‘Come on! Come on! Out with it!’

  And Ward did come out with it, and right to the point: ‘I want you to come back to the Masons’ farm and certify the Masons’ daughter,’ he said.

  ‘What!’ The doctor looked towards Philip Patten, then back to Ward, before he said, and very quickly now, ‘You do, do you? And on what grounds?’

  Philip Patten came out with one word that seemed to speak volumes: staring at his superior, he said simply, ‘Doctor!’ And in return, the older man yelled at him, ‘Yes? Doctor! What were you going to say?’

  ‘You know what I was going to say, what Mr Gibson here is going to say: she should have been seen to some time ago. You knew the way things were going.’

  ‘I knew nothing of the kind, fellow! The girl…woman was under stress. Do you lock people up because of that?’

  It was now Ward who answered: ‘Stress that killed my wife, sir!’ he cried. ‘That maniac laughed when she knew that her catapult had done the trick. She gloried in it. Then she did this.’ He pointed to his shoulder and went to pull the towel away, but winced as it brought the torn skin with it.

  They all stood for a moment staring at the bared arm with the blood oozing down both the back and front of his body. Then Ward muttered: ‘She aimed for my throat. And she’ll do it again. And remember, I have two daughters. She won’t rest until she finishes them. She’s raving mad.’

  ‘And who’s to blame for that, Mr Gibson? Do you ask yourself who’s to blame for that? You turned her brain when you threw her over.’

  ‘I did not throw her over. There had been no talk of marriage.’

  ‘No; not talk, but action.’

  ‘Do you intend to do what I ask, or have I to go for the police to assist you?’

  The older man now stood glaring at Ward. Then, his voice muffled and sounding ominous, he said, ‘You brought distress on this good and respected family the minute you married your cheap dancing piece.’

  Philip Patten and Carl reacted simultaneously by stretching out their arms to prevent Ward from attacking the doctor, who had fearfully stepped back towards the open door, but was nevertheless determined Ward Gibson should take heed of his words: for they were, ‘I may not live long enough to see it, but what you are forcing me to do will have its repercussions on you a thousandfold, for the family that you have destroyed will eventually destroy you.’

  PART TWO

  One

  Carl watched Patsy coming down the side of the stubble field. She was walking in the shadow of a short line of trees, where the March sun had not been strong enough to thaw the heavy frost of the night, so that her feet seemed to be treading a silver path; but even as his thought presented the image to him he discarded it, for Patsy’s life had always been devoid of silver paths.

  As she emerged into the light it was as if he were seeing her for the first time as a young woman, a young beautiful woman who carried herself straight, head bowing to no-one, while still having to be subservient.

  When she reached him, where he was standing by the stile, she took his outstretched hand and before he had time to greet her she said, ‘Will you kindly tell me, Mr Carl, why you never come up this field to meet me?’ to which he answered, ‘For the simple fact, Miss Riley, that I like to see you walk. You walk proud, a different walk altogether from what you walk inside the farm.’

  The smile left her face as she said, somewhat soulfully, �
�Yes, yes; it’s a different walk, for there I am running or scurrying to someone’s bidding.’

  He helped her over the stile, saying, ‘It won’t always be like that, Patsy. Believe me.’

  ‘No?’ It was a question; and now, she leant against the wooden stanchion as she said, ‘I am twenty-five years old, Carl. Ma reminded me of it the day. “Breeding time will soon be past,” she said. She does not mince words, does Ma. And she was right, Carl: I want a family; but most of all, I want you.’

  He put his arms about her and pulled her tightly to him, saying, ‘Not more than I want you, Patsy. Oh, no; not more than I want you. I ache for you.’

  ‘Then why can’t we just go to him and put it to him? It should be so simple. You have the cottage; I’ve just got to move from the loft. Oh my dear.’ She put up her hand and touched his cheek. ‘I know the situation; that was a silly thing to say. But on the surface, it seems as simple as that. The truth is, he looks upon you as a son; but me, I’m still Patsy Riley from the Hollow. Oh…oh, I know.’ She patted his lips. ‘I know he’s been good in other ways; in letting Da take Billy’s place; and taking Rob on too. Oh, I know I said it was good, but, in a way, it makes matters worse for me. There’s Da, a feckless Irishman, and Rob following in his footsteps. They’re good workers when they’re being governed, but like all the Irish, except perhaps me’—she twisted his nose—‘who will work without being overlooked. But what they are besides this is, they’re loyal. And of course’—she now drew herself slightly from him, yet not out of his embrace, as she added, ‘There is Miss…there is Miss Jessie.’

  ‘Oh dear me! Patsy, as I’ve told you before, time and again, for my part she’s like a sister. I’ve told you: I held her as a tiny baby; and I’m ten years older than her. She’s just a silly girl.’

  ‘Oh no.’ Patsy shook her head, and a knowing look came into her eyes as she said, ‘Miss Jessie’s no silly girl. When I first came into that yard sixteen years ago she made it plain who owns you.’