A Million Tears (18 page)

After a few minutes Evan began to shiver and cursed the cold. Haunted by his thoughts of Meg, cold to his core, for the first time he had doubts about what he was going to do.

At long last he was past Pontypridd and close to Llanbeddas. The village came into sight and was soon behind the train, which slowed as it approached the bend Evan was looking for. Evan stood, paused and jumped, landing on the bank. He lay still for a few minutes to regain his breath, frightened to move in case he found he had broken a bone. Finally he staggered to his feet; painfully, he climbed the fence, dropped down on the other side and made his way to the Taff. He followed the river’s banks until he was past the mine and then climbed up to the road. A quarter of a mile along the road Evan came to the large, ornate gates he was looking for.

He had often walked past them with Meg, trying to see through and get a view of the mansion. The wall surrounding the grounds was eight feet high and topped with broken glass. The gates were locked at that time in the morning and Evan followed the wall for about fifty yards until he came to the big old oak tree. It grew inside the grounds but its lower branches spread wide; one hung over the wall five feet above Evan’s head. Two weeks earlier Evan had acquired a length of rope from the mine and had hidden it near the wall. At the second attempt he got it over the branch, tied the ends and climbed up. He sat astride the branch, pulled the rope up and edged his way to the trunk of the tree. He fixed the rope and lowered himself to the ground. He stood in a small copse of trees dominated by the oak. Across a wide sweep of lawn Evan could see the house. With a hammering heart he waited in the shadows to see if there was a watchman or dog loose. There appeared to be neither. He decided to approach from the furthest corner, so if anybody did happen to be looking through a window there was less chance of being seen. The moon came from behind a cloud and, in the light, the lawn looked like a black sea stretching in front of him. Crossing it he would be completely exposed, even in his dark work clothes and with his face covered in coal dust.He waited patiently for a cloud to cut down the light, conscious as never before of how wrong this was. God, he thought, looking up, you say an eye for an eye and then that vengeance will be yours. Which is it? I want my vengeance now Lord, not in some nebulous hereafter. This man ordered the deaths of my parents so what should I do? His indecision angered him and the anger resolved into determination to go on.

He crept forward to the side door, every sense alert to the noises of the night. When he reached the door he paused, straining his ears. So far nothing. He tried the door only to find it locked. He used the jemmy he had brought to force it open and he found himself in the kitchen. Quickly, he made his way to the hall and finally to a large ornate room.

He pulled together the furniture and ripped open the cushions, making a pile in the centre of the room. He went back to the kitchen and filled a jug with oil from the store, returning to the hall. Though it was difficult to see properly, Evan had no doubt of the opulence of the house and the enormity of what he was about to do swept through him. He wavered, but then he thought of his parents. Had they died in their sleep? Or had they woken to find themselves surrounded by smoke and flames, knowing for a few moments that they were about to die?

Back in the drawing room he poured the oil over the pile he had created and then threw more oil over the curtains and walls. Finally, he stood with a box of matches in his hands and looked around at the mess. Evan thought about the murder he was about to commit. It was the first time the word had come to his mind. Murder. It had a ring about it, so unlike revenge. An eye for an eye, avenging his parents’ horrible death. Murder was what it was and he couldn’t do it. Slowly he put the matches in his pocket and with tears in his eyes said softly: ‘I’m sorry Dad, Mam. I can’t. It isn’t in me. Please forgive me, please.’ He walked towards the door, the heavy fumes of oil in the back of his throat. He reached the door but stopped when he heard footsteps.

Evan stepped to the side, pressed himself against the wall and waited. The door swung open soundlessly to reveal a cocked pistol held in a white hand. Evan grabbed the pistol jamming the hammer, pulled the man into the room and smashed his face with his fist. Evan recognised Sir Clifford Roberts even as he fell back stunned, blood streaming from his nose. Before he could call out, Evan hit him with the pistol butt. He then took hold of his feet and dragged him inside.

After a few minutes Sir Clifford regained his senses sufficiently to ask: ‘Who are you? What do you want?’ He was in his sixties, tall, well built but not fat, grey-haired with an air of intimidating authority about him. Even lying on the floor, his dressing gown splattered with blood, his hands to his nose, he was damned if he was going to show the peasant before him how much it hurt. He peered up at Evan: ‘Good God, I know you,’ he exclaimed, recovering his wits now his head had stopped spinning. I’ll talk my way out of this, he thought, and have the bastard hung for what he’s done. The mess . . . ugh . . . and the oil he was in . . . the stench . . . it was overpowering.

‘You’re young Griffiths. I was very sorry to hear about your father, oh and your mother too, of course. A tragic accident, tragic,’ he shook his head sadly. ‘You’ve obviously heard something that’s caused you a . . . a mis . . . eh . . . caused you to be mistaken,’ the unwavering gun pointed at his stomach disconcerted Sir Clifford. He tried to move to a more comfortable position, ready to stand, more sure of himself now he knew who he confronted.

‘Liar,’ Evan snarled. ‘Don’t move or by God, I promise I’ll shoot you in the stomach and leave you to die in agony and knowing it was because you caused the death of my parents.’

‘Don’t be ridiculous man, of course I did no such thing. I liked your father. I liked him very much. Why, I even congratulated him on having such a son as you, after your clever negotiating with us.’ Sir Clifford hoped flattery would help.

‘You’re a lying bastard. I know . . . Do you hear? I know you ordered my death, not my father’s, but your minions cocked it up.’ Evan’s voice was low and intense; he was very tempted to pull the trigger and have done with it.

‘That’s the most . . .’

‘I know, I tell you. A youngster in the village was asked the way to the house of the man named Griffiths who was at the meeting. The kid thought it was my father he wanted, not me. I know you sent them, so don’t say another word, trying to deny it. Just give me one good reason why I shouldn’t pull the trigger.’ It was eerie in the light from the moon. Sir Clifford briefly entertained the wild idea of throwing himself into the shadows, perhaps behind the sofa and screaming for help or even overpowering Evan in some way. He dismissed the thought as ludicrous. There was a better way, much better.

‘I can give you a thousand pounds.’ Aye, and the moment you leave I shall have the dogs and police after you. You’ll not get two miles, he thought.

‘Trying to buy me off ? With a measly thousand? Is that all your life is worth to you? Are my parents only worth five hundred each? They were worth ten times more to me than everything you possess.’

‘I’d give you more but I don’t keep much more in the house. Maybe a few hundred more but that’s all. I don’t suppose,’ he added sarcastically, ‘you’d take a cheque? Oh yes, with a receipt. Shall we say . . . em . . . eh . . . for services rendered? How would that suit you?’

‘Shut up,’ Evan replied savagely. Christ but you are a cool one and no mistake, he thought. ‘I came here to set fire to your house, and by God that’s exactly what I’ll do. After tying you up. That way you’ll see death approaching, the flames eating your flesh, turning it black. If you’re lucky you may die from the smoke but I doubt it.’

Sir Clifford blanched. He had been sure the offer of money would have been sufficient to save him. A thousand pounds was a fortune to a man like the one before him. ‘All right . . . I . . . I . . . may be able to find some more, say as much as two thousand. I swear it’s all I have here. I swear it.’

Two thousand . . . what could Evan do with so much? Why, he would arrive in America with enough money to set them up in a way he had only dreamed of. Two thousand pounds. A thousand for each of them. One for Mam, one for Dad. Blood money that would live with him the rest of his life.

‘Get the money and no tricks.’

I’ve won, thought Sir Clifford. I know people like you. They keep their bargains, the fools. Slowly, Sir Clifford stood up. ‘We have to go into my study across the hall,’ he led the way towards the door. Next to the suit of armour and partly hidden, which was why Evan had not seen it earlier, was a door. Sir Clifford took a key from a chain he kept around his neck and unlocked the door.

‘I’m going to light a lamp,’ said Sir Clifford. ‘Don’t worry, I won’t try anything foolish.’ He blinked slowly a habit he had when his mind was in a turmoil. A match flared and Sir Clifford lifted the glass of the lamp on his desk, lighting the wick.

Evan looked at the walls lined with leather bound books, the paintings on the walls, the deep armchairs and thick, wine red carpet. He felt such an over powering sense of jealousy he nearly pulled the trigger.

‘Get the money,’ Evan said harshly, jerking the gun.

Sir Clifford went to one of the pictures, swung it to one side to expose the safe. He turned with a bundle of money in his hands and said: ‘If you’d like to look you’ll find this is all there is. The rest is just papers. Nothing important,’ he added.

Something in Evan’s voice convinced Sir Clifford there was no use in arguing. He turned. ‘Look man, just tie me up or . . .’ he was turning his head when the blow fell and he dropped to the floor, half stunned. He pretended to be unconscious but his head still hurt like hell and made him giddy. He smelt burning and involuntarily opened his eyes. Evan held the money in his fist and was carefully setting it alight. When Evan turned Sir Clifford closed his eyes again, thunderstruck by what he had seen. He sensed Evan approaching, felt a little heat and just as he thought Evan was going to drop the money on him the heat was gone. A few moments later, through slitted eyes, Sir Clifford watched Evan place the gun on the desk and walk towards the door. At the same time the smell of smoke jerked him into a sitting position and looking over his shoulder he saw the contents of his safe burning. With a strangled cry which brought Evan spinning around, Sir Clifford jumped to his feet. Though the room spun, Sir Clifford had enough presence of mind to grab the gun, aim and fire. Evan threw himself to one side and managed to get out of the door.

Sir Clifford was besides himself with rage. In the safe had been half a million pounds worth of bearer bonds and shares, apart from important contracts he was working on. Now they were lost. Months of negotiation down the drain . . . up in smoke because of a peasant. Sir Clifford walked slowly towards the door, fearing another ambush. Hell but he felt giddy. I’m sure I hit him he thought, quite sure. Where’s the rest of the household? Surely somebody heard the shot. Come on Pritchard you lazy sod of a butler, get up and come and help me. The feel of the breeze from the front door told him the hall was empty and when he saw the door was wide open he began to yell: ‘Pritchard. Help somebody. Murder.’

Pritchard appeared carrying a lamp, anxious looking, his hair tousled from sleep and his eyes only half open.

‘Rouse the men and tell them I want the dogs,’ ordered Sir Clifford. ‘Then go for the police. We’ve had a burglar. Give me that light.’ He grabbed the lamp from his butler who was rapidly coming to his senses.

‘I’ll just get dressed your Lordship,’ he said with as much dignity as he could muster, determined not to be ruffled.

‘Hurry, man, before the bastard gets away. You don’t need to be dressed to go for the men. Do it afterwards.’ Sir Clifford knelt by the doorway to his study and grinned evilly. ‘Got you, you bastard,’ he said softly, examining the pool of blood and the trail leading to the door.

‘Pritchard,’ he shouted, ‘also send for the doctor to be here when I get back. I want him to look at my nose.’ Sir Clifford darted up the stairs to dress. He was going to enjoy the next few hours.

The bullet caught Evan in the fleshy part of the inner thigh of the right leg; the pain was crippling. It took all his willpower to get to his feet, his hands clutched around the wound to try and staunch the blood. He had got down the front steps and onto the lawn when he heard Sir Clifford shouting for help. Finally, Evan reached the oak tree. He leaned against the trunk to regain his breath and pulled out a handkerchief to tie around the wound. The bullet had passed three inches below his crotch and he shuddered to think what might have happened if it had been higher. The wound would not be dangerous if he could stop the blood. But before he could do that he had to get away, before the hounds were released.

He grabbed hold of the rope and pulled himself up the trunk. The pain in his leg was worse than ever, something he would have thought impossible when he had been crossing the lawn. Somehow he got on to the branch and clung there for a few seconds, waiting for the waves of giddiness and pain to subside. He straddled the branch, remembered in time that he would need the rope and untied it. Carefully, wincing as each movement jarred his leg, he shuffled towards the oak and slowly and painfully climbed over the wall all the time his mind racing with the options he now had.

The train would come down the valley and stop for about an hour while more coal was loaded and then continue to Cardiff. Could he climb into one of the trucks? Could he even get there and not be found? There were still two hours before the train departed, more than enough time for Sir Clifford and his dogs to get him. He needed help. He had to have help. He could not get away on his own. Who? William? But that would put him in jeopardy. If the positions were reversed would he help? Without question. But what could William do for him? Perhaps he could dress his wound properly and carry him down to the river. This would help put the dogs off his scent. If he could achieve that, Evan thought, he might have a chance. Gritting his teeth, one hand on his leg, the other using the wall as a prop Evan hobbled towards the mine. He lost count of the number of times he fell but each time he managed to stand again. Christ! he told himself, he had been a bloody fool. To have done what he did had been the work of a madman. It had been an obsession with him and now he stood to lose everything he held dear, everything that really mattered for the sake of stupid, bloody revenge. And what had he done? Burnt a measly two thousand pounds. If he had kept the money it would have made more sense but just to burn it? Why had he not gone to the authorities with what he had known? He knew the answer. They would never have believed him; he knew he would never have been able to make the charges stick. Evan’s mind wandered but his body kept moving in the right direction. He became aware of the mine gates with a sense of shock.