The Maltese Angel

by Catherine Cookson

  ‘It was indeed, no, no.’

  ‘But then he seemed to choke. You…you said he wasn’t gassed, but…but it looked as if…’

  ‘He wasn’t gassed, Lady Lydia. We’ve talked about it before: he went through a very bad time, being so long on duty on the ambulance trains and then with the sudden huge influx of gas victims, and he saw their suffering…well, that was the breaking point, I’m sure. And deep inside himself he is still suffering with them. Although he made a great effort to go into oblivion, and has succeeded for some time, nevertheless the suffering in his mind is still there. But—’ And with a small toss of his partly bald head the doctor added, ‘It is the best news I’ve heard today. His has been a stubborn case, you know, and it really looked as if it were set in. You can go home with a lighter heart, today, Lady Lydia, for from now on we know that he is capable of thinking rationally. But’—he now lifted a warning finger—‘everything must go slowly; don’t expect miracles straight away. And who knows, in time you will have him home.’

  Lady Lydia looked up at the matron. She was smiling at her and she could hear her saying:

  ‘Out of the depths have I cried unto Thee, O Lord.

  Lord, hear my voice,

  Let Thine ears be attentive to the voice of my supplication.’

  He had been attentive to her crying.

  When she looked back into the smiling face and murmured something like, ‘Voice of my supplication’ before bursting into tears, the doctor said, ‘That’s it. There’s no easing of tension like a good cry, especially over good news. You can go home happy now.’

  Quickly she dried her tears. His talk was just patter. He was talking as if she could walk out of here now with her son when he had previously said it would be a long job. But she should be grateful. Oh, she was. But what she wanted now was to be home and tell Janie. Yes, tell Janie, but not that he didn’t want to see her, and that the very thought of the sight of her had brought him out of the depths. Oh no, not that.

  Three

  It was about seven o’clock in the morning of the 2nd of January 1919, that a farm worker, taking a short cut across the cemetery, almost tripped over a prone figure lying across a grave. His flashlight showed that the man was lying with his blood-soaked head on the nine-inch ornate rim of marble that bordered the grave.

  The farmhand rushed to the vicarage and raised Parson George Dixon, successor to Parson Tracey, but of a different calibre, from his bed.

  There was so much blood on the victim’s face that neither the parson nor the farm worker could recognise him: so therefore, the parson had sent post-haste for the police. He had no doubt but that the man was dead and had lain outside in the bitter night for some long time, as the blackened and congealed blood showed.

  It was broad daylight when the police arrived; just the one constable at first, but he immediately sent for his superior, who came accompanied by another policeman, by which time Doctor Patten had arrived on the scene. And there was no doubt from the first moment Philip Patten saw the figure and how it was dressed that he knew who the victim was, if the word victim could be put to it. This would become evident, he told himself, only when he examined the body, which he did some time later, in the church hall, when his assumption was confirmed. It was later still when the police doctor, accompanied by an inspector, arrived, although his findings were not as quickly given: Philip had to wait until the man had examined the stonework surrounding the grave, when he commented, ‘He is a heavily built man, and he must have slipped and come in contact with that.’ He pointed down to the marble surround. ‘It certainly could have done the damage, but he might have survived if someone had been with him. He must have lain all night for he’s as stiff as a ramrod.You say he’s a well-known farmer?’

  ‘Yes; Ward Gibson. Farm’s just a mile or so away,’ Philip said.

  ‘Likely as drunk as a noodle,’ was another cursory conclusion.

  ‘He must have been visiting his wife’s grave.’

  ‘Oh?…Oh, yes. Gibson. Very odd situation. Yes. What do you think?’ But Philip added nothing further, and the man seemed content to return to his surmising. ‘Well, his fall certainly did some damage to his skull. And there’s no evidence of any other marks on his body that could indicate he might have been attacked. Apparently the search of the surrounding area shows no sign of a struggle. The footprints are all precise and still imprinted with a covering of frost.’ He nodded down to the grass around his feet. ‘If there had been any sign of a skirmish the ground would have been churned in some way. Well now, I suppose his people will have to be told.’

  ‘They’ve already been sent for.’

  As they walked back towards the church the police doctor said, conversationally, ‘You’ve been here some time then? You took over from old Wheatley?’

  ‘Yes, that’s so.’

  ‘By! He was a walking hogshead, that one.’ The man laughed. ‘I met him, you know, a couple of times. He really could carry some.’

  ‘Yes,’ Philip Patten agreed with the man, ‘he could carry some.’

  Just before they entered the church hall the man turned round and surveyed the cemetery to his right and the drive to the church on his left. He could see the lych-gate and part of the street beyond, and he remarked, ‘It’s got a bit of a name, this village, hasn’t it? if anything can be made of the old wives’ tales, and they can’t all be wrong.’ But receiving no comment he said caustically, ‘This business should have turned out to be a murder, for then it would have fitted into the picture, eh?’

  And now Philip did speak, and there was bitterness in his voice that was not lost on the police doctor as he said, ‘Yes, yes, it would have fitted into the picture, indeed it would.’

  Carl and three of the men had come from the farm to take the body home. Jessie had come with them. It was her business to identify the dead man. And it was after they had gone and there was only the vicar and Philip left that the vicar said to him, ‘Can you spare a few minutes, Doctor?’

  ‘Yes. Yes, of course,’ said Philip.

  ‘It…it’s something that no-one has commented on. But I wonder what you think, because truthfully I don’t know what to make of it. If you’ll come back to the cemetery I’ll explain.’

  They were again standing by the grave, and, pointing to the headstone, the vicar said, ‘Do you see anything peculiar there?’

  Philip looked at the writing on the stone, and then he said, ‘It says at the top quite plainly, “Remember me”.’

  ‘Yes. Yes,’ put in the vicar quickly now. ‘It is quite plain. But can you make out the rest of the inscription?’

  Philip bent forward now and peered at the moss-covered stone, and what he read was

  Remember me.

  Agatha Hamilton,

  aged 49 years,

  left this cruel world

  and took her pains to the Lord on

  May 2nd, 1872.

  R.I.P.

  ‘Well?’

  Philip repeated, ‘Well, all that strikes me is that “Remember me” is very clear to read whereas the rest is not.’ He now leant forward again and looked at the two words heading the stone, and he said, ‘It looks as if these have been roughly scraped clean, or at least just the surface. A bit of emery paper or such could have done it. But then’—he turned to the vicar—‘every now and again you have the headstones cleaned up.’

  ‘Not often in this old part; it must be two years ago since any cleaning was done here. Anyway, you know yourself, Doctor, he was a most hated man for many miles around. He had brought tragedy not only on his own house but…but on others. And this village, I have found to my dismay, is very prone to superstition, and somebody’s just got to recognise that these two words have been made clear and the rumours will start again.’ He looked down at the old grave, at the frozen weeds, and pulling at one he managed to loosen some earth about it. Then taking a handkerchief out of his pocket, he put it around his fingers and scooped up some of the soil and rubbed it quickly
over the two words. And the thought that crossed Philip’s mind as he watched was, If this man had been vicar of this village the day Ward Gibson had come to him and asked to have the banns of marriage read, half the events that had happened since would not have come about. Oh, there would always have been Daisy Mason, but he was sure her actions would have been condemned in many more quarters and the knowledge that much of the village wasn’t with her would surely have curtailed her venom. And now this kindly man shook out his handkerchief, rolled it into a ball and put it into his pocket, and, turning to him, said, ‘It may be just a coincidence, but when I earlier read the name Hamilton on this stone, I remembered it had been recalled to my mind some time earlier, and I wondered why; and I’m of such a nature, Doctor, that I always have to follow things to their source, if you know what I mean. So I have just looked up the name in the church register, and there I find that Mrs Mason’s maiden name was Hamilton.’

  ‘No! Never!’

  ‘But we’ll let it rest there, eh? Shall we, Doctor?’

  Philip twice nodded his head slowly as his mind pictured two fiercely strong hands banging Ward Gibson’s head against that stone. And whoever had done it, he couldn’t have been alone, for as had already been noted, there was no sign of a struggle. He must have been knocked insensible before being carried to the grave. And whoever had done it had planned it.

  Seth Mason was the only one left of the Masons, and he was a weakling, at least he would be on his own. And Pete was dead…Or was he? Every now and again there had been a rumour of his returning home and being hidden, and this was since the War Office had written him off as ‘missing, believed dead’. And that was in France. If he had absconded, how on earth could he have got here? But hate, like faith, could perform miracles. And it wasn’t unknown that men could feign loss of memory and be shipped over with a crowd of wounded, only to disappear.

  It was all very strange and rather terrible. Anyway, Ward was dead, and all that was left of his family was Miss Jessie and the girl. He did not know really how Miss Jessie would feel about her father’s going, but he knew that the child would be released from his tyranny and could not help but be glad.

  As the two men walked back to the church, the vicar said, ‘I don’t often see you at the services.’

  Philip turned to him, a wry smile on his face as he said, ‘I don’t often have much time. As you know, it’s a busy job. But I’ll try to squeeze a visit in now and then…in the future.’

  ‘Do that. Do that. I’d be pleased to see you.’

  They parted at the church door, knowing that they understood each other.

  Four

  It was said in the village that the day Ward Gibson was buried should be celebrated with another Victory Tea; for God, having seen fit to strike him down in the cemetery, was pointing out his final destination.

  There was relief, too, among the families that had been for him, although perhaps with the exception of Fred Newberry. His comment was that Ward had been a fool to himself from the beginning in letting his fancy stray to Newcastle.

  It had been said that on the farm, too, there was permeating a feeling of relief. It was as if the dark oppressive shadow that had been hanging over all their lives had been swept away. Never more so was this feeling evident as Carl and Jessie sat by Patsy’s bed discussing the future.

  The will had been read. It had not been altered from the time Ward had struck the bargain with Carl. That Carl was now the legal owner of half this house and its prosperous business seemed at the moment more unreal to him than when it had been just a promise that might never be kept. It certainly wouldn’t have surprised him if Ward had changed the will after his outburst on that particular day at the barn.

  What was being heatedly discussed now concerned Jessie and where she should reside in the future. She was saying, ‘We are quite comfortable where we are. Anyway, Patsy, I ask you, just think what it would mean if you went back there. You’d need someone with you all the time, you know you would. Here, there’s Mrs McNabb at hand and me, and you’re within call of Carl from the yard, whereas…’

  Patsy turned her face away on the pillow, at the same time raising her hand to stop Jessie’s flow, and what she said was, ‘This is your rightful place. Even the two cottages put together make no more than a box. And then there’s Janie, she…’

  ‘Yes, there’s Janie. And let me tell you, if I was dying to come back in here tomorrow, I couldn’t do so, and because of her, for she absolutely refuses even to talk of the possibility of our living in this house. Do you know, she’s been in it only once since the time I moved us to the cottage, and you know when that was. But—’ and now she drew in a long breath and shook her head as she said, ‘believe it or not, she has given me an ultimatum: if you and Carl were to come back to the cottage, she would go and stay at the Hall, and nothing would stop her. I couldn’t. It seems impossible to admit it, but she is past me, I cannot believe I’m just dealing with a fourteen-year-old girl. Anyway, she’s just waiting for an excuse to be able to stay over there. She’s obsessed with that place and those two. Thank God that madman isn’t there.’

  For the first time Carl spoke, and now harshly, saying, ‘Oh…oh, no, he’s not that. Well, what I mean is, it’s something like shellshock he suffers from. God help him.’

  ‘Shellshock!’ Jessie was indignant. ‘He was never in the war really; he was a conscientious objector.’

  Carl dared to say, ‘Don’t be silly. From what we hear some of them had the rottenest jobs imaginable. They were in the thick of it out there, stretcher-bearing and such.’ Patsy turned her head and was smiling at them as she said, ‘That’s it, have a row. It’ll make a good start.’ Then looking pointedly at Jessie, she said, ‘You know, you should be grateful that she found something to hold her interest. What life had she here as a child? It really broke my heart to see her locked up in that cottage every time you came out. And in this house it was the same; in fact, worse, for she only saw the bedroom.’

  Jessie looked down at her fingers where they were plucking imaginary threads from her skirt, and she muttered, ‘I know, I know, but what else could I do? Have her run in here and bump into Father? It was bad enough when they crossed paths outside.’ She did not add, ‘And you’re lying where you are because of one such encounter.’

  But Patsy did not pursue this trend in their discussion, except to look at Carl and say, ‘You know that piece of fancy talk you often come out with, which means let things be, leave them as they are? Well, that’s what you want to do now.’

  Carl laughed and looked at Jessie and said, ‘Status quo?’ And when Jessie, with raised eyebrows, nodded and smiled at him, he knew that she had as little understanding of the term as Patsy. Her reading likely didn’t touch on the daily papers, whereas his own got no further these days. And so he said briskly, ‘Well! To business. I’ll leave you two to get on with your jabbering but I must get back to work. Somebody must do it.’ He pulled a face, turning from one to the other, and then went out.

  It would appear that Janie had been waiting for him to come out of the house, for she was there by the door, requesting straight away: ‘Come into the tack room a minute, will you, Carl?’

  In the room and with the door closed, she immediately excused her request: ‘I don’t want Auntie Jessie to see me talking to you,’ she said. ‘She’ll want to know what I’m saying, as always,’ and she wrinkled her nose, then astounded him: ‘How much do you pay the farmhands?’ she asked.

  ‘How much do I pay the farmhands? Oh well, it varies. They get good money now, you know, since the war.’ He pushed out his chest in explanation. ‘We’re the feeders of the nation, you know. So we’re being recognised at last. Well now, you want to know what they’re paid. Mike and McNabb get thirty-five shillings a week each. Rob gets thirty-three. Then of course any extra male help in the summer in the fields is paid by the hour.’

  ‘Do women helpers in the summer get the same?’

  ‘Oh no.’ The shake
of his head was emphatic. ‘Women never get paid as much as men, because they don’t do the heavy work.’

  She thought for a moment, then said, ‘In the summer they do, lifting the stooks and all that, and they rake with the men.’

  He tapped her cheek gently, saying, ‘Now we’re not going into politics. Why d’you want to know all this?’

  ‘Oh.’ She shrugged her shoulders, but she didn’t answer his question: what she said was, ‘I didn’t think they got all that. How about if they slept in; I mean, had a place to stay and got their food; how about it then?’

  ‘Oh then, well, a pound a week or perhaps a little more, a little less, according to their experience.’

  ‘As low as ten shillings?’

  ‘Oh no, you couldn’t offer a man ten shillings a week, even with bed and board. Anyway, what’s all this about?’

  ‘Well, I can tell you. I was thinking about…well, I put it to Lady Lydia about employing someone, or perhaps two, to clear the ground and get some of it set for a crop or such. I’m going to pick all the fruit this year…I might need a little help. We’ll bottle it, and it could be sold like they used to do when Mr Gerald was at home. But during the war and the soldiers tramping over everything, and then those village children coming in and scrumping, there wasn’t much left. But it will be different this year, because now they can’t get in since the Army mended the fences and the walls. Well, they went through them, didn’t they, with their trucks? So that part’s all right; it’s just clearing the ground and getting it into shape again.’