Laban made no demur at his wife’s quiet words. Unity’s heart had near broke when the men had carried the girl into this house, seeing her every few minutes helped ease her own pain.
Who would want to kill either of them? His thoughts returned as his wife tiptoed quietly up the stairs. Old Zeck Carter hadn’t never had a misword with nobody, there weren’t a soul in the town would wish the fellah harm. But Anne Corby… he took the pipe from his mouth, holding it forgotten on his knee… the same could not be said of her.
A sharp rap to the door interrupting the rest, Laban rose from his seat, glancing at Unity coming back into the room.
Tapping out his pipe into the ash of the fire before replacing it on the mantel he watched Unity open the door to the street.
‘You have my apologies for this, but the inspector wouldn’t have it lay over until mornin’… says we have to clear this lot up quick as we can, so if you don’t mind there be a few questions you might be able to answer.’
Nodding assent to the man he had known from boyhood, Laban pointed to a chair. ‘Anythin’ I can do… you knows you needs only to ask.’
Glad of the opportunity to busy her hands Unity turned at once to the business of making tea, adding a comment to her husband’s answers only when called upon to do so by the apologetic constable.
‘It all ties in together with what Aaron Butler says.’ Smiling his thanks the policeman accepted the tea. ‘Says the reason they didn’t know about old Zeck was due to them never bothering him ’til after the first loading of the furnace… they made a practice of letting him sleep until the rest of ’em knocked off for breakfast then they took across a mug of tea. It shocked the lad who found him… had to send him home, they did.’
It had shocked everybody. Laban took his cup, noting his wife’s shaking hand. It had shocked Unity most of all.
‘Do there be any idea who done it?’
‘That knife be the only thing we have to go by so far. The station be organising an appeal… somebody might recognise it, though the inspector thinks it be a bit of a far fetched hope – a knife be a knife after all, he says. Shows he ain’t a “leatherman”, eh Laban?’
‘Not a one wouldn’t know ’is own tools,’ Laban agreed.
‘Nor a woman neither.’ Unity looked up from the military satchel she had brought home to stitch. ‘Whether her be in the workshop or the kitchen any woman knows her own utensils. If that knife be from Darlaston then somebody will recognise it. One place you could start—’ She broke off, aware of Laban’s glance.
‘You asked was there anybody held a grudge against Jacob Corby’s daughter?’ It had to be brought into the open. Laban watched his old friend set his empty cup on the table. To come out later in the investigation would make it look as if he and Unity had wanted to hide something. ‘Her along of Butcroft House, Jacob’s sister, there were no love in her for the wench. Her saw her own hand being taken from the Glebe, hers and her son’s, that wouldn’t suit Clara Mather. I don’t be saying her would turn to murder—’
‘Her won’t be turning to nothing any more.’ The constable’s face took on a grim look. ‘Nor can we question her. Truth be, Laban, her were found this afternoon lying at the foot of the stairs with her neck broke; seems her fell while bringing the lamp down to refill it.’
‘Oh my Lord!’ Unity’s hand dropped the needle. ‘Oh my good Lord.’
‘I were told to tell you so you can inform the girl, prepare her for what will be in the papers soon enough. But I ain’t said the all of it; the son were found upstairs dead as a doornail in the room we think were his mother’s, judging by the clothes in the wardrobe. He must have heard her cry out and thought it to come from the bedroom so struggled in there, but it proved too much, him being weak from that bullet wound… seems his heart just give out.’
Clara and her son dead! An old man dead and Anne Corby almost the same! As she washed cups in the scullery, Unity’s nerves danced. Could it be the work of that thing the wench had carried from Russia… could it truly be a thing of evil? She had told the girl such talk was naught but superstition, believed only by the gullible, but deep inside she believed otherwise. Had its potency somehow remained even though the bauble was destroyed? No. She loosed the lip caught between her teeth. Should what had happened be the work of that trinket then Jacob Corby’s daughter would be dead as his sister. The only evil had been that nursed in Clara Mather’s heart and now that was stilled for all time; the only real threat to Anne Corby’s safety was gone for ever.
*
‘I have to attend for the sake of my father, I know he would wish me to.’
‘After all that woman tried to do to you… doing her utmost to rob you of what were rightfully your’n?’ Unity Hurley watched the young woman she had nursed for a week ease a painful shoulder into the black coat she had worn at that first funeral. Now there was an account for heaven to take note of, a tiny babby teken from the earth afore ever having the chance to do a mischief and the like of Clara Mather given a whole lifetime in which to do nothin’ but!
‘It is all in the past now.’ Anne drew a glove slowly over her left hand, hoping the wince of pain the movement caused did not show on her face. She had been fortunate the blow had caught her shoulder… it had not caused the damage it would have had it been it few inches more towards the heart.
Lowering the veil of her bonnet Anne hid the smile fleeting across her eyes as Unity’s reply to the doctor crept into her mind. ‘Fortunate!’ she had said tartly. ‘You counts it fortunate to have a knife stuck in a shoulder, then what would you count unfortunate!’
The doctor had closed his Gladstone bag before turning to the indignant woman, then said quietly, ‘A knife in the heart, Unity… now that I would count unfortunate.’
‘I still thinks you shouldn’t be up yet, it be too soon, and as for going to a burying…’
Expecting Unity not to give ground easily, Anne’s answer was quick. ‘I feel much better, and I need to be up some time so it might as well be now.’
‘Then I be coming with you—’
Interrupted by a knock to the door Unity broke off. Going into the scullery to collect the flowers she had asked be brought to the house Anne caught the voices. Unity’s asking, ‘Can’t one of the others see to it?’
‘Sarah and Rachael Giles both said as ’tis you should have the deciding.’
The second voice sounded young and not a little nervous. Anne’s smile hovered. Unity could be a mite disconcerting to the newer employees.
‘There be a to-do over at Fallings Heath—’ Unity glanced round as Anne re-entered the cosy living room ‘—seems a special order’s been sent through, some out of the ordinary sort of courier bags needing turnover edges, as well as collapsible kit bags… officer stuff, so Rachael thinks. Any road up, her can’t be saying who be best to set to the job.’
‘There is only one woman fitted for that task, you. But you can’t do them all yourself. You need the help of a couple of the others, but the naming of them has to be done by you if there is to be no disagreement.’
‘You be right.’ Unity nodded resignedly. ‘But—’
‘No buts. You have my promise I will come home as soon as the service at the church is ended.’
The walk had tired her. Alone apart from the priest, Anne stood at the open graveside. She had not stood alone at the grave of her son nor passed along streets where no woman had wept and no man removed his cap. But not one soul had afforded Clara and her son that mark of respect, no one had any liking for the Mathers.
The Lord had taken His justice.
Unity’s remark rang in her mind. But with justice must surely go mercy; God would forgive and she must too.
At the head of the grave the priest raised his hand, the sleeve of his robe dark against a patch of heavy rain threatened sky and suddenly her mind was back in Russia at the makeshift graveside of her father. The sky had been heavy there, the clouds dark with snow. That priest too, had raised his hand
in blessing but though most of the hurried mumbled words had been unintelligible to her she had heard the false, hollow ring of them. There had been no heartfelt blessing of church accompanied Jacob Corby’s passing into his place of rest and none but herself to ease her mother’s sorrow. Her mother. Anne’s eyes shifted to the trees bordering the churchyard, seeming again to see those grey, silently loping bodies, the slavering jaws and long yellow teeth – teeth which had dragged her mother from that sleigh – where was heaven’s justice in that?
‘Will you be needing a few moments, Miss Corby?’
Chased by the man’s words the mental images drew back into the deep hollows of memory but Anne knew they would return as they often did to haunt her nights. Shaking her head she set the wreath of white lilies beside the heaped up earth which would cover the last of her relatives, then, thanking the priest, turned back along the path.
‘There was no one to pray for them, they were not loved as you were, my darling.’ The black veil hiding tears gathered on her lashes she looked at the tiny patch of earth with its marble headstone. ‘There was no Unity and Laban to grieve for them,’ she whispered, ‘no Abel to show his respect but then they had not deserved it, and I did not deserve…’ Emotion choking her, she sank to her knees on the moist grass below the stone engraved ‘Joshua Laban Corby, asleep in the arms of Jesus’. ‘I did not deserve you…’ The sob resounded on the quiet afternoon. ‘I refused to let myself love you… I thought I could not support… Oh, my love, my little love, there is not a day I do not think of you, not a night I do not hold you to my breast, kiss your sweet little face… I love you, Joshua… you will always live in my heart.’
The effort of speaking too much, she kissed the bunch of purple headed violets nestling in deep green waxy leaves and laid them against the stone.
*
They had found no lead to the knife. The police inspector had been polite, apologetic almost. Anne moved between the rows of women and girls each busy at the workbenches and sewing machines, watching the quality checking of each finished piece. No one had recognised the weapon used to wound her and kill the old nightwatchman. A thief, the police had assumed, a thief she had disturbed, but what would a man steal from the Glebe… a pocketful of crude iron? Even the lorinery, crucial as bits, spurs, stirrups and every other piece of harness furniture might be to the war, it would be difficult to sell for a few pence in the whole of an area where so many workshops produced the like. So who… and why? The answer might never be found.
‘The wench says as they were nailing it up when her went past to take them finished bridles along for Laban’s approving, says there was a list long as your arm…’
The woman talking with Unity glanced up from her stitching as Anne joined them but did not pause in her account of the posting of the latest bulletin naming the men returned for convalescence.
‘… poor souls all of ’em, gassed or crippled, I tell you when they gets that Kaiser they should gas and shoot him then hang the wicked bugger where everybody can see.’
Another list of repatriates. Anne’s thoughts of the knife and her own brush with death evaporated like mist in the sun. Maybe this time…! She could go now, she could leave the works, go to the town hall and read the list of names, she could… But what of those other women sat on the benches? Each of them had husband, father, son or sweetheart away at the fighting, and though it was obvious they too had heard of the posting of yet another list, not one of them had left the work they knew was vital. Neither must she. Avoiding Unity’s eye she continued on along the line of benches, speaking quietly to a young girl struggling to learn a complicated technique, to another anxious her stitching prove unsatisfactory. Any one of these had more right than she to leave what they were doing, to go read those names; she had none at all.
Settling herself to work as best she could with a shoulder still stiff, she tried to clear her mind but thoughts drifted in and out; there and then not there, petals in the wind.
… I will write to let you know where I’ll be, Mrs Davies…
Those were the words he had spoken in his grandmother’s house when he had mistaken her steps for those of his next-door neighbour; but when he had turned and seen her standing in the doorway he had not added to them. The realisation which had come as those last precious minutes had ticked away cut keenly now as they had then. He had not added that he would write to her. Was that not proof? Proof he had no feelings at all for Anne Corby.
Selecting a pricker punch with ten teeth, Anne ran it over a piece of firm hide intended for an officer’s kit bag, taking care not to drive so deeply as to weaken the leather but exerting just enough pressure on the hand tool to mark the spot where the needle would carry the thread.
He had not offered to write to her nor had he asked she write to him. Setting the leather aside she proceeded to mark the next piece before taking them to the more experienced stitchers. Would the Abel Preston of her childhood, the Abel who always tried to heal her hurts, heal the pain she felt now if he knew of it? But then he would never know. Returning to the bench, she reached for leather she could not see through the haze of tears touching her eyes. Abel Preston would never know what lay hidden in her heart.
*
The funeral of Clara Mather and her son had been over this past fortnight. Unity added salt to the pan of potatoes suspended from a bracket over the fire. How long would it be before Anne Corby moved to her own house, how long before Laban and herself were left once more with only memories of someone they loved? The wench ’adn’t spoke of such intention but it look no genius of mind to know it would be soon.
‘I – I read the list of repatriates posted today.’ Anne’s shyness showed in the tiny falter. ‘Abel was not among them.’
Brushing the few clinging grains of salt from her palm, Unity nodded. ‘I checked the list meself same as always and like you says, young Abel’s name weren’t on it; that could be a blessing, it could mean he’s safe and unhurt; or else it could be he were sent to one of them there other hospitals, him having no family to care for him.’
Or it could mean he was missing, even lying dead, in some godforsaken spot! She had heard men she helped nurse at Bentley Grange, men out of their senses with sickness, babble about bodies so blown apart by gunfire as to be unrecognisable, of others lying unconscious or dead in trenches half filled with water, rats nibbling at their limbs.
Not that… dear God, not that! Hands trembling, she dropped the cutlery she had taken from a drawer.
Unity ignored the clatter of knives and forks. Anne Corby thought her feelings hid from the world but they were not hid from Unity Hurley; the wench had feelings for Abel Preston… feelings which showed in her eyes when off her guard, them special feelings a woman carries for only one man.
‘I told him,’ she went on, ‘told him the night afore he left to write mine and Laban’s name as next of kin so there would be a home to return him to, but he said that would be writing a lie for he had no kin; the lad could be stubborn that way.’
Perhaps if she wrote to those hospitals, asked if they had a patient by the name of Abel Preston… but those hospitals would be as busy as the ones close by, every one of their staff would be run off their feet, she could not expect them to check through endless lists of names. Thoughts crowding into her brain, Anne retrieved the fallen cutlery, taking it into the scullery to wash. He had no kin… neither did she. That at least she could share with Abel Preston.
‘What I want to know is where they’m going to put all them wounded?’ Unity reached the lamb chops from the oven where they had cooked until tender, then set the roasting pan on the hob, not glancing at Anne as she returned to the room… give the wench a minute to get herself together, to continue to hide her true feelings. ‘The Sister Dora and West Bromwich District Hospital be filled and according to what a body read from the newspaper, so do Dudley Guest and the Corbett along of Amblecote; seems every hospital for miles around be bursting of its doors, to say nothin’ of the l
ikes of Bentley Grange. It be right good of that new owner to open the place to the nursing of wounded but I doubts it’ll hold many more.’
Placing the third plate in its accustomed spot on the table, Anne forced her attention to the words. ‘I doubt that, too,’ she said, holding the older woman’s glance us she turned from tending the meat, ‘which is why I have offered Butcroft House for the same purpose.’
‘Butcroft!’ Unity’s mouth gaped. ‘You’ve give that house to be a hospital? But I thought… Laban an’ me we both of us thought… with it bein’ your home…’
Light from the solitary lamp mixing with the glow of the fire danced auburn glints in chestnut hair as Anne shook her head. ‘My home is here,’ she said softly, ‘please, don’t turn me from it.’
25
Taking the crumpled sheet of paper from the pocket of his tunic, Abel read it through with the aid of a lantern shining weakly from a broken beam in the roof of a house reduced almost to a shell by constant pounding of German guns. The poor light did not really matter, he had read it so many times he could ‘quote it verbatim’ as his officer had once said of his own letters. He wasn’t a bad chap, that lieutenant, one you would be pleased to call a friend… but it made no sense to want to call any man a friend when death waited over the next rise. There had been so many of them. He rested the hand holding the letter against the shattered wall. Men he had known from home, others from areas he did not know at all, men whose life had been snatched from them.
It was mind numbing watching so many casualties, some already dead as medical orderlies carried them off the field, others crying with the agony of gunshot or shrapnel wounds, but, worst of all, what destroyed the soul was the sight of lads just eighteen years old… lads less than a month after being sent to fight and already lying dead. Where in God’s name was the sense of it all… what prevented the ones still alive from going mad? The answer was there in his hand. Letters from home kept men from sinking into madness, letters from loved ones, letters from friends and even ones like this… brushing dried mud from his eyelashes he glanced again at the paper, a letter from a next-door neighbour.
Heritage of Shame Page 25