Mulligan's Yard (44 page)

‘Yes.’

She was too exhausted to experience real fear. The full range of human emotions had visited her in recent hours, from terror to relief and now, back to . . . what? This ridiculous figure would
have been laughable had circumstances been different. His hair hung down at each side of his head, long strings that were usually plastered across the naked pate. He owned terrible teeth and
dough-coloured skin, while his eyes were . . . They were nasty. ‘What do you want?’ she asked, as if visitors at two thirty in the morning were not out of the ordinary. ‘Cup of
tea?’

He nodded, then sat down by the fire, grateful for a little warmth. His eyes never left her as she filled a kettle and set it to boil. ‘A biscuit?’ she asked. Why was he here? And
the blood on him – whose was that?

‘I would be grateful for something to eat, yes.’

She bustled about, made him a sandwich, poured two cups of tea, placed herself at the table. ‘Have you been involved in an accident?’ she asked.

Glad of this suggestion, he leaped in. ‘Yes, yes, I have. Some fool knocked me off my bicycle.’ A bright idea slipped into his mind and fell immediately from his tongue. ‘I
think it was that Mulligan chap throwing his weight about again.’

Amy nodded thoughtfully. ‘When did this happen, Mr Wilkinson?’

The man blinked. ‘Oh, an hour or so ago. I was . . . I was studying winter wildlife.’

‘In the woods?’

‘Yes, yes, and along the lanes, too. A car drove right into me. It must have been him, since Pendleton Grange is the only house on that particular stretch.’

‘No.’

‘I beg your pardon?’ He made an effort to lift the hair from his neck, tried to place it back where it ought to have been.

‘Mr Mulligan was arrested.’

He forced a smile to stay away from his face. ‘Arrested?’ he managed, after a pause of several seconds. ‘But why?’

Amy raised a shoulder. ‘My words exactly. I went to the hospital to visit my sisters . . .’ She paused. ‘Margot has been attacked and Eliza . . . is dead. She was
murdered.’

Wilkinson swallowed a noisy gulp of hot tea. This was marvellous. How many birds with one stone? A rock, the crunching of bone, a limp and lifeless body. ‘She was the wrong one,’ he
mumbled.

‘What?’

‘Nothing.’ He waited for further information, received none. ‘Was he arrested for murder?’

‘Yes.’

‘That’s terrible.’

‘I told the police about that,’ she replied. ‘There is no man less likely to commit murder than James Mulligan. He is not the type.’ A feeling of unease crept along the
many paths of Amy’s shocked nervous system. ‘And he could not have been driving the car that knocked you down. He has been locked up for several hours. As I was trying to say a moment
ago, after visiting the hospital, I called in at the police station and told the sergeant in no uncertain terms that Mr Mulligan is not the killer.’

‘How can you be so sure?’ asked Wilkinson. ‘Many people are capable of terrible sins.’

‘Yes.’ Her tone was thoughtful. ‘But not James Mulligan. I feel confident that he will be released very soon.’

He stared at her. ‘Do you know who I am?’

Amy shrugged. ‘You are Stephen Wilkinson’s brother and, I understand, a member of some sect or other.’

‘I am the Guardian of the Light Eternal.’

‘Ah.’

Clearly, the woman was not impressed. He told her the story of the burning bush in Makersfield, Texas, of the people who had been drawn to the miracle, of the word being spread throughout the
world. ‘That is where I shall go to begin the new life,’ he concluded.

‘And you say that you are searching for young women?’

He inclined his head gravely. ‘Of course, the common-or-garden type of girl is very much in demand. But for myself, as a guardian, I require someone from a more elevated
background.’

The mantel clock ticked. It was a cheap thing belonging to Elspeth, rather tinny and inclined to slowness. Amy studied the table, not wanting to look at the plainly unstable visitor, not wanting
to think about Eliza, about Margot. But it was no use. ‘You killed my sister,’ she said suddenly. The clock stopped.

‘The wrong one,’ he said.

‘Wrong?’

He stood up in front of the fire. ‘You must excuse me,’ he said, ‘but I became very cold while I was outside.’

‘Eliza is cold,’ Amy replied. ‘She is on a slab in the morgue. You crushed her skull.’ With his legs spread and one hand resting on a fireguard behind his back, the man
looked like a very poor music-hall parody of Napoleon, all self-importance and bigotry. ‘Why did you murder my sister?’

‘She was the wrong one.’

Terror struck at that moment. It was as if Amy’s body had been on hold, in retreat, unavailable for comment. But now she realized that she could well be fighting for her own life.
‘And Margot?’ In spite of all the effort, these words emerged shakily.

‘When Eliza went away to London, I gave up all hope of her.’

‘Hope? How could you have hope of securing the affections of either of them?’

Undeterred, he continued, ‘So I chose Margot.’

‘You chose her?’

‘One day, I shall be Supreme Guardian.’

Amy could scarcely believe her ears.

‘It is my destiny.’

A new feeling visited Amy’s consciousness. She was suddenly angry, coldly furious. ‘Must your destiny involve members of my family? Does your religion allow you – encourage you
– to kill one girl and to strip the other naked in the snow?’

He lowered his eyelids, raised them after a second or two. ‘It is all foretold,’ he informed her. ‘When the first bush ignited, we knew that, like Moses, we had to lead our
people to a Promised Land, a New World. This is our preparation for the end.’

The end. ‘But why did you remove my sister’s clothing?’

‘To make sure that she was the one.’

Amy made to rise from her chair, decided to stay as small as possible, sat down again. ‘And you would have taken her kicking and screaming to America?’

‘Oh, no.’ He used a sleeve to dry up a drop of mucus that hung from his ugly nose. ‘The Lord would have spoken to her after our coupling.’

The term ‘daft as a bedful of fleas’ flashed through Amy’s mind. Elspeth Moorhead was the mother of many such bald statements. Should Amy scream and wake the Moorheads? No.
They, too, might become victims. ‘Coupling, Mr Wilkinson?’

‘Oh, yes. I meant to claim her.’

Amy prayed silently, begging the true God to help her.

‘But she was already with child,’ said Wilkinson. ‘Early days, but pregnant, dirtied.’

‘She is in hospital,’ replied Amy, ‘being treated for hypothermia. They are having to warm her up because you left her to die.’

Wilkinson’s eyes began to mist over, and he stumbled back against the fireguard. ‘When we reach America, you will understand,’ he said. ‘The Lord will give you
strength.’

So, the creature who had killed Eliza, who had exposed Margot and her child to the elements, had come for Amy now. She shivered, wondered how she would get through until morning. Why had she
forgotten to lock the doors? ‘I am to come with you to America, then?’

‘Yes.’

She glanced down at her little fob watch, a gift from Mother. It was almost three o’clock and the Moorheads would not rise before seven. Four hours. Four hours to kill, four hours during
which she might be killed. ‘Shall I pack a bag?’ she asked.

‘I must look at you first.’ His tone was thick.

‘You put Margot to sleep – or so she told the nurses – a cloth over her nose and mouth.’

‘Yes, I did.’

There was no guilt, Amy realized with a jolt. This man truly believed in all this dangerous nonsense. And had she not heard Mona say that he was probably impotent? ‘How do you propose
putting me to sleep?’ As soon as this loaded question hit the air, Amy kicked herself inwardly. She should not goad him into action, should keep herself safe for as long as possible.

‘I hope that you will come to me voluntarily.’

Amy swallowed, almost gagged. ‘How shall I persuade myself to do that?’ There she was again, forcing him to take action.

‘We shall pray together,’ he answered.

‘And if I refuse?’ The anger was heating up, was beginning to rise to the surface. She longed to pick up a weapon, to finish him off. He had committed one murder, had tried to commit
a further two by exposing Margot and her child to cruel elements. ‘You will get nowhere with me,’ she said. ‘You are quite the ugliest creature I have ever seen. The word ugly
attaches not just to your physical appearance – which is quite bizarre, as I am sure you know – but also to your inner self. How can you speak of God when you are a cold-blooded
murderer? That is the worst crime, as it offends all laws, social, criminal and moral.’

His mouth opened, closed again.

‘You will not dare to touch me,’ Amy continued. ‘The girls you practised on were all unconscious, were they not? And not one of them was touched.’ She decided to apply
once more for an explanation. ‘Why did you kill Eliza? Why was she the wrong one?’

‘She went away to a city of sin.’

‘Yes,’ agreed Amy readily.

‘Then she came back and . . . and she was the wrong one.’

‘Margot was the wrong one, also,’ said Amy.

‘Margot is with child,’ he answered.

Amy got up from her seat. ‘I am asking you now to leave my house.’

He made no move.

‘I am ordering you to leave,’ she insisted.

He grinned. ‘I intend to stay.’

‘Then I shall go,’ said Amy.

He crossed the room and hit her cheek with the flat of his hand, sending her reeling towards the back door. She righted herself, turned the handle and drew the door inward. ‘Oh, thank
God,’ she muttered, blood streaming from the corner of her mouth.

James entered the house. ‘Good morning, Mr Wilkinson,’ he said smoothly. ‘All three? In one night, all three Burton-Masseys? My goodness, you have been busy.’

Amy leaned against a wall, heart thumping wildly, face stinging, mouth bleeding. She watched in dumb fascination while James Mulligan balled a fist and crashed it into Wilkinson’s jaw.
‘Damn you,’ he spat, ‘you murderous bastard.’

Felled like a slaughtered ox, Wilkinson folded on the floor. Amy, too, slid down the wall, her legs refusing to take her weight. ‘Thank you,’ she managed to repeat, the words
bubbling through split flesh.

‘Not at all,’ replied James. ‘I’ve been waiting for ages to do that. Now, let’s take a look at your face . . .’

‘Here, get up off the floor. My mammy believed that many ills come from a person sitting on stone flags.’ Only a slight quickening in his breathing betrayed the
fact that James Mulligan had just laid a man out cold.

She allowed him to lift her. ‘Thank you,’ she said again. ‘But I thought you were locked up.’ He lifted her as though she were a tiny, weightless thing.

He peered at her lip, could feel her agitated breath on his face. ‘And I was so, but a woman came in and played merry hell, terrified the life out of the whole lot of them, she did. So
thank you, Miss Amy Burton-Massey.’

She closed her eyes for an instant, saw Eliza on the slab, Margot in her hospital bed. She could not bear any of it. ‘Did she die quickly, James?’

He would not tell Amy about Eliza’s dying statement, not yet, at least. Perhaps this young woman would never need to know that Eliza had killed Rupert Smythe. ‘She died almost
instantly,’ he lied. ‘In seconds, I imagine.’ No, poor Eliza had lingered, long enough for the creature here on the floor to have captured Margot, too. He prayed that the brain
damage might have removed all pain.

Amy allowed him to clean her mouth with a handkerchief. He was gentle for so tall and broad a man.

‘Your lip is swollen,’ he informed her, ‘but there’s no permanent damage. Now, I’ll make sure that Mona gets to the shop tomorrow. You will stay at home for a day
or so, no work, just visit Margot and rest yourself.’

‘Yes, sir.’ She moved her head. ‘What about him?’

‘Ah, yes, him.’ James, too, fixed his eyes on the bundle on the floor, looked at his handiwork. He put himself in mind of his own father, a father who had been cruel and dangerous, a
drinker, a gambler, a man who had indulged himself and only himself. ‘You see what I am capable of, Amy?’ Thomas Mulligan had won many a brawl in Dublin’s public houses.

‘Yes.’

‘And you don’t fear me?’

‘Not at all. Had there been a knife to hand, I would have finished him off, James. This was a terrifying situation.’

‘So it was.’ He nodded sagely. ‘Yes, this was an unusual occasion.’

‘Thank God.’

He placed her in a chair near the fire, his hands achingly lonely once contact with her was lost. Even Eliza’s death, the attack on Margot and, now, the threats to Amy, could not take away
the longing, the sheer agony of loving this woman. He must attend now to matters practical, must get himself into sensible mode. ‘Gun cupboard?’ he asked.

‘Under the stairs – why, James?’

‘I’ll stay with him. You go and fetch me a loaded shotgun. Extra bullets, too.’

‘But, James, I—’

‘Do it. Remember that the insane can be possessed of great strength once driven to the edge.’

Amy looked at the man on the floor. He was still breathing, but he looked as if he might well spend the rest of his life where he was, motionless, so deeply unconscious. ‘I can’t see
him giving us any trouble, really, so—’

‘Amy?’

‘Right.’ Like a child obeying the male parent, Amy went to do his bidding. The guns had not been used for years; Alex Burton-Massey had finished off many a fox with this little
arsenal. Father had not approved of foxes, especially when they had killed masses of poultry only to make off with just one chicken. Yet he had refused to join the hunt, because hunting was
obnoxious. ‘Starved dogs sent out to find a dinner that would not appease a couple of them, damned fool hobby.’ As she picked out the best-looking of the guns, Amy heard his voice
echoing down the years and into her head.

She sat on the second stair, gun between her knees, bullets in a cardboard box by her side. Father, Mother, now Eliza. ‘Just Margot and I now,’ she whispered into near-darkness.
‘And whatever Rupert left in Margot’s womb.’