What could she do? Angrily, she rose and began to pace the floor, back and forth, hands rubbing together, forehead creased by a deep frown, ears on alert just in case he deigned to climb the stairs to mend her bookcase. Mother’s money. Helen placed herself at the dressing table. She had come into a small inheritance at the age of twenty-one, and it had languished in a bank for all these years. Her own house. If she bought a place, he could visit her there . . . but would she have any power if she moved out? His job was here, her father was his employer and she, daughter of the house, held some sway during her father’s absences.
It was hopeless and she wanted to die if she could not have Denis. The library? She didn’t care about her job any more, could take it or leave it. Mrs Moores knew what was going on, but that didn’t bother Helen. Why should she care what a skivvy thought? And what was wrong with a few fashionable clothes and a bit of make-up?
He was walking across the lawn. Through narrowed eyes, Helen took in every single detail. Denis was carrying a canvas bag, a pair of work boots joined by laces hanging from a shoulder. ‘He’s leaving,’ she whispered. ‘He’s walking out. And I am supposed to sit here like Little Miss Muffet.’ She left the room and ran downstairs.
From the drawing room window, Kate Moores watched the scene as it unfolded before eyes that had seen too much in recent days. Helen Spencer had finally gone off her rocker. Kate knew Denis Makepeace well enough to realize that he had been used by Madam. She also knew Madam, had often seen damped-down fury in pale hazel eyes. Lipstick and high heels? The reason for those articles was only too clear – Miss Helen Spencer had decided to indulge in sins of the flesh.
The view from the window was not pleasant. Denis was almost motionless while his companion stamped and ranted until she collapsed on the grass. ‘Go,’ urged Kate quietly. ‘Get out now, lad, while the going’s good.’ He should stay away from Helen Spencer. Anyone who wanted the ordinary life should keep a fair distance from that woman. Kate dusted quickly. ‘She was a sneaky kid and she’s no better now she’s grown.’
Applying beeswax to a side table, Kate Moores continued to pray inwardly. If Denis left today, he would get no reference; if he stayed, he would get no peace. The clock chimed, and Kate knew that her working day was almost over. She was also fully aware of Helen Spencer’s quiet power, of her persuasive tongue. Only the judge had remained unmoved by his daughter’s clever ways. ‘Go home, Denis,’ Kate begged inwardly. ‘Dear God, make him go home.’
But he didn’t go home. Helen Spencer returned to the house and ran upstairs once more, while Denis sat on a bench near the rockery. Kate dragged her coat from a hook in the laundry room, decided that the day was too warm to merit outdoor clothing, and left the house by the kitchen door, coat draped over an arm. As she rounded the corner, she met Denis on his way back. Dragging him along the side of the building, Kate tutted at him. ‘You should have gone,’ she said. ‘What’s the matter with you?’
He swallowed audibly. ‘I don’t know.’
‘Well, I do. My Auntie Vi looked after Miss Spencer for years back in the days when they had servants – before they closed off half the house.’ She nodded furiously. ‘From the age of about three, Miss Spencer had a way of getting her own road. Not where her dad’s concerned – she gave up on him when she was a baby. Happen that’s why she bends other folk to do her will – I’m not a head doctor, so I can’t work it out. Get gone before it’s too late, son.’
‘She said she’ll go and see Agnes. Nothing’s happened, but she’s going to pretend I’ve been to bed with her. She’ll tell my wife.’
Kate Moores puffed up her cheeks and blew noisily. ‘Will she heck as like. Come what may, she protects herself. That quiet woman in the dowdy clothes is just what she wants us to see – inside, she’s all for number one. You’re just another thing she wants. She’ll do nowt that’ll pain herself.’
He sighed. ‘She’s round the bloody twist and it’s my fault.’
‘No, it’s not. Now, listen to me, Denis. Although she can’t see it, she’s her dad all over again – selfish, nasty, ill-tempered. I’ll bet a year’s wages she started it. Am I right?’
He nodded. ‘It’s my fault as much as hers – I should have told her to bugger off right from the start. I haven’t even kissed her. I’m fed up.’
‘And a bit flattered because she’s Miss Spencer?’
‘Aye, perhaps I was. Not now, though. She’s dangerous.’
Kate gripped the young man’s arm. ‘Find yourself another job. This is just the start, Denis. You’re like a fish on a hook – the more you struggle, the more she digs in. Look at me. There’s none down the bottom know about this.’ Her head bent in the direction of Skirlaugh Fall, the dip in which lay the village of her birth. ‘I’ll say nowt. But the longer you hang about round here, the more chance you have of getting caught out. You’re a sitting duck, son. Bugger off home.’
Kate Moores was putting his own thoughts into words. He knew all the dangers, yet he feared that Helen would abide by her threat and tell Agnes a pack of lies if he left his job at Lambert House. ‘He’s bound to see the change in her when he gets home,’ he said. ‘She’s walking about like a fourteen-year-old with a crush on some daft lad.’
Kate nodded in agreement. The judge said little except when giving orders, though he noticed everything and meted out punishments when life did not suit him. ‘He’ll hit the roof. I’d not like to be at the receiving end. All the lawyers hate him, you know. Prosecution or defence, they can’t abide him.’
‘If she’s so clever, why can’t she see sense?’ Denis asked. ‘She knows I don’t want her and that I love Agnes – so why doesn’t she leave me alone?’
Kate pondered a while before replying. ‘Auntie Vi told me a few tales before she died. Too many for me to start telling now – my Albert’ll be wanting feeding. But when she was a little lass, Helen Spencer stole and lied and played the angel all the while – butter wouldn’t melt. She’s sly and I’m going home. So think on. Remember – she’s made in the image of her dad, not her mam, God rest that good soul.’
‘I just don’t know what to do. No matter what, I’m the one in trouble. Who’d believe me, Kate?’
‘I would.’
‘But everyone else?’
‘Like I said, just think on before you do anything. And make sure the anything you do is not done with her.’
Denis thought on until it was time to go home. He toyed with his meal, found great difficulty in looking his wife in the eye, tried to feign interest when Fred rattled on about Eva and the shop. The thinking continued through evening and into the night, sleep punctuated by nightmares populated by silk and muslin and Chopin. This could not go on, yet Denis had not the slightest idea of how to make it stop.
‘Are you all right?’ asked Agnes sleepily.
‘Yes. Go back to sleep, love.’ There was nothing to be done. Unless . . . Unless he could pluck up the courage to tell the judge.
Chapter Three
Talk to the judge? Denis struggled to remember a proper conversation with Zachary Spencer, realizing that there had been little true communication since the interview for his job. He tried to imagine himself asking for his employer’s help in the current situation, and dismissed the idea before it had even taken root. But he shuddered at the thought of what might happen when the man returned in a few days to find his spinster daughter glowing with make-up and desire. Perhaps she would revert to normal?
‘Denis?’ Agnes was giving him one of her more searching looks.
‘What?’
‘There’s folk in Africa would kill for that boiled egg.’
He finished his breakfast quickly, aware that his wife was troubled, knowing that he had to present himself at Lambert House within the hour, fearing the next move of a woman he now considered unbalanced. He could not hide from Agnes forever – she could read him like an open book.
‘What’s wrong?’ Agnes asked. ‘You’ve been like a cat on hot brick
s since last week. Is the job too much? Could you not take it a bit easier if you’re off-colour?’
Denis shrugged. ‘I’m tired, love. It must be the heat. I’ll do my best to slow down a bit.’
He left. While dusting, reading, shopping and washing, she was worrying about Denis. It wasn’t just his chest, not this time. He was walking about like a man with the whole world weighing him down and Agnes was troubled.
‘We’ve always talked about stuff,’ she advised the sink. Marriage was based on three things – love, trust and friendship. Those elements needed to run seamlessly through daily life, but Denis was holding something back. It wasn’t like him. Any troubles, however small, had always been shared. Denis had got her through the months after Pop’s stroke when she had worked at the pub. He had agreed happily about the nursing, had offered his support no matter what. If they had to eat less while she studied, that problem would be shared. The slightest thought was always meted out between the two of them so that a solution might be found before thought became difficulty. There was something wrong with Denis.
Agnes sat down. Pop was bringing in a wage, so things were not as bad as they might have been. Except. What a big word that was. Was it his job? Or was he trying to shield his wife from some terrible truth about his health? There wasn’t another woman. ‘I’d have known if it was that,’ she whispered. ‘But the lad’s suffering.’ If anything happened to Denis, she would be unable to continue alive.
She would deal with this tonight, after Pop had gone to bed. Whatever it took, Agnes Makepeace was going to get to the bottom of her husband’s unhappiness.
Someone hammered on the front door and she ran to open it. A very flustered Glenys Timpson burst into tears as soon as she saw Agnes. ‘It wasn’t him,’ she wailed repeatedly. ‘He wouldn’t. He was selling stuff, but . . . but he never did the shop. Oh, Agnes . . .’ Loud wailing drowned the rest of her words.
Agnes produced tea and biscuits, waiting until Glenys had calmed before asking, ‘Who and what? Slow down a bit, Glenys – I don’t know what you’re on about.’
‘They’ve done something called referring him to Crown Court. He was handling stolen goods, but he never did the burglary and he won’t say who did. He thinks he’ll get beaten up or worse if he tells. There’s some nasty folk about. He could get killed by the Manchester mafia.’
‘This is Harry?’
The visitor nodded. ‘Will you have a word with your Denis?’
‘Eh? What for?’
‘He can have a word with the judge. Even if he’s not the judge on my Harry’s case, he might say something to another judge.’
Agnes processed the odd request. ‘So you want me to have a word with Denis about having a word with the judge about having a word with somebody else?’
‘Summat on them lines, aye. I don’t want Harry going down for years, do I? He’s been in trouble afore, so it’s not a first offence. I could lose him for good.’
‘Were Jack and Bert involved?’ Agnes asked.
‘I don’t know. I’d be lying if I said no and lying if I said yes. But they’re not the ones in trouble. That Judge Spencer might listen to your Denis. You’re the only chance I’ve got.’
Agnes shook her head. The judge never listened to anyone on the domestic front. ‘It wouldn’t make any difference, honestly. The judge is away at the moment, but he’s not an approachable man, Glenys. And they’re paid a lot of money so that they can’t be bribed.’
‘I’m not talking about bribery. Just a word in his ear. It won’t do any harm to try.’
‘He has to be impartial, love. You know the saying – justice must be done and must be seen to be done. The court’ll look at it from the jeweller’s point of view – his shop was wrecked and his stock was stolen.’ She reached out and took the older woman’s hand. ‘I know it’s horrible, love, but maybe your Harry will learn his lesson. Sometimes, it’s the only way they do learn.’
Glenys closed her eyes and leaned back. ‘He’ll learn, all right. Last time, he learned just about every crime there is and how to break the law in a big way. Borstal near finished him. Prison’ll only make him a lot worse. I’m frightened to bloody death. If he gets put away, it’ll kill me and that’s the top and tail of it.’
Agnes studied the woman in front of her. Glenys Timpson was near the edge of her chair and almost at the rim of reason. ‘Glenys. Look at me. Go home, wash your hands and face, then come back. It’s a nice day and we’ll have a leisurely walk. We’ll go up Skirlaugh Rise and see Denis while the judge is away. His daughter’s off work at the moment. She might listen, but I can’t promise that Judge Spencer will listen to her. It’s worth a try, I suppose.’
Glenys awarded Agnes a weak smile. ‘Thanks, love. Then at least I’ll know I did everything I could. Even if it doesn’t work, I’ll have tried.’ She left the house at top speed to prepare herself for the outing.
Agnes was not hopeful. The daughter was a pale, lifeless creature, while the judge was about as movable as the Rock of Gibraltar. Still, having made the offer to Glenys, she knew that she had to carry it through. And it was a lovely day for a walk.
As Fred put it when speaking to his granddaughter, he and Eva Hargreaves got on ‘like tongue and groove’ from the very beginning. With no need for a timetable, they ran the shop between them, Fred disappearing into his shelter when he felt that Eva was up to scratch. A large woman, she needed frequent rests and was enjoying her business for the first time in years. She looked forward to Fred’s arrival every morning, was pleased to have his company, was glad that he took to shop work like a duck to water.
‘It’s done me good, has this,’ he told her one afternoon as they sat drinking tea outside the shop doorway. The pavement, covered in buckets, mops, brooms and other paraphernalia, was not exactly picnic territory, but both were content to bask in the sun during a lull in trade. ‘I remember nearly everything now,’ he said. ‘Thanks, Eva. You’ve done me a lot of good, giving me this chance. There’s not many that would take me on, the state I was in. I’m happy. You’ve made me happy. I’m grateful.’
‘You’re welcome.’ She smoothed her apron. ‘I saw your Agnes stepping out with Glenys about ten minutes ago. I wonder where they’ve gone?’
Fred nodded and took another gulp of stewed tea. ‘Never holds a grudge, our Agnes. That battleaxe took to coming round after Sadie died, even made me a few meals. Not a bad cook, either – does a smashing corned beef hash. Everybody has a good side and Agnes always winkles it out. She’s a grand lass.’
‘She is.’
He studied his enamel mug for a moment. ‘I might be holding them back, you know. Agnes and Denis, I mean. I don’t like feeling as if I’m holding them back.’
‘How come?’
‘Well, they’ve been offered a peppercorn cottage in Skirlaugh Fall, just a stride away from his work. It’s lovely up there – fresh air, good place to rear kiddies, plenty of places to play. It’s dirty round these parts and Denis could do without breathing all these damned fumes. They stay because they think I can’t manage by myself.’
‘That’s because you can’t manage. When did you last cook a decent dinner, eh?’ She grinned at him. ‘You need them. Agnes feels she should look after you because you looked after her when her mam died. Just be glad you have a family that cares.’
‘I don’t want to be a burden,’ he answered.
‘It’ll get sorted out.’ Eva went into the shop to serve two newly arrived customers. A seed of an idea had planted itself in her brain, but she needed time to think about it, time on her own. She doled out paraffin and coal bricks, weighed some tacks, found a spanner for a man who needed to move a bed frame. The solution would arrive, she felt sure.
Fred wandered through the shop on his way to the air raid shelter. His doll’s houses were coming on a treat and word was spreading. If he carried on this way, he would be hiring an assistant before the year was out. It was time to put an advert in the Bolton Evening News. Eva beli
eved he deserved success after the work he had put into the enterprise.
Fred settled in his new workshop, proud eyes surveying shelves and cupboards – a place for everything and everything in its place. Agnes would be pleased when she saw this. Sadie would have been thrilled to bits. All he needed was a bit of advertising, and Eva had promised to see to that. He took a swig of cold tea before carpeting his tiny bedrooms. For the first time in months, Fred Grimshaw was a contented man.
It was a long walk and its duration gave Glenys the opportunity to unburden herself. She talked about her dead husband, about Eva Hargreaves, also a widow, with whom she had shared grief over premature deaths. ‘We both married lads younger than ourselves and both lost them early. Very good to me and my boys, was Eva. Which is why I near flayed our Harry for breaking into her shop. He were only a kid, but I should have seen it then, Agnes. Three lads and I needed eyes in the back of my head – I still do. They’ve been trouble, but I love them all to bits. What the hell am I going to say to Miss Spencer if she sees me?’
Agnes didn’t know. She’d come into contact with Helen Spencer in the big library, had even managed a bit of conversation with her once, but the woman seemed too quiet and shy to have any influence with her dad. ‘You can only do your best – like you said earlier. Harry will have to take his chances, but your conscience will be clear.’
‘Aye, let’s hope so.’
During a quieter spell, Agnes wondered about the level of ferocity displayed by many women when one of their offspring was in trouble. It was clear that Glenys would rather do the time for Harry. ‘I wonder if I’ll be like you when I have a child?’ she asked eventually.
‘Like me?’
‘Yes. Going to any lengths to help your son.’
The Judge's Daughter Page 6