Friendship's Bond (12 page)

Then had come the dreaded telegram. Edward Langley was ‘missing, presumed killed in action’.

She had come to the chapel as had become her practice, to seek consolation and support, and he, as had become his practice, had taken her to the house there to pray together, to seek the comfort of the Lord.

And comfort had been given . . . to Thomas Thorpe.

Wrapped up in her grief she had not been aware of the buttons of her dress being loosed, of the hand he slipped inside to caress her breast. She had stayed unaware that he was pressing her backwards on the couch, lifting her skirts, pulling away the cotton bloomers; only the touch of his fingers brushing the cleft between her legs alerted her to what was happening. By that time it had been too late; with a hand over her mouth to deaden her scream he had snatched open his own clothing and thrust his pulsing flesh deep into her.

‘
It would be unwise to speak to anyone of this
.’ He had caught her wrist, holding her as she made to run from the house. ‘
Think of what people will say not only of you but of your mother? What will they say of a woman who allows a sixteen-year-old daughter to visit a man alone and at night? They will say that she encouraged you to come here, to seduce with pretended tears
.’

‘
Folk would never say that, they know my mother
.’

‘
Better than they know their preacher?
’ His reply had cut away her words.
‘I don’t deny that, but they also understand the limits of a man, a man enticed beyond endurance, teased and tormented by a girl, the flaunting of her naked body finally snapping the power of his will
.’

In the silence of the empty chapel Thomas Thorpe felt again the exultant rise of the laugh with which he had greeted her denial.

‘
Go then
,’ he had released her, ‘
go tell your side of the story. I’m sure folk will listen with interest same as they’ll listen to a man broken in spirit by the wickedness of a girl and a mother set upon trapping him into marriage; and one thing more I can be sure of, they will believe the word of their preacher, the man who has helped and served the community in every way he could. That belief will destroy the reputation of your mother and of you, Deborah, you will be ignored by any you called friend, forced by their disgust to leave Wednesbury. Think of it . . .
’

He had snatched her hard against him, revelling in the gasp of fear as she had felt the hard rise of flesh against her thigh.

‘
Think of your mother already desolated by the loss of two sons, think what the shock of another ordeal will do to her
.’

It had been enough; he had seen the flame of defiance die in her eyes. Deborah Marshall had crumpled before that argument. But she had not come alone again to the chapel, not until the arrival of a letter to say Edward Langley had been found, that he was recovering from a wound and would shortly be repatriated. She loved Edward, she loved him and wanted to be his wife.

‘
Please
,’ she had pleaded, ‘
please promise he will never learn of . . .
’

‘
Of you being a whore, that you lay willingly with me
.’

With his hands pressing hard against the smooth surface of the pulpit he smiled inwardly at the girl staring back with horrified eyes; felt the elation of mastery and side by side with it another equally satisfying sensation: the prospect of pleasures his promise could demand.

‘
There will be no need of Edward Langley learning anything . . .
’

He had paused, allowing Deborah Marshall a moment of relief, before continuing, ‘
That is of course so long as you agree to resume our relationship, shall we say once a week
.’

He had sneered openly at her gasp of abhorrence.

‘
Why should marriage make any difference? Lying with one man need not prevent you lying with another
.’

But she had not seen it that way. Sobbing that she would rather both her mother and the rest of the town know what he had done, what he further demanded, she had turned away.

The threat of exposure flashed like a lightning bolt in his mind. Grabbing the heavy metal cross from the table which served as an altar, he had followed her and brought the object smashing down on her head as she reached the door. She had dropped to lie without a sound yet he feared she might not be dead.

His glance travelled to the spot where she had fallen as he breathed again the fear of that moment.

It seemed he had stared an age at the crumpled figure, its turquoise-coloured coat rapidly staining with the crimson of blood seeping from a second blow, staring until the clang of metal striking stone as the cross dropped from his hand had recalled him to what he had done and to what must yet be done.

He could not take her to Chapel House; the woman cleaning there would not yet have left and it was too light to risk leaving a body among the bushes bordering the building where anyone passing along the street might spot it.

Panic was beginning to race in a new flood along his veins when his eye had rested on a cupboard set in an alcove near the door. It was used only to store bucket and mop, utensils which would not be needed for several days to come. It had proved an adequate hiding place. He had left the body there, locked the chapel on the last parishioner then taken the short walk to Foster Street. Enoch Phillips had worked as a wheelwright and in his younger days had built himself a small trap which along with the horse kept in his back yard he would generously lend for chapel business, namely that of the ‘minister’ paying visits to sick members living on the outskirts of the town.

‘
O’ course y’ can ’ave the borryin’ o’ it, gie me a minute an’ I’ll ’ave the ’oss in the shafts
.’

It had all been so easy; the old man falling over himself in eagerness to facilitate ‘
the goodness o’ you Mr Thorpe, a goin’ of seein’ folk after a long day a workin’ in that there foundry an’ then more hours along o’ the chapel, y’be a fair blessin’ to folk an’ no coddin’.’

If only the old man had known the ‘coddin’’ he spoke of had been his own in believing the reason for loaning his horse and trap. But he had not known and neither had anyone else.

The remembered fear of a moment before melted in the warm glow of self-praise as Thorpe gazed expansively about the small room, its only ornament the metal cross.

He had driven back to the chapel where it had been the work of minutes to transfer the body to the trap, relock the building and drive away again. He had seen no person in the adjoining street yet tension at the possibility had not eased until he turned the vehicle on to the Holyhead Road, where a trap would be unremarked on a highway busy with carts and trams.

He had chosen well.

Halfway along the rise of Holloway Bank it had been necessary to bridge narrow but fast-flowing water in order for traffic to continue on into West Bromwich; no one would notice a traveller leaving his vehicle to answer the call of nature beneath the shelter of its arch.

During a lull in the traffic, blessed by the dark of a moonless night, he had lifted the body from the trap to hurry with it down the embankment.

It had felt almost weightless in his arms, so light the rush of water might carry it away. But the wound to the head must be made to look like an accident should the girl be found here. Again the bridge had solved his problem. Hitting her head against the buttress would give rise to the theory she had fallen from the parapet, striking her head in the process.

Yes, he had chosen well.

As he had hoped the body had been carried along, finally being caught in weeds further along the valley where the Tame doubled back on itself, and of course the verdict had been accidental death.

Deborah Marshall had denied him but the loss of that pleasure had soon been recompensed.

Taking the hymn book back into his hands Thomas Thorpe smiled at the young girl entering behind an older woman.

Yes! He stepped from the pulpit.

He was most definitely being recompensed.

Chapter 11

‘It be only just beginnin’!’

With a frown Leah met the worried glance of the girl seated beside the bed.

‘Alec,’ Ann’s reply trembled, ‘I think he has a fever?’

Leah shook her head. ‘Fever, Lord, wench, whatever give you that idea, fever don’t come from no fall, it be tiredness ’as you imaginin’ things . . . now y’be goin’ to do as told an’ get y’self to your bed an’ no more worryin’.’

‘Please Leah, I know it sounds strange, but this is what followed once before, he became hot and feverish with nothing to account for it other than a fall.’

Leah’s protest was arrested by a soft moan. She moved quickly to the bedside, her own fears mounting as she looked at the flushed, perspiring face contorted with pain. The lad had no broken bones, no open wound, naught apart from bruising of the leg and no bruising she had ever known had given rise to fever, yet signs of that were showing clear.

‘The time y’ spoke on, did the doctor say the cause?’

Reaching for Alec’s hand, holding it as pain twisted his body, Ann replied tightly that there had been no doctor.

Leah’s bewilderment deepened. So how could the wench know the lad had suffered fever? Same as you be knowin’ it! Leah answered herself abruptly. It be marked on the lad’s face plain as a pikestaff, just as it be plain y’ needs do somethin’.

Perhaps Edward had missed some small cut when putting Alec to bed . . . perhaps the doctor had been overhasty in his examination. Leah gently turned back the bedcover, a sharp catch of breath held as she saw the spreading mass of bruises.

‘
Bruises are simply bleeding ’neath the skin
.’ The doctor’s words could have been her own, hadn’t she learned that from dealing with her sons; but this was something she had not witnessed before. The spread of darkening purple showed this was no slight bleed.

The doctor? He could take an hour to come. An hour’s delay meant so much more internal bleeding, a loss which the lad might be unable to survive. But to attempt to treat him herself . . . if it should fail . . .

A low moan banished her indecision and Leah turned again to the wash stand. If she failed she could be counted a meddler; if she didn’t even try she would be branded heartless.

Wringing out the cloth she had soaked in cold water she placed it across the hot forehead.

‘Hold you that,’ she instructed Ann brusquely, ‘it’ll help cool ’im; wring it out again when need be.’

‘But I should fetch the doctor!’

‘Later,’ Leah’s reply floated after her departing figure, ‘first we ’as to do summat about that bleedin’.’

Leah stirred the sleeping fire to new life beneath the kettle, then carried the oil lamp into the scullery using its light to show a variety of bottles and jars lining a cupboard. She had needed to make her own medicines and cures as the children had grown and now gave silent thanks it was a habit she had continued, though her ointments and salves were now mostly requested by neighbours who found difficulty in paying the two shillings and sixpence doctor’s fee.

Would there be sufficient for what she needed to do? Holding the lamp closer, reading labels she had affixed to every container, she ran a finger along the shelf stopping before a tightly corked bottle. Arnica. She read the faded lettering. This had eased the pain of bruising both with Joseph and the boys, it had helped stem the under-skin bleeding, so please God it would do the same for Alec. But his fever needed to be brought down too.

Lifting down the bottle Leah continued to scrutinise other handwritten labels.

‘Mullein,’ she murmured, ‘that be for the curing of coughs. Coltsfoot?’ Again Leah shook her head. ‘That be for the soothing of joints plagued by the rheumatics; Platain,’ she read on quickly ascertaining the use of each remedy until her eye lighted on a pot-bellied jar whose label stated it was Fenugreek. This had proved its worth in calming fevers in many a child and with the blessing of heaven it would prove so now.

She took both bottle and jar into the living room, setting them on to the table before returning to the larder. Still by use of the lamp she searched its cool dimness taking honey and apple cider vinegar. She slipped a tiny box that caught her eye into her apron pocket.

The kettle was singing softly on its bracket. Leah stared at the ingredients and utensils collected on a table which years of daily scrubbing had made gleam pale as the cream from her cows.

Was she doing the right thing? Should she do nothing except wait for the doctor?

These were questions to which no answer came. She closed her eyes, placed the palms of her hands together then murmured quietly:

‘Lord you knows all things, what be in every heart, therefore you knows I wouldn’t never do no ’arm to the lad who ’as found a place in mine, that bein’ so Lord I feels I can ask you let of your Holy Angel set a hand over mine, to guide it in what that same heart be a sayin’ I must do; I prays that through that blessed angel your loving grace and mercy bring relief an’ comfort to a sick child.’