Sixpenny Girl

by Meg Hutchinson

  Entering the house by the scullery door she paused, a quick shiver tracing her spine; had something moved in the shadows? Holding her breath for a moment she strained to hear the shuffle again but all was silent. Releasing the pent-up breath she reached for matches and candle kept just inside the door. It was only her imagination, the tension of the past hour. Lighting the candle, turning to set it on a shelf, she gasped as the silver blade of a knife flashed in its yellow glow.

  ‘I don’t want to do this.’

  A low voice spoke against her cheek as she was pressed face down on the stone-flagged floor.

  ‘You ain’t never done nothin’ to me and I be sorry for what it is I ’ave to do to you . . . but I’ve no more choice.’

  Pressure in the middle of her back squeezed the air from her lungs, pounding blood crashed in her ears as Saran tried to twist her head.

  ‘Stay still!’ Fingers closed in her hair, holding her head down hard against the stone.

  Was it rape? Was that blade against her neck to hold her, a threat of what would happen if she tried to resist?

  Fear, wild and uncontrollable, sweeping a whirlwind through her mind Saran screamed, the sound choking away as the hand twisted into her hair slammed downward.

  ‘Don’t scream.’ The voice was hushed, urgent against her face, breath jagged and snatched. ‘It won’t mek no difference . . . I can’t let it mek no difference . . . I ’ave to do it . . . this be the only way.’

  ‘Please,’ squeezing the cry from crushed lips, Saran tried to turn, ‘there is money—’

  ‘Don’t look at me . . . please!’ Trembling almost as much as her own the voice interrupted quickly. ‘This be hard enough to do . . . if you looks at me—’

  ‘But I’m looking at you, you bastard . . . and I’m going to kill you!’

  The weight on her back was gone, the knife touching her neck was gone but, caught in the grip of terror, Saran could not move.

  ‘I don’t be going to do what you meant to do, rape ain’t to my taste, but I be going to take that knife and carve you like a bloody Christmas chicken!’

  That voice throbbing with anger was Luke’s but the one murmuring was not. Lifted from the ground, arms close about her, she felt safe, closed in a world of love, the same feeling she had had once before when— ‘Gideon!’ The name broke on a sob, her whole body shaking with the after-effect of terror . . . and of something else.

  ‘It’s all right . . . you’re safe, my love . . . Oh God! If anything had happened to you!’

  The words had only been whispered but her heart had caught them. He had said the words she had once ascribed to imagination, he had called her ‘my love’.

  As she twisted to look up at him the hold broke immediately and he stepped away, the light of the candle reflecting on features drawn tight.

  ‘Luke has the culprit,’ he said tersely, ‘you are quite safe now but perhaps you would like me to ask Livvy to . . .’

  Disappointment stealing her voice Saran shook her head. They had been simply words after all, she was a fool to have dreamed otherwise.

  ‘Then we had better see who it is lay in wait for you before Luke kills him.’

  Sat in the kitchen, hands clutched in her lap to still their trembling, she watched the man Luke had thrust on to a chair, but every fibre of her was aware of that other figure, of the anger brooding in grey eyes. She must not read that false, he was reacting in the way any man would on finding a woman being attacked in her own home, she meant nothing else to him; but the words my love?They were a common enough term, words she had often heard spoken to children hurt in a fall. Was that how Gideon Newell thought of her, as a child?

  ‘What the hell is this all about?’ Stood over the spare-framed man Luke doubled his hand to a fist.

  Dropped over the chest a tow-haired head swung slowly. ‘I . . . I told him . . . I said as I didn’t want—’

  Patience, never much of a virtue with Luke, slipped from him altogether. Grabbing the tow hair he jerked the head so he could see the face. ‘Told who? Out with it afore I beat your brains out!’

  ‘You best call the Watch . . .’

  ‘You ain’t never going to see the Watch, you—’

  ‘Luke, wait!’ Gideon was beside them, easing Luke’s grip. ‘It makes no sense to beat this man before he tells us why he tried to harm Miss Chandler.’

  ‘I didn’t want to, miss,’ the man threw a distressed glance to where she sat, ‘and he didn’t say why it was he wanted you done away with . . .’

  ‘Who?’ Luke demanded again. ‘Who didn’t say?’

  The man’s head swung again but more violently this time and words that had come slowly and reluctantly tumbled quickly over each other. ‘I don’t care about meself, don’t matter what ’appens to me, but my wife . . . my babbies . . . he’ll kill ’em . . . said he would kill ’em if I breathed a word.’ He looked up then, eyes dilated with fear. ‘And he’ll do it, mister . . . he’ll do it, he’ll kill my family.’

  Responding to the emotion racking the thin body, recognising fear she too had felt, Saran rose to her feet, shakily going through the ritual of making tea. It was an absurd thing in the face of what had happened but it gave her mind and fingers something to do.

  Seeing Luke almost bursting with anger, Gideon gave a brief shake of the head in the direction of Saran, her back turned to them. Reading its instruction Luke stepped away.

  ‘Miss . . .’ a trembling hand fastened on Saran’s wrist as she set a cup of tea before her attacker, ‘I didn’t want to harm you . . . as God be my witness I didn’t want . . . forgive me, miss . . . I only agreed so I could feed my little ’uns, now they’ll starve sure as anythin’.’

  Gideon’s hand releasing her wrist Saran’s senses lurched, sending a tremor along her arm, and at once his fingers broke their touch. His face hard as the tubes he forged, he spoke briefly to Luke who eased her back into her chair, standing protectively beside her.

  ‘This person who threatens your family.’ Gideon had already turned his attention to the seated man. ‘If you give us his name I guarantee your family will not be harmed.’

  Hands shaking the man replaced the cup, shedding tiny droplets of liquid into the saucer. ‘Won’t do no good mekin’ agreements with that one . . . he don’t keep his word.’

  ‘But I keep mine,’ Gideon answered quietly, ‘and you have it. Tell us who put you up to this and I promise your family will not suffer in any way.’

  ‘You . . . you means that?’ At Gideon’s nod some of the fear left the man’s eyes. ‘That be more’n I deserves, mister, God bless you forrit; and God damn Zadok Minch for what it were I almost done.’

  35

  He had lied about his visitor and lied about the reasons for selling both the Coronet Tube Works and this house in saying he was tired of them. Zadok’s visitor smiled at the man lying wide-legged on the bed. Zadok Minch never tired of anything which made him money or gave him physical pleasure, that meant only one thing . . . the man was no longer making money, and a man without money was a man without attraction.

  ‘So what will you do without the tube works to occupy your time?’

  ‘Spend it on more satisfying pastimes.’ Zadok reached again for the figure smiling down at him.

  But just who was it he would be satisfying? Violet eyes showed no indication of the thought. He had said he would have no other lover, no trivial affair, yet only hours earlier he had entertained a man, a solicitor. But he would not be lying naked had that business been simply one of delivering information.

  ‘We’ll live in that house together, there’ll be no more coming and going.’

  ‘But your wife, will that not be awkward, three of us living in the same house?’

  Shifting a little on the bed Zadok studied his attractive visitor; mahogany-brown hair dressed high on the head, the shapely body enhanced by the elegant cut of velvet, the face of a goddess and eyes . . . eyes which smouldered like the devil’s own. The comparison between lo
ver and wife was wide as an ocean and he knew which shore he meant to stay on.

  ‘There won’t be three.’ He smiled satisfaction. ‘That one downstairs be going to a sanatorium, I be going to ’ave her put away. So you see, my pretty love, there’ll be just you and me. Now, show me the games we’ll play.’

  ‘just you and me’

  Fingers eased free a line of tiny buttons allowing the mulberry velvet jacket to slide from smooth shoulders barely masked by palest pink chiffon. How many times had those words been said, and how many more times had evidence of the lie been found in that dressing room? Zadok was a generous lover . . . but he liked too many! How soon would it be before boys were brought to the house as they had been brought here, how long before the house he planned to live in no longer had room for this lover?

  ‘I think you have had your games already, maybe I should go.’

  Soft and seductive as silk the words creamed out, fingers halting teasingly on pink chiffon.

  ‘If you do then you’ll never know what it is be in that drawer.’ Zadok’s glance swept to a tall chest of drawers stood beside the door leading to his dressing room, then back to the figure stood a little away from the bed. ‘You can look at it now if you be interested.’

  A sultry smile curving the full red lips, smoky eyes stroking with a slowness that had Zadok moan with desire, the answer was low and musical. ‘I’m not. How could I be interested in anything other than what I see now?’

  With no more haste than moments previously, the velvet skirt was loosed, sighing to the ground in a whisper of promise fulfilled by falling lace.

  Every line of the naked body highlighted by lamplight, Zadok’s hard flesh jerked against his stomach. He took his pleasure with boys but they were always afraid, too scared for a man to truly enjoy; but here was sophistication, a true skill which brought satisfaction in all senses of the word. Watching slender arms lift, long fingers free hair to tumble about the shoulders, his breath was quick and uneven. The one he had sent to murder the Chandler wench, the one whose life he had threatened, he could never have roused the feelings which racked now.

  ‘I think you have been a naughty boy.’ The violet eyes smiled as Zadok’s hand closed over a shapely thigh. ‘And we all know naughty boys must be punished.’

  His eyes glittering with anticipation Zadok pretended fear as his companion came from the dressing room, a small whip in one hand, a bundle of coloured satin ribbons in the other. Christ, he couldn’t hold it long enough for them to be tied!

  ‘Now you must behave . . .’ red lips touched the throbbing head, ‘disappoint me and you will get no sweeties tonight.’

  Gritting his teeth, fighting the craving that burned like fire along his nerves with every move of that senuous body, every touch of titillating fingers, Zadok spread his legs wider, smiling at thoughts of what was to follow, his ankles being securely fastened to the bedposts.

  There was soft laughter as a delicate hand pushed away podgy fingers brushing the glistening mahogany mound at the top of long legs, then fastened the wrist to the bedhead with yellow satin.

  ‘Now!’ Zadok moaned as the other wrist was secured. ‘Do it now.’

  Brilliant as gemstones the violet eyes echoed the sultry laugh. ‘Soon, my love, but first we have to confess our sins.’

  Veins pulsating, flesh jolting between his legs, Zadok shook his head. ‘No more teasing . . . I want it now!’

  The plait of the whip trailing up along his legs touched the hard mounds jutting beneath the jerking column and for a moment the lovely eyes lost their smile.

  ‘Naughty boys don’t get what they want until they admit to what they have done . . . and you have done wrong, haven’t you?’ The whip moved, drawing a finger of leather over the throbbing flesh. ‘Tell what it is and you can have all of this.’ Bent over the moaning Zadok, a wet tongue slid over his chest and along the line of his navel until lips touched once more against a rigid penis.

  ‘Yes, yes, I’ve done wrong.’ Zadok gasped at the spasms pulling at his body.

  ‘That is not enough.’ The whip slid silently over throbbing flesh. ‘We have to say what we have done, we must be honest if we are to be forgiven . . . and you do want to be forgiven, don’t you?’

  Christ how he wanted to be forgiven! Desire thickening his throat Zadok nodded. ‘A lad . . . before you come . . . a lad, but it were nothing more than petting.’

  A lad! The whip twitched. So much for promises! Chagrin was veiled by a smile as Zadok’s partner in pleasure laid the whip aside and reached for the cravat Zadok had carelessly left lying on the floor, stuffing it into his open mouth and wrapping it securely around with a scarf snatched from a drawer.

  ‘You said there would be no one but me.’ The violet eyes smouldered, the voice had lost none of its silk. ‘You said I was your only lover, that I would share with no one else. But you lied, my love, you broke that promise and now you must face the consequences.’

  Held fast to the bed Zadok watched the quick agile movements between bed and dressing room, his mind still playing on pleasures he had so often enjoyed before.

  ‘You thought to share my house, no doubt to bring your little playthings there. But that house was promised to me, for my use alone, as was this.’ A soft laugh trembled on the stillness while tapering fingers tied a white satin ribbon around agitated flesh. ‘You should know, Zadok . . .’ eyes of violet ice smiled, ‘you should know I share with no one.’

  This was a new facet to an old game but every little twist added savour. Relishing the thought Zadok watched the supple figure half turn, then the expectation dancing on every nerve died and narrow eyes dilated with fear as the figure turned to him and he saw what was held above his head.

  Slow, sibilant as a slithering snake, the figure moved several inches towards the foot of the bed. ‘You will never take my house, and as for this . . .’ tender fingers lifted the organ suddenly robbed of its potency, ‘you will never share this with anyone again.’

  Craning his neck Zadok saw the painted mouth smile, caught the flash of lamplight gleam silver on the open razor, but his scream remained locked behind a silk cravat.

  ‘Tut, tut . . . white was a mistake, I should have chosen black to match your lying tongue. But let us not be bitter, kiss your love goodbye.’

  Still smiling the figure leaned agilely across the bed, touching the gagged mouth with his own erect penis.

  Fury sitting like a stone inside him Gideon urged the horse along, oblivious to the dangers of potholes hidden in the darkness. Zadok Minch had sent that man to lie in wait for Saran, Zadok Minch had been behind that attack.

  He had listened to the fellow’s story, the fear in his voice when he spoke of the threat to his family attesting to the truth. He had told it all, how the owner of the Coronet Works had given him and a dozen others their tins, how he – the only one of them all – had been ordered to come to the house in Birmingham. It had been there, sprawled stark naked on his bed, the industrialist had tried to induce him into acting the part of a woman, and when he had refused had said he would swear he, Minch himself, had been attacked and abused by an ex-employee out for revenge; that, he had said, would attract the death penalty in any court of law, the man would go to the gallows and his family put on to the streets to starve unless . . . That was when the proposition had been put: kill Saran Chandler and he would be paid well, refuse and his wife and children would die!

  It had taken a while to calm Luke, to have the lad agree to wait until morning before taking any action, impressing upon him that Saran must not be left alone. But Gideon Newell would not wait. Zadok Minch would answer before morning, he would answer to him.

  ‘He will answer to no one.’

  Her eyes fever bright, the wife of Zadok Minch answered the demand of the man who had hammered on her door.

  ‘He will answer to no one.’ She glanced towards the stairs and as Gideon sprinted up them she followed slowly.

  ‘God Almighty!’

&nbs
p; Soft as Gideon’s exclamation was, the drab little woman heard and laughed, a bitter wild laugh that died to a sob in her throat.

  ‘Yes, God Almighty. It is His vengeance for what was done to that woman and her daughter, for another I found whipped almost to death in my own sitting room, for all the young boys made to play his filthy games . . . It is the Lord’s vengeance upon me for being too weak to oppose him, for the law will say I did this. But I will not care nor fear the scaffold, only bless the name of the one who had the courage I lacked, the courage to kill Zadok Minch.’

  Stood in the lamplit bedroom Gideon looked at the scene before him. Bound and gagged, his lower body sprayed with blood, Zadok stared with sightless eyes at the ceiling, his severed penis, like a small ribbon-bound final parting gift, laid reverently on his chest.

  ‘It is no more than he deserved . . . and no more than I deserve.’

  No, that was wrong. Gideon’s mind refuted the admission. The man lying on the bed had been the one had taken the Elwell child, tried to force him to do God knows what, he had whipped Saran’s mother and sister until they had died of it and only hours ago had ordered a man to kill Saran herself . . . That was Zadok Minch, he and he alone was responsible, he and he alone should pay.

  ‘I wanted to stop it.’ The quiet voice trembled on. ‘I thought once that I had found the courage to do so but Zadok . . . the whip, it hurt so much . . . and my cowardice meant pain and harm to others, that is the cross I bore so long; but now I can lay that burden down, the Lord in His mercy grant me a quick death.’

  There would be no more death. Gideon breathed deeply, the resolve firm in his mind. Why should a woman Minch had terrified for half of her life hang for a man who was no better than a devil from hell? Given what he knew, he believed Zadok Minch had deserved to die a long time ago . . . and the one who had caused his death? Whoever that was had removed a scab from the earth. Lord, he would give the culprit a medal!