She could not see what the man was doing yet the movement at her back suggested the loosening of his clothes. Ann gasped again, a vicious punch to her spine ending the twist to free herself.
He was pulling again at her trousers, inching them further, easing them on to the swell of her hips, his fingers digging forcefully into her flesh, but all of this was as nothing compared to the dread filling her mind.
‘
Achtung.
’
The word meant nothing to her but its effect upon the man tearing at her clothes was pronounced. His hands stilled on her body, a ragged intake of breath his only movement.
‘
Achtung! Zurück zum Schiff! Achtung! Zurück zum Schiff!
’
Called through a megaphone, it carried across the whine of wind and the slapping of waves.
At the obvious command the sailor guarding Berndt called warningly to the other then with his rifle slung across his shoulder and the bucket of fish clutched in one hand, a bottle snatched from Lars deposited with the fish, he proceeded to lower himself over the side using his free hand to cling to the rope ladder.
‘
Gott im Himmel!
’
The words accompanied a savage kick to her rear; the man continued to swear as he turned to follow his mate, grabbing the second bottle before he too scrambled down into the waiting rowing boat.
Trembling, near to tears as she had been during those terrifying minutes, Ann breathed heavily as the scene faded.
Lars had run to her, shielding her with his body while she adjusted trousers and jacket, then helped her to her tiny cabin, but it had been Aarno with his slightly better knowledge of English who had answered the question of how that man had known her to be female.
It has been days after the ordeal. Aarno had stood beside her on the deck, his tall broad frame etched against a setting sun whose touch on his bronze beard made it gleam golden red against weather-bronzed skin. The same golden light made his blue eyes sparkle, eyes which had blazed contempt.
‘
He not care; male, female, he not care
.’
Turning from the window Ann’s stomach clenched.
‘
. . . male or female, woman or boy, either is acceptable
.’
The horror was happening all over again, and this time there would be no one to prevent it.
Chapter 24
The front door! Thomas Thorpe’s nerves screeched. Only one sort of visitor knocked at the front door: the police.
They had found the body. His stomach jolted sickeningly. They had found the body he had thrown into the Devil’s Pool, they were here to arrest him. But how could they be certain it was him had killed that man? Had he overlooked something? Dropped some personal item of his own then missed seeing it in the darkness? Thoughts tumbled chaotically but from beneath the tumult another surfaced. The police could not be certain he was home; he must remain still, make no sound, that way they would assume the house empty and leave, then when darkness fell he could get away.
No, they could not know for sure he was here . . . but half of Cross Street would. Like water on a flame it killed the hope. Though he never invited any neighbour into his home they missed little of what went on in the street; they would have seen him arrive from work, they would be watching even now from behind cheap lace curtains. Maybe at this moment one or two were deciding to come ask was everything all right. He grimaced silently. They would be there to stick their noses in, to angle for anything they could gossip over.
A second brisk rap made his pulses race but years of quick thinking, of covering his own back, left his brain cool enough to think lucidly.
He had met only two people apart from the dead man. Enoch Phillips would see nothing amiss in the borrowing of a horse and trap; the vehicle had been returned to him empty as when it had been loaned. He would know nothing of any help to the police. And Ann Spencer? Despite nerves taut as bow strings Thorpe almost smirked. They had met on the street, what was exceptional in that? He would say he had tried to calm her fear by telling it was not unusual for a young lad to lose track of time, that the boy was probably already back at Leah Marshall’s house. But of course if that was not so and if the lad did not return in a couple of hours then he would organise a search; she would not deny the truth of this, nor would she make any claim against Thomas Thorpe: his threat that the boy would never again be seen would hold Ann Spencer’s tongue very, very still.
Bolstered by his own sense of supremacy he opened the door, his every sense reeling at the sight meeting his eyes.
‘
. . . you will never be the recipient of Ann Spencer’s love
. . .’
Edward Langley paused in the task of washing down the milking parlour. Much as he tried to prevent it those words cut as deep now as when she had said them. But why on earth should they! He pushed the broom savagely. It was like he had said to her, she meant nothing to him. Then why did he feel like a child who had lost his well-earned penny? He argued with himself as he swept slurry into the yard. She had shown little concern for Leah or for anyone else. His broom stilled as he acknowledged the truth he had tried to deny. The ‘anyone’ was Edward Langley!
‘
. . . I ask you to remember what I do is my own business, it has nothing whatsoever to do with you
.’
There was the crux of his annoyance, of the angry words he had thrown: he wanted to be part of her business, part of her life, he wanted her to turn to him when things went wrong.
‘
. . . you, Miss Spencer, mean nothing to me
. . .’
Of all he had said that was the most fallacious; Ann Spencer meant everything to him.
He was in love with Ann Spencer! With a mocking laugh he pushed the broom. Acceptance of that reality had come too late. Watching muddied water seep away into the drain he smiled bitterness at the next thought. He loved Ann Spencer but like the water he brushed away his reluctance to face the truth had swept her from his life.
Leah had accepted that the girl did not wish to remain in Wednesbury, yet deep inside she was hurting too.
He set the broom in its place against the wall of the milking shed and gazed out across the open field towards Leah’s house, a dot in the distance.
Leah Marshall had loved him from birth, and he loved her dearly . . . but there had been room in his heart for another. Now hope of that was gone and he must live with the heartache of that loss.
He inhaled quickly to pull himself together and was halfway across the yard when a sound arrested him.
Birds calling as they settled for the night, the soft lowing of milked cows, the snicker of the horse in the stable? He was so used to these sounds he had to deliberately concentrate for them to register. No, none of them had caught his attention. Listening for several seconds then hearing nothing he smiled wryly: now he was imagining things.
Almost at the door of the kitchen he stopped abruptly, every sense alert. There it was again! It had not come from the house. Turning slowly taking care his boots did not crunch on the hard-packed earth, he swept the yard with a sharp penetrating gaze as he listened intently.
The stable! He looked towards the low wooden building. Old Jess could pull a cart, he could nibble at the odd bit of greenery while out on the rounds, he could neigh when the fancy took him but one thing he couldn’t do was laugh; and the sound of a laugh had come from that stable.
Had whoever was in there already been inside the house, had his home been rifled for anything a thief might value? Doors were never locked; anyone wanting to enter would have met no deterrent; but why go into the stable? Unless of course the thief meant to steal the horse along with whatever else he had taken. But if that swine wanted Jess he was going to have to fight for him.
‘I shall show this to him, but he must ask nicely for it.’
Standing at the door left carelessly ajar Edward listened to the speaker inside.
‘I shall tell him it is so easy to do, that he should learn quickly.’
Learn what quickly – how to rob people’s houses? Edward flung the door open, only to stare disbelievingly at the intruder.
Thomas Thorpe looked uneasily at the figure on his doorstep. What he had dreaded a night back, that the man approaching from the hedge was Arthur Clews, had proved groundless but the person confronting him now was even more formidable. He stared at grey-streaked brown hair dull as the eyes which looked back at him, at a body strengthened by years of hard work and a face whose determined expression spoke clearly of a matter to be settled.
A matter which should have been settled already, as easily dealt with as Deborah Marshall. Now it was too late.
‘I thought as ’ow if I come now I’d catch you in.’
Catch him! That had been the aim all along; the first element of shock giving way to cold anger Thorpe had the overriding desire to strike the face regarding him beneath its dusty bonnet.
‘Y’ see we reckoned as ’ow you wouldn’t want this talked on along of the chapel, it not rightly bein’ chapel business.’
Perhaps not. But you will make sure everyone who worships there and many who don’t will be treated to every last detail, each one painted with lurid colours.
‘I’ve teken the liberty of callin’ to the ’ouse rather than talk along of the street.’
With ears pressed to doors pulled slightly ajar on each side, talking here would be just as public as on the street. Reluctantly Thorpe stood back from the door saying through tight lips, ‘Please come in, Mrs Clews.’
He would offer no tea nor ask her to sit down; courtesy had been stretched far enough. Planting himself before the fireplace, as far away from his guest as the small living room would allow, Thorpe watched the quick glances dart in every direction. Was she summing up the home her daughter would be moving into? That had been this woman’s plan from the outset. Allowing the daughter to take over the cleaning of Chapel House, the girl’s eagerness to lie with him, had been a scheme cooked up with one purpose in mind, to trap him into marriage. Well, there was no ring on Sarah Clews’ finger yet.
Hiding the thought behind a forced smile he asked, ‘What can I do for you?’
‘It be like this.’ Ada Clews glanced at a chair but receiving no invitation went on, ‘I’ve been a talkin’ . . .’
She had been talking . . . to whom? Fury flicked darts of ice along every vein but Thorpe maintained the false smile.
‘That is we been a talkin’,’ Ada continued, ‘it were at the cemetery – you knows all of we teks what flowers we can afford on Sunday afternoons and if pennies don’t stretch to that we goes along anyway to tend the graves of family already passed on – well like I says as we was leavin’ we got to talkin’ about the carry-on between some of we women an’ Leah Marshall.’
She was not here to discuss the affair of her daughter!
He turned his back, pretending to clear a cough rising in his throat, then with his handkerchief held to his mouth to disguise a surging sense of release, faced the woman still talking on.
‘Well I tells you Mr Thorpe, there got to be quite a bit of argy-bargy, some sayin’ it be right not to buy her stuff an’ others sayin’ it were daft to be refusin’ of it seein’ how ’ard times be.’
Why bring this to him, to his house? Now that the fear of retribution had eased, his anger began to return.
‘Mrs Clews,’ he glanced at the clock, ‘I really don’t see . . .’
‘D’ain’t none of we deny it be ’ard,’ Ada ploughed on ignoring the blatant glance at his clock, ‘we all ’as a job findin’ enough to feed a family but as Jinny Jinks reminded, that lad livin’ along of Leah Marshall is like to be a spy.’
‘Mrs Clews . . . Ada, this has all been gone over—’
‘Ar it ’as!’ Ada interrupted. ‘But not the way Ezekial tells it.’
Ezekial Turley – that man again! Thorpe’s irritation grew. It would be better all round should that man meet with the same accident as had befallen the one who had come to Chapel House.
‘Ezekial reckons that lad be no more a spy than be you or me, reckons he don’t be no German neither. We asked ’ow he come by that,’ Ada answered the frown before it became a question, ‘he said it were summat the lad said. Ezekial ’ad gone across to Leah’s place to collect his quart of milk as usual and meetin’ the lad comin’ from the stable stopped to chat. That were when that young ’un said what he said.’
I don’t care what he said, I just want you out of my house!
Ada correctly interpreted the sharp disgruntled sniff. Her glance dropped to the table covered with turkey-red chenille cloth, a luxury she could never hope to afford. Thomas Thorpe was not happy with her being here but she wasn’t going to be pushed off before relating all of what had passed on that walk back from the cemetery.
‘Conversation ’ad come around to the discussing of the war,’ Ada’s head lifted determinedly, ‘Ezekial sayin’ nothin’ comes of fightin’ ’cept more fightin’; the lad nodded, answerin’, “War is never good, Little Father, it robs both parties of life and love.” It were them words “little father”, Ezekial said, of all the places in the world the Army took him he’d only ever ’eard that spoken in the Crimea by Russian soldiers showing respect for an officer. Seems like so many of ’is kind Ezekial had run from a ’ome with too many mouths to feed then lied about his years so as to join the Army; he’d been no more than thirteen when he went to the Crimea as a boy in the Regiment of Foot. It had been durin’ the battle of Kinburn, in all the smoke and noise of the fighting. He got confused and on bein’ sent by his sergeant to fetch a bucket of water, lost his way and was captured along of some river bank; he were bein’ clouted by his captor when along comes an officer covered in medals who after bein’ told of what were goin’ on turns to Ezekial and says in plain English, ‘‘Soldiers of the Little Father do not fight against children; his Imperial Majesty the Tsar would wish you to be returned safely to your regiment. Perhaps you will convey the compliments of General Mikhail Mikhailevitch to Colonel Halys who is Little Father to that regiment.’’ That says Ezekial be proof to him the lad livin’ along of Leah’s be more likely to come from Russia than from Germany and with them countries at war wi’ one another then that lad won’t go a spyin’ for Germany.’