A Grave Inheritance

by Renshaw, Anne

  ‘No dear, not yet, we’ve miles to go.’ Ellen poured some milk into a mug and offered it to her daughter. At the sight of Ellen’s terribly injured face, Amy began to cry again. Ellen looked on despondently. She felt worn out and didn’t have the strength to pacify her daughter. She could just about manage to see through one eye and when she spoke her face objected with shooting pain. Fighting back her own tears she managed through clenched teeth to whisper, ‘I know, love, I know.’

  Ellen placed a blanket around her daughter’s shoulders and offered her some bread and pork dripping that Lillian had packed for them. Amy managed to eat a good portion and Ellen managed a few small pieces. After they’d eaten, Amy insisted on sitting up at the front of the cart with her mother, but they travelled in silence. Occasionally when Amy felt able she took the reins to give her mother a rest.

  Ellen saw the sign for Wrexham first. ‘Almost there now,’ she said.

  ***

  Anwen, Ellen’s sister-in-law, looked in suspicion when Ellen drew up in front of the house, then shrieked with delight when she realised who her visitors were. Her delight soon turned to dismay when she took in their appearance.

  ‘Oh, my goodness, what on earth has happened?’ she said in horror, looking at Ellen’s face. Then it registered that they had travelled all the way from Woodbury on their own and Anwen began to scold them for such foolishness, at the same time welcoming them inside and helping to carry their bags.

  ‘Whatever is John thinking of, letting you travel alone like this and in such a state? I’m certain George will have a few words to say to him about it.’ Anwen shook her head and whirled her golden ringlets from side to side, expressing disapproval, and then she propelled them into her kitchen and fussed about, making them comfortable. With a hundred questions on the tip of her tongue, Anwen ladled out two bowls of broth and put the kettle on the stove to boil. As soon as the meal was over Anwen dragged a large tin tub into the room and placed it in front of the fire. After filling it with hot water she brought clean towels and then laid out bandages and ointment on the sideboard ready for Ellen and Amy to use. After they’d bathed Anwen ushered them both into her parlour. She glanced at the clock on the mantle shelf, unconsciously checking the time, relieved to see she had ten minutes before her baby’s next feed was due. Four-month-old Owain lay in a crib by Anwen’s chair. He kicked his legs, waved his arms and gurgled contentedly. Anwen settled down beside the child and looked at Ellen expectantly.

  Ellen looked down at her hands in her lap, hands capable of murder. She glanced at Amy curled up in an armchair and wondered how much she remembered.

  ‘Why don’t you have a lie down, Amy,’ she suggested, giving her daughter a knowing look.

  ‘The small back room upstairs is all ready for you and we’ll let you know when supper is ready,’ Anwen said in agreement. After Amy left the room she turned to Ellen. ‘I still can’t believe the state you’re both in. John should have taken you straight to the hospital infirmary. Come on Ellen, I want to know what’s happened.’

  Anticipating the question, Ellen had thought of numerous possibilities which might explain their sudden arrival and injuries. She found it difficult to lie though and remained silent, unable to meet Anwen’s stare.

  ‘Well, Ellen?’ Anwen persisted. Just then Owain became fretful and Anwen checked the time again. She lifted the baby out of the cradle and cuddled him to her, and then unbuttoning her bodice she gave Owain her breast.

  Ellen took the opportunity to change the subject and knelt down beside Anwen. ‘He’s such a bonnie baby,’ she said, watching Owain suckle.

  Anwen glanced at Ellen, searching her face for an answer.

  ***

  The decision to stay with George and Anwen was a wise one. Ellen told her brother and sister-in-law about the attack while they listened in disbelief. George’s immediate reaction was to tell the police, but Ellen pleaded with him not to. Sensing there was something Ellen wasn’t telling him, and against his better judgement, George relented.

  Gradually Ellen’s bruises faded and the swelling receded. The kick from Storm left a deep curved scar on Ellen’s forehead and cheek which she tried to hide with a long thick side fringe. Anwen’s good food and her brother’s caring love put new life into Ellen and, once well enough, she spent her mornings baking bread and pies for her brother to sell in his shop.

  Frequent applications of Anwen’s herbal ointment to cuts and scratches on Amy’s arms and legs helped her injuries heal, and from outward appearances Amy appeared fully recovered. Emotional scars, however, were resisting repair. The happy young girl of a few months ago became sullen and withdrawn. At nightfall Amy’s cries racked the house and no one slept until her sobs finally subsided. Amy sulked when Anwen refused to cut her lustrous hair short, so every morning Amy yanked her hated hair away from her face, pushing it into a large mop cap, shadowing her pale face and haunted eyes.

  Almost two months after they’d arrived at Mill Lodge a message from John arrived, which Ellen regarded with a mixture of excitement and dread. George read the letter out loud over dinner that evening, saying John would be visiting them in a few days’ time and bringing Lillian and Harry with him. Ellen and Amy’s reaction to the news of John’s forthcoming arrival was indiscernible. Except for the awful scar, Ellen looked the same as she always had, and she knew this would please John. The prospect of returning to Primrose Cottage worried her, and with each passing day her feeling of unease grew. Unlike her mother Amy didn’t dread her father’s arrival. She had endless questions she wanted to ask him. She looked forward to seeing her siblings, but anticipated their endless questions with dispirited reluctance.

  Between the three women, beds were stripped and the linen laundered and ironed. Pies, cakes and jams were made and stored in the larder. Two thin mattresses were brought out of storage, rolled out and aired, then placed along a wall in the bedroom used by Ellen and Amy, all ready for Lillian and Harry’s arrival. A wooden chair bed was prepared in the nursery for Amy so that when John arrived he could share Ellen’s bed.

  The day before John’s arrival Ellen and Amy stood each side of the bed chatting while they shook clean sheets and blankets into place, folding corners and tucking them neatly under the mattress. Suddenly, without warning, Amy began to heave.

  ‘Sorry Mum,’ Amy managed to gasp in between retching, and she ran from the room.

  This was the third morning in a row Amy had been sick. Alarm bells rang and Ellen did a quick calculation. ‘Please God, no! Please God, no!’ she chanted.

  Hearing the commotion, Anwen bustled into the bedroom and sat on the newly made bed, crumpling her mother’s hand-stitched patchwork quilt. Her expression mirrored that of Ellen’s, and Ellen flopped on the bed beside Anwen.

  ‘It’s about six weeks isn’t it, since …? You don’t think …? Anwen whispered and then stopped.

  Ellen’s eyes swam and she repeated, ‘Please God, no.’

  Amy just managed to reach the kitchen in time. She wiped her eyes then her mouth with a cloth, but stayed leaning over the bucket. She didn’t trust herself to move just yet. Her legs were shaky and her stomach still lurched. When she felt better she filled a mug with warmed milk and sat down on a chair near the inglenook fireplace. The coal glowed crimson and she watched lazy curls of smoke float up the wide chimney. Amy sipped the milk slowly while memories sliced her mind, washing through her like icy rain. An inner voice was telling her something important but she wouldn’t let it. Amy’s hands shook when sudden realisation dawned on her.

  ‘I’m having Leo’s baby,’ she whispered.

  Amy left the kitchen and wandered into the garden to check on Owain. The hood of the bucket-shaped perambulator was pulled up to protect him from the morning’s sharp easterly wind. The lively breeze danced about lifting prematurely fallen leaves, then flung them against the pram’s wheels where they clung to each other in tiny groups. Owain smiled in delight and kicked his little legs vigorously, pushing off hi
s blankets in the process.

  ‘Owain, Owain,’ cooed Amy as she tucked his blanket back in. Owain had a head full of corkscrew curls, golden like his mother’s, and hazel eyes like uncle George. Amy held his tiny hands in hers and kissed him gently on his forehead. She remembered Leo’s kiss and her feeling of elation. With shame she knew she’d welcomed his kisses, encouraged him even. A memory surfaced and Amy closed her eyes, willing away the horror of her mother’s face covered in blood, holding a raised stick ready to strike.

  Owain looked at Amy’s face intently, his expression mirroring hers. His tiny eyebrows frowned and his bottom lip began to tremble.

  ***

  On the day of their visit, John and the children arrived late. The drizzly summer afternoon began drawing in early and it was dark before the bags were unloaded and Belle made comfortable in the small paddock behind Mill Lodge. Anwen fussed over Lillian and Harry intentionally to give Ellen and John a chance to talk, not realising this was the last thing Ellen wanted.

  John looked at Ellen with a mixture of relief and shock. The deep horseshoe-shaped scar cut into Ellen’s forehead and cheek and the long fringe attempting to camouflage it almost broke his heart. He held her close, murmuring words of love, but couldn’t bring himself to kiss her.

  ‘Please don’t make me come home yet,’ Ellen pleaded.

  ‘No one’s going to make you do anything you don’t want to,’ George told her. ‘You know you can stay here as long as you want. We’ve plenty of room, isn’t that right, Anwen?’ George looked at his wife, hoping she would agree.

  ‘It goes without saying,’ Anwen said, ‘and in any case, what about Amy? She won’t be up to going anywhere until well into next spring I should think.’

  ‘She appears very well, considering,’ said John. ‘I don’t know how you’ve done it, Anwen, but both my wife and daughter have blossomed under your care.’

  ‘Why thank you, John, just good food and plenty of sleep you know.’ Anwen fluttered her eyelashes at the compliment.

  Thanks to Anwen’s manipulation Ellen knew she couldn’t put off telling John about Amy’s condition any longer. Leading him away from the others, she spoke softly into his ear.

  John turned pale when told about Amy’s pregnancy. He looked at Ellen incredulously. ‘Are you certain?’ he asked, searching his wife’s face.

  ‘Yes, love, and you realise who the father is, don’t you?’ Ellen took John’s hand in hers.

  ‘It’s a pity you killed the wrong twin, Ellen,’ John whispered.

  ***

  Thankfully, Amy’s condition proved a useful distraction, and Anwen encouraged Ellen to concentrate on her daughter and the preparation for the birth.

  Ellen worried constantly. ‘We need to keep Amy away from Tapscott Manor and the Deverells for as long as possible,’ she insisted. ‘The baby will come home with me, and I’ll put it about that I’ve given birth again,’ she said, matter-of-fact.

  Anwen and George went along with anything Ellen wanted, knowing it was the best way to handle her for now.

  John agreed with the plan but he had his own misgivings. Nobody had spoken to Amy yet regarding Leo’s attack on her, or about Laurence’s death. They had to get through the next few months first, and whatever decision they finally made, would have to wait until after the baby was born.

  The visit to Mill Lodge flew by quickly and all too soon it was time for John to return home. He left Lillian and Harry at Mill Lodge with Ellen and, on Belle, returned home alone to Jim, promising to visit again at Christmas.

  ***

  Sir Edmund was convinced his son hadn’t gone far so although the meadows and Oakham Wood had already been searched, and it unlikely Laurence would be found in those vicinities, nevertheless, another search was the order for today. There was no evidence to say Laurence was dead, but with no sight or sound of him for over a month, it now seemed likely. Why anyone would want to hurt Laurence was beyond Edmund Deverell’s reasoning. He wanted his son found and instructed his remaining son, Leo, to see to it that the men left no stone unturned.

  Many of the volunteers were from nearby farms and villages and had taken time off from their usual chores to help with the search. They stood alongside Tapscott Manor’s hired workers, who again gathered in the yard waiting for their orders, and they shook hands with one another in mutual solidarity. Leo acknowledged their presence with a nod, pleased to see such a crowd.

  ‘I want three groups to start on this side of the wood and spread out, covering all the land up to Primrose Cottage, including the cottage’s garden and grounds. If the Farrells are a problem let me know.’ Leo glanced around as he spoke expecting to see John or Jim among them, and readied himself for their dispute. At his side Charlie Brock stepped forward.

  ‘Excuse me, Mr Leo, sir,’ Charlie said, toadying up to his employer.

  ‘What now?’ Leo eyed Charlie with contempt, fed up with the man’s ingratiating behaviour.

  ‘John’s in Wrexham visiting Ellen and Amy. He’s taken the young ones, Lillian and Harry, with him. They won’t be back for a few days yet.’ Charlie assumed Leo would see what he was getting at.

  ‘I’m amazed you believe I would be interested in the Farrells’ comings and goings, Charlie. I assume there is a purpose to this conversation.’ Irritated, Leo slapped his riding gloves against his thigh.

  Charlie stepped closer and spoke quietly for Leo’s ears alone. ‘We could search the cottage too, and if we’re careful no one would be any the wiser.’

  Leo stepped back, appalled by Charlie’s breath and close proximity; however, he forced himself to listen. ‘What about Jim?’ Leo asked, looking around the yard again.

  ‘Never mind about Jim Farrell, sir,’ Charlie said confidently. ‘I sent him to the blacksmith’s in Lower Shelton earlier. He’s taken those three horses needing to be shod.’ He grinned, adding, ‘Be gone most of the day, I reckon.’

  ‘Good idea then, Charlie,’ Leo agreed. ‘You search inside the cottage and let the other men concentrate on the garden and that part of the wood. It has only been searched by John Farrell and I want it done again.’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ Charlie answered enthusiastically, touching his cap in salute.

  Primrose Cottage’s privy backed up against the garden’s boundary fence, with Oakham Wood behind it. Charlie used the privy then stood outside it for a few minutes looking around. Satisfied there was no one at home he sidled up to the kitchen window and looked in, just to be sure. Outside the kitchen door he retrieved a key hidden inside an old battered boot and went in, closing the door behind him.

  Charlie made for the stairs, deciding to begin his search in the bedrooms, but found nothing of interest there. After a thorough search of the ground floor and still nothing to show for it, Charlie sat down in John’s chair beside the fireplace, disheartened. Nice little cottage this, he thought, looking around Ellen’s kitchen appreciatively. Bigger and better than the one he and his Ruthie had. Blue and cream check curtains hung each side of a clean window. On the windowsill a large pottery jug, usually full of water and fresh flowers from the garden, now stood empty. Charlie admired Ellen’s blue and white plates, jugs, cups and saucers which were stacked along the dresser’s shelves, and he wished his wife was a little more house-proud.

  The flagged floor was uneven in places, some of the stones worn and cracked. Charlie’s gazed rested on the fireplace. The fender was lopsided and, puzzled, he knelt down on the floor and moved the fender away. Charlie sat back on his haunches scrutinising a broken tile which wasn’t level. Excited, he lifted out the broken tile and found a hole underneath it. After probing about inside for a minute, he exclaimed, ‘Empty. Damn it.’

  Irritated and disappointed Charlie wiped his sooty fingers down his trouser legs. Grudgingly he left the cottage the way he’d gone in, locked the door behind him and slipped the key back inside the boot. Charlie caught up with the men who were having lunch. They sat on tree stumps, talking and sharing the food and drink they�
��d brought with them. Tom Barton stood up to meet him.

  ‘Did you find anything Charlie?’

  ‘No.’ Charlie shook his head and accepted the piece of pork pie Tom offered him. He sat in the circle of trees with the other men, munching his piece of pie and looked around the clearing, then stood up. He walked away a few paces and then asked, ‘Have you checked all the ditches?’

  ‘Yes. We checked them all on the last search and again this morning, and all along the paths. There was nothing,’ Tom answered.

  ‘Have you been down in them, examined them properly like?’ Charlie persisted.

  ‘Not really, no. But we would have seen someone lying there, surely,’ Tom replied.

  Charlie looked at him soberly. ‘Do them again. Get the men down in the ditches and poke about a bit.’ Tom shrugged and rounded up his mates. Grumbling, the men began helping each other down the steep incline

  ‘Waste of bloody time this is,’ one mumbled within earshot.

  ‘Dogs would have sniffed him out by now anyway,’ another man complained.

  ‘Get on with it,’ Charlie shouted, sliding down into a ditch himself.

  ***

  The yard was deserted and it didn’t require brains to know where everyone was. Jim passed the reins to one of the stable boys who along with another lad led the horses into their stalls. Dusty and parched, but glad to be back from Lower Shelton, Jim made for the kitchen where he knew someone would be pleased to see him.

  Dora Stoakley was busy by the stove and looked round as Jim came in and her big smile warmed his heart. Dora had worked for the Deverell family for as long as he could remember and he’d never known a time when she wasn’t in her kitchen waiting to welcome him into its warmth. Jim missed his Mum more than he let on, so today he relished Dora’s attention.