‘What? Yes. Yes.’ He moved his head from side to side, and looked towards the window before saying, ‘Tell Archer.’
‘Yes. Aye.’ She backed away from the bed and him, and at the door she turned and hurried onto the landing. But when she reached the top of the stairs she stopped for a moment and gripped the ornamental wooden knob on top of the banister rail while repeating to herself, ‘How did she get over there? She couldn’t have done it by herself. How in the name of God did she get over there?’
When she reached the yard it was to see George standing looking up at the window, and before she could speak, he said, ‘I heard the glass break; what’s the matter? Something up?’
‘You’ve got to go for the doctor, quick! Take the cart, or trap, whatever’s the quickest.’
‘The missis?’
‘Aye.’ She nodded at him, and as he hurried away she called after him, ‘Bring him back with you. It’s important, ’cos she’s gone.’
Her last words caused him to turn fully round and face her, and he repeated her words, ‘She’s gone? You mean…?’ and when she nodded her head he put up his hand and ran his fingers over his hair before disappearing through the arch.
It was nine o’clock that night and she was tired of telling the doctor the same story and hearing him say, ‘But you didn’t see your master lift your mistress from the floor and put her on the bed?’
And once again she said, ‘No; but I’ve told you that when he came down the ladder for something to break the glass he said he had seen her on the floor.’
‘But you yourself didn’t see her lying on the floor?’
‘No, but if he said she was, then she was.’
The doctor leant his head wearily back against the top of the leather chair. He was finding himself in a quandary. It was his firm opinion that Mrs Rona Birch could never have got out of that bed by herself. It was also his firm opinion that she had died from a heart attack caused by a blow to the head. It was plausible that the corner spike of the brass and steel fender could have caused the blow, yet there was no bloodstain on the carpet at the spot where her husband had said he had found her; nor for that matter was there much blood on the wound. But this was nothing to go by, she could have bled internally.
If it wasn’t for this girl here he would have let the matter rest and issued a certificate to the effect that his patient had died from heart failure; but this girl, being a maid and consequently a chatterer, had likely already told the farmhand all that had transpired. On the other hand, if she hadn’t talked it wasn’t his place now to warn her to silence, because in his opinion you had only to tell a woman to cease her chatter and she chattered all the more. He was sorry, but he had to protect his position; there was nothing for it but a post mortem and to bring into the open the unlikely facts that a woman whom he had attended for the past five years, and who in his professional opinion had total paralysis of the lower limbs, had walked from the bed to the fireplace, a considerable distance, and without the aid of sticks. It was all highly improbable to say the least.
He said kindly now, ‘That will be all at present, Emily.’
‘Yes, sir.’ She went slowly from the room, closed the door behind her, and as she crossed the hall she glanced up the stairs to where Larry was descending. They looked at each other but didn’t speak, and she went on into the kitchen and, going to the settle by the side of the fireplace, she sat down and, joining her hands tightly, she pressed them onto her knees and stared into the fire.
She was dead; and it was a good job in a way for her own sake, and his an’ all. But she had always threatened she would get one over on him, and she had. Eeh, she had at that, for now the doctor was making out that she could never have got out of that bed by herself and that she had died by a blow on the head; and who was there to give her that blow, only her husband. Of course, there was herself too but they wouldn’t tack anything on to her ’cos she stood to gain nothing, whereas him…well, by her dying he would get everything he had married her for. At least, that would be the verdict of old Abbie and the rest.
The more the doctor had questioned her the more she saw his side of it. As he said, she hadn’t seen the mistress lying on the floor; when she entered the bedroom the mistress was lying on the bed. Of course, she was lying on top of the rumpled bedclothes, but then she could have pushed them aside with her hands…What if he had hit her when he was up there this morning, then put on an act in climbing the ladder and getting through the window?…
…Don’t be daft. She got to her feet, grabbed up the poker and thrust it into the fire. If he had knocked her cold with a hard instrument how would she have been able to slide the bar across the door?
She straightened her back and stood now with her arm upwards gripping the mantelshelf. He was in trouble, deep trouble, and there were so many people around this quarter who would like to see him drown in it, and no-one more than old Abbie.
If the pollis was called in and they questioned Abbie the first thing he would say was they were forever at each other’s throats, and that you could hear them at yon end of the farm, especially the master’s voice; oh aye, he would emphasise that, would Abbie. And then it would be in the papers, big headlines.
Why was she always getting mixed up in tragedies and the like? First, there was Sep’s going, and then Con; and now the mistress. But it wasn’t her going that was the tragedy here, it was what was going to happen to the master.
Suddenly she lowered her face onto her outstretched arm and the tears filled her throat and burned her eyes as she thought, I’ll die if anything happens to him. I will.
Three
The newspapers in the north-east of England were never far behind the great dailies from London in printing the latest news and the northerner was a fellow who liked his headlines big. He did not always read what was below them because the headlines spoke for themselves. In May, 1900, it needed only two words, MAFEKING RELIEVED, and these two words gave the go ahead for celebration. Then in January, 1901, when the old Queen died, the headlines were enormous.
Of course, the headlines in December, 1901, which told of a man called Marconi who said he had received wireless signals from across the sea were no more than ordinary although they ran MARCONI SPANS THE ATLANTIC. Yet they were quite enough to start genuine arguments in pubs, clubs and at dinner breaks in shipyards, and even in certain kitchens where the man of the house was out to impress his family with his knowledge of things up to date, even risking being derided by his doubting offspring, saying, ‘By, Dad, an’ next week you’re gona take a tram ride to the moon, aren’t you?’
And then in March of 1902 there was the death of Cecil Rhodes. FIVE MILES PROCESSION AT BURIAL OF CECIL RHODES said the headlines. Buried on top of a rock, said the headlines. But who was Cecil Rhodes? Well, said the better informed, he was born in England but became a foreigner in South Africa where he made his pile and rose to Prime Minister. There were long names associated with him in the papers: Bechuanaland and Mashonaland coupled with Matabeleland; the last two he turned into Rhodesia. Then he got himself mixed up in something shady and had to resign. But all such headlines were put into the shade with the Coronation of King Edward VII and Queen Alexandra in June of that year.
Yet no headlines, large or small, had the effect of those that appeared in the northern papers in October of 1903—especially on the population of Fellburn and the village of Farley Dene, particularly Farley Dene—concerning the scandal about that upstart who had overstepped himself; battered his wife to death in her bed he had, then made on she had fallen against a fender, and her stiff and paralysed for years. Well, they had been expecting it, hadn’t they, and they hoped he swung, for he had broken the village up; it wasn’t the same any more since the Goodyears had all gone, and John Ralston an’ all.
Although the headlines in the papers were impressive, yet they didn’t go as far as to state that Lawrence Birch had murdered his wife. But then they didn’t need to; all they needed to do was to state
the facts and leave the public to form its own opinion…
The post mortem on Rona Birch was held the second day after she died, and on the fourth day the coroner and jury heard all that her husband had to say; also the doctor; and finally the maid; and, as he said, the evidence seemed confused and conflicting and he would, therefore, adjourn the inquest for one week from that day.
When Emily descended from the trap at the back door her legs were still trembling as they had been since she entered the court that morning. In fact, her whole body was now trembling, for she had imbibed the feeling of the court and she knew that no-one believed either her or the master, but they believed the doctor when he had said that, in his opinion, it would have been impossible for his late patient to walk the distance between the bed and the fireplace, even to crawl that distance, for when he had last seen her she was in a very weak condition.
One little gleam of hope, however, had appeared when the doctor admitted that it was some long time since he had examined his patient’s legs because she had always strongly objected to any form of examination. When asked how long it was since his last examination of the deceased, he had become slightly flustered and admitted that it was some months, and then but a cursory affair. But he had been quick to add that three years ago he had brought in a second opinion, a Doctor Bilkin, who was well known in the county for his specialised work in this particular field, and he had confirmed that the late Mrs Birch was paralysed from the waist down and had even suggested that her state might be progressive.
George, who had come running through the arch and had taken the horse’s head, looked at Emily and his eyes asked how things had gone, but she didn’t indicate anything, even by a slight movement of her head.
Nor did Larry speak to George, he just followed her into the kitchen where Mrs Riley beamed on them both, saying, ‘Now isn’t that queer? I must have smelt you comin’, for I’ve only this minute mashed a pot of tea.’
Emily took out the pins from her hat and placed them on the corner of the dresser before lifting the hat from her head; then she stood holding it in both her hands and watched the master walk silently through the kitchen and out into the hall.
‘I’ve never expected to receive the time of day from him but he looks as if he’s joined the silent order. Did things not go right for him then?’
‘No, Mrs Riley.’
‘Is it bad, it is?’
‘It looks pretty bad.’
‘Well, well.’ The woman shook her head, then said, ‘There’s nothin’ you can do about it, so don’t worrit yourself. An’ there’s nothin’ that a good strong cup of tea won’t help, so sit yourself down there.’
Emily sat down and unbuttoned her coat, and as Mrs Riley poured the tea out she remarked, ‘I don’t suppose it’s any good givin’ himself one for by the looks of him it’s something stronger he needs at this minute.’
‘I’d pour one out in any case, Mrs Riley, and I’ll take it in to him.’
‘Aye well, you should know.’
Mrs Riley now poured out another cup of tea, and Emily, after merely sipping at her own, rose from the chair, put the cup and saucer on a tray and without further words went from the room.
She knew he would be in the study. He was sitting close to the fire, his body bent forward, his elbows on his knees, his hands hanging slackly between them.
‘Drink this,’ she said. ‘Or will I get you a drop of something?’ She did not add either master or sir; in times of crisis such as when Con had died, their separate states seemed to meet and communicate on the same level.
He took the cup and saucer from her hand, then shook his head and took a long drink of the scalding tea before he looked at her again. ‘They all believe I did it,’ he said.
She could not comfort him by denying his statement; what she said was, ‘The doctor didn’t help; he could have avoided all this in the first place.’
‘I think he would have liked to, but he has to do his job.’ He now leant back in the chair, turned his head to the side and looked up into her face as he said, ‘Wouldn’t it be ironic, Emily, if, becoming the real master of all this at last’—he made a waving motion with his hand—‘I couldn’t enjoy it because I’d be along the line?’
‘It won’t come to that.’
‘If those wolves in that court can do anything about it, it will, Emily. Oh, it will.’ His head moving against the leather made a squeaking sound that put her teeth on edge. ‘My history was known to everyone in that court this morning, Major Collins, Colonel Wrighton, and the whole lot of them, and high or low they’ll relish my fall. Odd isn’t it, Emily, that they should take so much interest in a fellow like me just because, as they would say, I stepped out of me class.’
Looking down into his face she thought that at this moment he had stepped back into his class, for he was talking to her as an equal and in a tone of voice that she recognised as being his own natural way of speaking, and it gave her courage to put out her hand towards him by way of comfort.
When her fingers lightly touched his arm he brought his hand onto hers and, gripping it, said, ‘I don’t know what I would’ve done without you all these months, Emily. You realise you’ve been a comfort to me, don’t you, and that I’ve a feeling for you?’
The heat spreading over her body brought out tiny beads of perspiration on her upper lip and she wiped them away with her forefinger as she tried to think of something to say in reply, but as his eyes held her gaze all her mind would give her were two lines from Sep’s little black book:
Thy friendship oft has made me heart to ache;
Do be me enemy—for friendship’s sake.
Her lips must have moved with the lines for he asked quietly, ‘What is it? What were you going to say?’
She shook her head, blinked and gave a little smile. ‘Nothing; it was only something daft in me mind.’
‘There could never be anything daft in your mind, Emily. Tell me, what were you going to say?’
Intuitively she realised that he hoped for something to match what he had just said to her, but how could she say anything like that to him at this time…or at any other time, if she didn’t want trouble—that particular kind of trouble that ruined girls like her? So, her head a little to one side, a slightly derisive smile on her lips, she said, ‘It was a couple of lines that came into me head.’
‘Yes?’
‘Oh, they mean nothing, they’re odd, they go:
‘Thy friendship oft has made me heart to ache;
Do be me enemy—for friendship’s sake.’
‘Emily! Emily!’ His eyes were closed while his expression showed some slight amazement. He was shaking his head in a downward sweeping movement now as he said, ‘You know you’re full of surprises, you have been from the minute I clapped eyes on you. Where did you learn that?’
‘Oh, I’ve got a little book; it’s got lots of things in like that.’
‘And you read them? Of course, you do. What I mean is, do you like reading lines like that?’
She considered a moment before saying, ‘Aye, yes, ’cos there’s bits in that book that seem to answer questions that I have in me head.’
‘Where did you get it, the book?’
‘Sep gave it to me.’
‘Sep?’
‘Yes, Mr McGillby that was; he asked me to call him Sep.’ She lowered her head. ‘We…we were going to be married once I’d reached seventeen.’
There was a silence in the room now. She watched him remove his hand from hers and turn his body towards the fire again, and his voice was low in his throat as he said, ‘You’re the kind of girl, Emily, that men will always want, marrying or not…You know that, don’t you?’
No, she didn’t know that. She knew she was a bit bonny, but she had never considered herself the kind of girl that men would break their necks over, because she had never had big ideas about herself.
He was still looking into the fire as he said, ‘You want to be careful before you marry anyo
ne, Emily, anyone, because no marriage is made in Heaven as they would have you believe. The most of them are sheer hell. And you’ve had some outside experience of that over the past year; which brings us back to the point where we began. What will they do to me next week?’
He now turned towards her again, adding, ‘We must talk further about this, Emily, because if I…I’m put away I’d want you to stay on here and see to things for me, because you’re the only one I can trust…But we’ll talk about it later, Go on’—he pushed her gently—‘get your things off and get something to eat. You look frozen.’
They exchanged a long, deep look; then she turned from him and went hurriedly out.
As she entered the kitchen she saw George leaving by the back door and heard Mrs Riley shout, ‘Hold your hand a minute! Here she is,’ and he turned back and came towards her, saying, ‘I…I popped over, I’d…I’d like a word with you, Emily, because…because things didn’t look as if they had gone right.’
‘No, they haven’t gone right, George. What is it?’
He now cast a glance towards Mrs Riley, and she cried at him, ‘Oh, if you want rid of me you’ve only got to say it with a look. A nod’s as good as a wink to a blind donkey. Anyway, I was just upon me road out.’ She turned her glance now on Emily and, jerking her head towards the ceiling, asked, ‘Will I do the room up above yet?’ and Emily replied, ‘No, not yet, Mrs Riley. Just leave it.’
The Tide of Life Page 26
