by Tania Crosse
He gave a boyish grin and happily left the room. Morgan was sitting in the armchair and Tresca took his hand, feeling the weight slide from her shoulders. He certainly appeared restored to health, and the marks from the rash had all but gone. There was just a tiny scar on his forehead and the slightest puckering of the skin on his right cheek, nothing at all disfiguring.
‘Oh, I must send for Callum at once!’ Tresca gave a sudden whoop of joy. ‘I must send a telegram—’
Morgan caught her arm as she sprang away from him. ‘My darling girl, send a letter. You’re exhausted, running round after me. I can never thank you enough, and you know I can’t wait to have Callum back, too. But give yourself some rest. A few days won’t make much difference.’
Tresca hesitated, pushing her thumb against her mouth. ‘All right,’ she grinned. ‘But I’m going to write straight away.’ And she flitted out of the room in a whirlwind of excitement.
‘Just ’ark at that there wind.’
Lucy voiced Tresca’s thoughts as the windows rattled alarmingly in another ferocious blast. Tresca, Morgan and Lucy were having a cup of tea in the drawing room. They knew Charity would not allow such familiarity when she returned. Although Tresca could hardly contain her joyful anticipation at the prospect of seeing Callum again, she wasn’t looking forward to Charity’s presence, despite their recently improved relationship.
The mild February weather had given way to the freezing temperatures of the following month. Today, the ninth of March, had witnessed a building wind. As night closed in, it was turning to a vicious, blustering gale that howled menacingly around the shivering town.
Above the clamouring wind, they caught an urgent knocking on the front door. Lucy leapt to her feet with a puzzled frown. A few moments later, a commotion had Tresca running out into the hall after her. Could it possibly be that Charity and Mrs Lancaster had returned with Callum?
Tresca thought she would explode with joy. Lucy was holding the front door, which was threatening to be wrenched out of her hands by the gusting wind. Tiny snowflakes were scudding in from the darkness outside, swirling in vigorous eddies on the tiled floor. On the threshold, Charity was struggling to close her umbrella which had turned inside out. A cab driver pushed past her, heaving her large trunk indoors and showering white dust from his broad shoulders. As he waited for his payment, Tresca wished he would hurry up, for surely Mrs Lancaster was outside with Callum in her arms.
Tresca couldn’t understand it when he left and Charity pulled the door from Lucy’s grasp, banging it shut behind her. Tresca blinked, shaking her head in confusion. Surely . . . ?
‘Where’s Callum?’ she demanded, battling to retain her hold on reality, for surely there was good reason . . . ?
‘It’s good to be home,’ Charity announced, ignoring her. ‘It’s all very well staying with one’s sister-in-law—’
‘B–but where’s Callum? And Mrs Lancaster?’ Tresca repeated as ice touched somewhere deep inside her.
‘That ungrateful woman!’ Charity dropped her umbrella into the hallstand. ‘She left my employment a week ago. After all the years we’ve been together and all I’ve done for her.’
‘Left your employment?’ Morgan questioned, arriving at Tresca’s shoulder.
‘But where’s Callum?’ Tresca insisted, panic taking her by the throat.
Charity shrugged and fixed Tresca with a bemused frown. ‘Callum did you say? I know no one of that name. Now then,’ she went on, shaking her head dismissively, ‘I need to freshen up, and then I’d like a nice cup of tea if Lucy will oblige.’
She began to climb the stairs, leaving the three young people staring at her, their mouths dangling open in horrified disbelief. Some dark, ominous fear blackened Tresca’s soul, strangling her, pinning her down. Time fractured, bled. She could only watch, turned to stone, as Charity moved upwards as if nothing had happened, her face impassive. But . . . but Callum . . . !
Tresca forced her paralysed lungs to take a breath and, breaking free from her shock, sprang up the stairs. ‘What’ve you done with my baby?’ she shrieked as she launched herself at Charity.
The look the woman turned on her froze her to the spot. Charity’s face was a macabre mask, her features grotesquely contorted and her eyes gleaming with evil. She threw up her head with a bitter, deranged laugh and then, as her gaze rested on Tresca’s dumbfounded stare, she wrestled with her daughter-in-law’s grasp on her arm. Towering over her from the next step up, she found some demonic strength and hurled the girl down the stairs.
Tresca heard herself scream as she tumbled downwards. It happened so quickly, she wasn’t aware of any discomfort until several seconds after she came to rest with a dull thud on the hall floor. Pain seared through her wrist, and she became aware of Morgan cradling her against him.
‘You bitch!’ he cried in a furious voice so unlike his usual placid self. ‘You—’
‘It’s what she deserves!’ Charity sneered down at them, spitting with malice. ‘She doesn’t belong in this house, and neither does that bastard child of hers.’
‘So what have you done with him? Where is he?’
‘Somewhere you’ll never find him! I want her to know what it’s like to have your son taken away from you.’
‘Taken away? What do you mean, you vicious old witch?’
‘There, you see? You’d never have spoken to me like that before she came on the scene! Stolen you from me, that’s what she’s done. So I wanted her to know what that feels like.’
Charity’s eyes had narrowed dangerously. But though she was biting back the agony in her wrist, Tresca had to fight back. ‘I’ve done nothing of the sort!’
‘Yes, you have! Wouldn’t even let me nurse Morgan when he was ill—’
‘But it were your idea to take Callum away. Now where is he, you—?’
Charity’s eyes were ablaze, wild and brutal with madness. ‘Wouldn’t you like to know! He’ll never come back to this house. Never!’
‘But I thought as you loved ’en.’
Tresca glanced up in awed astonishment as Lucy slowly stepped past them, her voice cool and calm as she edged one foot on to the first step, then the next, inching her way towards the unhinged woman halfway up the stairs.
‘Didn’t believe that, did you?’ Charity cackled viciously. ‘It was just a charade to trick you while I waited for my moment. And now it’s come and I’ll not have any reminder of him in my house ever again!’
Lucy had almost reached her, but Charity suddenly fled up the remaining stairs and into the nursery. Gasping in pain, Tresca pursued her with Morgan on her heels, arriving just behind Lucy as the crash of breaking china reached them from inside the room.
They peered cautiously around the door. Charity had gone berserk. She had evidently hurled the pitcher and bowl to the floor. Now she had picked up the little chair and was smashing it on to the sides of Callum’s cot. When she failed to inflict much damage, she ran over to the window and ripped the curtains from their rail with a yell of anger.
‘Mother . . .’ Morgan stepped forward in horror, but Lucy stilled his arm.
‘No, leave her,’ she whispered. ‘Nort you can do. She’ll calm down when she’s ready. Seen the like afore, I ’as, wi’ the imbeciles in the work’ouse. Go for months, proper normal like, then they suddenly snaps. I’s afeared ’er ’ead’s turned. Come on.’ She quietly ushered them out of the room, taking the key from the inside of the door and then locking it behind her. ‘Mr Trembath, sir. You needs to fetch the doctor. And the constable. I’ll stay yere wi’ Tresca.’
Tresca had been staring at her, blank with terror and so glad to have someone to tell her what to do. But stay there when Callum . . .
‘No. I’ve got to look for Callum.’
‘But you’re hurt, and in this weather—’
Tresca’s look silenced him, and he nodded in acceptance. Less than a minute later, they stepped out on to the street. The deafening gale was still screaming. Tresca would
have been blown over immediately if Morgan hadn’t caught her. They battled down the hill, trying to stay upright, blinding snow driving into their faces like icy needles. Hardly anyone else was abroad. They passed only one other person bent almost double in the fight to get home.
Another powerful gust knocked Morgan and Tresca against the building they were passing. Tresca yelped in renewed pain, but her cry was lost in the screech of the living, wilful thing that was hell-bent on destroying everything in its path. They were plunged into darkness as the street lamps were blown out, and as they leant into the blizzard again they could scarcely see where they were going. There was just the roar of the squalling, heaving hurricane, the blackness of night, and the terror that somewhere out in this was Callum.
‘Look out!’
Morgan wrenched her backwards as some huge object hurtled past them. Tresca could barely make it out. Was it a shutter torn from its hinges? Dear God.
‘You should go back!’ Morgan bellowed in her ear to make himself heard.
‘No! You go on! I’m going to the railway station. They might know something.’
‘No, I won’t let—’
‘Just go!’
She pushed him hard, pain burning through her wrist. But he knew nothing would stop her, and while he pushed on down the hill, she plunged across Pym Street towards the station. She forced her way through deepening snow, which in places was already piled a foot deep, stumbling, dragging herself up again. The wind took her breath away, tossed her like some toy, tore at her coat, whipped her hair across her face and stung into her eyes. Tears of desperation dripped down her cheeks. Oh, Callum! Connor! She hardly heard the great, rumbling clatter as the chimney collapsed in the gale, bringing bricks and roof tiles raining down about her . . .
‘Tresca, my dearest, the inspector’s here.’
Tresca scraped herself from the deep sleep where she felt safe and secure. The dull headache crept back into her awareness, reminding her of the appalling events of the last few days, and the blizzard which would surely go down in the annals of time.
The whole of the south-west had been decimated. At sea, ships had been driven on to rocks with many lives lost. On land, the hurricane had wreaked havoc, bringing down trees and telegraph poles and wiping out communications. Huge drifts of snow made roads impassable, cut off water supplies and literally stopped trains in their tracks. Windows were blown out, roofs ripped off and chimneys caused to collapse. Many people had lucky escapes – including Tresca.
‘Dr Franfield had gone to Princetown and was presumably marooned up on the moor. So it was Dr Greenwood who came back with the inspector,’ Morgan had explained, concern etched on his face. ‘Mother was huddled in a corner, rocking herself back and forth in her own world. But as soon as they tried asking her about Callum, she became crazed again, lashing out, screaming. We had to hold her down while Dr Greenwood gave her an injection to calm her. They took her off to a police cell, but she’ll probably end up in an asylum.’
‘And Callum?’ Tresca’s lips were bloodless in her ashen face. ‘Did she give any clues?’
She moaned in agony when Morgan shook his head, and she clung to him as he explained how he had gone in search of her and found her knocked unconscious from the flying debris from yet another collapsed chimney. She had been lucky not to have been killed, but she wished she had been. How could she live without Connor – and now without his son?
‘I’m afraid it’s bad news,’ the inspector said gravely as he stepped across to the couch where young Mrs Trembath lay, looking, poor girl, like death warmed up, her head bandaged and her left wrist in plaster.
‘I’m not sure my wife’s in any fit state—’
‘It’s not about your son. I’m afraid we have no news there. Our enquiries have been severely handicapped by the effects of the storm. Telegraph wires are still down and travel is almost impossible. Mrs Trembath Senior must have been on the last train to get through from Okehampton, but we’re doing all we can under the circumstances. It was odd, though, that she sent her trunk on an earlier train, but I’m sure we’ll get to the bottom of it in time. No,’ he paused, twiddling his moustache awkwardly, ‘this is a different matter. We’ve found . . . erm . . . a body. Or at least some human remains.’
Tresca had been staring at him from the bottomless abyss she had tumbled into since Callum’s disappearance. Once the inspector had said his visit had nothing to do with her son, she had sunk back down into its depths, but something in her personal horror made her sit up and listen.
‘The storm brought down thousands of trees,’ the inspector continued. ‘One had come down in the Watts Road cutting. When the men went to clear it, they found the remains tangled up in the roots. Dr Greenwood examined it. He says . . . I’m so sorry to distress you further, but it would have been a male in his early thirties. A very tall and broad male with . . . with red hair.’
The low gasp that slowly expanded Tresca’s lungs almost asphyxiated her and she was so utterly grateful when Morgan put his arm around her shoulders.
‘As you know, we believe something happened by the scaffolding the night Mr O’Mahoney disappeared. Someone had fallen, whether by accident or foul play, we don’t know. The body that has been found had several broken bones, consistent with such a fall, among them broken ribs which could well have punctured the lungs, and a cracked skull. If it was foul play, the perpetrators – and there must have been at least two to move such a large man – possibly tried to bury the body among the trees at the top of the cutting, but didn’t make a very good job. Or perhaps the poor fellow was trying to save himself, somehow got to the top but then became disorientated, got tangled up in the tree roots and collapsed and died. I fear we’ll never know the truth. But . . .’ The inspector’s voice became even softer as he looked down at the distraught young woman. ‘We believe we know the identity of the deceased. I have his waistcoat, if you feel able . . . ?’
Tresca groaned softly and her fingers tightened on Morgan’s arm. She peeped out from the shelter of his embrace and nodded on a gasping sob as the inspector held out Connor’s distinctive waistcoat with its many shining buttons.
The inspector left quietly, leaving Tresca weeping against Morgan’s chest. He held her, not uttering a word since there were none to be said that could ease her pain as she cried until her heart would break – for another man. Very slowly, her tears subsided, but she still rested against her husband, feeling the warmth and comfort of him, the masculine love and support she craved.
‘I knew . . . he hadn’t deserted me,’ she finally croaked in a broken whisper. ‘Sometimes . . . I doubted . . . but always, deep down, I knew . . .’
‘I know, my love. He was a good man. I always liked and respected him myself. At least now you know what happened. Poor, poor fellow.’
A wrenching sigh lifted his chest, moving Tresca’s head as she still clung to him. Oh, Connor. Had he gone down to the cutting in his euphoria over the prospect of becoming a father? He loved his work, and she could well believe it. Oh, dear Lord, what a cruel twist of fate.
She felt Morgan drop a kiss on the top of her head, and she melted against him as her tears began afresh.
Some days later, a letter, posted from Exeter the morning before the storm, arrived for Morgan from Mrs Lancaster, citing Charity’s increasingly aggressive and erratic behaviour as the reason for leaving her employment – and please could she have a reference? Tresca scoffed in outrage. But as Morgan wistfully pointed out, his mother must have been acting strangely for Mrs Lancaster to have said so!
It hardly helped Tresca. She dragged herself through each day, tearing out her hair for news of Callum. Even at night she was tormented. Whenever she did manage to snatch a few hours’ sleep, Connor drifted into her dreams, but when she reached out to him, his shadow faded away. In the cold light of day, grim acceptance was reluctantly stealing into her rebellious mind. There was a stillness where once her heart had beaten, but always, beside her, was Morgan, q
uiet, calm and supporting.
‘Tresca, a constable’s yere fer fetch you!’ Lucy announced, bursting into the drawing room. ‘And he’m grinnin’ from ear to ear!’
Tresca and Morgan exchanged glances, and Tresca’s heart took a huge bound. Despite her bruised body, she was out of the front door in a trice, Morgan running to catch up with her. She didn’t even stop to put on her coat, shrugging into it as she fled down the hill, ignoring the constable who puffed along behind her.
Her pulse was pounding like a traction engine as she flung open the door to the police station. She stopped then, and as the inspector’s smiling face turned to her, the world ceased to spin. A tall, distinguished man was standing by the desk, and next to him a petite woman was beaming at her. In her arms she held a small, sleeping child, copper curls showing from beneath its warm bonnet.
Tresca almost collapsed, and would have done if Morgan hadn’t arrived at that second and caught her. Callum! Her head still whirling, she sprang forward and snatched her son from the woman’s hold.
Her mind was a blank. Just pure, unutterable joy.
‘I was going home after delivering a baby in Mary Tavy,’ she scarcely heard the middle-aged woman explain. ‘I’m the local midwife, you see. I was hurrying down to the bridge. We farm on the moor above Peter Tavy on the other side of the river. And I found this little chap crawling along the lane. I know all the local children, and I didn’t recognize him. So with the storm getting up, I thought the best thing was to take him home with me. And then we were snowed in up at the farm. This is the first chance we’ve had to come into town.’