Kitty Neale 3 Book Bundle

by Kitty Neale

  ‘Don’t you get fed up with being stuck at home all day?’ Amy asked.

  ‘Not really. I’ve discovered that I like cooking and I enjoy trying out new recipes. I made a lovely meat pie with suet pastry today and my dad loved it. At least he’s still eating, but I’m a bit worried about him. He’s drinking heavily and goes to the pub every night.’

  ‘So you’re mostly on your own,’ Amy said, feeling sorry for her friend.

  ‘It doesn’t bother me,’ Carol said, nodding towards the recently acquired television. ‘I’ve got that for company now and I’m happy enough.’

  Amy found it hard to believe. Just a short while ago the thought of making a cake or pie would have had Carol in fits of laughter, and she wouldn’t have been happy stuck indoors every night in front of a television.

  It didn’t seem possible that in such a short time she had changed so much. Had the old Carol gone forever? Amy was beginning to think so and the thought saddened her.

  Frank finished his pint, wiped the back of his hand across his mouth and went to the bar to order another. He wasn’t in the mood to chat and once served, he went back to the table to sit alone with his thoughts. At first he’d believed his daughter’s story, but it was so sketchy that it didn’t really add up. She didn’t know the bloke’s full name, who he worked for, nor where the flat was in Tooting. It didn’t ring true, and he’d come to the conclusion that Carol wasn’t as innocent as he’d thought. She’d been caught out though, made a mistake and found that she was pregnant. The bloke had probably buggered off, leaving her little choice than to get rid of the baby. If the abortion hadn’t been botched, he wouldn’t have known anything about it, but it had gone wrong so Carol had to come up with a story, using rape as her only defence.

  His stomach churned. Until all this happened he’d seen Carol as his perfect, untouched daughter, but he was now seeing her in a different light. And it didn’t help that she looked so much like her mother. Frank knew that he was sick, that the feelings he’d until now stifled were unnatural, but every night, lying alone in his bed now, the urges grew and one day he feared he’d act on them. He gulped his third drink, determined to get drunk. That way he’d return home incapable of anything other than passing out again, sleeping it off until his alarm woke him in the morning.

  Frank had downed his fourth pint when the door opened and Terry Price walked in. He was a big, bullish-looking bloke, a bouncer who was handy with his fists. His wife, Edna, was another one like Mabel Povis, a nosey bitch who loved to gossip. ‘Watcha, Frank. How are you doing?’ Terry asked.

  ‘Fine,’ he slurred. ‘How’s your missus? Still busy on the jungle drums no doubt.’

  ‘What’s that supposed to mean?’

  ‘That she’s got a big mouth,’ Frank said, inciting what he knew would be coming.

  ‘I can see you’re drunk, but I ain’t standing for that. There’s nothing wrong with my missus.’

  ‘Yes there is. She’s a fat, ugly, old cow,’ Frank slurred, sure that he had gone far enough now. With the sick thoughts in his head he deserved a good kicking.

  Frank didn’t offer any resistance as Terry hauled him to his feet and dragged him outside.

  Stan could see what was about to happen, and limped outside, with about five other men following behind him eager to see the fight. They watched the blows landing, but when it became obvious that Frank Cole was incapable of defending himself, Stan became fidgety. Maybe he should wade in, but Terry Price was a huge bloke and unless the others joined in to help, he was likely to come off as badly as Frank.

  When Frank no longer had a wall at his back he fell to the ground and Terry laid into him with his boots. Like a pack of animals scenting blood there was baying, but Stan couldn’t watch it any more and stepped forward, shouting, ‘He’s had enough, Terry.’

  The man’s head shot round, eyes wild as he growled, ‘I ain’t even started yet.’

  ‘Leave it out. You can see he’s drunk,’ Stan said, incensed as Terry continued to put the boot in.

  The kicking stopped as once again Terry fixed him with cold, gimlet eyes. ‘He wasn’t too pissed to insult my wife, but if you want to take his place, come on then, I’m waiting.’

  Terry stood with his fists raised, ready, and Stan swallowed, but he limped forward, only to see the man drop his arms as he said, ‘You’re a cripple, Stan, but the only one with the guts to take me on. It wouldn’t be a fair fight, so forget it.’

  ‘That wasn’t a fair fight either,’ Stan pointed out, nodding towards Frank who was still lying on the ground. ‘Are you going to leave him alone now?’

  ‘He deserved a kicking, but yeah, I’m done. It was no fun when he didn’t fight back.’

  Now that the fight was over the other men trailed behind Terry as he walked back into the pub, while Stan hurried over to Frank. He crouched by his side, and urged, ‘Come on, mate. Let’s get you home.’

  ‘Nah … nah … neesh a drink,’ he said through a nasty split lip.

  ‘I think you’ve had enough,’ Stan said, seeing that as well as the split lip, Frank’s eyes were puffy, which meant he’d probably have a couple of black eyes. ‘Can you stand up?’

  ‘Yesh … I think so,’ but on trying Frank curled on the floor, clutching his ribcage.

  ‘Frank, maybe I should call an ambulance,’ Stan said, worried about the damage Terry’s boots had inflicted on Frank’s body.

  ‘No … no … I’m all right. Jush gi … give me a minute,’ he said, and then after a couple had passed he raised an arm. ‘It … it’s agony when I take a breath, but if you give me a hand …’

  Stan did, though it wasn’t easy, and then came an unsteady walk home as he did his best to support Frank’s weight. ‘You daft sod. If you’d kept your mouth shut about Terry’s wife, this wouldn’t have happened,’ he admonished.

  ‘Gl … glad it did,’ Frank gasped painfully.

  Puzzled, Stan managed to take Frank’s keys and open his door, saying as they staggered inside, ‘How can you be glad about taking a beating.’

  ‘Ke … keeps me out of mischief,’ Frank said as he collapsed onto the sofa.

  It made no sense to Stan, but the room was in darkness, which meant that Carol was probably in bed. ‘Are you sure you’re all right? Or do you want me to get Carol up to give you a hand?’

  ‘Nah … nah, thash the last thing I want. You go, I’ll be fine.’

  Stan didn’t argue. He’d done his bit, but the extra weight of holding Frank up had put a strain on his damaged leg. His limp really bad now, Stan put the man’s keys on the table and left, putting the puzzle from his mind.

  What Frank said or did was none of his business, but from the state the man was in, Stan doubted he’d be fit for work in the morning.

  Chapter Twenty

  Carol woke earlier than usual on Friday morning. She’d heard the commotion downstairs the night before, guessed her dad had come home drunk again and though she felt sorry for him, she dreaded the thought of facing his hangover. Since Mabel Povis had tried to get him done for murder, he’d become uncommunicative, had taken to drink, and Carol seethed on her father’s behalf. She would never forget the day the CID had turned up, her horror at the accusation that had somehow managed to snap her out of her own self-absorption.

  She had been in a black pit, hating herself so much that she hadn’t spared a thought to what her dad had been through. On the same day that her mum had walked out, she’d had an abortion and she knew her dad had feared that she might die. On top of that, he’d been questioned by the police and though able to prove his innocence, Carol knew there were some locals who would say there was no smoke without fire.

  If anyone said anything to her, they’d get a mouthful, Carol thought, now fiercely protective of her father. In fact looking after her dad, seeing that he had nice meals to come home to and the house immaculate had become her penance. Unwilling to get up yet, Carol lay in bed, her thoughts drifting to the conversation she’d had with
Amy the previous evening. They had once been so close, worked and laughed together but that seemed eons ago now. In reality it had only been around four months, yet Carol knew she had been a different person then. She’d been happy, thought only of fashion, music, dancing, and a part of her longed to turn back the clock so that she could become that innocent girl who had once loved life again.

  Sadly Carol knew it was impossible and shaking these thoughts off, she climbed out of bed to get quickly washed and dressed before going downstairs, only to stand with her hand over her mouth in horror.

  ‘Dad, Dad, are you all right?’ she cried, dashing to the sofa and kneeling at his side, yet looking at his grotesquely swollen face the question seemed inane. Of course he wasn’t all right. Along with the swelling on his cheeks, his eyes were like slits in a yellow mass of bruising and there was blood on his chin that had trickled from a nasty split in his lip.

  ‘Wh … what?’

  Carol rushed to the kitchen and poured water into a bowl before grabbing a clean cloth to go back to her father’s side. She tried to dab the caked blood from the cut but he pushed her hand away and she felt helpless, useless to deal with his wounds. ‘Dad … I think you need to see a doctor.’

  One eyelid partially opened and he squinted up at her, moaning, ‘No … no … but get me … get me a drink … water …’

  She hurried to do his bidding, but as he seemed incapable of holding the glass, she lifted his head with one hand while holding the water to his lips with the other. He drank a little then tried to sit up, but groaning in pain he found it impossible and sank back. ‘Dad, who did this to you?’ Carol asked again.

  ‘Ca … can’t remember.’

  Worriedly she repeated, ‘I think you need the doctor.’

  ‘No, I’m just a bit bruised and I’ll be all right. Just find me a couple of pain killers.’

  Unsure that her father was right, Carol nevertheless did as he asked. As the pain killers took effect his swollen face relaxed as he drifted off to sleep, and Carol went to quietly pour a bowl of cereal before returning to sit close by, ready to be there if her father needed anything when he woke up.

  Mabel waited until ten thirty, then went along to see Phyllis. She didn’t know how she’d have got through the last weeks without her and would be forever thankful that they were friends again. There were few people who spoke to her now, all of them disgusted or angry when it came out that she had accused Frank Cole of murdering his wife. Of course he’d been the one who had put it about, and though he hadn’t actually used her name, everyone had pointed the figure at her.

  It had shaken her to the core that Frank had been found innocent, and when the nastiness started she only had Jack to turn to. Instead of being sympathetic, he had been furious with her, and said that in future she should keep her nose out of other people’s business.

  ‘Watcha,’ Mabel said as she walked into Phyllis’s house.

  It was obvious that Phyllis was now subject to the occasional bit of gossip too as she said, ‘Hello. Have you heard about Frank Cole?’

  ‘No,’ Mabel said, stiffening. ‘What about him?’

  ‘He got beaten up last night.’

  ‘Well I hope people aren’t blaming me for that too,’ Mabel said nervously. ‘Who did it?’

  ‘Terry Price. Apparently Frank was drunk again and insulted Edna.’

  ‘How did you find out about it?’ Mabel asked. ‘Did Edna tell you?’

  ‘No, it was Stan. He saw it happen and helped Frank home.’

  ‘I suppose people will say it’s my fault that he turned to drink,’ Mabel said. ‘Yet I’ve been thinking about it lately and in all fairness, if Frank had told the truth about Daphne leaving him in the first place, my suspicions wouldn’t have been aroused.’

  Phyllis was prevented from answering by a knock on the door, but her voice was loud when she opened it. ‘Rose! You’ve got a cheek showing your face here.’

  ‘Why? What have I done?’

  ‘You know full well what you’ve done,’ Phyllis said indignantly. ‘You ran off with George Frost.’

  ‘I flaming well didn’t,’ Rose said.

  ‘Yes you did!’

  ‘I did not, but I’m not standing on the doorstep arguing with you, so let me in and we can sort this out.’

  Mabel stood up as Rose walked in and said, ‘I’ll go.’

  ‘No, I’d prefer you to stay,’ Rose said. ‘No doubt you’ve heard this rubbish too and I want to set the record straight.’

  ‘Phyllis?’ Mabel asked, hoping she’d agree. ‘Is that all right with you?’

  ‘Yes, yes, sit down, Mabel.’

  Mabel did, looking at Rose who was dressed respectably in a well-cut suit. She wore less make-up and her hair was beautifully styled, showing her to be a very attractive woman.

  ‘Right,’ Rose said. ‘What’s this about George Frost?’

  ‘There’s no need to act the innocent,’ Phyllis snapped. ‘He walked out on his wife and as you both left on the same day it was easy to put two and two together. What’s happened? Didn’t it work out and that’s why you’re back?’

  ‘Now listen here. I may have left, but it wasn’t with George Frost. If you must know I’m living in Bethnal Green now, with Samuel Jacobs.’

  ‘What! Our landlord?’ Phyllis gasped.

  ‘Yeah, that’s right.’

  ‘We haven’t seen him in years,’ Mabel said. ‘He got a bit past it and started using an agent, so how did you meet him?’

  ‘He came in the Park Tavern one lunchtime, and though you’re right, he doesn’t do much now, he still keeps an occasional eye on his agents. We got talking and well, he asked if he could see me again.’

  ‘Ain’t he a bit old for you? He must be in his late seventies by now.’

  ‘Mid-seventies, but I prefer older men,’ Rose said.

  ‘As long as they’re rich,’ Mabel returned, unable to keep the sarcasm out of her tone.

  ‘Think what you like, Mabel, but I must admit that Samuel is a very wealthy man,’ Rose said, smiling with satisfaction.

  ‘There’s no fool like an old fool,’ Mabel couldn’t resist saying.

  Phyllis had been standing stiffly, with her arms folded, but they dropped to her side as she said, ‘So you didn’t run off with George Frost?’

  ‘That’s what I’ve just said, isn’t it?’ Rose replied.

  ‘Well he went off with someone,’ Phyllis told her.

  ‘Yes, but now you know it wasn’t with me can I sit down?’

  ‘I suppose so,’ Phyllis said grudgingly, she too taking a seat.

  Mabel did the opposite and stood up. ‘I’d best be off, Phyllis.’

  ‘Yes, all right. I’ll see you later.’

  Mabel said a curt goodbye to Rose, and then went home. Now she knew that Rose hadn’t gone off with George Frost, she had another candidate in mind. She had dates to work out before voicing her opinion, but then Mabel berated herself. After what happened the last time she’d voiced her suspicions, it would be better to keep her big mouth shut.

  Rose drank the tea her cousin had made and then said, ‘Well, Phyllis, now that we’ve sorted out that misunderstanding I can tell you why I came to see you.’

  ‘Go on then.’

  ‘I’m here to invite you to my wedding.’

  ‘What? Samuel Jacobs asked you to marry him?’

  ‘Yes, he did, and soon.’

  ‘No doubt you’re marrying him for his money,’ Phyllis said with obvious disapproval. ‘What about his family? What have they said about it?’

  ‘His wife died ten years ago, and they were childless. There are distant relatives, second cousins or something like that, but they’re hardly in a position to put up any opposition. They only pay Samuel a token visit once a year to keep him sweet, but he’s no fool and knows they’re only after his money,’ Rose told her.

  ‘As I just said, you are too,’ Phyllis retorted.

  ‘And as I just said, Samuel is no fool. H
e knows what he’s doing,’ Rose replied, again smiling with satisfaction. She knew exactly what she was doing too, that in hopefully not too many years she would be a very wealthy widow and one who owned this, her cousin’s house, along with a lot of others on Lark Rise and the surrounding streets. Samuel was an astute businessman, buying up property during the war when other people wouldn’t take the risk of bomb damage. He’d purchased a lot in Bethnal Green too, and though in both areas some of them had been destroyed in the Blitz, a great many had survived.

  Phyllis frowned and said, ‘Surely Samuel Jacobs is a Jew – I can’t see him marrying you unless you convert to Judaism?’

  ‘He isn’t a practising one and has agreed to a registry office wedding.’

  ‘Rose, I haven’t had much to do with you for years, so why invite me?’

  ‘Because you, Amy, and of course Stan are the only family I’ve got,’ Rose said and decided it was time she spoke her mind. ‘I know why you haven’t had any time for me, but when the gossip had flown around you never once asked me if any of it was true. Instead you appointed yourself as my judge and jury, once telling me that I was ruining my reputation. Most of what you heard was a load of old tosh, but you chose to believe the nasty-minded gossips, finding me guilty; just as you did this time with this rubbish about me going off with George Frost.’

  ‘You can hardly blame me for that. It wouldn’t have been the first time you’ve broken up a marriage.’

  ‘Once, Phyllis, I made a mistake once, and that was because I was daft enough to believe the bloke when he told me his marriage was all but over.’

  ‘More fool you then,’ Phyllis said.

  ‘Yeah, and though I must admit I went off the rails a bit when my hubby died, I’ve never been the tart I was made out to be. I was lonely and wanted a man in my life again, but I only slept with a few of them.’

  ‘A few! Stan’s the only man I’ve been with.’

  ‘That’s easy for you to say. Stan’s still alive, but what was I meant to do when I lost my husband? I was still young, but maybe you think I should’ve become a nun, or spent the rest of my life alone.’