Martha turned and saw the face of the housekeeper was pale with shock.
Mrs Hibbert reached out and took a firm grip of Martha’s arm. “It might be a good idea to come and get a cup of tea yourself, love,” she said softly. “We’ll go out through the front and around to my cottage. The castle isn’t a good place for children.”
Meekly, Martha hugged a bewildered Ruby to her and with a glance upwards at the mezzanine, she followed Mrs Hibbert away from the confusion and the noise, the questions and recriminations, and the now-still bulk of the fallen Christmas tree
CHAPTER 32
1963
Martin managed to smile at all those who stood around the kitchen table, loudly singing ‘Happy Birthday’. Everyone was there for him – the ghillies, the maids, Mr and Mrs Turnbull, Drum carrying a cake lit with eighteen candles and iced with the message ‘Happy Birthday Martin” in blue. “Claire made it all herself,” he heard Mrs Turnbull say proudly over the chorus of ‘For He’s A Jolly Good Fellow’ that had followed on, without missing a beat, from the birthday song.
Martin looked at Claire’s beaming, proud face, and it made him feel better. He was exhausted of course. Exhausted with worry, although there was certainly a lot less to keep him up at nights these past few weeks than there had been previously. He’d had no nocturnal visitor for some time now. The relief when he woke in the morning without having seen Uncle Jack’s sneering face appear around the door of his bedroom was huge. But that, in itself, brought its own concerns. If Uncle Jack wasn’t paying his visits to Martin, then did it mean that he was going elsewhere? Hence the reason for Martin’s exhaustion. He had taken to sneaking down to the entrance hall at night to keep an eye on Laurence’s bedroom door. So that if the familiar shape loomed out of the darkness again then Martin could somehow raise the alarm. He’d pay for it somehow, he knew, but he didn’t care – couldn’t care. He had to protect Laurence. Had to make sure that Uncle Jack didn’t hurt another child. Then last night he had thought he’d heard voices from Laurence’s room – but he hadn’t, thankfully. But it frightened him more than ever. He’d woken that morning early, stiff-necked and freezing, having slept slumped against Laurence’s door. Now, as he tried to smile through his birthday celebration, he could still feel the nagging discomfort in his back but it was worth it if it meant that Laurence had had an undisturbed night.
Martin scanned the group again as their tuneless singing reached a crescendo. He smiled again as he saw them all. His family now, he realised. Now that he couldn’t go back to London. Esther and Dots were doing a little dance, bumping their hips against each other as they sang. Mr T was glancing at his watch, eager to ensure that not too much time was spent eating cake when there was a house to be run. And there was Laurence, his little mouth open widest of all, belting out the song. But to look at him made Martin feel physically sick because behind him, a great paw placed on the child’s shoulder, singing along with the rest of them but staring only at Martin with his cold eyes, was Uncle Jack.
Martin was no fool. He knew that the company Uncle Jack was supposed to own – Violet’s Frozen Fish – was another way to launder money for the Krays. Out of the way like this, with Jack Ball, reformed character, at the helm, it could carry on undisturbed and unnoticed, a quiet money-spinning machine. He knew, too, that Jack Ball couldn’t have run the company – that he was too violent, too preoccupied with other things – too thick – to know even the difference between a salmon and a herring. Martin knew that Christopher Calvert – Uncle Jack’s nephew – had been brought up to Scotland and installed at Dubhglas for that very purpose. The skinny, bespectacled young man was a business genius and the company thrived under his diligent guidance, with the heavy hand of Uncle Jack behind him all the way, should it be needed.
And Martin knew that buying an old, rundown castle in the Scottish highlands with the profits was, to the gangster fraternity, an excellent spot for a bolthole, a hideaway, a safe house for thugs and criminals of all kinds who needed to be kept off the scene for a while. That’s how Uncle Jack had justified bringing him there in the first place. He reminded him constantly of how the old lady he’d encountered during that robbery could well be dead, and that he was safer up here and out of the way. But Martin knew that he had been given a job and left there so that he was available for Uncle Jack’s use any time that he chose.
Martin knew that Jack could only tolerate Dubhglas for so long, that he disliked the drab weather, the isolation. But Mr Calvert loved it, and loved the village, and had embraced the restoration of the castle, had made sure to employ locals in doing the work. He was a good man, Martin knew. A good man caught up in bad deeds. If he only knew about Uncle Jack, would he do something to help? Could he stop him? Erased some of those memories that haunted Martin. The scars. Or was he bound by the ties of family? Sometimes, on hearing Jack roar at Christopher, call him offensive names, belittle him in front of the staff, Martin felt sure that he couldn’t be.
He shuddered at the thought of how filthy he felt after the great beast entered his room in the dark and knelt beside the bed. Always the same smell of dirty tobacco smoke off his clothes and his breath. Always the scar, looming over Martin’s face as he woke.
As Martin watched the group encourage him to blow out his candles, he knew what he wanted most for his eighteenth birthday. The peace to sleep all night through. That’s all he wanted.
He took a breath and gathered his thoughts and all his willpower into giving one of his beaming smiles back. He did love these people. The Turnbulls were like parents to him. And Claire – lovely, gentle, broken Drum. He’d seen the look in her eyes too from the very beginning. She was as damaged as him, he knew, although they had never spoken of it. That was why he had orchestrated to keep her here, probably why he had sought her out that day in the teashop. Because she was like him, she made him feel safe, like he had an ally, someone other than Laurence to carry on for. She made him feel brave.
He bent down and blew the candles out in one go, standing up again and beaming his fake smile as everyone cheered and Mrs Turnbull handed him the kitchen knife to make the first incision. He held it in his hand, looking again at Laurence who was standing there, fists clenched, barely able to contain his excitement. Martin couldn’t help but laugh. The kid had the sweetest tooth he’d ever come across. Cake meant more to him than the crown jewels.
Martin held the knife poised over the centre of the cake while Dots leaned in and removed all of the candles. Something made him look up, to look straight at Uncle Jack. The temptation was huge, Martin knew. He could just reach over the table and instead of plunging this knife into the sponge, he could plunge it into Jack Ball’s black heart. The vision was so strong it frightened Martin. He could imagine the fat, scarred face register first surprise, and then pain, and finally fear as he realised what Martin had done. The blood already seeping out around the handle of the blade – dark red, filthy and stained. Then it would bubble from Jack’s mouth and he’d stagger backwards before falling to the ground. Stone dead, and then he’d be gone. Forever. It would be over. Martin would be safe and Laurence would be safe. And so would all the other boys and young men that he knew must be out there, their lives tarnished by the hand of that evil thug. Martin couldn’t bear to think about them too much. There might have been only one, he knew, but more likely there were hundreds. Who all felt the same as him.
It would be the perfect solution, he knew, to kill him there and then. To make sure that everyone saw it happen, make sure that they, too, knew it was finally over.
Instead, he averted his gaze, smiled at Dots as she removed the last candle with a flourish and sank the knife into the soft, creamy centre of the cake to yet another cheer from the assembled group. And Uncle Jack watched him, applauding with the staff as Mrs Turnbull leaned in and pulled the cake along the table toward her, making a swift head count before she began to deftly cut slices for everyone.
The cake cut, everyone’s attention began to stray
from the birthday boy. Claire was dispatched to get plates and paper napkins, Dots to get forks. Mr Turnbull himself made his way over to pick up the tray of lemonade and glasses that Mrs Turnbull had put to one side. Martin watched as Uncle Jack removed his hand from Laurence’s shoulder and suddenly extended it across the table. Towards him. He looked around to see if anyone else saw and then, unable to think of anything else to do, reached out to weakly accept the grip that the so-called master of the house extended to him. Jack smiled. In as much as he could. “Happy Birthday, Martin,” he said in a low voice. “Just had to drop down to wish you Many Happy Returns.”
Martin nodded, trying to extricate his hand, but Jack’s grip tightened. Martin met his eyes, his mind flashing back to the first time that he’d seen him at the Gigi club. “You’ll do,” Uncle Jack had said then. Martin didn’t know what he meant, but didn’t have to wait long to find out.
Jack’s stare seemed to burn through to Martin. “Eighteen. You’re a man now, young Martin,” he said menacingly. “All grown up.”
And with that he released the grip. Martin’s hand smarted from where his fingers had been crushed. And as Uncle Jack withdrew his hand, it fell again on to Laurence’s shoulder, the space between fingers and thumb moulding itself around Laurence’s neck. A touch of possession.
In an instant, Martin realised what had just happened. That by becoming a man, he was no longer needed. Released from his duties. No longer Uncle Jack’s boy. But that meant it was definite. There was a vacancy created with Martin’s coming of age. And his stomach flipped again as he looked at the innocent face of the boy who would fill it, if Uncle Jack had his way. Martin was a man now, the handshake meant. But that didn’t mean that Uncle Jack didn’t need a boy. Uncle Jack always needed a boy.
Martin grew suddenly aware of the loud voices of the staff around him, excited at this break from the daily routine and at the prospect of cake. Like a robot, he accepted the slice passed to him by Mrs Turnbull. smiled as Mr McAllister, the gardener, ruffled his hair. He felt as though he was outside himself as he forked a piece of the cake into his mouth. It was delicious – of course it was. Claire had made it. With love.
But suddenly it felt like poison in his system. He placed the plate on the table and fled, slipping past the others who stood, happily chatting with their forkfuls of sponge disappearing by the second. He couldn’t keep it in, any longer, he knew.
Martin made it to the back door and a little beyond but no further before the piece of cake, along with the remaining contents of his stomach erupted from his stomach. He retched violently, his body purging everything he’d eaten that day. And as Martin Pine vomited violently into a drain outside the back door, he began to cry at what had happened to him. At how his life had turned out. At the thoughts, the recollections of everything Jack Ball had done to him. And what he knew he was going to do to little, innocent Laurence if Martin let him.
His insides cleared, Martin stood. He spat into the drain to clear his mouth out, and ran a fist over his eyes. No one would see him cry. Always ducking and diving, that’s me, he thought to himself as he gathered himself together to return inside. He didn’t know how he’d explain to Claire that it wasn’t her cake that had made him ill. He could blame that on the excitement, maybe. Or a filched piece of pork pie.
He would protect Laurence, he vowed. From now on he’d do everything that he could to make sure the child remained unharmed. He’d sleep outside his door every night if needs be. But another child would not be hurt. Not if Martin Pine could help it.
CHAPTER 33
Safely ensconced in Mrs Hibbert’s cosy cottage while the others caught a few hours’ rest and Sue made some work calls at the castle, Martha kept half an eye on the window as daylight eventually gave up at almost four o’clock. It was as if the day just didn‘t have anything left and allowed itself to be overpowered by night, which brought with it a strong breeze and finally proper, freezing rain.
“What a shame,” Mrs Hibbert remarked as she made her way around the small house, closing curtains as she went and lighting lamps. “I hope it doesn’t put people off Mr Calvert’s party. It’s a small enough guest list this year as it is. Heaven be with the days when there would be hundreds of people milling around the place for the whole weekend – a shooting party then on the Sunday to clear everyone’s head.”
She sighed and turned back to Martha who was seated on a small sofa beside the solid fuel cooker in the kitchen, Ruby on her knee. The little girl had completely forgotten her encounter with the Christmas tree earlier. There had been plenty of diversion throughout the afternoon, of course. Will and Sue had joined them for lunch and playtime in the cottage while Gabriel spent the early part of the afternoon with his godfather as he buzzed through the castle preparing for the night’s festivities. Mrs Hibbert, too, had scarcely sat down for a moment, running back and forth from her cottage to the castle kitchens, keeping an eye on the professional caterers which had been hired for the occasion.
Ruby had played for hours with the housekeeper’s kitchen utensils – unfamiliar pots and pans which were all excellent musical instruments to a toddler. Martha was delighted that she had settled in so quickly, even though she couldn’t manage to shake the memory of the falling tree from her mind. Another inch or two and it was down on Ruby’s head. With such enormous force behind it. She shuddered to think what might have happened and picked Ruby up to hold her close for a moment.
Martha wondered if it might just have been too much to bring her along with them. She hated leaving her with anyone overnight – since Norfolk, she was even nervous leaving her for a couple of hours. And now Sue wasn’t even going to watch her as had been arranged – Mrs Hibbert had offered to do it to allow Sue join in the festivities, to make up the numbers. She’d insisted so vehemently that Martha had felt obliged to agree. She’d have to get dressed up in her finery and make her way through the rain back into the castle, leaving her little girl with this complete stranger. More upheaval in her little life. Her mind strayed again to Dan – the kiss – all the things she had said at dinner only the previous night. Sue was right. She needed to get to him as soon as she got back to Edinburgh. Explain to him – face to face, of course. She didn’t want to do it over the phone, not that she had a choice while at Dubhglas with the non-existent coverage – the house phone was too public.
The place seemed even more desolate and bleak as night set in. As if the rest of the world didn’t just grow dark, but set the castle and its grounds adrift from the rest of civilisation. Some people loved this sort of thing, Martha thought. But not her. She craved lights, company, heat and comfort. And while all of that was available to her in Mrs Hibbert’s home, there was still that threat just beyond the back door that opened on to a courtyard where log piles leaned against the back wall of the castle and herbs grew in pots scattered throughout. The threat that was just a few steps across the cobbles, always looking over the shoulder of the cottage. The threat of the castle which gave her the creeps. She wondered how Will and Gabriel’s investigation had gone the night before and then stopped herself. If they had found anything, she didn’t want to know about it. There was time enough for them to tell her when they got back home.
Martha tried to block the negative thoughts and focused instead on Mrs Hibbert’s kindness. The woman couldn’t do enough for them. At first, Martha had been disappointed to see her sleeping quarters – a small room decorated in fawn and pink, with a single bed and beside it a low camp bed for Ruby. “She won’t hurt herself if she falls from that,” Mrs Hibbert had said reassuringly. “And we’ll line the floor with pillows for her so that if she takes a wee tumble then it’ll be a soft landing.” And with that she had firmly drawn a pair of thick curtains, concealing a set of sliding doors which led from the bedroom out onto a small patio and then further into the orchard and the kitchen garden which ran parallel to the main castle lawns. “The lawns lead all the way down to the loch,” the housekeeper had told Martha, pointing in t
he direction of where the water lay. Martha shuddered at the thought. That lake which was the cause of so much mystery. Not to the current residents of Dubhglas, perhaps. To them – should they even know about the murder – the case was cut and dried. A long-forgotten double murder by the odd-job man with a taste for young boys. But was that really the case? Martha gazed at the closed curtains, the vision of the darkening sky beyond them burned upon her brain.
As the evening wore on, the thought of staying in the cosy room with its beds for just herself and Ruby – Will, Gabriel and Sue were all billeted in the castle itself – appealed more and more as the house was buffeted by the worsening weather. The calm inside as Mrs Hibbert made tea and bustled about her chores while Martha and Ruby unpacked in their sleeping quarters, was occasionally shattered by a screaming gust of wind and the sound of rain being lashed across the long glass panes behind the curtains. An odd place for such a door, in the guest bedroom, but Mrs Hibbert explained that a previous resident, long ago – another housekeeper – had been ill for a long time and they had installed the doors so that she had a bright view of the garden and could be wheeled onto the patio on warm days. The cottage looked very old from the outside, she’d explained, but it had been modernised some time in the early 1990’s. It was a little dated now, Martha thought – the pink, floral bed coverings and matching curtains with hand-sewn pelmets, the oatmeal carpet on the bathroom floor with its aubergine suite, the wallpaper decorated with cherry blossom flowers. But, like Mrs Hibbert, it was warm and certainly a lot less forbidding than the castle. As night approached, Martha found herself grateful to Will for making the decision to put her in here. “The castle’s not a place for children,”she remembered Hibbert saying just after the tree had fallen. Nor for her.
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