No Name Lane (Howard Linskey) (31 page)

And though they spoke no more that day and there was no physical contact between them, Mary would look back on the exchange and realise that was the moment when it all began.

CHAPTER FORTY

Tom
steered his car off the main road and into the lane, bringing it to a halt. Sam Armstrong’s house was situated at the end of a long, rutted track at the top of a hill. It was steep, full of puddles from the rainstorm and slick with mud. Clearly Sam had not left the countryside entirely behind.

‘I don’t think my car is going to get us any closer,’ he said and they looked at each other.

‘We’ll manage,’ she told him, not wanting to turn back now.

They left the car where it was and climbed the hill. Within seconds their trousers were speckled with wet mud. As they walked, they were forced to tread carefully, to avoid the pools of water in the broken road surface. Halfway to the house Helen slipped and Tom instinctively shot out an arm to prevent her from falling.

‘Thanks,’ she said, ‘not my most practical pair.’ She took another tentative step but her shoe immediately slid again.

‘Here,’ he took her hand in his and they began a slow and unsteady trudge towards the house. The road grew steeper and they both nearly slipped several times. As they neared the top of the hill, Helen had to stifle the urge to giggle as she realised how it must have looked, the two of them walking along the road together holding hands like a couple of soppy teenagers.

Tom
finally let go of her hand to bang on the door. Immediately a dog began to bark ferociously somewhere inside the house. ‘I hope he’s bloody in,’ he muttered as he looked at their filthy shoes.

The door was opened by an old man with a heavily lined face and rough calloused hands from years of working outdoors. He looked them up and down and said by way of greeting, ‘Roddy should have told you to bring your wellies, you’re covered in clarts.’

Though not as cluttered as Roddy Moncur’s place, Sam Armstrong’s home also spoke of a solitary existence. Sam was a widower who didn’t seem to have much interest in housework. He left Helen and Tom for a moment to silence his dog then returned and set about moving things so they could sit down. Several newspapers, a pile of clothes set aside for washing and some small, oily mechanical parts from an old machine he’d been tinkering with on a coffee table were all removed. The room was cold but he did not make use of the ancient paraffin heater in the corner.

The old man listened silently while they explained the purpose of their visit. ‘Sean Donnellan,’ he said slowly, ‘until Roddy mentioned it, I hadn’t heard that name in a long time. You reckon he’s the bloke they dug out of Cappers Field?’

‘We’re not sure,’ said Helen, ‘but it looks likely.’

‘I wouldn’t be surprised,’ said the old man placidly.

‘What makes you say that?’

‘That man had a knack of getting on the wrong side of people,’ said Sam. ‘He was cocky and had a way with
words. The lasses round here hadn’t heard anything like it before. They acted like he was a film star or summat and the blokes weren’t too fond of that.’

‘We heard Betty Turner fell for him,’ said Tom.

‘She wasn’t the only one,’ answered the farmer pointedly, as if he was waiting to hear what they knew before revealing more.

‘Mary Collier too,’ Helen stated.

‘Aye, her an’ all, and one or two more besides. Some were crafty about it, others hadn’t got the sense. The whole village knew he was walking out with a few of them while he was there.’

‘So Mary was just one of a number he was stringing along?’ asked Tom.

The old man thought for a while as if he was trying to remember or perhaps he was choosing his words carefully. ‘No, she was more than that. Whatever they got up to it was enough for her to turn her fiancé over, which caused quite a storm at the time. Not many in the village liked the Irishman for that; leading the vicar’s daughter astray in a place as small as our village …’ and he shook his head as if they wouldn’t be able to sufficiently comprehend the seriousness of it back in those days.

‘Sounds like you remember it pretty well?’ asked Helen.

‘I do,’ said the farmer, ‘Henry Collier was a good friend of mine. We used to go fishing together.’

‘From what you’re saying there’d be quite a few with a grievance against Sean Donnellan.’

‘There was,’ he agreed, ‘but not many who’d kill him over it.’

‘Who do you think did it then?’ asked Helen.

‘It
could only have been one of two people,’ said Sam, ‘if you’re asking me.’

Helen and Tom were both surprised by his certainty. ‘We are asking you,’ Tom told him, ‘who do you reckon killed Sean?’

‘Either Henry Collier,’ he said his old friend’s name quite calmly, ‘or his brother Jack.’

CHAPTER FORTY-ONE

Sam Armstrong had a story to tell but he decided he required a drink first. Tom turned him down because he was driving and Helen because she was no fan of whisky. Sam shuffled over to a rickety old wooden cabinet, which opened to reveal a half-drunk bottle of Bells and a small glass jug of cloudy water with a stopper in it. He poured himself a large measure of the whiskey and added the merest splash of water before retaking his seat and taking a sip.

‘Henry Collier gambled everything on Mary,’ he explained, ‘his whole life really. We were just kids when she moved to Great Middleton with her da and she was a right proper princess even then, haughty and full of herself. I saw right through her but Henry didn’t. He thought she was the best thing since sliced bread and so did she,’ and he took a big sip of his whisky. ‘He set his stall out to land her from day one, started studying like he was off to Oxford or something. Most of the other boys thought it was pointless. They were all going to end up in the mines anyhow, so why bother. All the young men in the village went there once they left school. I would have gone too if we hadn’t had the farm. Don’t get me wrong, farming’s a tough life but it’s better than the mine. At least the air is fresh and you’re not underground worrying about the roof caving in on you all the time.’

‘How
did Henry avoid the mine?’

The farmer smiled ruefully. ‘Got a scholarship, didn’t he? Turns out he had a brain on him after all but it was her that encouraged him and her father who put a word in for him at the school. They were respected back then, you see; the vicar and headmaster, nobody questioned them, so if they thought Henry Collier was bright enough to teach the kids in the village that’s just what happened. He started teaching the little ones at first, worked his way up to the bigger kids, till he finally became headmaster back in the fifties.’

‘Tell me about this brother of his.’

‘He had two brothers in point of fact; Jack and Stephen, Stephen was the middle brother but he was touched.’

‘Sorry?’ Helen asked uncomprehendingly.

The farmer tapped the side of his head with a finger. ‘He was simple, not all there, born like that he was,’ he said, as if this was Stephen’s own fault somehow.

‘What happened to him?’ asked Helen.

‘Carted off to Springton years ago.’

‘Where’s that?’

‘It’s the loony bin, pet,’ explained the farmer. ‘He was caught peeping and that was the last straw.’

‘Peeping?’

‘Looking in through windows,’ Sam told her, ‘watching lasses getting undressed for bed or in the bath. One day he got caught, got a good hiding from the girl’s father and admitted he’d been doing it for years then they took him away.’

‘When was this?’ asked Tom.

‘A few years after the war.’

‘So
he was still living with his family in 1936?’ the farmer nodded. ‘They closed that old place down a while back,’ said Tom, ‘I wonder if he’s still alive.’

‘Doubt it,’ said the farmer, ‘he’d be …’ he did the sums in his head, ‘… about eighty. It’s possible I suppose but not likely.’

‘And Henry Collier let them take him?’ asked Helen.

‘Of course; he was a teacher who wanted to be head and Stephen was an embarrassment. You can’t have the headmaster’s brother peering in at lasses when they’re in the nuddy, can you?’ he spoke as if Stephen being institutionalised was the only sensible outcome.

‘Did he ever hurt anybody?’ she asked.

‘Not seriously,’ it was a reluctant admission, ‘but he’d throw tantrums like a bairn and couldn’t remember anything about them afterwards.’

‘What exactly was wrong with him then?’ asked Helen, hoping for a more specific diagnosis.

‘I told you,’ snapped the old man, ‘he wasn’t right in the head. He was harmless enough I suppose, apart from the peeping. I doubt he killed Sean Donnellan, if that’s what you’re asking. His older brother Jack was the dangerous one.
There
was a man you didn’t mess with,’ the farmer folded his arms, ‘hardest bloke in the village.’

Tom’s eyes narrowed, ‘bet he had to prove that a few times.’

The farmer nodded. ‘In a place full of miners? Oh yes, Jack Collier cracked a few heads before he proved himself cock of the north. There was nearly always a fight somewhere on a Saturday night and Jack was involved in more than a few. He was a soldier, see, trained and battle-hardened
in the Great War, as hard as bloody nails. If you’re wondering about someone who’s capable of killing a man then look no further than Jack. He’d done it before.’

‘He’d killed someone?’ asked Helen in surprise.

‘In the war,’ Sam explained.

‘So Jack Collier was hard as nails but every village has someone like that. Why would he have killed Sean Donnellan? He doesn’t sound like the kind of bloke who would fight his brother’s battles for him. Wouldn’t he have told Henry to be a man and fight the Irishman himself?’

The farmer chuckled, ‘He probably would have if Henry Collier had been a fighter but, I told you, he was a scholar. He and his older brother were as different as could be. There was more than fifteen years between them, for starters. I don’t think anyone was more surprised by Henry than old Ma Collier. She’d already lost two babies then had Stephen, who came out all wrong, so God knows where Henry got his brains from but no,’ he said, ‘Henry Collier couldn’t fight his way out of a wet paper bag.’

‘But why would a battle-hardened war veteran give a damn about a young girl like Mary ditching his brother,’ asked Tom, ‘family pride?’

The farmer gave a sly smile. ‘Maybe, but perhaps Henry Collier wasn’t the only one who’d pinned all of his hopes on Mary.’

‘How do you mean?’

‘Jack Collier might have been a hard man but there was one thing that did frighten him.’

‘What was that?’

‘The
mine; they used to say that’s why he joined the army. He’d been a soldier in a war but he wasn’t keen on being a miner. He was from a mining village though and left with two brothers to support when his mother and father died.’

‘What did he do then?’

‘Learned the blacksmith’s trade. Hard to imagine it now that everybody’s got a car, but every village had one once.’

‘Could he make a living out of being a blacksmith?’

The old farmer nodded. ‘At first, yes, there was all sorts needed doing. Pit ponies needed shoes,’ he said by way of example, ‘but as the years went by there wasn’t as much demand for anything coming out of a forge. Jack wasn’t daft. He could see it wasn’t going to last but he was too young to give it up and too old to learn anything else.’ He looked at Tom then. ‘Do you see?’

‘Do I see what?’

The old man sighed. ‘If his brother does well,
he
does well. If Henry becomes the school teacher and marries the vicar’s daughter, Jack gets a toe-hold in the village.’

‘I don’t understand,’ said Helen.

‘Work could be found, schools need repairs, maybe even a caretaker. A vicar had influence back then, he could have a word in someone’s ear, make sure his son-in-law’s brother didn’t want for work.’ He smiled. ‘Have you ever heard of a vicar or a school teacher starving or being evicted?’ he asked.

‘So if his brother doesn’t marry Mary,’ said Helen, ‘that all gets derailed?’

‘It was worse than that,’ explained old Sam, ‘when Mary told Henry it was over he gave up.’

‘Gave
up what?’ she asked.