“But what about her parents, for God’s sake?” Bella cried, in astonishment. “You were agreeing to whatever it was, in their home and behind their backs. It was their daughter who’d been murdered, Samuel. Christ!…” She was lost for words and turned away, angrily, leaving her visitor visibly disturbed by her attitude.
“Miss Foxton…” he said, at length, but she didn’t respond. “Bella,…please! Listen to what I ‘as to say,” he implored. The sound of the diminuitive did the trick and she turned to face him, obviously distressed.
“Ruthy’s father, Sid, were in The Lamb when his son, Alfie, burst in,” Samuel explained. “He were one o’ those that rushed up to the cottage, and,” he added, for good measure, “the bloke from Thornden were married to Sid’s wife’s cousin. We’re all like one big family round these parts. Feelin’s were running very ‘igh, Miss Foxton, make no mistake. If’n that bloke ‘adn’t o’ shot your father then Sid Flint would ‘ave done, sure as I’m sittin’ ‘ere! Can you understand that?” The import of his words hit home as Bella sat in stunned silence, trying to imagine the atmosphere at Willow Cottage and how high everyone’s emotions must have been running. How would she have felt in that position? Never having been a member of a close-knit community it was impossible to say but now she knew all the facts it certainly shed a different light on things. She stood up and began to walk around the room, backwards and forwards, trying to get her thoughts into some sort of order. Finally, she came back to the armchair and sat down, a perplexed expression on her face.
“Samuel, I don’t know what to think. It’s really difficult for me, trying to come to terms with the thought of murdering someone as an act of revenge but, there again, it’s not difficult to understand the outrage and fury that Ruth’s murder would have caused. I’m sorry if I got a bit emotional just now. You talk about family, well Patrick was part of my family and that doesn’t make it easy for me. It was the shock of such a blatant act of retaliation. What you’ve just told me does make a difference but it’s so alien to my way of thinking that I’m still having difficulty reconciling myself to it. Can you understand that?” she pleaded, looking at him a little helplessly.
“I may look like an old codger what’s past his use by date, to you, Miss Foxton but I ain’t entirely stupid. You got to appreciate things ‘appens on the spur of the moment sometimes. None o’ those lads set out to become a murderer that day. They’s all decent folks like you an’ me. I hates to say this but even I felt good that day knowing your father had been shot. Now if that ain’t a terrible thing to say I don’t know what is but we’ve all had thirty-odd years to live with what we done an’ I feels as bad about it now as I did soon after it ‘ad appened. An’ that goes for the rest of us too. We all wanted to be free o’ that burden once and for all. It’s been a cloud ‘angin’ over all our lives for too long so we agreed to tell you everythin’. Provided that is, that you keeps it to yourself.”
As a result of what he’d said, Bella at first felt aggrieved that the burden Samuel spoke of seemed to have been dumped in her lap. Then thinking about it, she had to concede that if she hadn’t have been so persistent in wanting to find out about Cora’s sister, neither this meeting nor the conversation would have taken place. God, why hadn’t she let the matter drop? Now she had the power to solve a thirty year old murder mystery but had been asked to do nothing about it. Thirty years is a long time, she couldn’t deny that and, if she were really honest, knowing the details of Patrick’s death stirred no emotions in her at all now she’d had a chance to rationalise the scenario in which it had occurred. Samuel’s request sat a lot easier with her, suddenly, but she wanted an opportunity to think about things in her own time. Also, seeing that it was her father, as Samuel called him, that had been murdered she felt a compelling need to meet his killer. There was no way she could logically explain it but the urge was so strong she had to find out who he was and arrange to meet him. That was, of course, if he was still alive.
Samuel had been quietly watching her after he’d said his piece knowing that she’d want to work things out for herself. Whether or not she’d stand by her promise he had no way of knowing. All he knew was that he’d done his best and now it was up to her. Whereas she had been looking thoughtful and introspective, now her features changed as she took on an inquisitive look and he knew there was a question coming. What was it Miss Foxton was a-goin’ to ask, he wondered.
“Samuel…”
“What is it you be a-wantin’?”
“I know you told me some time ago that Cora’s parents are dead…”
“That be right.”
“What about this man you refer to as the bloke from Thornden, the one who actually killed Patrick. Is he still alive?” Samuel’s eyes narrowed. It wasn’t a question he’d expected. Why did she want to know?
“He is, Miss Foxton, and still livin’ in Thornden. Why would you be askin'?”
“I’d like to meet him, Samuel, that’s all.” His surprise was evident but she felt sure that he would make it possible for her.
“Why would you want to be doing that. What good’s that goin’ to be a-doin’?”
“Samuel, I don’t know! I can’t explain it to you but something tells me I’ve got to meet him. Will you help me?” He couldn’t see the sense in it but he didn’t have the heart to refuse. Not many men, whatever their age, could have resisted Bella when she’d set her mind on something.
“I can tells you where to find him and how to get there but he ain’t an easy man to talk to. Never was for that matter. Bit of a loner. Sid was about the only real friend ‘e ever ‘ad.”
“Who is he Samuel? What’s his name?” Unexpectedly, she felt the stirrings of excitement as she waited for his reply.
“Allsop, Miss Foxton. ‘is name’s Frank Allsop.”
Chapter Thirty-Five
Neither of them had had the heart for further discussion and Samuel left shortly after he had explained how to get to Thornden. As he was leaving he made the comment, once again, that Frank Allsop was not an easy man to get along with and he also took the opportunity to remind Bella of her promise. The meeting had had a marked effect on both of them but for entirely different reasons. In Samuel’s case it had been because of what he had said, revealing the dark secrets of more than a quarter of a century ago. Feeling relieved to have finally told someone he, and the others involved, knew there was no telling what the consequences would be and it was going to be an anxious time for them all. Bella, on the other hand, had been stunned because of what she had heard. The shocking details of Ruth’s murder and the fact it had taken place at Willow Cottage were dreadful enough in themselves. But then to learn of Patrick’s killing and how it had been covered up had left her struggling to come to terms with the challenge to all of the values in life she respected. Fairness, justice, decency, integrity. All of them had been flouted in one brutal act yet she found her sympathies veering towards the man who had broken the years of silence. Not only him but the group of people he represented. Having the knowledge they had possessed, solely, for so long, Bella could now understand how it must have blighted their lives over the years, especially Alfie and Cora. Hadn’t they all suffered enough? What good would dragging it all out in the open do now? It was a responsibility she wasn’t prepared to take but the fact that she knew about it at all disconcerted her greatly. Unless she was prepared to unload that knowledge onto someone else it was the price she was going to have to pay. What made a man like Patrick kill, in the first place? It was a question that could never be answered now and it was certainly something she hadn’t been prepared to discuss with Samuel. It was a proven fact that he had been violent and abusive but murder? And this was the man who could have been her father. The senselessness of it all defeated her. Why hadn’t she thought to mind her own business? Well it was too late now and she was determined to track down the man who had killed Patrick Foxton.
There was a sad air about Thornden, another village that had succumbed to th
e cancer of rural decline. In the name of progress it had had the heart ripped out of it after centuries of unfailing service to its country. The closure of the Post Office started the rot, the first domino in the line to be knocked over, the beginning of the end. Thornden’s death warrant was signed when the local bus service was withdrawn but, in between times, the shops, the church, the pub and the school had all fallen by the wayside. From being a thriving little community with its families all working on the land, the volatile political and economic scene had wrought changes that no-one could have foreseen. Families were broken up as both the men and the women lost their jobs and had to seek work further afield. The bitter pills of inflation, restructuring and redeployment became their daily medicine. The European Union, free trade and market forces crept, unnoticed, into their lives. Jobs for life and secure employment were rapidly becoming a thing of the past as spectacular advances in technology began to further decimate the workforce. As incomes dwindled and people began to move away, the impact on the local economy was devastating and it was only a matter of time before the trickle turned into a flood. The remaining residents were, primarily, elderly with many of the houses empty and victim to either the elements or vandalism.
Bella stood nervously at the gate surveying Frank Allsop’s home and wondering, not for the first time, why she was there. Was there some illicit thrill to be gained from meeting the man who had put an end to Patrick’s life? Perhaps there was a need to close the final chapter in the story now she had found out what had happened. Or maybe it was plain curiosity that had brought her to the threshold of his property. The house looked ordinary. Very ordinary, in fact. To Bella’s way of thinking, not the sort of residence to house a murderer. It had a slightly tired, run-down look about it, as though it had been standing there observing Thornden’s gradual demise for too long. The small, two-storey house stood alone, overlooking an untidy garden. Its sandy-coloured walls of brick were scarred with patches of moss, its slate roof also supporting some form of plant life. Weeds sprouted, too, from the rusty guttering. As she walked up the path, Bella noticed the dark green paint peeling from the sills and, similarly, the front door. Reaching for the knocker, she saw that the uppermost pane of frosted glass in the door had a crack right across it. In every way, the house reflected the general atmosphere of the village. Giving the knocker one sharp rap she stood back and waited, not knowing what to expect.
The man who opened the door did so with hesitation, neither used to nor expecting visitors. Wary of callers, the door stopped halfway before he appeared from behind it. The smell of the place wafted out to Bella from behind him. A dank, sour smell. The smell of an old widower living his lonely life and it made her nostrils twitch. As Samuel Handysides had described him, Frank Allsop had once been a tall, muscular man but it was hard for her to picture him that way. The person at the door was elderly and the passing of the years had not been kind to him. At the sight of the man Bella felt an impulse to turn round and go. Go back down the path and leave him with his memories but it was too late for that. Illness or disease had wasted him away so that his old, dark suit hung on him and, where his scrawny neck emerged, the collar of his once-white shirt was frayed and grimy. The flesh of his face had the consistency of rice paper, stretched tightly as it was across the bones and his eyes were sunken and circled with dark shadows. But they were alive and curious beneath his sparse grey hair, their penetrating gaze focused on Bella, wanting to know who was calling on him and why.
“I’m Patrick Foxton’s daughter,” Bella announced, deciding that the lie would be the most effective introduction. A narrowing of his eyes was the only visible response then his lips began a chewing action, as if he were tasting the one word before spitting it out.
“So?” It was a surprisingly deep, gruff voice given its source and it looked like Samuel Handysides’ warning was right. There was no alternative, she felt, than to press on now that she had come this far.
“I’d like to talk to you.” It was impossible to ignore the smell from the house and the thought of going inside, however unlikely that might seem, made her squirm. For the first time she noticed that his hand was trembling, if that was the right word. It was more like a continual shake.
“What’s to talk about? I’ve nothing to say.” To her horror, the door began to close.
“I’ve been talking to Samuel Handysides, from The Lamb, at Knapthorne.” The words tumbled out in a rush as she tried to prevent him shutting the door. “He’s told me everything…about Ruth Flint, Alfie, and the death of my father. Please, Mr. Allsop! I need to talk you. There’s things I want to know about my father!” Immediately she had uttered the words, Bella realised why she’d been drawn to Thornden. It was the enigma of Patrick Foxton, the roguish charmer who had married her mother, the man with an eye for the girls. The man she had never really known and whose life had been ended by the person she was confronting. She held her breath, the door just inches away from being shut but it had stopped moving. Frank Allsop’s face appeared in the gap. He seemed to be studying her while making up his mind what to do. Mentally, Bella was desperately urging him to let her in, pleading with him to open the door. He must have heard her, as the door began to open and Bella breathed again.
“So you’re the daughter of that bastard, Foxton, are you? I pity you.” For the first time, she noticed the trace of a Scottish accent. He looked her up and down, slowly, as if searching for any feature that would bear out her claim.
“And what made you think I’d want to talk to you?” He saw her frustration. It was in the look and the way she was standing. Frank Allsop also saw a woman the like of which he hadn’t been within a country mile of for years. The truth of it was, he’d never been close to anyone like Bella Foxton. Ever. Even the smell of her was good. Too good to shut out of his depressing, colourless life.
“How can I put this, so you’ll…….” Her mouth stayed open but no further words came out, as he opened the door wide.
“You’d better come in if we’re gonna talk.”
He took Bella into a small lounge roughly the size of Cora Flint's. But there the similarity ended. Frank Allsop was obviously a smoker as evidenced by the ashtray on the table with its small accumulation of cigarette butts. More noticeable, however, was the effect his habit had had on the walls and ceilings. The ceiling had been distempered originally and was once a pristine white, unlike the walls which had been covered with a patterned wallpaper the colour of oatmeal. Years of cigarette smoke had given the room a colouring which reminded Bella of lightly nicotine-stained fingers. All the furniture in the room was big, too big for such a small space. An ancient lounge suite, the colour of strong tea, took up most of the space and a large oak sideboard, its top stained and dusty, sat in the alcove to the left of the chimney breast. It was a brown room. Like looking at a sepia-tinted photograph from long ago. Not even the nets at the windows had escaped the attention of the cigarette smoke. Limp and torn they had hung untouched for years daring the sun to penetrate the gloom of the cluttered, untidy room. Her immediate reaction was that it was the room of somebody who didn’t care any more, perhaps hadn’t cared for years. Pages of a newspaper lay over the arm of one of the chairs and scattered on the floor around it. The remains of a meal were on a plate balanced on the other arm. Frank had preceded her into the room and sat down in the chair with some difficulty.
“Sorry if I disturbed your lunch,” Bella said, apologetically, looking at the plate.
“You didn’t,” he replied, testily. “Yon plate’s been there a day or two.” For a moment she was transfixed by it, unable to believe someone could just leave it there. “You happy to stand up, girlie?” The sound of his voice broke the spell.
“No, of course not.” Tentatively, she lowered herself on the sofa, feeling its big springs through the fabric of her skirt as she sat down. Although the cushions were heavy she seemed to sink into them, the springs worn out. It was as if the sofa was trying to engulf her and she had to lift hersel
f forward to the edge of it for some firmer support. Frank took it all in, feeling her unease coming across as clearly as if she were sending out a distress signal. He’d got to know his beasts on the farm in the same way, sensing when they were ill often long before there were any physical signs or symptoms. In his eyes people weren’t much different. Just more trouble, generally.
They faced each other across the room as it occurred to Bella that the smell of the house didn’t seem quite as bad, once inside. Thinking it odd, the thought was abruptly swept from her mind by the startling realisation that she was sitting opposite a murderer, the man who had fired the gun which had killed Patrick Foxton. In the nervous build-up to the confrontation the knowledge of who this man was and what he’d done had somehow got pushed to the back of her mind.
“Well, have you got anything to say or have you just come to stare?” There was an abrasive edge to the words, his rudeness blatant and undisguised but she saw it for what it was, the fear and insecurity of a lonely old man. If he didn’t want her there, why had he invited her in? This was his way, the hard shell protecting the vulnerability beneath. Frank Allsop had lost the art of communication a long time ago, now his only defence was attack. Bella was by no means lost for words but was uncertain of where, or even how, to begin. Talking to the man was going to be like choosing a path through a minefield, one wrong step and it all goes up in smoke. In the silence of the small, gloomy room as she racked her brains for the right thing to say she could hear the sound of his wheezy, irregular breathing as failing lungs struggled to do their job. Ignoring her, he began to extract a cigarette from an old silver cigarette case he’d taken from a pocket and she wondered where he got his cigarettes from or any of the other requisites of daily life for that matter.
The Knapthorne Conspiracy Page 44
