‘I’m not sure.’ Amelia looked over at Grace who was nodding her head frantically.
‘Say yes,’ Grace whispered.
‘What harm can it do?’ David cajoled, adding, ‘It’s just dinner and conversation. I know of a lovely French restaurant in Chester which has a reputation for good food.’
‘It would be nice. It’s been ages since I’ve been out to dinner.’ Amelia considered the invitation then added, ‘Nothing too posh though please. I’m not a silver service kind of girl.’
David was delighted. ‘Oh marvellous, thank you, shall we say this Friday? I’ll pick you up about eight?’ Amelia agreed, said goodbye to David and handed the telephone back to Grace, who set it on its stand.
‘Thank goodness for that. Now we can get on with the important stuff.’ Grace had waited for Amelia to finish her call. Tempted to look at the books in the box again, her sister’s frown had stopped her. She lifted out the contents and piled everything onto the kitchen table and walked fingers along thin spines. ‘We’ve been through this lot once.’
‘It would be a good idea to check them again before venturing up into the attic. You never know, we could have missed something.’
Grace lifted a folder thicker than the rest and inside she found a foolscap envelope full of photographs. She tipped them out and scooped them into a pile. All were sepia, most faded, some torn at the edges and crumpled with age. She lifted each one and scrutinised the faces. One was a family group. One had two pretty girls holding hands, their hair hidden under wide-brimmed bonnets. A proud man stood with a woman, presumably his wife, while she cuddled a baby in her arms. Primrose Cottage was in the background of most of the photos and some taken in the garden had the stand of trees in the background. Grace picked up the photo of the two young girls and examined it again closely. ‘Sophia will probably know who these people are. They must have lived here at one time by the look of it,’ she said, then made a decision.
‘I’ll go and change into my jeans and I’m putting a shower cap over my hair this time,’ Grace said and went upstairs to the bathroom.
Amelia sat down at the table and flicked through the photos while she waited.
***
In the attic the trunk had been pushed into a far corner. Kneeling with her hands on the rough wooden floor, Grace crawled towards it. Cobwebs shimmied beside and above her, and she hoped none of their inhabitants were anywhere near her fingers. Or for that matter, anywhere near at all. The torch flickered off for a moment and Grace banged it on the floor to make it work.
‘Are you all right up there?’ Amelia’s voice sounded distant, even though she only stood a few feet below Grace.
‘Yes. I’m by the trunk now.’ Grace expected it to be locked and it was. Luckily she’d brought their bunch of keys with her. Propping her torch so the light illuminated the lock, Grace picked out a key she thought would fit. It didn’t. She tried another and another and at last, on her fourth attempt, she heard a sharp click. The key turned and she was able to lift up the metal latch. Grace heaved open the heavy lid.
‘Phew, it stinks.’ Grace had a fit of coughing.
‘What’s up, have you found it?’ Amelia’s head appeared above the attic’s open hatch. ‘Oh! It smells like camphor.’
‘It’s strong, whatever it is,’ coughed Grace, her hand pressed to her nose. The chest was full of material, layered in folds. She put her arms in amongst the cloth and began to feel around. While checking each corner of the trunk, her hand rested on something hard. Grace sat back on her heels and in the light of the torch she saw it was a book. She skimmed through the pages quickly then put it to one side on the floor. Feeling around at the bottom the trunk again she found five more. Grace closed the heavy lid on the chest, but didn’t lock it. Excited she scurried over to where Amelia stood waiting below her.
‘I’ve found them,’ Grace puffed and began passing the books down to Amelia.
Amelia sat in the living room, waiting for Grace while she freshened up. She’d promised not to touch the books until Grace came downstairs but the lure was too much. She began putting them in date order. The diaries did not run chronologically; they spanned intermittent years starting in 1910 ending at 1936. Not able to resist, Amelia opened the front cover of the 1912 diary and began to read. Once she’d started she couldn’t stop. She flicked through relevant sections, digesting the revelations within. She then picked up the next diary and carried on reading, and was so absorbed that she visibly jumped when Grace sat down beside her.
‘You’re not going to believe this. You’d better put the kettle on for coffee,’ she added, ‘and get the brandy out, we’ll need it.’
1912
Beginning of March
John never lingered around the kitchen with the other men, keen for a few of Mrs Stoakley’s leftovers, after he’d finished work for the day. He was always eager to be home. Now, he wanted to get the house straight before Ellen and his children came home. He was busy making a wooden crib for Amy’s baby when it arrived in a couple of weeks’ time. Today, Jim had left work early and set off for Chester to visit a friend, a girl no doubt, John thought.
John took his normal route home, the shortcut across the meadow and through the wood. Late February had brought with it an unexpected flurry of snow. Like a white linen sheet, the snow covered fields and hedgerows, blending mound and dale together as one. Under the cover of branches in Oakham Wood there was little snow on the ground, but frozen ridges of mud lined the path so it was easier to walk beside it, leaving footprints on the frost-encrusted grass. An ermine-like cloak of snow rested lightly over the trees, and silver tipped branches dripped with sharp icicles. Now and then thawing snow slipped with a thud to the ground and John heard the sound rebounding through the quiet of the wood.
Although the last few months had been difficult, John was confident the atmosphere at Tapscott Manor would ultimately improve. The arrangements for Leo’s wedding had occupied the Deverells’ minds and time, and since John had returned home after his second visit to Mill Lodge at Christmas, life in Woodbury had returned to some kind of normality. John’s faith lay with Sir Edmund, who’d made it clear he believed in his innocence by offering him his old job back. John could only imagine the effect that news had had on Leo. He’d managed to live through the last few months of snide remarks and hostile glances and was thankful the jibes and unfriendliness hadn’t also been directed at his son Jim.
John had hardly seen Charlie since he’d been out of prison and missed the comradeship, the jokes they shared and his friend’s dry sense of humour. Because Charlie had been the one to find Laurence’s body, his reward had been a promotion, an enviable job, maintaining the formal gardens of Tapscott Manor. Charlie had changed since his promotion and carried an arrogance that didn’t sit well on his squat shoulders. Jim said Charlie was Leo’s confidante now, and sadly John accepted that Charlie had sold his soul to the devil. Ruthie, Charlie’s wife, had given birth to a baby boy named Frederick, and John supposed, with another mouth to feed, it was natural Charlie would have to toe the line at work, so John endeavoured to forgive his lost friend.
There seemed to be a baby boom. In January, Daisy Hope, the girl who’d taken Ellen’s place working with Dora Stoakley, had had a baby girl. John didn’t know all the details but gossip had it she’d been sacked from her job at Tapscott Manor because of her pregnancy. John knew his son Jim had found himself pulled in Daisy’s direction a short while ago, so he’d worried when news of Daisy’s condition came to light. Daisy, though, had found refuge with Mr Treweeks her former employer at the Nags Head pub, and it was generally believed he was the father.
Thinking of babies reminded him again of his daughter Amy. Little more than a child herself, she would soon be giving birth, and John prayed all would go well. Christmas time at Mill Cottage had been a haven for him. Peaceful surroundings, Anwen’s good food and happy laughter had given him strength. Holding Ellen again and feeling her softness beside him had eased his loneliness. Ellen appeared to be stronger and he’d got the impression she was prepared for the coming birth. He prayed this was true for Amy as well.
A flurry of movement to John’s right drew his attention. A muffled noise on his left spiked the hairs on the back of his neck. Someone or something was stalking him, taking cover behind the trees. John moved cautiously, edging his way along the path. There hadn’t been any sightings of wild cats in the area for over four months but the possibility made him uneasy. John glanced down. Footprints almost obliterated the frost on the grass in front of him, and he knew instantly the stalker wasn’t feline.
Dark shadows flitted between the trees, accompanied by low whistles. John counted quickly; three, four men, possibly five. He wasn’t really surprised. Egged on by Leo, the men’s pent-up anger was bound to come to a head sooner or later. He was in for a thrashing. One man against five: John knew he had no chance of winning a fist fight and he felt afraid. There was nothing he could do to prevent it except perhaps talk his way out. He stopped, ready to confront them.
‘Who’s there?’ John shouted as loudly as he could. A dog barked nearby and he heard a low voice admonishing it. ‘Show yourselves, why don’t you,’ John called again. Then another whistle further along the track. How many were there, he wondered. John started walking again, nearing the spot where he’d hidden Laurence’s body. If I can make it back to the cottage I’ll be safe, he thought wildly. Then he saw them, a crowd of men standing across the path, Leo Deverell and Charlie Brock amongst them.
John called out to his friend. ‘Charlie, hello, what’s up?’
‘There’s nothing up with us, John,’ Charlie’s reply came back quickly and Leo sniggered. John looked at each man’s face in turn, men who had been his workmates. By their expressions John knew a beating would not be enough, especially if they’d been paid to do Leo’s bidding.
‘Charlie, bring Storm over here.’ Charlie untied the horse from a low branch and led him over to the group of men. ‘You know what this place is, don’t you, John?’ Leo pointed to the circle of felled trees. ‘This is where Charlie found Laurence, in the ditch where you left him, after you had murdered him,’ Leo said, cracking his whip.
‘I haven’t hurt anyone, Leo, but the same can’t be said for you, can it?’ Sticking his hands in his pockets so the men couldn’t see them shaking, John weighed up the odds against him and considered making a run for it.
Leo’s face flushed red and he continued as if John hadn’t spoken. ‘Well, we’re here to see you don’t get away with it. If the police can’t do their job properly we’ll do it for them. Isn’t that right, men?’ Leo said, looking for support.
‘Aye,’ the men said as one, including Charlie.
Before John realised what was happening, they had surrounded him. Someone tied his hands together behind his back. John feared Leo meant to whip him, but then saw the thick rope Charlie had coiled around his arm and knew what they had in mind. John felt his knees begin to buckle. Charlie hurled the rope over a thick branch of a nearby tree and passed the other end to Leo, who tied it securely around the horse. Roughly the men shoved John towards the tree and held him there.
‘You ready, Charlie,’ Leo commanded. Charlie stood in front of John making the noose. Then he slipped the noose over John’s head, tightening the knot at his neck.
‘Do you think you can get away with this?’ John screamed. ‘Charlie, you’re my best friend. Don’t do this, please. I never killed anyone, honest. You know me.’ John pleaded and implored, but when he looked into the eyes of his friend he saw only hatred reflected in them. John stared straight ahead at Leo Deverell astride his horse, Storm. ‘Damn you to hell,’ he shouted.
Leo cracked his whip in response and Storm darted forward, heaving John off his feet. John’s last thought was of Ellen. Then his legs jerked in a fitful dance and eventually, swaying slightly, they just dangled.
***
The next day, when John hadn’t returned home, Jim went to look for him and found his father hanging dead in the wood.
Sir Edmund comforted Jim as much as he could after Jim had broken the news, sobbing uncontrollably. Sir Edmund arranged for John’s body to be taken down and driven to the mortuary. ‘Don’t worry, son,’ Sir Edmund told Jim gently. ‘Your job will be here for you when you return from breaking the news to Ellen, and Primrose Cottage is your home for as long as you and your family need it.’
Numbed, Jim listened to his words. Compassionate leave was what Sir Edmund had called it. But how much time was considered appropriate for a father’s suicide, for that was what they had called it. A week, a month, a year, ten years or forever? However long it took, it wouldn’t bring him back.
His unexpected arrival at Mill Cottage and the devastating news he brought would be a dreadful blow for his mother and siblings. Jim dreaded it and pondered his future with a sinking feeling, knowing what would be expected, and the obligation sat heavily on his shoulders. He gripped Belle’s reins tightly but didn’t hurry the horse on.
***
Jim’s words went about the room with an impact like hard slaps on the faces around him. Ellen listened to Jim with tremulous lips and repeatedly mouthed words only she could hear. She opened her mouth wider, trying hard to make her words heard, wanting them all to understand, but instead made a strange mewling sound, and try as she might she couldn’t stop. She closed her eyes tightly, trying to block out the image of John hanging from a tree, his face bloated, neck raw, and his protruding tongue hanging loose and black. In distress, Ellen began to wind large chunks of her hair around her twitching fingers. She tugged hard then looked in surprise at the clumps of hair in her hand. Amy took her mother’s hands and gently held them in her own to stop Ellen from hurting herself.
Amy kept her eyes down throughout Jim’s long discourse. If she looked at her brother at all, she focused on the collar of his rough jacket, or the ornaments on the mantelpiece behind him. George and Anwen stood at the open doorway into the sitting room, the shock displayed on their faces.