Copyright © 2019 Larche Davies
The moral right of the author has been asserted.
Apart from any fair dealing for the purposes of research or private study, or criticism or review, as permitted under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988, this publication may only be reproduced, stored or transmitted, in any form or by any means, with the prior permission in writing of the publishers, or in the case of reprographic reproduction in accordance with the terms of licences issued by the Copyright Licensing Agency. Enquiries concerning reproduction outside those terms should be sent to the publishers.
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ISBN 978 1838599 768
British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data.
A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.
Matador is an imprint of Troubador Publishing Ltd
For Alun and Dafydd.
Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-Two
Chapter Thirty-Three
Chapter Thirty-Four
Chapter Thirty-Five
Chapter One
“Beelzebub’s brats must be brought to justice!” bellowed the yellow-haired man into the phone.
There was a murmured response from head office. The man detected a note of reproof.
“They are no longer my children!” he shouted. “I disown them. The Magnifico disowns them. He will find them and strike them down, and they shall perish in the fire of the melting flesh.”
He slammed the phone down and cursed the holy leaders, those long-bearded idiots! They couldn’t even be trusted to keep track of a bunch of kids. The fools had lost them. He strode across the room, swearing as he knocked his leg against the corner of the coffee table. Damn this tiny flat! Built for midgets! He pulled his briefcase out from behind the sofa, laid it on the table, and opened it up.
Bad seed must be destroyed. Those who dishonoured their father, dishonoured the Magnifico. That’s what it said in the Holy Word. His hands shook as he shuffled through the briefcase. Underneath the bank accounts, share certificates and property holdings, he found what he was looking for. He controlled himself and breathed deeply. There were lists of marriages and births and natural deaths, and of the disposals of various unwanted or non-useful individuals.
Memories flashed through his mind as he saw the names of aunts, wives and children that the Good Doctors had disposed of on his behalf. He ran his finger down the list of living children, crossed out two names in angry strokes of thick, black ink, and wrote ‘disowned’ alongside them. Good riddance. Dorothy and David were no longer his children. It was disposal for them, and for the two Copse kids.
*
The door of the safe house shut behind them. Lucy grabbed Paul’s hand, and they ran through the blinding rain. Despite the dribbles of water inside her collar, she could feel the Magnifico’s burning breath on the back of her neck. With every step towards the waiting car she breathed he doesn’t exist, he doesn’t exist.
“Choppity chop!” the escort called briskly.
Dorothy was already in the back seat when they reached the car. Lucy pushed Paul along next to her and followed him in. David climbed in after them and the door slammed shut.
The escort settled herself into the passenger seat and pressed the lock. She called over her shoulder, “Hope you’re not too squashed back there. I’m Beverley, by the way, and this is Pete.”
The driver nodded and switched on the engine.
For once in her life, Lucy was glad she was skinny. Even so, it was a tight squeeze. If they had to sit like this for two hundred and twenty miles, they’d all expire. She studied the back of Beverley’s geometric hairstyle, and wondered who she really was. They’d been told they’d be escorted by a trustworthy person, whatever that meant. How on earth could they trust anyone?
Paul wriggled. “I’m squashed,” he said, and Lucy hauled him onto her lap.
“We’ll take turns with him,” whispered Dorothy.
The car nosed its way out of the side road and into the heavy traffic. For the next hour or so it stopped and started, moved forward a few yards and stopped again, until Lucy began to doubt that they would ever reach the motorway. One thing about it though, anyone who grabbed them here wouldn’t be able to get them away. London traffic congestion had its advantages.
“Can the Magnifico drive?” asked Paul.
“No,” said Lucy, “because he doesn’t exist.”
Paul squirmed, and twisted himself sideways on her lap as he made himself comfortable. His curly, brown hair was wet from the rain, and Lucy dried it as best she could with her handkerchief. He settled himself ready for sleep. She put her arms round him and held him tight. He was really heavy, but she didn’t shift her position. The longer he slept the sooner he’d get there she thought, nestling her face into the top of his head.
It was six months since she had discovered that Paul was her brother, and she could still hardly believe it. She glanced left at David. His eyes were closed, and he was breathing deeply and slowly; in, out, in, out. The pounding of her own heart had settled down a little, but she guessed his was still going strong. On her right, Dorothy sat with her head held high, as bolt upright as it was possible to be in the back seat of a car while rigid with determination to think positive. Lucy smiled to herself. Not only did she have a real brother, but she also had a blood brother and a blood sister. She remembered the oath they had taken, to be a family and never to be separated. For a moment, despite the ever-present fear of pursuit, she felt a flush of happiness.
It was dark when they arrived. The car drew up outside a handsome, three-storey house, and, with a grunt of relief, Pete turned off the engine. He stepped out into the road, stretched his legs and rubbed his back.
“Blimey! I thought the journey would never end,” he grumbled, as he shuffled round to the rear of the car. “An’ I’ve got to drive all the way back to London tomorrow. You’d think they could’ve let me have a couple of days off at the seaside.”
Beverley rolled down her window and looked out. “At least it’s stopped raining,” she said.
Four squashed bodies uncurled in the back seat. David scrambled out and stretched, and ran round to the boot. He lifted out four plastic carrier bags, and lined them up on the pavement. Dorothy crawled out, rubbing the backs o
f her legs.
“I’m too stiff to walk,” she groaned. “Why are you being so efficient?”
David laughed. “It’s exciting! Look, we’re here!”
The four of them stood in a row, looking up at the house. Its fine, red bricks gleamed in the streetlight, and a soft glow from the downstairs living rooms invited them in.
Paul took hold of his sister’s hand. “Lucy?” he said. His voice was anxious. “Is this Wales?”
“Yes,” said Lucy. “We’ll be safe here.”
They thanked Pete politely and followed Beverley up a shrub-lined path to the porch at the side of the house. A lantern beamed overhead, and light from the hall shone onto their faces through panes of coloured glass. Beverley pulled at an old-fashioned bell rope, and the door opened immediately to reveal two almost-middle-aged women, both dressed entirely in grey.
“Good evening, ladies!” chirruped Beverley. “I’ve brought you four little Londoners.” She smiled brightly with Hollywood-white teeth, and turned to wink at the children.
Little! Lucy had often been told she was puny, but she and David were fifteen! Plus he was nearly six foot. And Dorothy was sixteen. Hardly what you’d call little!
As she stepped into the hall, she glanced quickly around. It was big and square, and all the doors leading off it were shut. A wide, mahogany staircase swept up from its centre and curved round at the top. No escape there, unless they jumped out of a window.
The older woman in grey was talking. Lucy remembered the manners Aunt Sarah had taught her, and turned to look at her.
“How do you do?” she was saying. “Do come in, all of you. I am Miss Clements, and this is my sister, Miss Marilyn.” Her hands were folded peacefully across her stomach. “Now, my dears, tell me who’s who.”
Lucy wondered what was going on behind that benevolent expression.
In fact, what Miss Clements was thinking, as Dorothy and David stepped forward, was that they were both too thin. She liked a challenge. With plenty of good food she would build them up in no time.
Dorothy shook hands with both women and said cheerfully, “I’m Dorothy, and this is my half-brother, David.”
Miss Clements looked from one to the other. So those were the Drax children, she thought, one dark and one blond, and not at all alike except for their height.
“But we’re all four of us blood brothers and sisters,” said David firmly, as he shook hands with the two women. “It’s best to make it clear from the beginning, in case they haven’t explained it to you.” The flicker of anxiety in his eyes belied his air of confidence. “We took a vow never to be separated, and have formed our own family, so I hope you can have us all and that there hasn’t been some mistake.”
Miss Marilyn pursed her lips and twitched them sideways.
“It’s alright dear. We’ve got plenty of room for you all,” said Miss Clements reassuringly. “And this must be Lucy Copse.”
Lucy stepped forward. The shyness of her smile was tinged with caution. Putting out her hand she said, “How do you do, Miss Clements? How do you do, Miss Marilyn?” She pushed forward a smaller, sturdier version of herself. “This is Paul, my brother,” she said proudly. Bending down, she whispered, “Shake hands, Paul.”
Christ! thought Beverley, suppressing a little splutter of mirth, the kid was still in the dark ages. She’d be curtseying next.
Paul looked up at Miss Clements and Miss Marilyn with big, hazel-green eyes, and studied their faces carefully. Then, he solemnly put out his hand.
Miss Clements was pleased. She liked children who knew how to behave.
A little white terrier snuffled at Lucy’s ankles and she bent to stroke it.
“That’s Donald,” said Miss Clements. “I suggest you don’t touch him, dear. He’s fifteen, the same age as you. It’s quite old for a dog, so children – young people, that is – sometimes make him grumpy.”
Lucy smiled up at her. Soft, brown curls framed a sweet oval face.
Like a little Madonna but without the blue headscarf, thought Miss Clements. But goodness, she was small for her age! Malnutrition probably. Another one who needed building up.
“I’ve never really known a dog personally,” said Lucy, straightening up. “I’m sure I’ll love Donald. Perhaps he’ll love me back once he’s got used to me.”
Nice child, thought Miss Clements. “Now, my dears, Miss Marilyn will look after you, while I have a quick chat with your escort. You probably had a meal on the way down, but I thought you’d like a little snack after your journey.” She pointed towards the first room on their right. “That’s the dining room in there.”
She disappeared into the second room with Beverley.
In stern silence, Miss Marilyn showed them where to wash their hands, and then opened the dining-room door and herded them in. Lucy had never seen such a comfortable – and comforting – room. In Father Copse’s house, the rooms had been large and high ceilinged like this one, but they had been stark and cold, and so colourless that she couldn’t even say they were white. What a difference soft-cream walls and a rose-coloured carpet made! There was a bowl of early daffodils and winter berries on the fine, marble mantelpiece and, in the middle of the room, was a round, mahogany table laid with sandwiches, fruit and home-made cake. She glanced at Paul and almost laughed at the look of surprise on his face.
David’s eyes were fixed on the food. “Wow! Call that a little snack?” he exclaimed.
“Shush,” whispered Dorothy, nudging him gently with her elbow.
Miss Marilyn made no comment. She served them, but apart from asking if they wanted tea or hot chocolate, she said nothing. Occasionally, her mouth would purse and twitch in a disapproving manner, and the children ate in silence. Even Dorothy’s laughing, brown eyes were subdued.
Lucy snatched a sidelong peep. It was strange, she thought, how just one frosty person could make such a lovely room feel cold. She caught Miss Marilyn’s eye and hastily lowered her gaze, and tried unsuccessfully to decipher the murmur of voices floating in from the next room.
*
On the other side of wooden dividing doors, Beverley put her briefcase down on the floor, threw her jacket onto a side table, and settled herself into a chintz armchair in front of the fire.
“Hope you don’t mind,” she said, putting her legs up on a tapestry footstool, “but my ankles swell up after long car journeys.”
“Do make yourself comfortable while I just pop out to fetch the tea trolley,” murmured Miss Clements soothingly. “Then we can relax. I’ve had several chats with Mr Lovett about the children, but he told me you’d fill me in with all the details.”
Beverley wriggled her bottom back into the cushions and gave a little sigh of pleasure. The long, winding journey from London was already a past discomfort. Old Lovett would have given the briefest and driest of details, typical lawyer – silly old donkey. She could make a far better job of it any day. Her eyes closed, and she had nearly dropped off when the door opened and a tea trolley glided silently into the room, followed by Miss Clements. The gentle sound of pouring tea was so unfamiliar that Beverley opened her eyes again, and wondered who on earth used a teapot these days?
“Now you can tell me all about it,” said Miss Clements when she had passed out the cake and settled herself near the fire. “I know someone wants to stop the children giving evidence in a murder trial.”
“Two trials, actually, or it could be three,” began Beverley. “They escaped from some looney religious sect and have been sent out of London for their own safety.” She sipped her tea and nibbled at her piece of cake before continuing. “If the trials do go ahead, it’ll cause the collapse of a bunch of crackpots who follow a god called the Magnifico.”
“I thought we were supposed to be tolerant of religious beliefs in this country,” murmured Miss Clements.
“Yes, but not when they
believe in abducting women and keeping them in breeding rooms, and bumping off people who don’t obey the rules.”
Miss Clements caught her breath. “Oh no! Of course not.”
“Mind you, the trial against Father Copse, that’s Paul and Lucy’s dad, might not go ahead. Mr Lovett reckons he’s too crazy to come to court. Mad as a hatter. At this moment, he’s in some psychiatric unit being assessed.”
“Oh, dear! I do hope it’s not one of those inherited madnesses. I’m not trained for that sort of thing.”
“No worries. All four kids are absolutely normal, which is a miracle after what they’ve been through. But if they’re caught now, they’ll be dead meat – lethal injection by so-called ‘Good Doctors’. Almost makes you laugh, giving them a name like that!”
Miss Clements suppressed a gasp of revulsion and reminded herself that one should keep one’s composure in all circumstances. She cut another slice of cake.
“There doesn’t seem much point to the religion,” added Beverley, “like being good or helping others. It’s just that the Magnifico says everyone has to be frugal, and uncomfortable, and free from sin.”
“Dear me,” said Miss Clements. “I never realised that being comfortable could be sinful. I must say, I do enjoy a bit of comfort.”
“Well, they think doing without is good for your soul. If you don’t toe the line, you’re disposed of by the Good Doctors and your flesh melts in eternity.”
“How very unpleasant!” Miss Clements glanced at the fire. It spoiled things to think of melting flesh when one had a good blaze going. There was nothing like the dancing colours in a homely hearth to make one feel at peace with the world. She bent over to throw another log on the flames. “How did these poor children get involved?”
“Born into it.” Beverley lowered her voice. “The men have God knows how many wives, so as to produce more followers for the Magnifico. Disgusting, I call it.”
Miss Clements’s hand shook slightly as she poured herself another cup of tea. Beverley noted the rattle of the cup against the saucer and was pleased with herself. She’d always had an effective way with words.
The Big House Page 1