by Gloria Cook
Nine
‘So, Hankins, have you anything interesting to report to me today?’ From the mahogany twin pedestal desk in the ostentatious little office in Paradise Cottage, Laketon Kivell held the Poltraze footman in a direct stony stare.
Every part of the skinny, fresh-faced youth quivered in trepidation. He’d heard about a practice in ancient times of killing a messenger who brought bad news. He was praying the frightening head gardener wouldn’t do something dreadful to him. It wasn’t his fault, what he was about to say. He had to tell, to keep secrets from this man would cost him dear. ‘Yes, sir, I’m afraid I have. It’s, um, about the squire.’
‘Go on.’ Laketon leaned back in the leather-backed chair, toying with a crested silver paperknife, pressing it into each well-padded fingertip, enjoying the delicious sensation of each sharp prod. He imagined trailing the paperknife down the youth’s back and watching him squirm. The last significant information that Hankins had passed on was Tara Nankervis’s reminder to Michael Nankervis that he was her brat’s father. That was unimportant. From the lowliest servant to the highest in society that was suspected to be true. It caused tittering and innuendo but suspicion alone did not cause a public scandal. It couldn’t bring down the house of Nankervis, and thereafter turn him out of his very comfortable living.
‘Th-the squire’s having an, an affair, Mr Kivell. W-with his valet,’ the now sweating Hankins blurted out, leaping back in case the other man went into a rage, a not uncommon occurrence, and grabbed him from across the desk. He’d hate it if the man touched him. Everyone knew about the open secret concerning him and the squire.
The only change in Laketon was a heightening of his dark complexion. ‘You are sure about this? Absolutely sure?’
‘Yes sir. I heard them. I-I saw them. I peeped into the squire’s bedroom. They … they were on the bed.’ The memory of what he’d seen haunted Hankins’s dreams. What if he was at risk of the same treatment? If he refused he would be turned out without a character.
Laketon was using his imagination and the result flayed him to the bone. He looked sharply at the footman. ‘Does anyone else know?’
‘I don’t think so, sir.’
Laketon’s eyes seemed to twist in their deep sockets. He wanted the runt of a servant out of the place. He reached into his waistcoat pocket and produced a sixpence and tossed it on the desk. ‘You’ve done well, Hankins.’ His voice was as cold as an Arctic blast. ‘Keep up your watch with every diligence. Keep a record of any more such occurrences. Now get out.’
Hankins snatched up the silver coin, terrified the paperknife might be plunged through his hand. He bowed and scampered out, latching the low door after him with careful deliberation so as not to antagonize the man in the room.
Laketon heard his footsteps running away as if the hounds of hell were after him. He stabbed the paperknife into the middle of the desk where it pierced the polished wood and shuddered in its upright position. The hounds of hell would soon be on Joshua’s traitorous heels. So he had fallen for the charms of the creamy-skinned Aaron Hobbs? Hobbs was a tempting prospect; softly spoken, a well-moulded body; something out of Greek mythology; young and clean and fresh. Laketon had summed him up as one who enjoyed being controlled. Joshua must love that – controlling someone for a change. ‘Well, Joshua, I’ll let you enjoy your dream for a little while longer. As for you, Aaron Hobbs –’ he flicked the paperknife and watched it quiver – ‘I’m going to get to know you.’
Dinah Greep crept down the stairs with her belongings wrapped into a bundle. She had made a show last night of being violently ill so she could get out of going to work today. She would never go to the Carn Croft Mine again or set another foot inside this wretched cottage.
She had spied Miriam carrying out fodder to the pigs. With Jeb at work on the night core and not due back for a couple of hours she could slip out through the front door. Her nephew and niece were taking a nap in the cradle at a safe distance from the kitchen hearth. She loomed over them. ‘I won’t miss you brats! Nor your rotten father and your oh-so-saintly mother.’ Jeb had once declared that Miriam was everything she was not, and had held up how wonderful a mother Miriam was. She was a goody-goody bitch! But she was insensitive to others’ ears when enjoying rocking in the bed with Jeb, crying out in pleasure. How could she enjoy that?
Tears burned Dinah’s eyes. She was still sore and bruised after Abner Jago’s assault on her. It had gone on and on. He had done depraved things to her and made her do depraved things to him. It had been long after dark when she’d managed to trudge back home, scratched and bleeding, and in terrible pain. She’d given Jeb the line about meditating on God and forgetting the time and then tripping over a stone and hurting herself in the darkness. Jeb and Miriam had been kind to her but they had left it too late for that. Her virginity had been brutally stolen. If they knew how and why they would say it was her own fault and go on and on about repenting her wicked ways. Damn them! Damn their beliefs! Damn their bloody brats! She wanted to scream and smash the place up, make Jeb and Miriam suffer. They deserved to suffer, their brats deserved to suffer too. In a moment of madness she picked up the bread knife from the table and put it in the cradle and pinched the little boy to make sure he woke up.
She met Abner Jago as arranged outside Tabbie’s Shack. She didn’t speak to him. She scowled from behind the hand barrow he had brought to carry away the goods, keeping back while he grunted and groaned with the effort of hacksawing through the padlock.
Throwing the padlock on the ground he kicked the door open. ‘Come on,’ he bawled. ‘Let’s be quick about it. I don’t want my wagon seen out in the lane. People will wonder what I’m up to.’ Once inside the shack he let out a triumphant laugh. ‘Looks like she’s about to leave. Everything’s packed up. Makes our job a lot easier.’
‘How much are you going to give me?’ Dinah demanded. She was to heft stuff out to the wagon while he wheeled the loaded barrow, and she wanted to get the business side agreed before she started.
‘There’s a tidy lot here. I’ll give you a tidy sum,’ he barked.
‘When?’ She hated being in close proximity to him, her vile abuser.
‘When I drop you off on the road later on,’ he snarled impatiently, cursing wholesale. ‘Come on! Let’s get weaving.’
Together they lugged one of the chests onto the barrow and he wheeled it, while she carried stuff to the wagon. It was hard going for Jago as the wooden wheel jarred and got stuck between the stones. He blasphemed when she had to abandon her load to guide the barrow wheel over all the obstacles. It was more than an hour later before they finally loaded up the barrow with the last of the individual items and the draperies. There was nothing left but the bench table, screen and some ragged old clothes.
‘That’s everything,’ Dinah said, sighing heavily in relief. ‘Let’s be on our way.’ She was on her way to a new life, soon to be free of this beast’s disgusting company. She took a moment to gloat over the shock Sarah Kivell would get when she got back from work and found her home ransacked.
Jago took a final look round to make sure nothing of value had been missed. Then with an aggressive grunt he pushed Dinah further into the room until her back hit the bench. ‘No!’ she screamed. ‘Not that again!’
‘Don’t be a fool,’ he growled. ‘There’s no time for messing about.’
‘Then why aren’t we going now?’ she wailed.
‘Because I’m the only one who’s going. I’m not giving you a farthing and I’m not taking you anywhere.’ His rough hands shot out and he was squeezing her throat. Dinah screamed and choked. She was terrified. He was going to kill her. He shook her fiercely and kneed her in the groin. ‘Don’t tell anyone it was me or I’ll do for you, understand?’
She nodded, tears searing her eyes.
He let her go and pushed her away so hard she hit the ground. ‘Be sure you get far away from this place and never come back. And don’t never come near me again. Your debt’s c
leared. Be grateful for that.’ Off he went.
Dinah curled her hurting body into a ball. Tears came thick, convulsing her, and she gagged on them and the bile that had risen from her stomach. She was going to vomit. She scrabbled to her hands and knees and spilled out a mess on the floor. She crawled away. She sat with her knees up, sobbing until she had no strength left. How was she going to get away if she couldn’t stand up, let alone walk? She recalled what she had done. Miriam must have discovered the knife in the cradle. The boy might have cut himself or the baby. He might be dead, she might be dead. She couldn’t go home. She had no home. She had nothing. She would be hunted down and brought before the courts and hanged for her terrible crime.
‘I hate you, Abner Jago! Hate you! Hate you!’ she raged and raged.
She had to get away. But she wouldn’t get very far. Jeb wouldn’t stop searching until he’d found her. She had hurt his children in a most horrendous way and for that he’d forget about God and kill her with his bare hands. She was dead whatever she did.
She screamed and screamed at the top of her voice, smacking her hands against her forehead, screaming until her throat was hoarse and painful and her voice would no longer come. She backed up against the wall, tearing at her hair, her eyes growing wilder and wilder. Where was she? It took moments to remember. She was in Tabbie’s Shack, Sarah Kivell’s home. The beautiful Sarah Kivell, who everyone cared about and now respected. Jeb had always liked her and preferred her to herself, his own sister. The handsome Jowan Kivell had stopped her at the market and she had gone off with him. No Kivell had ever given her a second look. Sarah Kivell lived here. But she didn’t have to. She could live in the wonderful surroundings of Burnt Oak and wear nice clothes and eat the best food. She didn’t have to hammer ore all day long, but she did, like a martyr, the stupid, stuck-up bitch. No one called her ugly. Not the wonderful Sarah Kivell.
Beating her fists against the wall behind her, she chanted, ‘I hate you, Sarah Kivell. I hate you.’
Some time later she let out a mighty howl like a wolf at full moon. Then she let forth a maniacal laugh and scrabbled about the floor for the discarded clothes.
Sarah saw at once the shack had been broken into. The door was shut, but the hazy glow of her lantern in the misty atmosphere showed the padlock had been sawn off. Stunned beyond measure, her heart falling to pieces, she knew her hopes for the future had been dealt a massive blow. She had been robbed. She didn’t need to go inside to know that.
How much of Tabbie’s stuff had been stolen? Her mind went to the man Charles Howarth. Could he be responsible for this? Why should he do it? That wouldn’t make sense. It wasn’t him. It was some greedy individual who had come to see what Tabbie had left after her death.
Slowly stretching out an arm she put her hand on the door to see how empty her home was. Her heart thundering all the way up to her throat, her head strangely numb but her senses nervously alert, she pushed on the door. It moved only a fraction, something was blocking it. Sarah stifled a cry. Were the thieves inside and pushing on it to prevent entry? She listened, she could hear nothing. She pushed again, as hard as she could. The door gave way a little more. It was stuck on a rush mat. Bending, she reached inside, fearful her hand might be grabbed. Grasping the mat she pulled and shook it until she’d wrenched it free and tossed it aside.
She stepped inside, holding the lantern up high, her eyes shooting to the four corners in fear she would see intruders. There was no one. She took a longer look round and everything inside her collapsed. The essence of her life, like a golden circle around her heart, shattered, breaking into tinier and tinier pieces and seeping out of her in a river of despair. The table had been overturned and hurled into a corner and the screen smashed up and everything else was gone. The thieves had even taken the presents she’d bought for Aunt Molly, Arthur and Tamsyn. The carpets and mats had been ripped up into tangles. The logs beside the hearth had been tossed about and the ashes from the fire had been thrown at the walls. The shutters at the windows were hanging at crazy angles in an attempt to yank them off the hinges. This wasn’t just a robbery. Those responsible for this must hate her. They had wrecked all her hopes for a new life. She had nothing to go to her family with now, nothing worth going on for.
The money! They might have missed the money hidden in a cleft in the wall behind the door. Stepping gingerly through the mess and chaos she located the triangular stone that disguised the hidey-hole and pulled it out. She pushed her hand inside the small recess. She gave a cry of relief. She still had the twenty pounds. The coins were there, safely inside a leather pouch. She pulled the pouch out. The money would keep her comfortably for several months until she could get a job. Her family should find that agreeable. She would buy some new clothes tomorrow and present herself to them without delay. In that respect she had stalled long enough.
She heard a noise, a shuffle. It was coming from the corner where the table lay on its side. She shot round. She saw nothing. It must be some small creature that had crept in. Her heart was hammering and she didn’t want to stay here. What else could she do? She’d hate to ask anyone to take her in. Jowan Kivell would have to be told there was nothing here for his acquaintance to collect and buy. She could go to Chy-Henver. Jowan and his kinfolk would not deny her shelter for the night. She hesitated, her reserve making her consider if she could actually ask a Kivell, even Jowan, for more help. There was another shuffling sound. She gasped, staring at the upturned table. She couldn’t bear to spend the night here. She would go to Jowan straightaway.
A ghastly wail came from behind the table and a small, bent figure rose up clad in a black dress and a black bonnet with its ribbons dangling free. A cry climbed up inside Sarah but got stuck in her throat. She went rigid.
There came a croak of a voice. ‘Hello, Sarah.’
‘Tabbie …?’ No. All reason told her this wasn’t her aged friend.
The figure came round the end of the table and flew straight at her. She was mesmerized for a moment, then started to flee from the shack. There was something mad and unholy about the creature. Keeping a tight grip on the money pouch and with the lantern swinging in her hand she got to the doorway, screaming as the creature came after her with high-pitched wails.
A terrible pain across the back of her leg made her buckle at the knee and she was falling. Another heavy blow hit her shoulder as she went down. The lantern glass broke but the flame still burned. Sarah still had the pouch in her hand. She hurled herself round to face her attacker with her hands raised to protect herself. ‘Who are you?’ she yelled as the creature raised the log that had struck her before.
The next assault was halted. The person pulled off the bonnet. ‘Don’t you recognize me, Sarah?’
Sarah stared at the leering face above, eerily shadowed in the flickering light. ‘Dinah! Why are you doing this? Did you steal my things?’ She tried to get up but Dinah Greep kicked her viciously in the legs.
‘Not me,’ Dinah rasped in her raw voice. ‘Abner Jago did it. Ah!’ she spied the pouch. ‘I’ll have that!’
While Sarah struggled to get away the crazed girl reached down and snatched the pouch out of her hand. ‘No!’
‘Yes, you bitch. You owe me this.’ Dinah jangled the coins, laughing, gloating.
‘What are you talking about? I owe you nothing! You’ve no right to be doing this.’ From where she was sprawled, Sarah lunged and grabbed Dinah round the legs. She tugged on her and tried to bring the girl down. While trying to kick her legs free and shrieking insanely, Dinah launched her upper body down towards Sarah and grabbed her hair. Screaming, Sarah clung on with one arm while scrabbling to clutch Dinah’s skirt to unbalance her. Dinah sank her teeth into Sarah’s scalp. Sarah cried in pain, and screaming in anger she forced Dinah to the ground.
Clawing and rolling, kicking and lashing out, they fought for dominance. Sarah realized she was fighting for her life. Dinah had gone off her head and would stop at nothing until she had killed her.
Down on her back, with Dinah putting her hands round her neck, Sarah managed to get hold of one of the scattered logs and struck Dinah on the neck. She expected Dinah to attempt to wrestle the log from her. Dinah threw back her head and butted her full in the face. Completely dazed, Sarah was helpless. Dinah wrenched the log from her hand and Sarah felt blow after blow rain down on her body. Stark lights were before her eyes and her head rang in shrill agony. She fought against the coming darkness but knew it was hopeless. It wasn’t Titus in some form back from the grave that was a danger to her. For no real reason a bitter, crazed girl from the village was going to beat her to death.
It took a while before Dinah grasped that Sarah was limp and still. ‘There you are, bitch! You got what you deserved.’
In the fight she had dropped the pouch. Swiping up the lantern she dropped low and scrambled about for it. Triumph. She held the light over Sarah’s body. Dinah’s eyes bulged like a reptile’s as she revelled in tracing the paths of blood on Sarah’s face, hands, legs and ripped clothes. A lump of tangled hair lay on her chest where it had been torn out of her head. ‘See who finds you beautiful now.’
She saw Sarah’s pendant flung to the side of her neck. ‘Aha, I’ll have that.’ She went outside. The mist was thick and the lantern gave no more than a faint glow. She couldn’t see an inch ahead or in any direction. The flame flickered. It would die soon. It didn’t matter. She had nothing to worry about. She had money, a lot of money by the weight of the bag. She’d soon be away from here and no one would ever find her. She would go across the downs. No one would know which way she had gone. No one would ever know she had been in Tabbie’s Shack, that it was she who had murdered the ridiculous young widow lying there.
Off she went, round the shack, past the garden patch and was soon stumbling over the rough hostile ground. She sang the first line of a hymn at the top of her voice, ‘Guide me O thou great Jehovah.’ She cackled through the cloak of cold, wet, ground-level cloud. ‘I don’t need anyone to guide me. I’ve got money. I’ve got this necklace. I can do anything I like. I’m free … free!’