Calico Road (34 page)

So who was it?

Eh, thank goodness Meg had come to his aid tonight! He smiled at the thought of her. So thin she looked as if a puff of wind would blow her away and yet she’d saved his life.

As he’d saved hers the other day.

It seemed as if fate had had a purpose in bringing them together.

He snuggled down, liking the idea that she had lain here before him.

In the next room Meg was also awake, staring into the darkness, listening in case the intruder came back. She’d intended to stay awake all night, but woke next morning to find the grey light of a winter dawn filling the room and Phoebe lying next to her still asleep.

She just had to check that Toby was all right, so eased herself out of the bed and crept next door. Yes, he was fast asleep. She stood looking down at him, at his huge frame nearly filling her bed, at his untidy brown hair and rosy skin, and smiled in sheer relief. He was showing no signs of fever, not tossing or turning.

Even in sleep he had a kindly expression on his face. Eh, he was a lovely man and she couldn’t have borne it if he’d been killed! She’d lost so many people, father, husband, child! Not her new friend as well.

She blinked in surprise. Friend! Had he become a friend so quickly? She smiled. Yes, indeed, and a good one too.

Late that afternoon Cully nerved himself up to go to the inn as usual for a pot of beer, surprised that no one had come to tell him Toby Fletcher had been killed by an intruder. He found the place abuzz.

No sooner was he through the door than someone called, ‘Hey, Cully, have you heard?’

‘Heard what?’ He listened, trying to look shocked as someone explained what had happened the previous night. ‘What’s it coming to when folk can’t sleep peacefully in their own beds? Eh, to think of Toby being killed like that!’

‘He hasn’t been killed, just injured.’

‘But I thought you said—’

They forgot him as they continued to debate the matter and Cully looked down, trying to hide his disappointment. How had he missed? It must have been that damned female’s fault. How
could
he have missed at such close quarters? Well, he wouldn’t miss again. Oh, no! He’d been planning how to get away once he received his payment. It wasn’t
fair
that after all his efforts that sod was still alive. Voices were raised around him, but he didn’t join in.

‘Who could it have been?’

‘Not one of us.’

‘Why would
anyone
attack a decent fellow like Toby Fletcher?’

When the female who seemed to be working here now appeared, Cully went across to buy a pot of beer from her. She must be the one who’d disturbed him. He’d pay her back for that if he ever got the chance, by heck he would!

Scowling, he carried his pot across to the table round which all the regular late-afternoon drinkers were crammed and continued to listen to their wild guesses. He didn’t join in. Even the beer tasted sour in his mouth today because the job was all to do again. This time the bugger was forewarned and would be on his guard, so it’d be harder.

When everyone fell silent and turned round, he did too. Toby was standing in the doorway of the house place, his arm in a sling, his face a little pale, but otherwise looking much as usual.

‘Tell us exactly what happened,’ Ross demanded, going across to escort him to their table.

Knowing it was the best way to stop wild gossip Toby complied, refusing to let them buy him a pot of beer because Phoebe had made him promise not to drink any for a day or two.

He looked round the group as he told his tale, wondering if it was one of them. He didn’t think it was, though who else could it be but someone from the village? His eyes settled on Cully then moved on. If he had to guess, he’d guess Cully Dean had done it, simply because he was a nasty type who didn’t even provide enough food for his own children.

Only there was no reason on earth why the man should attack him, no benefit to be gained by Cully from his death. The attack just didn’t make sense, rack his brain as he might. Toby saw Meg watching him anxiously so smiled across at her to show he was all right.

He stayed with the group for a few minutes then pleaded exhaustion and returned to the house place, where Phoebe was sitting in her rocking chair, well enough to come downstairs, but not well enough to do much.

‘She’s a nice lass,’ Phoebe said suddenly.

‘Who?’

‘Meg. Who do you think? Has she agreed to go on working for us?’

‘Yes.’

‘Good. You could do worse for yourself, you know.’

He nearly choked when she said that. She smiled and went on with her mending, not explaining her statement, not needing to. His mother had been just the same, reading his mind.

‘I’ll do my own choosing,’ he growled.

‘I sometimes think it’s fate as does the choosing for us,’ she said, and sighed.

To Toby’s relief she didn’t say anything else.

But when Meg peeped in to check that they were all right he looked at her with new eyes. She
was
a nice lass, not pretty exactly but with lovely eyes and an alert, happy look to her now as she bustled around. He admired folk who weren’t afraid of hard work. He admired her.

But it was a bit soon for anyone to talk of him courting Meg – wasn’t it?

Trouble was, he kept thinking about her, seeing her face as she lit those candles last night, feeling her arm round his waist as she staggered under his weight. He shook his head, annoyed with himself and got a book to read. Only he couldn’t concentrate.

It was the blow to the head.

No, it was the thought of Meg with her arm round him.

It was a couple of days before Jethro heard about the attack on the landlord of the Packhorse. He listened grimly as his overlooker passed on the gossip and afterwards couldn’t get it out of his mind.

Was this the attack Harriet had heard her husband arranging? He considered going over to Tappersley and asking Andrew directly, but decided in the end to do nothing.

He was, he found to his surprise, glad the attack had failed. And whatever the danger to himself and his family, he doubted he was capable of killing anyone in cold blood, or even arranging to have them killed.

His father would say he was too soft for his own good. Perhaps he was. All he knew was that without the old man’s dour presence and harsh ways, life was more pleasant. All he wanted was to enjoy his wife and growing family.

There was only one thing stopping that, and Fletcher was involved, whether the fellow knew about it or not. Jethro didn’t think he knew for he had never given a hint of it in their dealings and surely he would have tried to take advantage if he had known? Most folk would.

Only Fletcher wasn’t like other folk.

Harriet trod carefully for the whole of that week because her husband was in a murderous rage. It was all the more terrifying because he didn’t hit her this time, though the anger was there in his face, in his every movement, simmering, lethal.

One day, she thought in surprise, he’ll kill someone. I pray it isn’t me.

That evening over dinner he was all forced amiability, which made her feel even more threatened for some reason.

That night he was indefatigable in bed, taking her twice.

‘I’ll get you with child if it’s the last thing I do,’ he muttered as he rolled off her the second time. ‘And if I don’t, we’ll know whose fault it is. I’ve already fathered two children, even if they are only girls.’

That remark made her shiver.

But even though she knew it would make him treat her more kindly, she still didn’t want to bear that man’s child. She hated him too much.

Toby found time passing more slowly because he couldn’t do much of his normal work without opening the cut and if he tried to pick up a tool, Meg seemed to appear out of nowhere and take it from him.

He tried reading, but even that palled after an hour or two. So he took to prowling the house, planning what he’d like to do with it if he had the money. Only he didn’t have it.

Inevitably he ended up in the back place, sitting on his bench and letting thoughts drift idly through his mind. One day he decided to have another look at the stuff in the secret chamber and went back to the house place for a candle.

‘What are you doing with it?’ Meg asked at once, arms akimbo.

‘Just looking round the corners up at the back place. I can’t do owt about things just now, but there are a few places which need work up there. It’s a bit dark in those little rooms. Well, it’s a dim sort of day, isn’t it?’

She glanced out of the window. Dark grey clouds, flurries of rain. It was lovely to be here in the warmth with so many things to do. When she looked back Toby was staring at her, his expression solemn and yet kindly, as if checking that she was all right.

‘I love it here,’ she said softly. ‘I didn’t think I’d like working in an inn, but I do.’

‘I’m glad.’ He took the candle, lit it and wandered off, carrying the memory of Meg’s happy expression with him like a warm gift.

The secret room didn’t seem as threatening today. He propped open the door just in case it shut on him, hung the candle holder on the wall hook and began to sort through the papers, studying the sketch of the young woman again. She was a bonny lass. He hoped she’d had a happy life.

There were no surprises for him in the papers, but as he started to put them back on the chest of drawers, he was so captivated by its workmanship that he set them aside again and gave himself the pleasure of admiring a master craftsman’s work. Beautiful inlay work. He’d never seen finer. He pulled out a drawer to examine the dovetailing, the joints as tight-fitting as was possible.

It was when he pulled out another drawer that he found the secret compartment at the back. There were papers in it, old and yellowing. He spread them out on the top of the chest and began to read.

He was so shocked by the contents of the first page that he couldn’t move for a minute or two, then he heard footsteps and shoved back the papers with the rest unread before slotting the drawer into place.

By the time Meg poked her head through the doorway, he was piling the other things on top of the drawers again – and hoped his expression didn’t betray the turmoil inside him.

‘You look tired, Toby Fletcher,’ she said, folding her arms. ‘You should go and lie down for an hour.’

‘Aye. Happen you’re right, love.’ He shepherded her out and closed the secret door. He wished he could shut off what he had learned as easily.

Hell, what was he to do about this?

PART 5

1832

17

January

T
oby went to sit down in the house place for a few minutes’ rest while Phoebe cleaned behind the counter in the public room. He could hear her humming, hear too the patter of Meg’s footsteps overhead as she cleaned the bedrooms. On the stove a large pan was bubbling and the smell wafting from it made his mouth water.

All was right with his little world and he didn’t want anything to change it.

The Christmas season had been busier than usual, what with those folk from Calico who could afford to celebrate doing so and also an increase in passing trade as people took advantage of a mild spell of weather to visit relatives. He knew Meg preferred to keep herself busy, but he liked to have a bit of free time to read, something he hadn’t been able to do much lately.

He also had something worrying him. A man had taken to stopping regularly at the inn for refreshments. Toby hadn’t liked the looks of him from the first though he’d been civil enough, wanting a hot meal and a pot of beer to wash it down, and expressing his appreciation of the service offered afterwards. So of course an innkeeper had to be civil and linger for a chat when the customer clearly wished this.

But Toby had seen the cursory way the stranger tended to his horse’s needs and that had annoyed him. He’d taken it upon himself to offer the poor creature a carrot, for it looked jaded, as if it’d been ridden too hard. It had leaned against him with a sigh, chomping the carrot and clearly welcoming a friendly human touch.

After the man had gone the first time Phoebe had come out to help Toby clear up the private room. ‘Did you know who that was?’

‘Eh?’

‘That man. He’s Jad Mortley, the overlooker at Tappersley.’

‘No, I didn’t know.’

‘I caught a glimpse of him as he was leaving. What did he want? He’s never stopped here before.’

‘He wanted a meal and a drink. I hope he doesn’t come again. I can’t refuse to serve him, though I’d like to.’

On his third visit Mortley complimented Toby once again on his cook. ‘Simple food, but properly prepared. You can’t beat it.’

‘She’s a good cook,’ Toby admitted, ‘and a hard worker.’

‘More than a cook perhaps?’ asked the man with a wink.

‘No.’ Toby suddenly realised that he was smiling fondly at the thought of Meg and grew annoyed with himself. This was the last man he wanted to share his personal feelings with.

After he’d served the unwelcome customer he stood near the beer barrel, wiping down the little counter and thinking about Meg. Perhaps one day they could become closer, but not just now because she still had days when she was sad and her eyes sometimes looked red in the mornings. Both he and Phoebe reckoned she was still grieving for her little daughter, but Phoebe said she wasn’t grieving for her husband any longer. Well, he’d died a couple of years before the child.

Toby had seen the way Meg still avoided children and babies, whether in the village or at market down the hill. It was as if she couldn’t bear to go near them. Perhaps they brought back too many memories.

But she’d shown no more signs of that half-crazed grief he’d seen the day he first met her and had seemed a lot better altogether since she’d wept it all out against his chest, sitting in the back place.