Friendship's Bond (41 page)

‘Can we see him please?’

William Price shuffled a little uncomfortably, his eyes avoiding those of Ann and Leah.

‘Well!’ Leah demanded. ‘Like Ann says, can we see the lad?’

He had to reply. Leah Marshall’s shout would wake the town if he didn’t. The constable coughed. ‘He don’t be here, Mrs Marshall.’

‘Don’t be ’ere! What d’you mean he don’t be here!’

Stuck for a suitable answer, the constable breathed his relief when the inspector walked into the station. He was the boss, let him take Leah Marshall’s ire. Quickly he reported the proceedings so far then walked to the back of the small counter.

‘Mrs Marshall,’ Inspector John Allingham said, ushering the two women into a tiny office. ‘The boy is no longer here.’

‘Be this the parrot home at the zoo!’ Leah snapped. ‘I’ve ’eard that three times already; what I want to know is why . . . why ain’t he here and where do he be?’

‘Allow me to explain.’ Ready to launch into a long preamble John Allingham changed his mind as Leah’s frown became a scowl ‘The fact of this being a case of suspected murder means the suspect cannot be kept here but has to be transferred to Stafford Prison. Alec Romney was taken there this morning.’

Chapter 37

‘
The decision of the Council was carried into execution on the night of July sixteenth
.’

Lying in bed staring at the moon-kissed shadows drifting across the walls Ann recollected the rest of the article she had read in Leah’s newspaper.

‘
. . . The great Russian Eagle, proud banner of the Romanov Dynasty, was torn down and trampled beneath the feet of the people surging through the massive wrought-iron gates, a restless moving tide leaving death in its wake
.’

Suddenly out of the silence it seemed a voice murmured in Ann’s ear, ‘
The eagle is pulled from its nest
.’

Maija’s words translated for her by the priest.

‘
. . . restlessness breathes over the land, death . . . death waits in the shadows . . . its hand moves, the light of Russia is gone
.’

Could Maija have ‘seen’ the tragedy which only now had fallen over that land? Did her trance reveal the death of the Tsar and his whole family?

And the gypsies! Ann’s nerves twanged as the words returned.

‘
The wings of the eagle be broken, its chicks cry no more . . . Kalo RAI searches for another . . . the dark Lord of Death waits in the shadows
.’

The eagle is pulled from its nest. Ann stared at the walls. The Tsar had been forced to abdicate!

‘
The wings of the eagle be broken
.’ The Tsar had been executed!

‘
Its chicks cry no more.
’ The Tsar’s children too had been killed!

It all seemed to fit, except . . . Ann shivered.

‘
Kalo RAI searches for another
.’ Death searched for another!

Alec had heard those words, he had read that same newspaper article; he was a bright, intelligent boy, could he, like herself, have fitted those puzzling words together and let himself be frightened by them?

‘
Its hand moves, the light of Russia is gone
.’

The words seemed to hover among the shadows.

That again could only refer to the Tsar. She had been a very short time in St Petersburg but it had been long enough for her to realise that to the peasant folk their Tsar
was
the light of Russia.

But what of the gypsy’s final words?

Again the whisper in the darkness.

‘
Death waits in the shadows
.’

Did Alec think that referred to his parents? That even now it waited to claim them?

Would it have helped to have told Leah of Maija’s strange words, of those of the gypsy? Ann closed her eyes. She had wanted to speak of them on the way home, longed for the reassurance the older woman always gave, but the prospect of Edward Langley thinking her foolish had kept her silent.

That was unfair to Edward! Edward Langley might not like her, he might even resent her, but he would never be rude to her.

A fleeting moonbeam lit the tiny room. Just like Edward’s smile lit the room whenever it beamed on Leah.

Heartache strong and real twisted in her chest. Edward Langley’s smile would never again beam on her.

‘That be a coincidence.’ Ada Clews looked across to her husband finishing his evening meal.

‘What do?’ Arthur asked, chewing on a pork chop.

Laying the evening paper on the table Ada poked a finger at a passage headed
mystery man in devil
’
s pool named
.

Arthur leaned forward to read the close-typed print, saying as he finished, ‘What be a coincidence about that?’

‘The name.’ Ada frowned. ‘I seen that name afore. I remember cos it struck me as bein’ lah-di-dah, certainly there ain’t nobody in Wednesbury wi’ a name fancy as that.’

‘ “Tristan Reue Gaylord,” ’ Arthur read aloud. ‘That ain’t a name I’ve come across. Tristan Reue Gaylord,’ he repeated, sucking the chop bone. ‘A name as arty-farty as that would bring a few ripe remarks from men in the foundry. But last we ’eard the police had nuthin’ to go on, nuthin’ to say who he be or what he be doin’ in Wednesbury.’

‘Maybe the police advertised; you knows, askin’ in the newspapers did anybody know of a man gone missin’.’

‘Well.’ Arthur sniffed, running a finger around his plate to scrape up the last remnants of tasty gravy. ‘Seems somebody did if they’ve got a name, shame it weren’t known when Thorpe said a prayer forrim.’

Thorpe! Ada’s senses tightened. Why when she had read that report, why each time she scanned it again did the name Thorpe sing in her mind?

‘That be it.’ She slapped a hand hard on the table, setting Arthur’s knife and fork clattering on the plate. ‘That be where I seen it.’

‘Seen what?’ Arthur reached for his tobacco-stained pipe.

Tutting impatiently Ada retorted, ‘The name, y’fool, it were in Thorpe’s house. It were when I went to talk to ’im about Leah teken up sellin’ her butter and cheese to the women. There were a black leather bag lyin’ open on his table and that name were wrote clear: bold black letters . . . they stood out plain on the biscuit coloured inside of the flap.’

‘So what?’

‘So what!’ Ada’s patience snapped. ‘What were it doin’ in Thorpe’s ’ouse? He never once mentioned anythin’ about it . . . and then in the chapel when he prayed for the dead man’s soul he d’ain’t once speak that name; strikes me there be summat as don’t meet the eye in that, same as with our Sarah. Thorpe’s tongue stilled mighty quick when I tried to talk to ’im about her, and her were the same whenever I brought him into the conversation. I couldn’t never rid meself of the feelin’ summat was bein’ kept very close to the chest wi’ the pair of ’em. Oh Lord!’ She stopped suddenly, eyes wide. ‘Y’don’t think . . . I means could it be . . . ?’

Arthur stared back at his wife, his work-weary eyes filled with the same enquiry. Could Thorpe have made Sarah pregnant?

‘He wouldn’t,’ he said, ‘he be a man o’ God.’

‘Man o’ God!’ Ada spat contemptuously. ‘Since when did bein’ a man o’ God stop any man gettin’ between a wench’s legs, an’ if any man ’ad the chance wi’ our Sarah, it were Thorpe, her thought the sun shone out of his arse.’

‘But Matthew went to the Chapel House along of her and then walked her ’ome again.’

‘Ar, so he did,’ Ada returned. ‘But he d’ain’t stay in that Chapel House so he’s told me since, he left Sarah there on her own, so the lad wouldn’t know had Thorpe been there all along. You knows our Sarah . . . God rest her . . . and while I don’t wish to speak ill o’ the dead, I ’ave to say that wench could be a dark ’orse when it suited her.’

‘So you thinks. . . .’

‘Can’t see it bein’ no other, that house be the only place her were on her own an’ nobody other than Thorpe were ever allowed in there since them lodgers o’ Leah Marshall’s left.’

Putting aside his pipe Arthur tied a scarf about his neck then reached for his jacket, saying as he slipped his arms into it, ‘I be goin’ to ’ave a word wi’ Thomas Thorpe.’

‘Y’ don’t think as he be goin’ to own to it, supposin’ he do be the one put our Sarah up the stick, he ain’t a’goin’ to tell you.’

‘Not voluntary.’ Arthur buttoned his jacket. ‘But then I only says ‘‘please’’ one time.’

‘
You was stubborn as a young lad but now you be a man y’be even more stubborn
.’

Leah Marshall’s words as she walked with him to the gate closing off the path to her house from the one leading to the road rang in Edward’s mind.

‘
You two be ’urtin’ of yourselves when there be no call forrit
.’

She had scolded as if he were still ten years old. Edward smiled despite the ache inside of him.

‘
Would tek no more’n a word to put things right
.’

No Leah. This time you are wrong, a word . . . many words . . . would not cure the pain in my heart. You did not see what I saw! His eyes closed in an attempt to shut out the picture of Ann spread-eagled on the ground with Thomas Thorpe on top of her. You did not hear what I heard! She was with him because she wanted to be.

Each to his own! But the slimy Thorpe was the last man he would have thought Ann Spencer to want. Shows how wrong you can be, Edward Langley!

‘Hey up lad!’ In the darkness a man caught at Edward’s elbow as they collided.

‘Sorry . . . wasn’t looking where I was going,’ Edward apologised then, ‘You be going the wrong way, the Rising Sun is in that direction.’

‘I’ll be goin’ there later, I ’ave a bone to pick first.’

‘Oh.’ Edward laughed. ‘That doesn’t bode well for somebody.’

‘That’ll depend on the way I be answered, but either way Thorpe’ll be answerin’.’

Thorpe! Edward listened intently as Arthur related what Ada had said regarding the drowned man’s name.

It was no surprise. Thorpe was a roaring ranter when preaching in chapel but when talk turned to himself, he was sparing with words . . . he told very few truths.

‘Would y’mind comin’ along o’ me, Edward, I knows I loses me temper sometimes so it might be best I don’t see Thorpe on my own.’

I wouldn’t put it past that toerag to claim you’d assaulted him when you’d merely looked at him. Edward kept the thought to himself, and fell into step beside the older man.

Knocking at the door of number twenty-three Cross Street and for the second time receiving no reply, Arthur Clews shuffled irritably. ‘There be somebody in.’ He glanced at the living-room window from which a gleam of anaemic yellow light spilled through a gap in the closed curtains. ‘Thorpe don’t be one to go a wastin’ o’ money on lamp oil when he don’t be ’ome; that one would skin a fart for ’apenny and sell the skin for tuppence! Well Arthur Clews also be a man who be mean, I ain’t goin’ to ’ave no wasted journey.’

So saying he marched round to the back of the house. He was through the scullery and into the living room before Edward caught up to him.

‘Lord God Almighty!’

Taken aback by the exclamation, Edward looked over Arthur’s shoulder into the tiny living room, his own astonishment making him gasp. What in the world was Thorpe playing at!

Thorpe’s face was the picture of fury. ‘What do you think you are doing coming into my house!’

‘What do
we
be doin’?’ Arthur Clews laughed outright. ‘What the bloody ’ell be
you
doin’ dressed up like a tart in a brothel?’

‘Whose robes are those?’ Edward ran a slow glance over the black cassock, its tiny cloth-covered buttons reaching to the ankles, the white silk stola draped round Thorpe’s shoulders, the prayer book held reverently in both hands.

One eyebrow arched high as Thorpe sniggered dispara-gingly. ‘They are mine, whose else would they be?’

Clews’ reply flashed out before Edward had time to think. ‘Try Tristan Reuel Gaylord.’

Obviously stunned, Thorpe stared for a moment but as quickly pulled his thoughts together. These men had no proof, therefore there was no need for him to answer.

‘That be who them robes belongs to!’ Clews answered the silence. ‘Was it you found ’em and decided to keep ’em for y’self?’

Watching the sneer slide across Thorpe’s face, watching it settle on his thin lips, Arthur felt the thunderclouds of anger begin to gather. Ada and many like her had trusted this man, followed his words as they would those of a saint but that sly smirk, that cunning glint in the narrowed eyes, were proof enough for him Thomas Thorpe was no saint.

Not caring whether he was right or wrong, his anger augmented by a fast-growing suspicion, Arthur Clews stepped further into the room. ‘You stole that there gown and the scarf wrapped ’round your shoulders . . .’

‘Cassock,’ Thomas Thorpe corrected him. ‘This,’ he touched the black cloth, ‘is known as a cassock and this,’ he ran a finger over the white silk, ‘is a stola but then you are too ignorant to know that.’