A Grave Inheritance (9 page)

‘Well, well! I’ve never known the vicar to be tired before,’ Muriel told her cat, as she closed the door. ‘It comes to something when clergy start burning their candles at both ends,’ she chortled. She sat down on the sofa and picked up her knitting.

Tango the cat licked his paws and washed his whiskers. His expression told Muriel he didn’t give a toss either way.

1911

It was late afternoon and the stallholders at Lower Shelton’s weekly market were packing up for the day. Lillian headed home, pulling a small wooden cart behind her. The footway leading to Woodbury skirted a low hill and as she reached the path, Lillian remembered how only a few months ago the area had flooded, and heavy rain had created scores of rivulets in the rising ground. Criss-crossing channels had spiralled down from between the boulders and sprayed out, spilling over the edges of the crags in the hillside. In due course this waterfall had joined the river and seeped into the flat fields. The energy of early spring had turned into a vapid summer and now the searing June sunshine scorched Lillian’s skin and the soil alike, without prejudice, and the once muddy path was parched and split. Lillian found it hard to keep from stumbling over embedded stones and she clutched the cart with her right hand and used her left for balance. Towards the top of the gradient the path levelled out and Lillian paused to get her breath. Although the heat of midday had waned, perspiration trickled between her shoulder blades. Underneath her thin cotton frock her calico petticoat clung to her skin and she fanned out the bodice of her frock, letting in some air. Lillian reached inside her bodice and felt for the small cotton purse stitched inside. Smiling, she let her fingers caress the coins. She had managed to sell all the jam and chutney, and Mr Brownlow wanted more of Mum’s cakes and pies for his market stall next week. Pleased with herself for doing so well, Lillian continued on her way home. Gradually the track began to slope down and entered the edge of Oakham Wood, an open area, sparse of trees. Her father always warned her not to come this way when she was on her own, but the alternative was an even longer walk, so as always Lillian ignored his advice. On either side of the clearing thick tree trunks formed a high wall. Their branches and leaves, almost an awning, blocked from sight the denseness within the wood. Lillian glanced around the open ground and quickened her pace, knowing that sooner or later the path would come out onto the main road. She hurried along with the cart bouncing and jolting behind her, and it was only when she reached the road that she allowed herself to stop. The going was easier now and it wouldn’t be too long before she reached Marsh Lane and Primrose Cottage.

Her Dad hadn’t hesitated when offered work at Tapscott Manor, knowing a tied cottage was part of his wages. Primrose Cottage nestled on a narrow verge bordering Oakham Wood. John and Ellen Farrell, her Mum and Dad, had made a vegetable and herb garden near the kitchen. Also in the garden was a small orchard, where a variety of apple and pear trees yielded fruit every year for Ellen’s jams. Protectively, a clump of trees stood like sentries on guard and they cast welcome shadows and shielded parts of the garden from the summer sunshine. By the end of the summer blackberries would adorn the now bare brambles, and armed with large bowls Lillian and her brother Harry would pick the ripe fruit. It was a chore they loved and the whole family looked forward to eating blackberry pie and custard after their evening meal. Lillian trudged happily along with her cart in tow, contented.

‘I’m never going to leave Primrose Cottage,’ Lillian said to herself as she hurried along, eager now to be home.

Lillian saw her father waiting at the door of Primrose Cottage as she drew near, and she waved to him. ‘I did well at the market today, Dad,’ she called. ‘Everything sold, and I’ve got more orders for next week too.’

‘Where have you been until now?’ John said sternly. ‘I sent Harry to fetch you half an hour ago.’

Before Lillian could answer, ten-year-old Harry came running up the path. ‘I’ve been to the bottom of the lane and back again looking for you.’ Harry stamped his foot. ‘You must have been hiding from me. Or you came through the wood.’ A tear rolled down his cheek as he confronted Lillian.

Thinking quickly, she said, ‘I was in the privy. We must have just missed each other.’

‘No you weren’t. I went there myself first,’ Harry shouted at her.

John Farrell looked at Lillian. He knew she was lying but he wasn’t in the mood for confrontation or tantrums. ‘Shut up, Harry. Lillian’s here now and that’s what matters.’ John took a deep breath. ‘Listen to me, both of you. I want no arguments. Your mother and Amy are upstairs resting, so don’t disturb them, do you hear?’ Lillian started to say something, but John shook his head and held up his hand to stop her. ‘I’ve got to nip out, but I won’t be long. Lillian is in charge, Harry, so do what she says. Help your selves to some broth,’ he added kindly. John stood by the door, cap in hand, and watched his two youngest children go into the house, then turned and made his way towards the wood.

***

John entered Oakham Wood from behind the cottage; taking the path Ellen and Amy would have come along earlier. He knew the wood like the back of his hand and hurried into the undergrowth. He picked his way forward, careful to avoid the traps he laid earlier that day. Thunder rumbled in the distance, and wild life darted away in all directions from his approaching footsteps. John kept the long line of oak trees that marked the path in his sight. Ellen had mentioned a clearing and John knew it. He and Charlie had felled the trees a few weeks before. When the clearing came into view John slowed his pace. To his right, there were snuffling noises among the leaves and John glanced briefly in that direction. Ignoring the small animal, he edged forward. Wind whipped the branches above his head as the storm drew closer, and above the trees there was an endless grey sky, heavy with dark clouds. John reached the clearing and looked around for Ellen’s basket and Amy’s shawl, which they had discarded and left behind. He noticed a figure lying at the base of a tree stump, and as he edged closer he saw a man sprawled face down. The man’s head and hair glistened with blood. John stared, reluctant to go any nearer. He nudged the sprawled figure with his boot, then steeling himself John checked for a pulse. Finding none he turned the body over and met the young man’s glazed stare. John knelt down and moved closer, the man’s face a few inches away from his own. The coppery smell of blood, mingling with his own nervous sweat, nauseated John, but still he scrutinised the face. John pushed away leaves from around the man’s face and lifted a stiff section of blood-soaked hair. ‘What the hell?’ John gasped and fell back on his heels, numb with shock, as he looked at the body of Laurence Deverell.

John couldn’t understand it. He had expected to find Leo, not his twin. Panicking, John stumbled out of the clearing and stood, considering what to do. A narrow ditch, dry and littered with leaves and dead twigs, was a few yards away, and after taking a quick look around, John slid down into the ditch. He began shoving away dirt and debris to create a large dent, deep enough, he hoped, to hide a body.

When John climbed back up to the dead man he heard dogs barking. Between distant trees he saw lights and could hear muffled shouts. Quickly John emptied Laurence’s pockets, indifferent as to the value of the coins. He slipped a signet ring off the man’s middle finger and removed a fob watch from his waistcoat. John stuffed the lot into his own jacket pocket and then began dragging the man towards the ditch. Two parallel grooves furrowed the ground as Laurence’s boot heels scraped the soil. John’s heart pounded in his chest but there was no time to rest. Sadly, John rolled Laurence over and down into the ditch, then scrambled down after him, and with bits of twigs, loose leaves and broken branches, he covered up the dead man.

Back on top again, John kicked the leaves as though convulsed in a St Vitus’ dance, trying to obliterate his tracks and the dents made by the man’s boots. Sporadic raindrops began to gather force, pelting John’s back, and they succeeded in washing away the remains of the blood.

John made his way home, collar turned up against the downpour, chin lowering with each step. He hurried, but trod carefully so as not to make a sound. Hands thrust deep into his jacket pockets, John fingered the stolen coins, watch and ring, mulling over what he’d done.

Before going inside the cottage, John took off his muddy boots and wet jacket and emptied his pockets. Carefully wrapping the ring and fob watch in his handkerchief, he slipped the coins back into his pocket. He placed his boots and jacket beside the fire to dry and then looked for a safe hiding place. The fire’s surround and hearth was made of rough slate slabs. In one corner of the hearth a piece of slate had cracked and broken loose and John had never bothered to replace it. He was glad he hadn’t. Making sure his children were occupied and not watching, John pulled out the broken piece of slate and shoved the small bundle into the crack. He replaced the broken slate and on top of it positioned the wooden box that he kept by the fire to hold his spills. John pushed back the fender surrounding the fire and stood back to check that all looked normal. Upstairs he changed out of his clothes, praying that Lillian and Harry hadn’t noticed the bloodstains.

After freshening himself, John looked in on his wife and daughter. The cut across Ellen’s eyebrow and cheek oozed blood and her swollen skin was stretched beyond its limits. Ellen found it painful to move her face or speak, and seeing John’s glance she pulled her shawl up from her shoulders and over her head to try and hide her injuries. Her one good eye looked back at him.

‘I’m all right,’ Ellen whispered, trying to reassure him.

Shocked by his wife’s battered face, John could only stare, his stomach churning. Repulsion, anger and fear paraded one after another and if Ellen had been able to focus for more than a moment on her husband’s face, she would have seen their progress reflected in his eyes. ‘You and Amy must go and stay with George and Anwen, at least until your face has healed and Amy’s recovered.’ John spoke quietly so he wouldn’t disturb Amy, who slept fitfully in their bed. ‘Looking like you do, you’d be best out of the way. Jim can take you and bring Belle and the cart back.’ John knew his wife needed him with her, but he couldn’t take them. This was the only solution.

Ellen tried to envisage the subsequent scenario. Sir Edmund Deverell was bound to send for John, he always did when there was a problem, so John was right, he couldn’t take them. But if Jim their elder son drove the cart like John suggested, then he too would be missed, and suspicion could fall on Jim. Disturbed by the thought Ellen said, ‘Won’t it look funny if Jim’s not around?’

‘The only alternative is for you to drive the cart,’ John responded, knowing she was right about Jim. He held her hands in his as he spoke and lifted them gently to his lips. He wondered if Ellen’s injuries would leave permanent scars, feeling ashamed that it mattered.

‘What about the train? Jim could take us as far as the station,’ Ellen suggested hopefully.

‘The fewer people that see you and Amy, the better, and fewer questions will be asked.’

‘I’ll manage on my own then.’ Ellen made an effort to smile. ‘Can you do without the horse for a few days?’

‘I’ll manage.’ John answered quietly.

‘What about me, John, will you manage without me too?’ Ellen asked.

‘I’ll have to. It won’t be forever, so don’t worry about me,’ John replied.

Ellen was worried. ‘What will everyone think of me, just leaving you to cope on your own?’

‘I’ll tell them your sister-in-law is ill, and you’ve gone to help her. I’ll say Amy’s to find work as a maid in one of the big houses in Wrexham. In fact, that wouldn’t be a bad idea, once she’s well enough.’ Even as John said the words he wondered at its likelihood. He picked up a wet cloth and gently patted away the blood oozing from the cuts on Ellen’s face.

Ellen flinched at his touch and looked at her daughter Amy, who had survived her ordeal. Somehow Ellen had managed to carry Amy home, a journey Ellen hardly remembered now. Earlier, Lillian had brought up a jug of hot water and poured it into a large washbowl. She’d carried away her sister’s soiled and tattered clothes without a word and then come back and washed away the blood from Amy’s face and hands and cleaned her scratches. Lillian’s expression was full of questions, but she’d known better than to ask.

‘I want Amy in with me tonight, John,’ Ellen told him.

It didn’t make any difference to John. He knew he wouldn’t get much sleep anyway.

‘Did you find the basket and shawl?’

‘Yes.’ John looked away.

‘Is he dead?’ Ellen asked.

John didn’t answer. Ellen had said it was Leo Deverell who had raped Amy and attacked her, his wife. Ellen also told him she had hit Leo, to defend Amy, and John didn’t know what to think about that now. Did his wife really have it in her to kill a man? There was more than one blow to Laurence’s head, savage blows meant to kill, John believed. Was now the right time to confront Ellen, or should he wait until she’d recovered? John considered what to do, knowing she would be none the wiser, living over the border in North Wales.

Ellen waited for an answer. ‘Tell me, John. Have I killed Leo,’ she whispered.

John shook his head, deciding to tell his wife the truth. ‘No.’

‘Was he still there in the wood?’ Ellen persisted. She didn’t know whether to be relieved or frightened at the prospect that Leo was still alive, for she knew he would come after her sooner or later.

John took hold of his wife’s hand. ‘Ellen, I found Laurence, dead. Are you sure it was Leo who attacked you?’

‘Of course it was Leo. I told you, he was still there when I came to, leaning over Amy,’ Ellen said, annoyed that John doubted her.

‘Perhaps you were unconscious longer than you imagined,’ John suggested.

Ellen considered it and knew it could be true. ‘But I was so sure it was Leo,’ Ellen said, beginning to cry. ‘What are we going to do?’ Ellen dabbed her eyes and blew her nose, hiding her face in her hands, distraught and bewildered by her mistake and what she had done to Laurence.