‘Pastor Thorpe be right.’ A voice spoke from the rear. ‘It don’t matter as to height or strength, once there be a cord a throttlin’ o’ somebody they can’t fight back.’
‘So who be it Arthur Clews pulled from the Devil’s Pool, how do it be he got in there?’
‘Was any identification found on this unfortunate man?’
The voice at the edge of the group replied to Thorpe’s question. ‘Clews said no. Said as there were naught in his pockets.’
Of course there was nothing in the pockets. Thorpe smiled to himself.
‘Police found nothin’ to say who it be lyin’ in the morgue, naught to say where he be from nor the reason of his bein’ in Wednesbury.’
‘
. . . naught to say where he be from . . .
’
In his small living room Thorpe let the conversation run again in his mind.
‘
. . . nor the reason of his bein’ in Wednesbury.
’
He looked across to the black leather valise lying on the table.
Nobody would ever discover the reason for that man being here.
He had not offered to walk with the wench along of the police station. Leah watched Edward Langley’s milk float merge with the purpling grey of approaching night. He stayed less and less each time he came; this evening only long enough to reload his freshly scrubbed churns back on to the cart. What had gone on between him and Ann? Their strict avoidance of each other shouted the fact it was something serious. It had been going on since that business with Thorpe. Leah stared at the small shape black against the gathering night. Had Edward Langley heard something or, worse, seen something, a sight that both disgusted and hurt? She could tell him what Ann had told her, that what had taken place was done for the lad; to get Thorpe to say he was not convinced it had been Alec on the heath with the Clews girl. But that would be to break not only a confidence but the promise she had made to Ann not to say a word of any of it to Edward. You must not interfere, she had reminded herself as he had hugged her goodnight. You, Leah Marshall, have led your life; you must leave others to lead theirs.
‘
Would you ask Miss Spencer to tell Alec I will go see him tomorrow.
’
His reply when she had remarked Ann was about to visit the lad remained with her as she closed the doors of the dairy. Not offering to walk her there then see her safely home was out of character for Edward Langley. At the scullery door she cast one more backward look across the fields. The knife of disappointment had stabbed deep into Edward Langley’s heart; the wound might never heal.
Chapter 36
Leah would not leave Ann Spencer, she would not turn her back while a friend came and went from the police station alone at night; Leah would not act the way he was acting, which was petty and . . . and what?
Back at Hill Rise, the horse fed and stabled for the night, the cart with its load of empty churns placed ready for the morning milking, Edward Langley paced restlessly about his small living room.
Petty. Halfway home the truth had smacked him in the face, a truth he had fought the rest of the way to Hill Rise. It was not anger or annoyance which was making him avoid Ann Spencer, but jealousy; he was jealous of her relationship with Thorpe. He kicked savagely at the stone hearth. How in God’s name had he let himself come to this! He was behaving like a child sulking because he hadn’t won some game; and now he had allowed that resentment to affect his treatment of Leah. He had known even before he passed through the gate of Leah’s yard that she would go along to the station rather than have that girl make the visit alone, yet even that had not made him turn back.
And what if Thorpe should be waiting! The thought brought him up sharply. Leah would not tolerate the man, she would strike out – and Thorpe? A new fear ran like a cold tide in Edward. Thorpe would strike back.
‘Touch her, touch either of them, and I swear to God I’ll kill you!’
Snatching up his jacket, Edward raced from the house.
Sarah was beautiful of spirit.
Blossoming in the gentle innocence of girlhood her nature was that of true kindness.
Like the Good Samaritan our Lord spoke of, she would not pass by any who needed help.
Though we would not have her taken from us, we know that grace and spirit, that sweet tenderness that is the essence of purity has found for her a place in the Kingdom of God.
Innocence of girlhood. Thomas Thorpe read again the words he had penned. If only they knew, if only those people who would sit listening as he spoke that eulogy knew as he did the real nature of Sarah Clews. But he must take care no trace of his true feelings showed in his reading. He took up the paper, reading aloud. That wouldn’t do. Something was not quite right, something didn’t fit. Frowning, he stared at the tribute he had compiled. It lauded the girl, it showed none of her faults, but summed up, albeit wrongly, her virginal qualities . . . so what was it lacking?
Beginning again to read aloud he stopped suddenly. Of course! The fault lay not in what was written but in the reciting of it. He was reading the whole in a flat monotone, with no inflection, no intonation. There was no pause to allow blinding tears to be surreptitiously wiped from the eyes, no small delay for choking sobs to be brought under control by means of a pretended cough, those little theatrical touches that would have the entire funeral party weeping openly and more importantly have them applaud him as their caring minister.
That was how it must appear on the day Sarah Clews was laid to rest. It had to seem the words came spontaneously, each one from the heart. For that the piece must be learned, practised over and over until it was word perfect.
Just one thing more would have made the day one of consummate joy. He glanced at the leather valise across the table. That would have been to wear the garments he had taken from that case, to conduct the ceremony in full ministerial robes. But every pleasure was attended by a little pain. There was nothing to prevent him wearing them in private.
Thomas Thorpe took the paper from the table and walked slowly upstairs.
As on the occasion of the service held in memory of George and Mary Carter’s son killed in action she had come with Leah now to show respect for the daughter of the Clews family. How painful it was to part with loved ones. As Ann stood beside Leah, her thoughts whipped back to a cemetery in Moscow on a grey day with snow flurries falling. Just one mourner stood at a graveside, just one small posy of flowers adorned a plain wooden coffin. In reality it had taken no more than minutes for the black-robed Russian Orthodox priest to say the words commending her father to the mercies of God, to lift high the heavy cross lying on his chest and with a kiss to the cold metal turn and leave, yet in memory it seemed she stood there for an eternity. Just one young girl alone with her father. Ann’s chest tightened with the remembered pain of knowing the father had no love for the girl standing at his grave.
But no love was preferable to no respect, which was what Edward Langley felt for her now. He came as he always had to help at Leah’s dairy, he even shared a cup of tea with Leah and each evening he walked them both to the police station and back to the house, yet in all of that time he spoke not one word to herself. She watched him now walk across to the group coming out of the chapel, seeing him take the grieving mother’s hand. Tears stung the back of her eyes. She had at one time dreamt Edward Langley might feel tenderness for her, that somehow his feelings might bloom into something deeper.
Dreams! She watched him, his raven dark hair tipped blue by the touch of sunlight, and though not close enough to see his face she knew his clear chestnut eyes would be smiling in friendship at the others leaving the chapel, but when Edward Langley rejoined Leah and herself his smile would touch only Leah.
Like so much in her life the dream of friendship with Edward Langley had been a daytime fantasy and a pleasant illusion some nights in the interlude between wakefulness and sleep.
‘How be things wi’ you wench?’
Deep in her own thoughts, taking a moment to realise the question was for her, Ann answered falteringly, ‘They . . . things . . . everything is well thank you, Mr Turley.’
‘Mmm!’ Ezekial’s response indicated her answer wasn’t all truth.
‘How are you keeping, Mr Turley?’
‘I be fine lad, I thanks you.’ Ezekial smiled at Edward and Leah, who had come to join them. ‘I were just askin’ o’ the same of Ann and were glad to hear everythin’ be well along of ’er.’
Had she seen Edward glance at her? Had a look of misery flashed briefly across his face?
No more! Ann snapped sharply to herself. There would be no more daydreams; anything she may secretly have hoped to grow between herself and Edward Langley was irretrievably broken.
‘I’d ’oped the business of that body found floatin’ in the Devil’s Pool might ’ave connection to the killin’ o’ young Sarah, that it would somehow prove it don’t be the lad that done it, but it ain’t showed none.’
‘Ann and me shared that same hope,’ Leah answered Ezekial, ‘but so far as be knowed there were naught found could link one to the other. That man’s death be a mystery. He be knowed by nobody in the town, he weren’t never seen in any street, there were naught along of him in that water might throw light on where it be he come from, but same as I knows Alec don’t be no murderer, I feels that man d’ain’t go killin’ of himself.’
‘That will be for the coroner to decide.’
‘Ar Edward, y’be right in that,’ Ezekial nodded, ‘and followin’ on the poor soul will suffer a pauper’s burial, but today at least prayer was said for ’im.’
‘Prayer?’ Edward asked.
‘Ar lad, Thorpe led the congregation in a prayer askin’ the dead man’s soul be taken by the Lord, that were a thoughtful act.’
Thoughtful! Leah snorted inwardly. As in everything Thorpe did, a prayer for an unknown man was designed to have everyone in that chapel think him a caring, godly man.
‘This is where I bid you good afternoon, Mr Turley.’
Despite the dressing down she had given herself earlier Ann felt the sharp drop of her stomach. Was Edward saying goodbye to Ezekial?
‘I’ll be across later with the evening milk yield.’
It was answer enough. Edward Langley was going home. Ann turned along the path leading to Leah’s house.
‘As if he don’t ’ave enough to put up with.’ Leah lowered the newspaper she had been reading. ‘This’ll set him off worryin’ all over again though why he sets such store by what be goin’ on I don’t know. True, he cares what be happenin’ but it don’t be like it can ’ave any effect on him.’
Replacing the teapot on the trivet near the fire Ann fetched a jug of milk from the scullery cold cupboard before asking who would be set worrying and by what?
Leah’s clipped reply sounded slightly exasperated. ‘Alec, it be Alec’ll be worryin’ . . . here,’ she pushed the newspaper across the table, ‘read that and you’ll see for y’self what I be talkin’ of.’
Ann read silently.
An announcement reported from Moscow earlier this month stating the ex Tsar and his family currently detained in the town of Yekaterinburg were to be put on trial was today followed by the further announcement the ex Tsar shall be shot . . .
‘Shot!’ Ann’s horrified eyes stared over the newspaper. ‘They can’t shoot him, he is their king, the Russian people will surely never allow him to be executed.’
Leah said quietly, ‘Read on wench, read the full piece.’
Ann’s eyes sped over the official declaration.
The Presidium of the Divisional Council in pursuance of the will of the people have decided the ex Tsar is to be shot. The decision of the Council was carried into execution on the night of July sixteenth.
‘The lad didn’t seem to be himself.’
‘If he’s bin hurt!’
‘He hasn’t Mrs Marshall, you know me better than to allow any harm to befall the lad while he be in my keeping.’
‘Yes.’ Leah nodded. ‘Yes I knows that, William lad, I be sorry for sayin’ what I did.’
From his regulation six-foot height Constable William Price smiled down at the woman he had known from boyhood. ‘That be all right, Mrs Marshall, we all gets a bit edgy from time to time.’
Leah had spoken sharply out of worry for Alex and now Ann’s nerves also quickened. Why was he not here? Had he perhaps stumbled against a table or chair, knocked an arm or a leg? Could he have had a fall and be bleeding beneath the skin as he had before? Questions sharp as wasp stings jabbed again and again until Ann blurted, ‘Constable what did you mean by saying Alec did not seem to be himself. Has he said he is not feeling well?’
Formalities did not permit the use of first names when dealing with people at the station, but it did not forbid a smile and the one William Price directed towards Ann was generous. ‘That be it Miss Spencer, the lad didn’t say anything, least he didn’t after reading of the evening newspaper.’
Ann’s mind fled to those other times Alec had searched for news coming out of Russia, searched for news of his family. This time had he found what he looked for – was Alec’s family dead?