Friendship's Bond (24 page)

‘There you go ladies, it’s been a pleasure.’

‘Ar, an’ a mite too much of a pleasure judgin’ by old Daisy, her be fair skippin’ along of the field.’

‘Just you be sure it’s only Daisy and her girl friends does the skipping and not you.’

‘Me skip, eh lad, them days be long gone.’

‘You know what I mean . . .’

‘I knows you be worried for me lad but there be no need; now you get away and see to your own cows afore they suffers from bein’ kept too long for the milkin’, overfull udders be painful for a beast.’

‘I’ll be sure to apologise and ask forgiveness.’

Ask forgiveness. The priest! She must not let him leave without offering her thanks. Frowning in bewilderment Ann gazed across a room which moments before had been darkly shadowed but was now bathed in clear light, a room empty of anyone but herself. But she had heard him speak, had seen him, seen Maija and her sons! How could they not be here!

‘You go rest, I’ll be back in a couple of hours, the dairy work can wait ’til then.’

‘Now look you ’ere . . .’

Maija. Ann smiled. There was the reason the room was empty, Maija and the others had stepped outside.

‘. . . there be naught savin’ a prison cell will keep Leah Marshall from her dairy so lessen you wants to see me put there for latherin’ a man’s backside you’ll get yourself off to Hill Rise, Edward Langley, afore I fetches meself a pair of Scotch Hands from out of that very dairy!’

The words snapped Ann back to the reality of where she was. But it was reality tainted with confusion.

It was Edward she heard speaking in the yard, Edward speaking with . . . but it couldn’t be . . . Leah was lying dead in the next room!

‘You has my thanks lad, an’ I be certain you ’ave that of Daisy and the rest of the girls; it’s given a rare start to their day havin’ a man whisperin’ sweet nothings in their ear. Like many a wench they don’t be averse to a bit of flattery.’

‘Does that include Leah Marshall?’

‘You try that, Edward Langley, and you’ll find out what I can truly do with a pair of butter pats.’

It
was
Leah’s voice, it was her down there in the yard! Bemusement vanishing, Ann raced from the room.

‘It were naught but a bit o’ tiredness.’ Leah smiled as Ann asked for the third time if she was truly feeling all right.

‘But Mr Langley said . . .’

‘Edward Langley builds walls that don’t be needed, though he builds ’em for reason only of kindness.’

‘He loves you very much, he is concerned for your well-being.’

‘I knows wench, I knows.’ Leah nodded over the teacup Ann filled again. ‘But like I tells him Leah Marshall be good for a few years yet, there be no cause for him to go a worryin’ over what were no more than tiredness.’

Teapot in hand, Ann stared into a fire gleaming with life while in its heart it seemed she saw the face of a woman, pale and still, eyes closed against the world. Leah’s face! Lined with weariness she should have helped prevent.

‘
. . . you had no thought for Leah or the fact she might need your help . . .
’

The words Edward Langley had shot at her the previous evening rang in her brain. Ann set the teapot on the hob of the cast iron fire grate Leah’s years of polishing had shined to a brilliant sable. He had been partly right, she had not given any thought to the amount of work to be done, to the effect it could have on an already wearied Leah. But I did not leave for the reason you stated, it was not so I could rid myself of Alec.

Ann lifted the quietly steaming kettle from its bracket, carrying it to the pump in the yard.

It would have done no good to have told Edward Langley that. It had shown quite plainly on his face as she had run from the scullery that he thought her embrace of Leah, her garbled thanks to heaven the woman was not dead as she had imagined, was a blatant display of lies to cover her own guilt.

So what would he say of her tonight? What would Edward Langley say of the woman who this time would leave without even the excuse of searching for Alec?

‘Y’be welcome to the usin’, Mr Thorpe, it be a kindness you goin’ out your way to visit of folk too sick to be a gettin’ o’ theirself along o’ the chapel.’

‘
Y’be welcome . . .
’

Enoch Phillips had replied to the request asking for the loan of his pony and trap. But would the man have shown that same generosity had he the least notion of the real purpose for which his vehicle was borrowed? But he would not know. No one would ever find out, nor would they find the body it had carried.

He had thought the man coming from the hedge was Arthur Clews, he had held that same thought while bringing the stone down several times on the fallen man’s head. But it had not been Arthur Clews.

Thorpe reached for the jacket draped carefully across a chair back then glanced at the black valise lying on the table taking pride of place in the cramped living room of his tiny terraced home, a home which soon would be exchanged for the more comfortable Chapel House. It was heaven itself choosing he become minister; he, Thomas Thorpe, and not the man who had carried that valise. But why had the fellow been among the bushes? Answering a sudden call of nature? He shrugged into the jacket. Whatever the reason he had been there, no one would be asking the question and certainly the fellow would never be giving any answer.

For a moment he had panicked. Someone would be sure to know Clews had come to Chapel House, if not his family then maybe a work mate. They might even be following on his heels right now!

Such had been his fears last night, fears which faded when he had seen the face and realised the man he had killed was in fact a perfect stranger . . . a perfectly
dead
stranger!

Dressed, ready to leave for work, Thorpe glanced again at the leather valise, its brass fastener gleaming against the dark leather. Should he remove it from the table, hide it away? He rejected the notion; he lived alone, he had no one come to cook or clean, and the house, unlike those of his neighbours, was always locked while he was away, therefore he had no need for secrecy. But there had been every need of secrecy when dealing with that body.

Walking quickly along Portway Road, nodding briefly at the greetings of others making their way towards Monway Steel Foundry, Thorpe’s mind replayed what had followed the murder of a stranger.

The knowledge that the man was unknown to him and so likely unknown to anyone else in Wednesbury had helped calm the last tingle of nerves leaving his brain clear, his thoughts precise.

The body had to be moved; stranger or not a man with his head smashed in would give rise to every kind of speculation not least of which would be the question, ‘What brought him to Chapel House?’ There must be no such question and there wouldn’t be if the body were not found here. The solution was clear, but the method? For a moment it had eluded him but then like a beam of light the answer had flashed in his mind: do with this body as he had done with that of Deborah Marshall. But here caution had intervened. This man must not be taken to Holloway Bridge, he must not be tipped into the brook lest the current not be strong enough to carry the body away; nor must it be left lying on the doorstep of Chapel House while he went to Foster Street to request the loan of Enoch Phillips’ pony and trap. He glanced at the line of bushes. They were thick enough to conceal it given the cover of darkness.

A moment to get his breath; best not to appear flurried should he meet anyone as he left Queen’s Place. That same inner voice cautioned him again to flick leaves and bits of twig from his clothes. Then first listening for any tell-tale sound on the path leading to the chapel he had left.

Had fate led him to choose to go by way of the narrow Queen Street and Cross Street rather than the more direct route crossing over the wider Holyhead Road?

He passed through Monway’s large wooden gates, nodding good morning to the watchman lifting a gnarled finger to a dusty flat cap; Thorpe silently thanked the fortune that had smiled on him.

It had been halfway along Cross Street. He had emerged from an opening which allowed access between the streets, a dark empty patch of ground made darker by the otherwise unbroken fringe of soot-clothed houses, when a figure had hurtled into him.

‘
I couldn’t find him . . . I searched . . . I searched all day . . .
’

Breathless, half sobbed, the words had poured out as Ann Spencer told of her fruitless search for the lad Alec. But while her mind had been distraught his had functioned with ice-cold logic.

‘
He is not on the heath.
’

Night had hidden the smile.

‘
Alec is not lost
.’

‘
Where? Where is he? Please tell me.
’

Though aware of the need for haste, he could not deny himself the gratification of having her plead.

‘
Please . . . you must tell me where Alec is.
’

The tears in her voice had thrilled him. This was how he wanted this woman.

‘
He is with me
,’ he had replied, then before she could speak had continued, ‘
If you want him then you will come to Chapel House tomorrow evening at eight. You will come alone, after all payment of the sort you must make should be made in private. Oh . . .
’ he had paused, ‘
I should tell you, the boy is not in that house; he is well hidden, so well in fact that should you refuse my invitation or inform anyone of what is said here your precious Alec will never be seen again
.’

He could have insisted that she go with him to Chapel House that same night, but common sense had advised he finish the business in hand. Besides, it had whispered again, the anticipation of a dish is a delight in itself.

He had left her there, his confidence she would not risk the boy’s safety by calling on anyone’s help lending a spring to his step.

‘Y’be welcome Mr Thorpe, may ’eaven reward your doin’s.’

Enoch Phillips’ call following after the trap driving from Foster Street echoed in Thorpe’s mind, adding its own warmth to the glow of satisfaction.

Heaven had indeed rewarded.

The body he had dragged into the hedge still lay where he had left it. Though the man was of slight build it had proved a struggle to lift the dead weight into the pony trap while every second fearing someone might decide to visit the chapel or come to the house at its rear. But nobody had come and despite the need for haste he had taken time to kick away the marks in the gravel left by hauling the corpse; and that had seen heaven once more bestow its favour.

Clouds which had veiled the sky had parted, allowing moonlight to bathe the house and to reveal an object lying near the doorstep; a bag he had not noticed the man carried. The valise now stood in his living room.

Seated at his desk with a ledger open in front of him Thorpe found that his brain refused to leave the scenes which played so vividly in it.

Where to dump the body?

Needle sharp, the question had pricked again and again.

Where? Where?

Then as he had driven from Queen’s Place it seemed he heard the words repeated each time he left Ebenezer Spittle’s house in Short Street.

‘ 
’Ave a care a’ crossin’ o’ the ’eath Mr Thorpe, that there Devil’s Pool just be a waitin’ to cop the unwary.
’

The Devil’s Pool! Relief had swept over him. Disused, flooded as far back as memory could reach, the open pit shaft had been named for its black waters. Locals carefully avoided the place. But anyone not familiar with terrain pockmarked with abandoned pit workings could easily fall victim to its treachery.

It was fortunate no houses stood closer than Ebenezer’s to that black hole, fortunate there had been nobody to witness that body being hauled from the pony trap, the pockets of its clothing being emptied of all means of identification before it was rolled into that black oily maw.

Then keeping to the way he had come, taking the path running behind St Peter’s Church and on along the derelict ground that bordered Short Street he had returned animal and vehicle to its owner then himself to Cross Street all without the need to explain his late-night jaunt to anyone.

In the privacy of his own home he had opened the valise; in the silence of the living room he had been given yet one more blessing.

Chapter 22

‘I knows the cause of your goin’ off the way you did and I understands; I be only sorry you didn’t find the lad.’

‘My behaviour was selfish and thoughtless, Mr Langley was right to say so.’

‘No,’ Leah insisted. ‘It weren’t for Edward to go chidin’ you, he don’t know the all of it.’

Nor do you. Ann kept the thought to herself. You don’t know what I have to do to get Alec away from Thomas Thorpe.

Continuing the daily task of turning cheeses stored in the cool cupboard, inching each large round block a little further along the well-scrubbed shelves in order to make room for more, Leah went on. ‘You an’ the lad; time ’as you feelin’ for one another as would brother an’ sister, it be natural your worryin’ for him same as it be natural for you to go a searchin’ again today.’