Maybe she should have screamed. Maybe it would have attracted someone’s attention and she might not have found herself stranded in the paddock flapping her arms at horses bolting from her to the north, south and east, but it had all happened so quickly and so quietly that the fleeing horses were the only evidence of anything having happened at all. That anyone turned up out of nowhere was a miracle of timing. But someone did.
A lone horseman trotting down the lane from Somerset Station paused briefly to stare after the runaways heading into town before his attention was drawn to her forlorn figure yelling at nothing. He rode towards it, pulling up at the paddock gate.
‘That’s one way to get rid of ’em,’ he said.
Pearl walked slowly towards him, not recognising him but drawn to the amusement no one else she knew would have summoned under the circumstances. The rider hopped off his horse as she reached the paddock gate.
‘Mrs Worthington, is it?’ he said. ‘Joe Fletcher.’ He put out his hand to shake hers. No fuss, she noted, just a frank stare and a normal handshake.
‘Pearl McCleary,’ she said. ‘From the Nightingales’ house.’ She nodded in the direction of her bedroom. ‘Someone was up at the other gate delivering more horses so I yelled at them and they took off.’
‘Right,’ said Joe Fletcher. ‘Better get ’em back before they trample the town to death.’
‘I don’t see how I can manage that,’ she said.
‘You can’t,’ he replied. ‘I can.’ And without waiting to hear whether or not it was what she wanted, he was up on his horse and galloping so hard in the direction of the town that the clamour finally brought Louisa and Martin Duffy into the street wanting to know what was going on.
‘What a mess,’ she began. ‘Oh God. I ruined it. It was a total failure.’
It wasn’t how a furious Martin Duffy saw it. ‘The only failure was you being so reckless,’ he said sharply. ‘You had no idea what you were up against. You should never have tackled them on your own.’
‘Don’t be so silly, Martin,’ Louisa said. ‘She’s right as rain. It’s not a mess. All the horses have gone. It’s a marvel.’ She laughed so oddly that Martin and Pearl looked everywhere but at each other. She laughed until she heard trotting hooves and saw twenty or thirty horses heading home through the Arch, urged along by a horseman who had no idea of their implication. She put her hand to her eyes and murmured, ‘Please no. Make him take them back.’
Joe Fletcher had no intention of doing anything other than the thing he’d set out to do. Without so much as a nod in the direction of the three standing by the gate, he rounded the horses into the paddock, closed the gate behind him and addressed Pearl McCleary. ‘I reckon I know where they’re from. I’ll need a day or two to check with my brother and I’ll let you know.’ And with that he was off, leaving Pearl to explain who he was and why she hadn’t been able to identify any of the blackmailers in the dark. ‘The only thing, but I couldn’t swear to it, one of them might have been a woman.’ She looked to Louisa. Martin Duffy looked to Louisa.
‘What colour hair did she have?’ Louisa asked sharply.
‘No idea. She was wearing a hat.’
‘What kind of hat?’
‘A big one. Covered her face.’
‘What else was she wearing?’ But Pearl couldn’t say. ‘For heaven’s sake! What did she sound like?’
‘A man. But it wasn’t a man. I saw her hands.’
‘It will have been a man,’ said Louisa. ‘Now let’s go inside. I need a drink.’
Since there was nothing more that could be done that night, or possibly ever, it was a sensible suggestion, but it didn’t tempt Pearl. She said only that they should wait to see what Mr Fletcher’s enquiries revealed. More urgently, she hoped Martin Duffy had found Maggie’s file because that was why she had come out in the first place. She dreaded the trouble for Maggie if he hadn’t. He was able to tell her that not only had he, it was back where it belonged, which was moderately true. He had no time to explain his magnificent plan because Louisa was calling him from the front door. So Pearl went to bed easier of mind than she’d expected to be even if she had been accosted by Captain Nightingale on the way there saying, ‘I am head of this house. You know that, don’t you, McCleary.’
Chapter Thirty-five
Maggie, who’d gone to bed fuller of hope than she should have been, greeted the new day with less. Dawn, as it so often does, brought with it the dreadful anxiety of realities unchecked. She woke, she dressed quickly and she hurried through the town so early that only the baker and the priest were about their business.
Curiously, both the Mayor and his wife were awake. Neither had slept well. Mrs Mayberry’s head was too full of the handsome, city-trained maître d’hotel who had appeared so fortuitously on her doorstep. He’d raised the social standard of her party so substantially it now perfectly accorded with the view she had of herself presiding over it. What was causing her anxiety at dawn was her failure to find out where the young man lived. They needed another consultation. She needed to ask him to act as master of ceremonies, introducing her in his pleasantly lilting Irish voice so she could say a few words. She most definitely intended to say a few words.
The Mayor was agitated because his wife was being so damned secretive about the whole thing. The town might have been abuzz with the stupid party – they could hardly fail to be when she had notices of it in the paper and pinned to any bloody surface that could even slightly display one – but he felt overlooked. She was deliberately keeping him out of the picture. Whenever he asked how she imagined the event would unfold, she smiled that stupid new smile of hers and told him he should wait and see. She was certain he’d enjoy himself. Last night she’d said, ‘And if you don’t, it will be your own silly fault.’
‘Are you awake?’ he asked her now. He didn’t care if she was or wasn’t. He intended her to be, so he enquired loudly.
‘Of course I’m awake,’ she replied. ‘My mind’s racing. You won’t believe who’s coming.’
‘I know who’s coming. Everyone,’ he said.
‘Including the Murdochs and Mr Joe Fletcher from Somerset Station. I made a point of writing to them and they made a point of replying. They are fans of mine. Mrs Murdoch and Mr Fletcher both came to hear me speak and you would … What was that?’
‘What?’
‘A noise in the kitchen.’
‘Rats?’
‘Not rats. Someone’s trying to get in.’ And someone was, ineptly and noisily. Through their closed bedroom door came the unmistakable sound of a window being opened and with effort. ‘Quick, George. Shoot first, ask questions later. I think I left my pearls in the dining room.’
The Mayor was in no hurry to confront any intruder even if he was after his wife’s pearls, or for that matter any of the sensitive documents or large pile of cash locked in his safe. He searched for his dressing gown, struggled with its confounded arms, tied the ridiculous cord into a double bow, pushed open the bedroom door and paused. Someone was climbing through the kitchen window, puffing and scuffling and making small whimpering noises. His gun was in the dining-room cabinet. The dining room was across the hall next to the kitchen. Far easier to call out and forestall, he decided, than to confront. A call would allow whoever it was to escape but not give them time to steal anything more than breakfast. ‘Somebody there?’ he called mildly. And just as well.
Maggie answered. ‘It’s only me, Mr Mayberry. I’ve come for my purse. I didn’t want to wake you.’
‘There’s a good girl,’ he said. ‘Very thoughtful. Mrs Mayberry and I need our beauty sleep. And what’s that you have there?’ Maggie was carrying the folder.
‘I’ve no idea. I saw it in the hydrangeas when I was passing and thought I’d better bring it in.’ She handed it to him.
The Mayor narrowed his gaze. Her name was plastered all over it yet she was saying she had no idea what it was. She looked as if she were telling the truth. On the other hand, a m
an was a fool if he didn’t cover his back. Women were not to be trusted. ‘How on earth did it get there?’ he asked, sounding as innocent as she. ‘It’s not mine. This has come from a lawyer’s office or some such. I’ll make some enquiries. Now, do you have your purse?’
Maggie said, ‘It’s not where I thought it was. I’ll have to go home and search the place again from top to bottom.’ So the Mayor showed her out and she ran until she reached The Arch, where she slowed to an amble in case Martin Duffy emerged and found her sweating and panting as opposed to glowing and sighing. And so her day began, bumpily and anxiously, but it progressed beautifully, just as she’d hoped and, indeed, intended.
Martin Duffy didn’t appear on her doorstep until well after nine, by which time the boys were at school and under pain of death to stay there all day or else. ‘Else what?’ Ed laughed. ‘Your boyfriend will beat us? I don’t think so.’ Maggie didn’t think so either but she said any lip and they’d be sorry, which she reported to Martin Duffy so he’d know that she considered him to be both manly and mild. It was all she wanted in a husband who was more handsome than he was handy and more friendly than he was effective.
Their day passed in such a romantic whirl of sorting bits of wood, hammering them, joining them up, attaching wire, congratulating themselves, laughing, sitting under a tree and staring at their handiwork, that there was no time for talk of the file other than Maggie’s report that it was back with the Mayor. Before she knew it the boys were home and were, she was delighted to see, immediately charmed by both the new chook house and the builder. ‘Can you shoot?’ Ed asked. ‘We can’t.’
‘Nope,’ said Martin Duffy. ‘But we could have a go. Where’s your gun?’ Maggie said they didn’t have a gun and Martin Duffy said quite right and in any case, boys, he had something important to discuss with their sister so could they please buzz off for a couple of minutes. The boys sniggered, Maggie blushed and Martin, choosing not to notice either, waited until the door was shut and said, ‘We haven’t talked about your land. I read the file but only understood some of it. Mrs Worthington also read it and she understood more. You need a good lawyer. I’m trying to find one for you.’
‘I know what’s in the folder. I can’t afford a lawyer. I wrote to Mr Murdoch and he said the documents I need are missing.’
Martin said if the Mayor had them, he intended to find them. He’d find a way on the night of the party or his name wasn’t Martin Liffey. They laughed together until he added seriously, ‘We’ll still need legal advice. Leave it to me.’
How proud she was of him. How delighted he had said ‘we’. How little faith she had in leaving anything to him now she’d seen him with a hammer. But before he left, he squeezed her waist, congratulated her on being an excellent cook, told the boys how lucky they were to have her and told Maggie herself she was a great girl. She’d make someone, which she took to mean him, a fine wife one day. How could she keep such joy to herself? She couldn’t. When, half an hour later, she spotted Miss McCleary walking the bawling baby to the river she said, ‘Mind if I come with you?’
‘Of course not,’ said Pearl. ‘I could do with the company. I think Mrs Worthington has taken to her bed and Mrs Nightingale has spent the day locked in her study. Did you hear about the horses? People from all over the place have been returning them. As if she wants them back. Mr Fletcher is going to consult his brother about them. What’s his brother do?’
Maggie shrugged. ‘Still in the Army, I think. No, a policeman. Not sure. She should have sold the horses for meat. To be honest, Miss McCleary, no one feels very sorry for her and nor do I. If she’s made terrible decisions in her life, then she has to learn from them. I hope I do. I hope,’ she paused, ‘Martin and I do.’
Pearl looked at her in fright. ‘Maggie!’ she said. ‘This wasn’t what we agreed.’
‘It wasn’t what you agreed,’ said Maggie. ‘I always said I wanted a husband. I don’t want to share him with anyone. I love him with all my heart and I intend to marry him.’
‘Does he know?’
‘Of course he knows. He loves me too.’
‘Has he said so?’ If Pearl’s face remained noncommittal, her voice was full of doubt.
‘For heaven’s sake, Miss McCleary. You have a fiancé so you shouldn’t have to ask. I just know. That’s all there is to it.’
‘Maggie,’ she said, ‘the one thing I know is that love takes many different shapes and not all of them sit comfortably with each other.’
Chapter Thirty-six
Disturbing though they were, Pearl had no time to consider the implications of Maggie’s heart’s desire, but they stirred a memory that so coloured her dreams she woke the next morning with a looming sense of unease. The memory was of Daniel in his uniform, looking as unfit for war as it was possible to look, proposing when it was the last thing she’d wanted of him. ‘War will make a man of me,’ he’d joked. ‘You’ll see.’ She’d wanted to love him but she couldn’t.
As she washed, she considered herself in the mirror. A crabby-looking woman, lost for all her leading, floundering for all her planning. To banish her, she summoned the memory of a man on a horse who trotted towards her smiling. That’s one way to get rid of ’em. She put the memory away and slammed the door on it.
Martin Duffy was sitting on the Worthingtons’ fence waiting for her when she left the house ten minutes later. ‘Quick,’ she said, ‘we’re running late.’
‘Good morning to you as well,’ he replied. ‘You look very … unusual.’ She was wearing a dark skirt, sturdy boots, her enormous dark shawl and a hat that fitted tightly over her head, containing all her hair.
‘You always look unusual,’ she replied. But he didn’t. He looked usual, as if he were on a day out into the countryside to collect nothing more challenging than wild flowers.
Lambert’s had supplied a better standard of horse after Pearl’s complaints about the last so the journey, even with Martin Duffy taking the reins, was less eventful. They spoke little because to speak would have involved swallowing gusts of dust, not to mention a long explanation of why she intended to do the questioning while he waited with the horse and cart prepared for a hasty getaway if they were to avoid arrest. The only words spoken were these: ‘I think it’s going to rain.’ To which Pearl replied, ‘Too bad.’
It wasn’t until they were a quarter of a mile from the railway that she said, ‘I don’t want you to argue with me. I don’t care if you don’t like it. This is how it has to be if we’re going to get anywhere.’ It was more bravado than certainty. She knew it was bravado because it had the dull echo of no expectation.
She would sneak around the back of the works and accost men on the fringe. She would explain that they might already have spoken to her cousin when he had enquired after Daniel Flannagan a week ago but she was asking again in case anything had changed, in case her cousin hadn’t given them the right information. Daniel was a shambling sort of man, with a lighthearted manner who was always very curious about other people and was currently on a mission to help a fellow soldier who couldn’t help himself. For all his silliness, he was a stubborn blighter who wouldn’t give up until he finished what he set out to do but he didn’t know that his little sister was dying and that she needed him. This was the speech she’d prepared. It would sound better coming from a woman.
Martin Duffy did argue. He told her she was being not only foolhardy but insulting. He was perfectly able to question as many men as she liked, more able than she was. She was paying him to take on tasks that a woman couldn’t and this was one of them. He was still arguing when she wrapped herself in the shawl and took off towards the mud and the slime and the cursing of men whose limbs were creaking under the weight of enormous pieces of timber.
Who knows whether those she approached would have treated her kindly, or laughed in her face, or pushed her to the ground and beaten her to death with a sleeper? She’d no sooner emerged onto open ground from the undergrowth that had concealed her pro
gress from the cart when a heavy hand grasped her shoulder, causing her breath to stop and fear to halt her in her tracks. ‘Where do you think you’re going?’ growled the one-eyed overseer as he spun her in the mud to face him. She could have run, she contemplated running, but he had a rifle over his shoulder and, one eye or not, she knew he’d aim straight.
‘You,’ he said. ‘You’re coming with me.’ He took her arm and marched her to the hut, where a large wooden sign had been erected with the word SECURITY painted on it. He shoved her through the entrance. ‘What did I tell you about trespass?’
‘I wasn’t trespassing,’ said Pearl, ‘I was making enquiries. I’d have asked permission if I could’ve found you.’
‘I warned you before and I’m not warning you again.’ He placed himself between Pearl and the door. ‘Joe!’ he called to no one she could see. ‘Here a minute. I need you to escort a trespasser back to town.’
A man emerged through the flapping canvas that served as the hut’s back wall, took one look at her and laughed. ‘Hello, Miss McCleary,’ he said. ‘What brings you out here, dressed like a woman on the run? Relax, Harry, this is Miss McCleary who works for the Nightingales. Miss McCleary, meet my brother, Sergeant Harry Fletcher of the Military Police. He’s –’
‘Joe,’ warned the policeman. ‘Enough. She’s to go back to town. I’ll let McDermott know what do with her in due course.’
Another woman, Louisa maybe, might have cried with joy at the sight of a body she associated, on the basis of very little, with kindness, calmness and protection but Pearl felt no such thing. All she felt was anger. ‘Please tell your brother I don’t care who he is. There’s no need for Constable McDermott to do anything. I’m looking for a friend who’s needed urgently at home.’
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