Beggars and Choosers (44 page)

‘Rumour has it that Owen Bull has a stash of money hidden away from his creditors. When the police tried to investigate, he insisted his fine had been paid by an “anonymous benefactor”. No one believed him. The police even searched the room he rents, but when they came up with nothing they were forced to take his statement at face value. Did you note the address at which Owen Bull was disturbing the peace?'

‘Ynysangharad House.'

‘Mrs James's house, and that was the second time Owen Bull went there looking for Mrs Bull and her son. The first time he was bound over in the sum of twenty pounds to keep the peace for a year. I had hoped that the judge would sentence him to a term in prison this time, but Owen Bull's solicitor put forward very convincing arguments. He said that given the time of year, his client had reason to believe his wife and son were in the house. He went on to paint a moving picture of a devoted husband and father whose wife had cruelly deserted him, depriving him not only of her companionship but also that of his son.'

‘And the judge believed him?' Lloyd handed back the paper in disgust.

‘Unfortunately, but there have been several changes in Owen Bull's life during the last year. He is not considered quite so respectable these days.'

‘That's poor consolation for Sali.'

‘I agree. But Pontypridd is a terrible town for gossip, Mr Evans. Mr Bull's business closed and he lost his house and shop shortly after the night his brother died and Mrs Bull was admitted to the infirmary. No one wanted to be seen supporting a man suspected of killing his brother and beating his wife.'

‘Then he really is bankrupt?'

‘He insists he is, but I've heard that he spends every night drinking and gambling. Possibly he paid his fine with his winnings, but he could hardly tell the police that when gaming is illegal.'

‘You watch him?'

‘His business closed, owing the slaughterhouse and a number of small tradesmen in the town considerable sums of money. Some of those men are my clients. A bankrupt has few friends, Mr Evans. Just about every decent person in the town turned their back on him after his business failed, starting with those in the chapel. Morgan Davies forgave Mr Bull for being drunk and disorderly once, but twice stretched his Christian charity too far. And the Minister didn't like being proved wrong in his evaluation of character. He has become one of Mr Bull's most vicious and vociferous detractors. Mr Bull may have been his senior deacon but his exalted status didn't prevent Morgan Davies from persuading the elders to throw him out. Shortly afterwards the Minister persuaded the town council to demand Owen Bull's resignation as councillor.'

‘And Owen Bull now works for another butcher and lives in the Horse and Groom?'

‘You are well informed, Mr Evans. How does Mrs Bull like keeping house for your family?'

The ticking of the clock fell, unnaturally loud into the still atmosphere. ‘You knew she was living with my family?'

‘Not before you visited me at Christmas. I made enquiries. You've no need to look concerned. I was extremely discreet. From what I hear, Mrs Jones and her son Harry are very happily settled in the home of Mr William Evans.'

‘Does anyone else know where they are?'

‘Only Mrs James and after the scene Mr Bull made outside her house, she understands the necessity of keeping Sali and Harry's whereabouts secret. Which leads me to wonder why you took the risk of coming here to see me today.'

Lloyd removed a packet of cigarettes from his jacket pocket and offered Mr Richards one.

‘Try one of these.' Mr Richards turned a cigar box on his desk towards him.

‘Thank you.' Lloyd used the cigar cutter Mr Richards handed him and struck a match. ‘I hate seeing Sali living in fear, Mr Richards. She told me that she wants to divorce her husband and I would like to help her to do just that.'

‘A divorce will be difficult.'

‘If it's a question of money, I have savings.'

‘If it were that simple, Mr Evans, her aunt would have bought her out of that marriage years ago. There are two problems. First, a woman needs grounds to divorce her husband.'

‘The man put her in the infirmary. I've seen ...' Lloyd only just stopped himself from saying her back, ‘her face, weeks after he beat her. Surely that is enough grounds for her to sue him for cruelty?'

‘What cruelty? The police report states she sustained her injuries falling against an oven door. Owen could counter sue for desertion, or even worse, restitution of conjugal rights. The judge could even order Mrs Bull and her son to live in any matrimonial home Mr Bull might provide for them and that brings me to the second point. The minute Mrs Bull files suit, Mr Bull will find out where she and the boy are hiding.'

‘Then there is no chance of her getting a divorce?'

‘I am only a market town solicitor, Mr Evans, more accustomed to dealing with matters of wills, the distribution of estates and the conveyancing of properties than divorce. I could recommend an expert, if Mrs Bull would like to take the matter further. Is that why you are here? To discuss it on her behalf?'

‘Not entirely, Mr Richards.' Lloyd left the chair. ‘Will you send Mrs James, Sali and Harry's best wishes and love?'

‘You said Mrs Bull didn't know that you were coming to see me.'

‘She didn't, but it's what she would say if she had known.'

‘Mr Evans,' Mr Richards laid his hand on top of Lloyd's as he went to open the door, ‘do you intend to confront Mr Bull?'

‘Yes.'

‘I suppose there is little point in me trying to deter you.'

‘None at all, Mr Richards.'

‘Then I urge you to be careful, very careful indeed,' Mr Richards cautioned.

‘I am a very careful man, Mr Richards.' Lloyd tipped his hat.

Chapter Twenty-three

The oil lamps in the bar of the Horse and Groom belched black fumes into the atmosphere, which mingled with the pipe, cigarette and cigar smoke, making it difficult to breathe. The room was packed and raucous, the layer of sawdust on the wooden floor saturated with spilt beer and pools of spittle. Half a dozen blousy barmaids, sleeves rolled to their elbows, were working flat out, pulling foaming pints of dark beer. Lloyd pushed his way through to the bar and found himself on the sidelines of an argument as to whether it was better to bring pit ponies up into the fresh air or leave them underground for miners' fortnight.

‘They go bloody mad when they come up,' an elderly ostler complained. ‘Kicking and biting and not just each other mind, the handlers as well. You get a bite from some of the buggers we have to work with and you know it.'

‘What they never have, they never miss,' his companion, who had the height and build of a blacksmith, chipped in philosophically. ‘And it's common knowledge they go blind from sunlight when they first come up. That's why they go doolally tap. And no sooner do they get used to all the grass, sun and fresh air than they're shoved back down underground. Takes two month's hard work to remind them what they're supposed to do, and those are bloody hard months for the haulage men who are trying to drive the trams. We've had nothing but trouble from the buggers all week. And, I've warned the handlers, there's two weeks to go before they'll become the beasts they were.'

Glad that Victor, who had very definite ideas on pit ponies being allowed to take a break along with the miners, wasn't with him to join in the argument, Lloyd pushed a couple of pennies across the counter and took the pint of beer the barmaid slopped up for him.

The beer smelled of hops, tasted good and strong, and he understood why the pub was full. Leaning with his back against the bar, he studied the room. There were several stained and chipped deal tables and chairs dotted around, but no sign of any gambling. But he hadn't expected a card school to be operating openly, even if the police were prepared to turn a blind eye, no landlord could guarantee that all his customers would remain close-mouthed about it.

‘Haven't seen you round here before.'

The man was short, Irish and heavily muscled, but he didn't look unfriendly and Lloyd knew the quickest way to stand out and be noticed in a bar was to drink alone.

‘That's because I haven't been in before.' Lloyd held out his hand. ‘Lloyd Jones.'

‘Derry Leary. So what brings you to Ponty, Lloyd?'

‘Used to work here. Came back to pick up some wages I had coming to me.'

‘Where do you work now?'

‘The Rhondda.'

‘Ah.' The man lost interest and sipped his pint.

‘I heard a man could find a game here if he wanted one.' Lloyd patted his pocket, ‘I have a stake I'd like to double.'

‘You a comedian?'

‘You don't play poker?'

‘That's a mug's game if ever there was one,' Derry said with all the authority of a loser.

‘Is there a game to be had here then?'

Derry gave Lloyd a hard look and Lloyd regretted his direct question. It was a foolish one for a stranger with the height and build of a policeman to ask.

‘You a copper?'

Lloyd held out his hands. His nails were pitted with small, black nuggets of coal, his fingers ornamented by blue scars that no amount of scrubbing with soap and water would eradicate. ‘Do I look like a copper?'

The man nodded to a door at the back. ‘The game's private.'

‘How does a man get an introduction?'

‘By showing his credentials, Lloyd.'

Lloyd turned to see Connie's husband Albert George.

‘I never took you for a gambling man.'

‘I like the odd game,' Lloyd refuted, noticing that Derry slunk away when Albert spoke. Connie's estranged husband was immaculately turned out in a striped three-piece suit and long cashmere overcoat, his bowler hat tipped to the back of his head. He smelled of good quality cigars and cologne and Lloyd noticed two gold rings on his fingers. ‘You've wandered a fair way out of your territory haven't you? I thought you never went further than the Merlin in Pwllgaun.'

‘You know me. Distance no object when it comes to a game with the right stake. Want a drink?'

‘I've just bought one,' Lloyd held up his pint.

‘That will blow you out. Have a man's drink. Whisky or brandy?'

‘Neither, but thank you for asking.'

‘Double whisky, Nellie darling,' Albert shouted, ‘and one for yourself, keep the change.' He handed her a shilling.

‘Ta, Albert, you're a sweetie.'

‘I take it you're on a winning streak,' Lloyd commented.

‘Every dog has his day or in my case, broken-hearted man. And speaking of heart breakers, have you seen Connie lately?'

‘I called into the shop tonight.' It was the first time since the age of fifteen that Lloyd had been able to talk to Albert about Connie with a clear conscience. He found it a relief.

‘And was she as beautiful and cold-hearted as ever?'

‘She looked about the same to me, Albert.'

‘You're a lucky man not to know about her cruel ways.' Albert took his whisky, winked at the barmaid and leaned on the bar alongside Lloyd.

‘So, do I get an introduction to this game?'

‘Sure, if you want one, but it won't start much before seven o'clock.'

‘Poker?'

‘What else.'

‘Who plays?'

‘Men with a pound stake to put into the pot.' Albert took the plate of pie and mash Nellie handed him. ‘You are a darling.'

‘Eat it while it's hot, Albert.'

He lifted his eyebrows. ‘Don't I always?'

‘You are a card and no mistake,' she bellowed.

‘I'll eat this in the back. Bring your pint, Lloyd. We can have a chat while we wait for the others to join us.'

The back room was too small for the circular table and half a dozen upright chairs that filled it. A fire blazed in the hearth, and realising that anyone sitting in the immediate vicinity would be roasted, Lloyd opted to sit with his back to the door. Albert sat beside him and after he finished his meal and Nellie removed his plate, players began to file into the room.

Albert didn't affect any introductions and the men barely acknowledged one another. When all six seats were taken, a new pack of cards was produced, taken from its wrapper, shuffled and cut to decide the dealer. Pounds were produced and half a crowns pushed into the centre of the table to start the game. Lloyd flicked his on to the pile and considered that given a day-wage labourer in the pit earned three shillings and two pence, the game could prove catastrophic for any man stupid enough to continue playing a losing streak.

As Albert dealt, Lloyd studied the players. He wished he'd had the foresight to ask Sali what her husband looked like. There were two men with pallid complexions, black-rimmed eyes and blue-scarred hands. Obviously miners. A spiv, smartly dressed like Albert, had soft white hands that looked as though they had never been near a tool. He wondered if the man worked, lived off someone else's back or gambled for a living as Albert did. Could he be a butcher? What kind of hands did a butcher have?

He studied the remaining man. He was short, squat and grossly overweight. The front of his jersey was spattered with food and beer stains. His cheeks hung in fleshy jowls that reminded Lloyd of a bloodhound and his small, round beady eyes were sunk deep in layers of fat. His chest heaved as he breathed heavily and he smelled of sweat and unwashed clothes.

Lloyd couldn't have explained how he knew, but he sensed he was looking at Owen Bull and he found it difficult to remain seated at the table when he recalled the state of Sali's back and her accounts of the beatings her husband had given her.

The game began and continued in a silence that was broken only by conversation relating directly to the cards. Lloyd had played poker with his father and brothers and occasionally in the pubs around Pontypridd when he had lived in lodgings and worked for Harry Watkin Jones. But he had never considered cards as anything more than a way to pass the time. He couldn't understand men like Albert George who became addicted to gambling and allowed it to dominate every aspect of their lives.

An hour passed. The pile of coins and notes in front of Albert grew steadily larger as the piles in front of the other players diminished. The two miners left with their pockets a pound lighter, to be replaced by a couple of heavily built men with forearms the size of Victor's and ruddy complexions that suggested an outdoor life. Possibly farmers or shepherds? All the remaining players, with the exception of Albert, were forced to put up another pound to stay in the game.

Nellie came in and took orders for drinks. Albert had a double whisky, the man Lloyd suspected of being Sali's husband ordered a double brandy, everyone else had a pint of beer.

The drinks were brought and the game continued.

‘Too rich for me.' Lloyd threw down his cards after the spiv set half a crown on the pile of money in the centre of the table. He had precisely one shilling and sixpence left of his two-pound stake and he wouldn't have lost that much if he hadn't needed to satisfy his suspicion that the short, squat man really was Owen Bull.

‘And me.' One of the farmhands shuffled his cards together.

‘I'll see your half a crown and put in a pound.' Albert pulled a note from his pile and tossed it together with the silver into the centre of the table.

‘I'm out.' The spiv who had put in half a crown set his cards face down.

‘And me.' The second farmhand shuffled his cards together.

‘That leaves you and me, Owen.' Albert toyed with a couple of the coins on top of his pile and looked to the man with the food-stained jersey.

Lloyd struggled to look impassive as he leaned back in his chair. He had been right. The man was Owen Bull. He had to be. He was sitting in the same room as Sali's husband. What did he do next? Kill Owen where he sat, or ask him if he'd consider divorcing his wife because he had fallen in love with her?

The idea was preposterous even without Mr Richard's revelations that Owen had convictions for disturbing the peace. Owen Bull did not look like a man who could be reasoned with.

Owen pushed his entire remaining pot into the centre of the table. ‘I'll see you.'

‘I counted twelve shillings there, Owen, that's not enough to see me,' Albert said softly.

‘I'll give you a note.'

‘I'm already holding two of yours. I'll not take another.'

‘Do you expect me to sit here and let you walk away with that entire bloody pot?' Owen slammed his fist down on the table sending the coins spinning. All the men with the exception of Owen, Lloyd and Albert pushed their chairs as far back from the table as the room would allow.

‘I expect you to put enough money down to see me.'

‘I'm good for it –' Owen began heatedly.

‘Then why haven't you paid off the notes I'm holding?'

‘Because unlike you, I work for a living. I haven't had time to go down to the pawn shop.'

‘If you have goods worth anything, get them and set them down.' Albert raised his eyes and stared at Owen.

‘And as soon as my back's turned, you'll change my bloody cards.'

‘Are you calling me a cheat, Owen?' Albert had spoken softly, but Lloyd had never seen his cousin's husband look so composed – or menacing.

‘I don't have to get the goods. They're here.' Owen downed what was left of his brandy and thrust his hand beneath the waistband of his trousers. There was something disgusting at the sight of the fat man groping around in his underclothes but Lloyd watched intently until he pulled out a small red velvet bag. ‘This is worth ten times as much as the notes you are holding, Albert.'

‘Can I see?'

‘You can look inside, but no one else.' Owen held out the bag and Albert took it. He opened the drawstring, glanced in, retied the string and set it on top of the notes and coins in the centre of the table.

‘Full House.' Owen triumphantly slapped down three kings and a pair of jacks. He leaned towards the pot.

‘Straight Flush.' Albert laid down a jack, ten, nine, eight, and seven of clubs.

‘You bloody thieving bastard!'

‘It was a fair game, Owen,' the man sitting the other side of Albert said firmly. ‘We were all watching Albert and you.'

‘He's a cheating, lying ...' Owen grabbed Lloyd's pint of beer and hurled it at Albert.

Albert moved, but not fast enough. The glass tankard caught him on the shoulder before shattering in a mess of splintered glass and spilt beer on the table. Cards, money and glasses flew everywhere, scattering over the table, chairs and floor as Owen slid across the table on his fat stomach. He tried to grab Albert but Lloyd was quicker. Gripping Owen's wrists, he hauled his hands high behind his back.

‘Christ! He's off again. I'll get help.' The spiv ran out the door.

‘You all right, Albert?' Lloyd shouted.

‘I'll tell you in five minutes.' Albert slumped, ashen-faced to the floor.

‘You bloody idiot, Owen, you could have killed Albert.' One of the farmhands went to help Lloyd who was fighting to keep his grip on Owen.

The landlady waded in and slammed Owen soundly across the head with the flat of her hand. ‘I said one more time and you're out. Well, you are bloody well out of this place this minute. Pack your traps and go.'

‘Where to?' Owen demanded belligerently. The farmhand and Lloyd heaved him off the table and on to his feet.

‘I couldn't give a damn so long as you're out of here. Now! You all right, Mr George?' She turned solicitously to Albert.

‘I will be when I get off this floor.' Rubbing his shoulder Albert rose unsteadily to his feet and allowed the landlady to help him to a chair.