by Iris Gower
He looked around for some means of transport but there seemed to be no cabs about. A few wagons stood near the dockside and a horse-drawn cart loaded with coal was making its way unsteadily over the cobbles. With a sigh of resignation, he set out to walk the few miles to Honey’s Farm. Normally the walk would have been pleasant. The streets around the docklands teemed with life. Cockle women, baskets over arms, the contents covered with pristine white cloths, called their wares in raucous voices. Vans trundled by and a big wagon drawn by four fine dray-horses pulled into the curbside near him to unload huge barrels of ale.
After a time, Liam left the busy streets behind and began the walk uphill away from the town. The rain had abated a little but by now he was soaked, his hat dripping water down his face. He hoped Catherine had a warm fire waiting but somehow there was an edge of doubt in his mind that all was not well.
As he negotiated the muddy lane leading to the farmhouse, he saw that the kitchen door was open. Some chickens were scratching in the yard and he breathed a sigh of relief, his fears had been unfounded. What he had imagined, he did not know. That Catherine had sold the farm perhaps, that she had fallen sick and was lying in her bed alone. But no, she would be near the fire, boiling up mutton for dinner, perhaps, or out milking her large herd of cows.
He called her name as he pushed the door open and then stood just within the kitchen staring around him in dismay. The fire was dead in the grate, the coals dusty. He moved forward and touched the hob, it was cold, there had been no fire lit there for some time.
He moved quickly around the rest of the house and his search of the rooms proved only that Catherine was not here. In one of the bedrooms, the bedclothes were disarrayed, a bolster lay on the floor and a jug of water had been overturned.
He returned quickly to the kitchen, the stock of logs was almost gone, usually in this sort of weather any country girl would be sure to have a large stock at hand. His instincts had been right, something had happened.
He stood on the doorstep and looked around him, straining his eyes to see through the mist and rain. He caught the hint of smoke rising from a chimney-stack and realized it must belong to Catherine’s nearest neighbour.
He crossed the yard and looked into the barn. Some of the animals were crouched on the ground and it took him a few minutes to see that the creatures were in distress, their udders heavy with milk. He touched one swollen belly and felt by the heat there that the cow was sick and engorged. Something needed to be done, and quickly, but his first priority was to find out where Catherine was.
He made his way towards the distant farmhouse, slipping on the wet hillside. He tried to keep his feelings of panic at bay, praying he would find her safe with her neighbours. ‘Mother of God keep Catherine from harm,’ he said softly.
Cliff Jones was a young, sandy-haired man with a plump wife and a brood of children in various stages of growth. He drew Liam into his house with a smile of welcome. ‘What can I do for you, sir?’ He had noted the good cut of Liam’s clothes and clearly felt it was wise to be a little deferential.
‘I’m looking for Catherine O’Conner, have you seen her in the last few days?’
‘No, sir. Sorry but the weather’s been so bad-like, got enough to do on my own farm, much as I’d like to help. Done all I can for the lady, mind, helped when she was away but it’s all too much for one man. “Get out of there,” I told her, “sell up, make life easy for yourself.” Perhaps that’s what she’s done.’
‘Has there been anyone else here asking about her?’ Liam tried again but the man shook his head.
‘Sorry, sir. Could we offer you a cup of something to warm you up, it’s an awful day for a man to be about.’
‘’Tis kind of you,’ Liam said quickly, ‘but I shall have to go into town, see the police, perhaps they know something.’
‘Oh!’ The farmer looked at Liam with raised eyebrows, ‘I just remembered something.’
‘Go on then.’ A small hope flickered within Liam but the man’s next words extinguished it at once.
‘Jeremiah Danby been up here, asking questions he was, about the bull.’
Liam looked at him blankly. ‘Jeremiah Danby?’
‘Police constable hereabouts, he is. Seems the bull was got at.’ He lowered his voice. ‘Some bastard cut the beast’s balls off, useless the creature was then, good only for the cooking pot.’
Liam digested this information in silence, aware that the rain was now stealing down the collar of his coat in chill streams. ‘Where will I find the policeman?’
‘Got a house down in town, Moriah Street, that’s where he lives. Be there this time of day I ’spects, havin’ his dinner.’
Liam refused a cup of tea but took out some money and placed it on the table. ‘I’d be obliged if you would see to the animals up at Honey’s Farm, just until I can sort something out.’
‘Oh, right sir, I’ll do that, don’t you fret. Should sell up, I told her, told her more than once; it’s more than any young girl can handle, is farming.’
Once outside the farm door, Liam began to run towards the town. It took him almost an hour to locate Moriah Street which was tucked away on the fringes of the town. He knocked on the door and stood on the step, impatiently waiting for someone to answer.
The door was opened by a huge-breasted woman in a spotless white apron. She clucked when she saw him and drew him into the warmth of the kitchen.
‘Duw, look at the state of you, catch your death, you will, your poor old coat is soaked through. She was drawing it away from his shoulders before he had time to protest and then she drew out a chair and set it before the fire. ‘A nice mug of stew is what you need, get some colour back into your cheeks.’
‘Are you Mrs Danby then?’ he asked. ‘The policeman’s wife, is it?’ He was touched at the woman’s hospitality and he sat back, allowing her to take charge. In any case, to stop her would be like trying to halt a herd of wild horses at full gallop.
‘Love you for a good man, I’m Jeremiah’s mother, not his wife, though thank you for the compliment anyway.’
‘I’m after a talk with your son, then.’ He rubbed his hands together, trying to infuse some warmth into his chilled fingers. ‘I don’t suppose he’s at home is he?’
‘Love you, no, down at the station he is, working hard. Well, that’s what my Jeremiah tells ’is mam, anyway.’
She brought him the stew and his mouth watered at the pea-and-ham flavour that rose from the brimming mug. She drew a chair closer to the fire and sat opposite him lifting her skirts and exposing plump knees to the blaze. Liam averted his eyes.
‘Don’t mind me!’ she giggled like a girl. ‘Now come on, tell me what’s wrong, Lovie. I know as much about the goings on in Swansea as my son does.’
He hesitated and then decided it could do no harm to confide in her. ‘I’m looking for Catherine O’Conner,’ he said slowly. ‘She’s close kin and I’m worried about her, she’s not at the farm, you see, and the beasts are falling sick and the chicks running loose …’ The words trailed away and he shook his head helplessly.
‘Well now, there’s been a bit of nastiness up at Honey’s Farm lately, the old bull got dealt with good and proper, won’t have any more fun, not him.’
‘I know, I heard about that from the neighbouring farmer,’ Liam said, his despondency growing.
‘Someone got it in for the young lady, someone with a grudge,’ Mrs Danby said. Her nod was knowing. ‘My son is working on that now, thinks he knows who the culprit is.’
‘Sure then he’s a clever man.’ Liam leaned forward in his chair. ‘Has he told you who this person is?’
To his disappointment, Mrs Danby shook her head. ‘No, it’s confidential like, couldn’t tell me nothing about his job, not him.’
‘When do you expect him home?’ Liam asked wearily and watched as the woman’s brows drew together.
‘No tellin’, can’t say when he’ll get off work, treat him like a slave at that station
they do.’
Liam rose and placed the mug on the table. ‘Thank you for the hospitality, sure an’ I’ll call back this evening, will that be all right?’
‘You’re welcome any time to sit at my hearth. Now don’t forget your bag, there’s a good man. Who shall I tell my boy was looking for him then?’
‘Liam Cullen, Catherine’s kinsman.’ Liam stepped out into the rainy street and placed his damp hat on his head. He strode out along the street and realized, too late, he should have asked Mrs Danby for the name of a good hotel, somewhere cheap and warm where they served good plain food. He had no time for the fiddling dishes they set before a man in some of the more elegant establishments.
Once in the heart of the town, he picked up a cab easily enough and told the driver exactly what he was looking for. Then, he sank back in the seat, feelings of anxiety crowding in on him. Catherine had disappeared but he would find her, if he had to stay the rest of his life in Swansea.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
It was cold in the drawing-room of the grey-stone house known as Ty Craig, even though a fire burned brightly in the grate. Bethan stared around her as though she had suddenly found herself in a lost world. However many times she had the fire stoked up in the rooms, the place still retained a damp, somewhat sickly atmosphere that reminded Bethan of a churchyard. Why had she returned to the place? Because of her father whose health was failing or because the valley in which the house stood was tucked well away in the folds of the surrounding hills?
Ty Craig was a gloomy house and sometimes she felt she sensed a presence, more than one presence, a host of ghostly images which faded on closer inspection with a well-lit lamp. She dismissed the idea as the fancies of a lonely woman and tried to put it out of her mind.
The door opened and the elderly butler, who had served at Ty Craig for as long as Bethan could remember, came into the room inclining his head in deference. ‘A gentleman to see you, madam, a Mr Thomas Butler.’
Bethan rose at once, a smile on her face as she went forward to greet her visitor. ‘Uncle Tom, I wasn’t expecting to see you today, so this is indeed a pleasure for me.’
She took her uncle’s hands and over her shoulder gave an order that some refreshments be brought at once.
‘Sit here beside the fire, Uncle Tom, it’s not a very nice day, is it?’
Tom looked at her ruefully. ‘Outside it is beautiful but here in this mausoleum it is as cold as the grave. How is your father, my dear, is he up to a visit from me?’
‘I should think so but first, is there something you want to tell me?’ Bethan smiled to herself.
‘You always were too wise for your own good, couldn’t this just be a social call?’
‘It’s lovely to see you, Tom, but I can see this is not just a social call, you have something on your mind so come on, out with it, am I to have a lecture on the perils of living the life of a scorned wife again?’
Tom frowned. ‘I’d better come straight to the point.’ He paused as the maid Bethan had brought with her to Ty Craig bobbed a curtsey and placed a tray on the table. Bethan waved Cara away impatiently. She poured the tea and handed Tom a cup and then waited for him to speak.
‘My man, the one I sent up to keep watch at Honey’s Farm, he’s come to me with a problem.’
‘What sort of problem?’ Bethan asked warily. She put her cup of tea untasted on the tray. ‘What has happened?’
‘It seems the O’Conner girl surprised young Jacob, he was forced to hide and the fool chose the hen-house. The young woman had a gun, I’m afraid he acted somewhat hastily.’
‘And?’ Bethan probed, wishing he would get oh with it.
‘Well, he injured the girl rather badly I’m afraid.’
Bethan resisted the urge to smile, she put her hand to her mouth and feigned disapproval. ‘This was not what I intended, how badly was she hurt?’
‘Bruises, perhaps broken bones, I’m not sure. Jacob hung around for a while as he was instructed to do and later, he found her in the yard, lying in the mud, her face almost unrecognizable. He took her to his hovel and she’s there now, sick with a fever. What am I to do with her, Bethan?’
Bethan thought of the girl, sick and injured, in a hovel with a halfwit and felt a glow of almost self-righteous joy; it was where a girl of that sort belonged.
‘What can I do?’ Bethan asked holding her hands palms up as though dismissing any responsibility. ‘I can hardly bring her here, can I, that would make people suspicious to say the least. I can’t see that it matters much where she is, can you?’
‘Well, no, except that some Irish cousin, a man by the name of Liam Cullen, is going about Swansea, talking to people, trying to learn the whereabouts of the girl.’
‘I doubt he will be able to trace her,’ Bethan said. ‘How could he?’
‘I don’t know but I am uneasy about it. She needs care, it’s quite possible she could die, then all sorts of hell will break loose. You must think of something Bethan.’
‘And what am I to do, then? Murder her, hide her body beneath the stones in the courtyard?’ She was angry with him, this was his problem, he had made the mess, he could clean it up. ‘If you recall, I did not agree to any violence, Uncle Tom, so I can’t be held responsible for what your man has done.’
‘But what if she dies?’ Tom asked, he was almost pleading with her now, anxious in the face of Bethan’s displeasure.
‘Get her medical attention if you are so concerned, make up a story, any story. Use your intelligence, Uncle Tom, you have plenty of it.’
‘Aye, I may be a learned man but it seems I have a great deal yet to know about the devious workings of a woman’s mind.’ It dawned on him that she was not going to help in any way and as he subsided in his chair, he suddenly looked old.
‘Don’t let’s quarrel,’ Bethan rose and in an uncharacteristic gesture, kissed Tom’s brow. ‘Drink your tea, let us calm down and discuss this sensibly, there is bound to be a solution.’
Her mind was racing; what would happen to the farm with the O’Conner girl out of the way? Would it be put up for sale by this kinsman of hers? Alternatively, the place could be left to moulder away in neglect. Perhaps she should take a trip into Swansea and find out for herself just what was going on. In the meantime, she must placate Tom, persuade him to leave the girl where she was, at least for the moment.
Catherine opened her eyes slowly, a pale wintry light was filtering through the grimy window to the left of her. She realized that she was in bed in a strange room. The room was small and bare, the only furniture was a small table and the bed on which she was lying. Fearfully, she sat upright and immediately a pain tore her side, running down to her ankle. She gasped and paused for a moment before pushing herself upright.
She saw herself then in the speckled mirror on the shabby table facing her and she hardly recognized herself. Her face was dappled with bruises, her eyes blackened and swollen, her lip cut. Memory came flooding back, she felt again the blows rained on her by the intruder, the horror and fear of the attack made her tremble even now.
She tried to clear her mind, she remembered crouching for what seemed like hours on the floor, half unconscious. Finally, she had made her way into the mud-soaked yard attempting to reach her neighbour’s farm and then all was blackness.
She pushed back the bedclothes and shivered in the cold. She glanced down the length of her body, she had been undressed and garbed in a decent, cotton nightgown but who had brought her here? And why had she not been taken back to the farmhouse?
She tried to get out of bed and the pain made her cry out. She hung onto the worn brass head-rail, forcing back the waves of nausea, she must get out of the room, find someone who could tell her what was happening.
She managed to inch her way to the door but every movement made her wince in agony. She turned the handle but it resisted and after a moment, she realized that she was locked in. Slowly, she edged towards the window but it was far too high for her to see out of t
he small panes.
She was shivering violently with cold and fatigue and, defeated, she made her way back to the bed; at least there she could be warm.
She must have dozed because, when she opened her eyes once more, the room was dark. The door was opening and a woman carrying a lamp entered. She was tall, austere and she wore a big flapping cloth around her hair. For a confused moment, Catherine wondered if she was in a convent but then she saw that this woman was dressed in poor garments, a heavy sack hung around her thick waist and her arms beneath the rolled-up sleeves were those of a working woman.
‘There’s a doctor here to see you.’ The woman said sullenly and Catherine stared past her at the man who bustled towards the bed, a black bag in his hand. He offered neither his name nor his hand but he gave her a tablet which she obediently swallowed and then examined her bruises in silence. After a while he pulled back the bedclothes and clucked in disapproval at the state of the self-made bandage on her leg.
‘Fetch me some clean water, I must bathe this ankle and bandage it properly. Find some strips of clean cloth if you please.’
‘Who are you and why am I here?’ Catherine asked, her voice thin with fear. He looked at her in surprise, as if she had risen up and bitten him.
‘I’m just a visiting doctor, girl,’ he peered into her eyes. ‘You might well have sustained some injury to the head when you fell.’ He glanced at the woman who was still hovering in the doorway. ‘Well, go on then, hurry up, I haven’t all day.’
‘All right then, Doctor, but I warn you, this girl is a terrible liar, you must not believe a word she says, she can make up stories like no-one I ever saw before.’
Catherine was bewildered, ‘I have never seen that woman before and yet she talks as if she knows me, am I going mad?’ she asked, fear gripping her.
‘You have had a fall and that led to a fever, you might even have some injury to the brain, nothing I can do about that! You are bound to be a little confused but time will heal all, so don’t worry.’