For My Brother’s Sins

by For My Brother's Sins (retail) (epub)

  ‘It makes no difference to me,’ she replied evenly. ‘For I won’t be here.’

  ‘No! Ye can’t mean that. What about the wedding?’

  ‘God’s teeth you’re the limit!’ She was really angry now. ‘You don’t appear to understand that it’s not just me you’ve hurt, it’s everyone: your mother, your father, but most of all your brother.’ She had deliberately excluded Peggy from this list. That slut had not needed much encouragement, had most probably engineered the whole thing. Dusty had never liked her from the moment they’d met. ‘I couldn’t remain friends with anyone who’d do that to his own brother, let alone marry him.’

  ‘Aye, well, maybe that’s all to the good,’ Clancy spoke up. ‘For he’s going to have to do his duty by my daughter.’

  Dickie faced him scornfully. ‘Ye surely don’t think I’m going to marry her?’

  ‘I don’t think – I know,’ replied Clancy darkly. ‘Unless ye want to find yourself in deeper water.’

  ‘Mr Clancy is within his rights,’ confirmed Patrick. ‘’Tis only proper that as you are the one to wrong Peggy you must make amends.’

  ‘I’d as lief marry Connely’s pig!’ flung Dickie spitefully. ‘Anyhow, she’s Sonny’s girl.’

  ‘Damn you! You despicable, spineless brat, you should have thought of that before,’ said his mother passionately. ‘I side with your father and Mr Clancy – you will marry the girl!’

  ‘I won’t!’ Dickie gripped Dusty’s shoulders more tightly and spoke pleadingly into her face. ‘Dusty, please don’t listen to them. This doesn’t have to make any difference to us. We can go away together, forget it ever happened …’

  ‘How can you stand there and say that?’ she breathed disbelievingly. Then, ‘Let go, Dickie, I wish to go home.’

  ‘I’ll take ye! We’ll talk!’

  ‘No! I must go alone. I don’t want to talk to you, ever again.’ She tried to disentangle herself but his grip tightened. She closed her eyes impatiently. ‘Please, you’re hurting me.’

  ‘Richard, haven’t you hurt her enough?’ said Thomasin. ‘Let her go.’

  ‘Damn what you say!’ shouted Dickie. ‘I’m going to marry her. Dusty, please don’t go.’ But what he saw as she opened her eyes caused him to release her at last. She gave him a long, searching look, trying desperately to keep her real feelings from her eyes. She succeeded. The glittering orbs, now cold as jade, registered only contempt. He dropped his hands from her as if burnt. Once, in a bout of childish cruelty, he had applied a lighted match to a beetle and had watched it contort in agony. That was how he felt now – and the lighted match had been self- inflicted.

  His recovery came too late. Before he could reach out for her again she was gone.

  ‘Can we let ye go without ye going for him again?’ Patrick asked Sonny, who nodded smoulderingly, and rubbed his arms where Clancy’s fingers had bitten deep.

  ‘I’ve got to get out,’ he muttered, and stumbled for the door, declining to spare a glance for his lost love. His parents were too relieved not to have another fight on their hands to stop him. They both looked to Dickie who was staring marble-eyed at the wall.

  ‘So, I can take it your son is gonna make an honest woman of me daughter,’ said Clancy, breaking the silence.

  ‘You can,’ vouched Thomasin with great surety. ‘Because in refusing he would forfeit his claim to a share in my business. I shall cut him off without a penny. My son places money too highly to risk that – don’t you, Dickie?’

  And though at that moment he wanted to shout and rail his hate for her out loud, his mother’s words dispelled any resistance he might have offered and he nodded submissively. Dickie knew when he was beaten.

  Chapter Thirty-One

  He was in a daze, his mind overwhelmed by the events of the previous evening. He sat atop the cart, the eyes beneath the bowler hat dark and brooding, staring benightedly over the horse’s rump, trusting her to take the correct route. Deep inside him was a raging sore for which there was no salve. The sparkling November frost anaesthetised his extremities but did nothing to numb his inner pain. His mind replayed the tragic scenario over and over relentlessly. Dusty’s whipped expression at his betrayal, mouthing accusations – but the words she spoke were his brother’s: I’ll kill him! I’ll kill him! I’ll kill him! Peggy feigning innocence, letting him take the worst of the blame. Devious, suffocating Peggy. Coy and demure in his brother’s company, but in his … an overpowering, rutting sow. Throwing herself at him. More, more and yet more until he had felt desiccated. God! how was he ever going to escape? For escape he must. He could not, would not ebb out his life tied to that termagant.

  Dusty, oh, Christ, Dusty! Her name stabbed repeatedly at his brain. Why couldn’t she understand that it had meant nothing? They had all meant nothing, ’til her. But the pain in those glazed angelica eyes betold the lie.

  Damn that slut! How many more men had she tried to entrap? There must have been more. One man was not enough to pleasure dear, innocent Peggy. How did they even know the child was his? His mind became suddenly alert. Exactly! He had been too shocked last night to respond to their accusations – had arrogantly accepted paternity – but now he glimpsed a chink of light in his hitherto inescapable predicament, and he’d be damned if he’d marry her. Dusty. He must see Dusty now. Tell her. Beg her forgiveness. She’d surely understand, after a night in which to mull things over. She’d surely be regretting walking out like that. She loved him, didn’t she? Dusty, oh, Dusty!

  The mare laid back her ears in confusion as he jerked on the reins to deviate her from the normal track. ‘Damn the round, Polly!’ he laughed. ‘Damn them all. We’re going to see Dusty.’

  He slapped the reins, urging her to go faster and the mare broke into a trot. The crates on the cart began to vibrate and odd items toppled off the back, falling prey to a lucky scavenger, but Dickie was unconcerned. His objective was to reach Walmgate as fast as he could.

  Polly kept throwing back her head peevishly, unused to such a pace. She was accustomed to doing her rounds at a leisurely gait, with plenty of stops along the way where ladies would pet her and push titbits between her velvet lips. The cart rumbled and clattered over the cobblestones – it made her nervous, made her want to run.

  Suddenly, something leapt at her. Rough hands clawed at her bridle and heaved savagely on the bit. She gave a high whinny of pain as the metal dug into her. There was shouting and confusion and the sound of a struggle somewhere behind her.

  ‘Get him, Con!’ Garret Fallon applied his weight to the bridle as the mare tried to rear. His brother Conor was balanced on a spoke of one of the cartwheels, reaching up to pull Dickie from his seat.

  Dickie was overcome by a weird paralysis. His mind, until a moment ago, filled with thoughts of Dusty, now fought to regain his reasoning. He stared into the swarthy face of the tinker, trying to put a label to it. Fallon, that was it. Weren’t the Fallons out to kill him? He could not move. He watched Conor’s hand reaching. He was going to die and he couldn’t move. Oh, God save me!

  There was a sudden jolt as the frightened horse wrenched the bridle from Garret’s fingers. The cart lurched hindwards, unbalancing Conor from the wheel and pitching him into the gutter. Dickie was unseated, tumbling backwards against the pile of groceries, his feet in the air. The movement served to jerk him from his insentience. In a trice he had rolled from the cart, onto his feet and began to run.

  Garret released the terrified mare, shouted to his brother and both tinkers thundered down the street in pursuit. The cold air slashed at Dickie’s lungs. He flung a haunted glance over his shoulder, gasping with exertion and fear, praying that his long legs would outmatch theirs. There was an alleyway not far ahead. He knew it led onto a maze of back lanes. Once there he could lose them with ease. But he had to reach it first.

  He looked frantically over his shoulder again, looked back in front… and crashed headlong into a woman who was carrying a stack of parcels from a haberdashery store.
Down they both went, the parcels flying out in every direction, the woman rolling undignifiedly beneath her assailant, skirts up to her knees. With no time for apologies Dickie scrambled to his feet, leaving behind his bowler on the pavement as he ran on.

  They were almost upon him now. His terror was having a detrimental effect on his limbs; like a horrible nightmare where one is running like mad but not getting anywhere and the pursuer is inches behind, reaching, reaching …

  There it was! The alleyway. A few more strides and he would be free. He dashed in … and realised his error straight away. Oh, Jesus it was the wrong alley! In his panic he had taken the wrong turning. This alley led not to the network of outlets, but to an enclosed courtyard; a dead end. Dead.

  He continued to run, though it was futile to do so, then finally stopped, his back to the wall, his breath coming in painful, rasping clouds on the frosty air. The tinkers stopped also, blocking the exit, and smiled breathlessly. Garret thrust his hands deep into his pockets and surveyed the figure that awaited them so conveniently. ‘Well, now wasn’t that thoughtful of him, Con? Saves us running all over the shop, don’t it?’

  They swaggered towards him. Dickie’s heart pounded at his chest wall. He pressed himself to the sagging brickwork as if in the hope that it might swallow him up. He wanted to speak, to plead for his life, but his terror had taken his tongue.

  ‘I do believe the poor fella’s frightened,’ gloated Con.

  ‘Sure, he’s got cause to be,’ said Garret portentously. He reached inside his jacket. When his hand emerged the weak sun snatched at something silver.

  Dickie’s blood turned to jelly at the sight of the knife. He could not tear his eyes from it. An acute trembling took over his limbs.

  ‘Hey, brother them’s awful dangerous things is knives,’ said Con, feigning concern. ‘Hadn’t ye best put it away before somebody gets hurt? Ye’re makin’ the young fella terrible nervous.’

  ‘Look, I’m sorry about your sister!’ Dickie’s vocal chords finally breed themselves, escaping in a high-pitched tremor. He fumbled deliriously in his pockets, pulling out the money he had taken as a float. He scrabbled on the icy ground for the coins that slipped from his grasp. ‘Here! Take this for her.’ He thrust a handful of silver and copper at them.

  ‘Well now, that’s not much reward for our sister’s pain, is it, Con?’ said Garret reproachfully, counting out the money that Dickie’s trembling fingers had poured into his hand.

  ‘Take the horse!’ said Dickie eagerly. ‘The cart too.’

  ‘Anything – just so long as we don’t hurt your pretty hide, eh?’

  Dickie did not answer, too obsessed with the knife that the tinker kept turning in his fingers.

  ‘How about it, Con?’ said Garret lazily. ‘D’ye think we should let him go?’

  ‘We-ell, he has been kinda generous, givin’ us the horse an’ cart, an’ a couple o’ pounds too. An’ we never axed him for anythin’, did we? Still,’ he drawled, ‘it don’t seem much to pay for our sister’s lost virtue, do it?’

  ‘That’s exactly what I thought,’ nodded Garret. ‘So I think we’ll just do what we set out to do, Con. All right?’

  ‘Right.’ Conor, too dipped into his pocket and brought out a knife.

  Dickie screamed, squirming against the unyielding wall. Dusty, help me! His eyes rolled as the knives advanced upon him. He screamed again. ‘No!’ A cloud of ammonic steam wafted under his nose and his trousers suddenly bore an extra weight. The sun flashed on a knife-blade. There was the sharp application of steel to flesh. Then, no more.

  * * *

  Josie bustled in, startling Thomasin from her meditation. For the first time in months she had been forced to close the store at lunchtime. Sonny had not appeared for work this morning which, though hardly unexpected, meant that she had to cope at the counter alone. She had made several attempts to gain access to his room. Apart from a gruff ‘Go away!’ only the smell of linseed oil betrayed his presence. He was using the room as a coffin, and who could blame him?

  ‘Sorry, Josie,’ she said absently, playing with the braid on her dress. ‘I’m afraid I’ve not done justice to the lovely meal you prepared me.’

  But Josie had not come to remove the half-eaten meal, instead she said quiedy, ‘There’s a policeman in the hall, ma’am.’

  Her employer sighed and placed a hand over her eyes. ‘What now?’

  ‘He didn’t say, ma’am.’ But Josie knew it undoubtedly concerned Mr Dickie. He was a proper nuisance to his parents. So different from his brother. She had been quickly ushered away at the first sign of trouble last night but was aware that something of great import had taken place.

  He doesn’t have to, thought Thomasin cryptically. As if we haven’t enough trouble. ‘Show him in, Josie.’

  When the officer entered Thomasin asked him to be seated and offered refreshment. He sat down but declined the offer of tea and pulled out a notebook.

  ‘And what has my son been up to this time?’ she asked tiredly, before he had disclosed his reason for being there.

  He fluttered through the pages of the notepad. ‘You speak as if your son is an habitual offender, madam.’

  She was quick to rectify the assumption. ‘But I can’t think of any other member of my household who would warrant your presence. It is about my son?’

  ‘Your son may or may not be implicated in this matter, ma’am,’ he said. ‘But I am primarily concerned about a horse and cart which I believe belongs to you. It is – or should I say was, for it has been removed – causing a traffic hazard in Walmgate.’ Thomasin frowned and asked him to be more detailed. ‘There was no driver in the cart,’ he told her. ‘The mare decided she would like to quench her thirst, spotted a trough on the opposite side of the road, turned into the path of an oncoming vehicle, nearly causing a nasty accident, and finished up with the cart blocking the entire street. The address of your business premises was painted on the side of the cart but as I got no answer there I had to look up your home address.’

  Thomasin’s mind had gone no further than his words ’No driver in the cart’. ‘But my son?’ she said abstractedly.

  ‘He was in charge of the vehicle?’ queried the policeman, at which she nodded rapidly. He asked for a description of her son which she quickly provided. ‘Well, I can’t say if the two incidents are related and I should hate to alarm you unduly but we received another complaint at the same time from a lady who was knocked to the ground by a young man of a similar description to the one you’ve just given me. He was being pursued by two men who appeared to be gypsies …’

  ‘And I hope they bloody caught up with him!’ Sonny had entered the room unnoticed, his face strikingly tallow beneath the flaming hair.

  ‘I beg your pardon, sir?’ The police officer became alert. ‘Would you be able to enlarge on my information, Mr … ?’

  ‘I’m sorry, officer,’ said Thomasin flusteredly. ‘This is my younger son. Sonny, what did you mean? Do you know what’s happened to Dickie?’

  ‘I can guess.’ Sonny flopped into a chair and leaned his head back, regarding them sardonically.

  ‘May we be privy to this information?’ asked the policeman politely. Sonny’s lips remained compressed.

  ‘Sonny, if you know anything please tell us.’ Thomasin wrung her hands. ‘Who are these men? Where is your brother?’

  ‘With a bit of luck, Mother,’ he said bitterly, ‘my brother will be dead and I will have been spared a job.’

  ‘Sonny!’

  ‘Mr Feeney.’ The officer grew impatient. ‘If you have reason to believe that a crime has been committed …’

  ‘Oh, there’s a crime been committed all right!’ spat Sonny. ‘It’s a crime he was ever born. Very well!’ He sprang up and trod the fireside rug. ‘I have no definite evidence but I believe the two men who were chasing my brother were named Fallon …’ At this, Thomasin gave a sharp cry and sat down. Sonny continued, ‘It appears that my dear brother – as seems to
be his pastime – was rather too free with his wild oats and impregnated the Fallons’ sister. Yes!’ he tossed sarcastically at his mother. ‘Another one!’ He went on to tell her about the episode at the fairground. ‘So, the tinkers have caught up with him at last,’ he concluded. ‘Let’s trust they’ve done a good job.’

  ‘Oh, Sonny.’ Thomasin put her hands to her cheeks. ‘Don’t.’

  ‘Why not? Why should I care if they kill him?’

  ‘He’s your brother.’

  ‘That fact only makes me hate him all the more. I’ll be glad if he’s dead. How could he do it to me, Mother? To me, who always defended him?’ His face beseeched her, but she could not answer him. Because she did not know the answer.

  The policeman had done nothing to interrupt the flow, but now he reclaimed the initiative. ‘Look sir, are you certain that these two men were the same?’

  ‘Of course I’m not certain,’ said the other testily. ‘I’ve been here all morning. Anyway, there must be any amount of people wanting to kill him.’

  ‘But you think there may be a distinct possibility of them being somehow connected with this incident?’ persisted the officer.

  Sonny nodded, and the man turned to Thomasin. What had set out as an insignificant inquiry had developed more sinister proportions. ‘I shouldn’t be too quick to jump to conclusions, Mrs Feeney. We’ve had no reports of a … well, of anything of an unsavoury nature. It’s most probable that your son escaped these men. Did he happen to be wearing a bowler hat by the way?’ He had suddenly recalled that the woman who had been assaulted had clung grimly to the bowler hat as ‘evidence’. Thomasin could not see the relevance in his question but answered, ‘Why, yes he was. Is that significant?’

  He evaded answering by consulting his watch. ‘At what time does he usually return from his work?’