Finders and Keepers (48 page)

‘Happy now you have everything?' Harry demanded caustically.

‘Not everything.' Porter lifted his wrist. ‘Your watch, tiepin, collar studs and cufflinks.'

Harry reluctantly unbuckled his wristwatch and removed the jewellery the officer had listed.

‘Shoelaces, sock suspenders, braces and belt,' Porter demanded.

‘I'm hardly likely to hang myself.'

‘Regulations,
Mr
Evans.'

‘We've a real dandy here; I take it they're all real gold?' Smith dropped Harry's studs and cufflinks into the bag, and glanced down at Harry, who was pulling his laces from his shoes.

Harry finally lost his temper. ‘You clearly don't recognize quality when you see it, Constable.'

‘Not on what I earn. In my experience, it's only criminals who can afford gee-gaws like this. One pair of laces,' he wrote when Harry laid them on the counter, ‘one belt, one pair of sock suspenders and one pair of braces.'

‘Arms and legs out so I can check if you have anything else on you.' Porter patted Harry down professionally. ‘And what have we here?' He pulled another handkerchief from Harry's back pocket and a pocket watch.

‘I forgot they were there, I don't usually keep anything in my back pocket. It spoils the hang of the trousers.'

‘Does it now?' Porter enquired sceptically. ‘I wouldn't know.'

‘Second handkerchief, linen, monogrammed H.E… . and one pocket watch, silver. Nice, expensive-looking workmanship.' Smith eyed his colleague quizzically. ‘Now why do you suppose a man would need a pocket watch
and
a wristwatch?'

‘That is Robert Pritchard's watch,' Harry explained, realizing instantly that possession of it would appear suspicious. ‘I picked it up from the floor of the Ellises' stables. He must have dropped it when he attacked Mary Ellis.'

Smith opened the watch. ‘It's Mr Pritchard's all right.' He continued to write. ‘One pocket watch, silver, engraved “For Robert Pritchard in return for ten years of faithful and loyal service, E&G Estates” Tell me again, Harry Evans: how did you come by this?'

‘I told you. I picked it up from the floor of the stable. Robert Pritchard must have dropped it when he attacked Mary Ellis.'

‘And you expect us to believe that cock and bull story?' Smith looked at Porter.

‘It's the truth.'

‘And I'm Tinkerbell.' Porter pushed Harry past the desk towards a door in the back wall. ‘Now I'm taking you down for a nice little rest in the cells until the sergeant comes in to question you.' He opened the door. ‘After you, Harry Evans.'

‘It's dark.'

‘Go on, I'll put the light on.'

Unable to see where he was going, Harry moved forward tentatively. He stumbled, and tried to regain his balance, but his feet twisted awkwardly in his unlaced shoes, and as he was more concerned with trying to hold up his trousers than saving himself it took him a few seconds to straighten upright. Just as he did, a blow to the back of his knees sent him tumbling down the steep flight of stone steps. He slammed face first into a metal door. Light flooded down the stairs after him. He heard Constable Porter descend the steps.

‘Are you all right, Mr Evans?'

‘I'll live.' Harry struggled to his feet only to be pushed forward a second time. His face collided with the door again, and when he looked at it, he saw blood on the steel panels.

Footsteps sounded in the corridor outside the boys' ward in the workhouse. Gripping the bars in front of the window, David lowered himself swiftly to the floor, ran to his bed and pulled the single blanket over himself just before the door opened. He wrapped both arms around his head, and opened his eyes a fraction beneath the cover of his fingers.

Sir walked in and headed straight for his bed. He closed his eyes tightly and pretended to be asleep.

‘David Ellis?' Sir shook him by the shoulder.

David opened his eyes warily.

‘You're wanted downstairs.'

‘Why?' David didn't bother to lower his voice.

‘Quiet!' The man yanked back the blanket and pulled it off him.

‘Why?' David repeated, earning himself a clout on the ear.

‘You'll find out. Get dressed. Quickly!'

David sat up and pulled off the sackcloth nightshirt. He thrust his legs into the grey institution pants and trousers. The woollen underclothes were too tight, the trousers and shirt too short, the socks too large.

Sir watched him dress. ‘Carry the clogs. You don't want to go waking any of the other boys.'

Matthew sat up. ‘Where you taking my brother?' he cried out in alarm. Like David he didn't bother to lower his voice.

‘That, young man, is none of your business. But if you don't want a beating you'd better close your eyes and get to sleep. And the same goes for the rest of you boys,' he ordered sternly as they started turning restlessly in their beds.

‘Davy,' Matthew wailed.

‘I'll be fine, Matthew. And I'll get you, Mary, Martha and Luke out of here, I swear it. No matter how long it takes me, I will get you out.'

‘Promise?'

‘I promise.' David considered the extra thump he received a small price to pay to be able to reassure Matthew. He only wished he could believe what he'd said himself. ‘If I'm not here in the morning, don't worry about me, just look after Martha and Luke if you can,' he added before Sir slammed the door.

‘You don't give up, do you, boy?' Sir shoved David ahead of him down the stairs. David clutched at the banister and held on tight as he received another blow in the small of his back.

‘Into the office.' He pushed David into a small cosy room.

A fire burned in the grate, books lined the walls, and a folded newspaper, a cup of tea and plate of shop-bought biscuits lay on the desk. The workhouse master who had been at their eviction, now minus his bowler hat, sat behind it, smoking a cigarette and talking to someone sitting in front of him in a high-backed chair.

‘This the boy you want, master?'

‘You'd better ask our guest that question,' the master replied.

Ianto Williams, cup of tea in hand and also smoking a cigarette, turned and looked at David standing in the doorway. ‘That's the boy.'

‘You sure, Mr Williams? He's a defiant, insubordinate creature. He'll need a firm hand.' Sir yanked David forward.

‘Then it's just as well I have one.' Ianto Williams smiled coldly.

‘You are fortunate, Ellis.' The workhouse master squashed his cigarette stub in an ash tray. ‘Mr Williams has offered you a home in exchange for your help around his farm.'

‘I want to stay here with my brother and sister,' David protested.

‘You want?' the master repeated scornfully. ‘What you want is of absolutely no concern to the parish, me or Mr Williams, Ellis. You are a lucky boy to find someone willing to put a roof over your head and food on your plate. And the parish is grateful that there's one less useless Ellis to be housed and fed.'

‘I won't go …' David gasped, Sir twisted his ear.

‘See what I mean, Mr Williams,' Sir said flatly.

‘You'll have to watch that he doesn't run off, Mr Williams,' the master warned. ‘Especially at night.'

‘I have a cellar that I can lock him into.' Ianto Williams tossed his cigarette end into the fire, placed his empty cup on the desk and rose from his chair.

‘Ellis,' the master looked David in the eye, ‘this could be a chance for you to make something of yourself. But be warned, if you run away from Mr Williams, or don't do exactly as he tells you, your brothers and sisters will be punished for your crimes. Do I make myself clear?'

Sickened by pain and humiliation, David nodded sullenly.

‘If we have to beat it into you, Ellis, you will learn that you and your family owe a debt of gratitude to the charitable people who have been forced to hand over taxes from their hard-earned money to pay for your feckless family's board and keep.' The master held out his hand to Ianto Williams. ‘I wish you luck with him. Any problems, bring him back.'

‘There won't be any.' Ianto Williams prodded David with the end of his riding whip. ‘Outside and untether my horse; you can walk alongside it back to my farm.'

‘Stay still, girl,' the staff nurse ordered abruptly.

Mary tensed her muscles and sat rigidly upright on the wooden stool. The shears the nurse wielded snapped loudly and she was aware of a cool draught blowing across her neck as her long curls fell in great clumps to the floor. She glanced down without moving her head and watched the pile of black hair at her feet grow steadily higher.

‘Finished.' The staff nurse removed the towel she had placed around Mary's shoulders and shook it over the heap at her feet. ‘You have five minutes to clear that mess, wash the floor and clean out the bath. There's a brush, scrubbing brush, bucket, powdered bath brick and bin under the sink. I will return in five minutes to inspect what you've done. If it's satisfactory I'll take you to the dormitory. You're too late for supper.'

Mary rose to her feet.

‘When you're spoken to, Ellis, you answer, “Yes, Nurse or Sister,” or “No, Nurse or Sister,” as appropriate. Understood? ‘

‘Yes, Nurse.'

‘Five minutes.' The woman left, closing the door behind her.

Mary went to the sink and found everything just as the nurse said she would. She carried the bin over to the heap of hair on the floor and knelt beside it. Unable to resist the impulse, although she knew it would upset her, she ran her fingers gingerly over her head. The nurse had shorn her, as completely as David did the sheep in shearing season.

Grateful there was no mirror so she didn't have to look at herself, she grabbed handfuls of hair and dropped them into the bin. When she had picked up as much as she could with her fingers, she tried to sweep up the rest with the brush, but it was hopeless. The strands became entwined in the coarse bristles, and it was almost impossible to pull them out.

She returned to the sink, filled the bucket, threw in an evil-smelling floor cloth and carried it over to the mess. Trying not to think what the cloth might have mopped up the last time it had been used, she wiped up the last vestiges of hair. She gritted her teeth and fought back tears, determined not to give the nurse the pleasure of seeing her cry when she returned.

She had lost her family and control of their lives as well as her own. The authorities had humiliated her by sending men in to strip her and scrub her in filthy water. Her hair had been shaved off, and the sister had threatened to starve her, but she was determined not to be broken.

She would cling to her memories of the good times when her father and mother had been alive. She would think of her brothers and sister every minute of every day. And she would never –
never –
allow the nurses or the sister to see just how much they had hurt her. Above all, she would try to find a way that would enable her to bring what was left of her family together again.

Just not now. She was too tired to think, let alone make plans. She carried on picking up every single hair from the floor then started on the bath. It had looked shabby when it was full, empty it was worse. The porcelain had worn away in places allowing the black cast iron to show through. But she smeared bath brick over every speck of dirt and scrubbed and scrubbed, working herself into a frenzy, as though her life depended on the degree of cleanliness she could achieve. She would show them that she wasn't lazy. She would scrub and clean and …

An image of David and the others as she had last seen them flooded her mind. She could bear any amount of shame and humiliation if only she knew for certain that they were safe and being cared for. If they tried to treat David as they had treated her he would fight back and …

She couldn't stand the thought of him – of any of the little ones – being beaten, shorn and ill-treated. And Luke? She could still hear his cries, piercing and heartbreaking. Matthew, Martha …

She uttered a silent prayer for all four of them. Then, afraid of driving herself insane with worry, she deliberately shut her mind and concentrated every ounce of energy that she could summon on scraping the dirt from the bath.

Harry's hands and face were burning. He was loath to open his eyes because he suspected that the pain would be intolerable. He couldn't even recall where he was. There was a peculiarly unpleasant smell, a mix of institution disinfectant, male changing room and dirty lavatories. And although his exposed skin was on fire, his limbs were freezing. Just as they had been the winter the heating had broken down in his rooms in college.

He couldn't hear a sound. Steeling himself for pain, he tried to force his eyes open but his eyelids were glued shut. He moved his hand over them, rubbing at the crust that gummed his lashes, and caught a glimpse of a shadowy, unfocused world. He ran his fingers over the surface he was lying on. It was rough stone – flagstone. Then he remembered.

He was in the police station in Brecon, and Constable Porter had thrown him into a cell. The only light was fading fast. It came from a tiny sliver of skylight bordering the high ceiling, and even that was grated by iron bars. He moved tentatively. His back, arms and legs hurt, but not as much as his face, especially his nose and eyes. He crawled to the steel door and banged on it, but the sound echoed into silence.

The police had been hostile, but logic told him that they wouldn't have left him to starve to death. It was a Saturday night – the traditional night for drinking and drunks in every Welsh town. They were probably out on patrol. It was the most likely explanation, but it didn't stop him from feeling any the less vulnerable and abandoned.

Something warm and sticky slunk down his face. He hit it and when he looked at his fingers they were dark with clotted blood. A lidded bucket stood in the corner of the cell. No need to guess what that was for.