The Knapthorne Conspiracy

by Malcolm Ballard

  “Who, Sam?” Who was it?” she whispered, not wanting to disturb his concentration.

  “Alfie.” Samuel turned his sad eyes on her. “The lad were in a terrible state, real agitated like an’ fightin’ for breath, ‘is face red as a beetroot. The poor bugger were about done for, ‘aving run all the way across the fields.” A wave of nausea swept over Bella as a pattern began to form in her mind. Whatever had happened, had taken place in Willow Cottage. The nebulous feelings of uncertainty and concern that had been dogging her had abruptly turned into something more identifiable. Cold, dark tentacles of fear and revulsion reached out from within and she had to fight the urge to cover her ears and block out the sound of Samuel’s voice.

  “I ain’t never seen anyone so distressed as that lad. He were cryin’ an’ shoutin’ an’ wavin’ ‘is arms all about, til Tiny took ahold o’ him and give ‘im a good shake. Alfie calmed down a bit then. Not a lot, mind. 'What is it Alfie? What’s ‘appened?' Tiny says to him, an’ the lad just gave out this awful cry, like a mortally wounded hanimal. 'It’s Ruthy, up at the cottage,' he cries. 'I think she’s dead!'

  Samuel Handysides was on his feet and at Bella’s side immediately he saw her face.

  “You alright, Miss Foxton? You’ve gone awful pale.” He bent down, placing a hand lightly on her shoulder. “Would you like me to stop? It don’t make pleasant ‘earin’, what I’ve got to say.” She gave his hand a sympathetic squeeze and looked up into his eyes.

  “No, I’ll be fine, honestly. It’s just a bit of a shock, that’s all.”

  “How about another cup o’ tea then?”

  “That’s very sweet of you, Samuel. Maybe when you’ve finished, eh?” You might be needin’ somethin’ a little stronger than that by the time this is over, he thought to himself. “You sit back down and carry on. Don’t worry about me.” He did as she asked, knowing that it was going to get more difficult for both of them. Painful as it was for him to relive the events of that dreadful day he could only imagine what might be going through her mind. Why hadn’t she just let things be? It was too late now, of course. Best just to carry on and get it done with.

  “We were out o’ that bar in no time.” Samuel picked up the story where he’d left off, remembering Cora Flint’s reaction when she had come into the bar and seen the state of her brother. “Poor Cora near collapsed at the sight of Alfie. She and two other girls had been ‘elping out in the kitchen.” He searched his memory. “Doris Fairweather and Maud Baker I thinks it was. Anyways, I told ‘em to look after Cora and went off with the lads. Vic Sparrow ‘ad his car outside an’ Alfie, Tiny an’ someone else I can’t recall piles in with ‘im, the others hopping into my old Morris along with me and we followed Vic, as he took off. Miss Foxton, I’m a-tellin’ you it were like one o’ them police chases you sees on the tele, me in the Morris tearin’ after Vic in ‘is Austin Metropolitan, both of us drivin’ like we was on a racetrack. I ain’t never got to Willow Cottage so quick, neither before nor since.”

  “What time of day was this, Samuel?” Bella was trying to form an accurate picture in her own mind, as he spoke.

  “Round about eleven-thirty, I think it were, an’ the first thing we sees is a car parked outside. There weren’t a bloke among us didn’t know whose it was…” He was unable to continue, unwilling to take the final step and they looked at each other across the silence that separated them. Samuel’s hesitation introduced an immediate air of tension which filled the void and affected Bella dramatically. Biting nervously on her bottom lip, she struggled to swallow but her throat felt constricted, her mouth dry as dust. It seemed as though the very act of breathing had become difficult.

  “Whose was it Samuel?” she asked, eventually, in a voice no more than a whisper. “Who did that car belong to?” He was reluctant to answer but she knew from his grim expression and the sadness in his eyes what his reply was going to be. When the landlord of The Lamb finally found his voice, it was laced with a mixture of sympathy and regret.

  “It were your father’s, Miss Foxton. It were Patrick’s car we found outside o' Willow Cottage.”

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Patrick’s blue Ford Anglia could have been there for any number of reasons, as Bella was well aware, but a sick feeling in the pit of her stomach told her that its presence somehow implicated the car’s owner in the events that were unfolding. Silently, she thanked God for Maria’s visit. Knowing that Patrick was not her father moved her one step away from the unthinkable emotional involvement of discovering something awful about the man. Besides, she had the calming knowledge that her actual father was a kind, decent and well-respected person. That reason alone helped Bella regain her self-control. What was really troubling her was the thought of what had gone on at Willow Cottage, the place that she had come to love and think of as home. Was the dream about to be shattered? It was too horrible to contemplate. In addition, her heart went out to Samuel and the agonies he must be suffering in recounting what must be one of the darkest moments of Knapthorne’s history, all the time thinking that Patrick was her father. But Samuel, in turn, had been heartened somewhat by the way that Bella had received the news about her father’s car. The sheer fact of it being there, given what had gone before, didn’t look good but she was holding up remarkably well under the circumstances.

  “I’m sorry to ‘ave to tell you but this is where things gets really bad, Miss Foxton.” He eased himself forward to the edge of the cushion and leaned forward, speaking earnestly.

  “I ‘as to ask you, once again, do you swear not to repeat anythin’ you ‘ears in this room to anyone? I can’t tell you how important it is you stands by what you says. When I’ve finished a-tellin’ you, there’ll be no goin’ back on your word.” Only then did she fully realise what it must have taken for him to resurrect the past, for her benefit, and the immense stress he had to be under. There could be no underestimating the gravity of the situation.

  “I give you my word, Samuel. Whatever I find out will go no further, I promise you.”

  “On that wild drive up to the cottage, the lads had somehow got the story out of Alfie. I don’t knows how ‘cause he were a right mess. No more than a babblin’ idiot.” Samuel paused, shaking his head at the memory. Struggling with his own emotions he was unable to look Bella in the eye and it was some seconds before he could continue.

  “Young Alfie were never the brightest but ‘e were a good worker an’ always ‘ad a smile on ‘is face. For ever forgettin’ things that boy!” The landlord smiled at some long-forgotten recollection but didn’t share it. As the smile faded he appeared almost reluctant to continue and Bella realised he was close to tears, the images from that tragic day imprinted on his mind as clearly as if they had happened recently rather than all those long years ago.

  “Take your time, Samuel. It’s alright,” Bella murmured, sympathetically. “I understand, I really do.” He gave her a token smile and took a deep breath, taking strength from how well she seemed to be holding up, given the situation.

  “The lad ‘ad forgotten ‘is lunch, an’ ‘e’d gone back to the cottage to fetch it, an’ comin’ in through the back way ‘e never saw Patrick’s car. When ‘e gets in the kitchen, ‘e ‘ears noises from upstairs. Ruthy’s bedroom was right above, you see.” It was all too easy for Bella to see. To imagine the scene, picturing Alfie in the kitchen, her kitchen, staring up at the ceiling and wondering what was going on. She was there with him now, waiting to follow his movements. Waiting for Samuel to continue.

  “Then ‘e hears more noises, a-crashin’ an’ a-bangin’ like, which don’t sound like Ruthy at all, so ‘e rushes off to find out what’s goin’ on.” In his discomfort, he shuffled nervously on the settee, clasping his hands together and wringing them in a display of uneasiness. Bella wasn’t in any better state, her breathing shallow and ragged, waiting to find out what Alfie would discover.

  “As ‘e gets to the top o’ the stairs ‘e can ‘ear a man’s voice shoutin’ an’ holl
erin’ an’ he runs along the landin’, to Ruthy’s room, knowin’ there’s somethin’ badly wrong. What ‘e sees from the doorway nearly stops his ‘eart dead.” Samuel lifted his head so that he was looking directly into Bella’s eyes. Time seemed to stop still, as if it were holding its breath waiting for him to speak. When he did, his voice was so small, so quiet, she could only just hear him.

  “Patrick, your father, is on top of our Ruthy with ‘is ‘ands around her throat, shakin’ ‘er like she’s a rag doll. All ‘er clothes is about ripped off. She gives one wild, terrified glance at Alfie when she sees ‘im at the door, then ‘er eyes rolled back.”

  Bella was in shock, a hand covering her mouth, as she tried to absorb what she had just heard. Anything she might have imagined, any conclusions she had drawn from what she had heard earlier hadn’t prepared her for this. Patrick a murderer? Ruthy Flint killed in that small bedroom at the end of the hallway? Right here in Willow Cottage! Her lovely, special Willow Cottage! Without warning, she got up and lurched to the front door, just managing to open it and stagger outside before being violently sick. Bent over the flower bed, coughing and spluttering, she felt a hand on her shoulder. Turning her head very slightly she saw Samuel but was unable to speak.

  “I’m so sorry, Miss Foxton. So very, very sorry it ‘ad to ‘appen this way.” It seemed the worst was over but she remained bent double, trying to catch her breath and putting a hand over Samuel’s. At last, she had recovered enough to stand upright but felt shaky and light-headed.

  “Feelin’ a bit better, now?” Genuinely concerned, Samuel wasn’t quite sure what to do for the best. Bella nodded, closing her eyes and breathing deeply. “What about that cup o’ tea?” Her stomach heaved at the thought.

  “Perhaps a small glass of milk thanks, Samuel.” She breathed out, heavily, the sour, bitter taste in her mouth making her screw her eyes up in revulsion. “I’d better go upstairs and freshen up. Excuse me a moment won’t you? And don’t worry. I’ll be alright.” When she was halfway up the stairs she thought of Alfie, on that awful day, hearing the sound of Patrick’s voice coming from Ruth Flint’s room. Reaching the top of the stairs, a powerful compulsion drew her along the hallway, past the bathroom, to the small bedroom at the end on the right. She stood in the doorway, as Alfie must have stood rooted to the spot by what had confronted him. In the dim light of the cool room she spied the small vase on the chest of drawers, the long-dead flowers hanging limp and lifeless over its sides. Cora’s touching memorial to her young, sweet sister, which turned the room into a permanent shrine to her memory, hadn’t been tended for two weeks. Bella stood transfixed by the scene, tears streaming down her face. Tears for Ruthy, for Cora and for Alfie. Tears, too, for her Willow Cottage, which would never be the same again.

  “Oh, Samuel it’s all too ghastly. Too horrible for words!” They had resumed their seats, Samuel having made himself a cup of tea and brought Bella her glass of milk. Plucking a tissue from the box she had placed on the table, next to her, she blew her nose. She wore no make-up and he couldn’t help but notice her red-rimmed eyes when she had returned from upstairs. Samuel was long past getting into a fuss over a pretty girl but even he couldn’t help but be affected by the combination of her extraordinary looks and the aura of vulnerability that now surrounded her. Only after he had been watching for some time did he realise that he had been staring at her. In an attempt to cover his embarrassment, he put a question to her.

  “Are you up to hearing the rest?” She gave a weak smile.

  “I don’t know Sam,” she replied, her voice trembling with emotion. “I only knows I got to, having come this far. Times a-getting’ on,” he commented, looking at his watch, “so I’ll try and keep it short…”

  “How did Patrick die, then?” she broke in, wanting to know that more than anything else and assuming it must have happened as a result of the scene at the cottage. Her anxiety to know obliterated every other thought from her mind.

  “A little patience, Miss Foxton, an' I’ll get there as quick as I can.” Settling himself back into the settee, hopeful the worst was over, he prepared to resume his story.

  “Alfie launched ‘imself at Patrick but ‘e weren’t as big or as strong as your father, ‘specially as your father were rantin’ and ravin’. They struggled briefly and ‘e lands a big punch on Alfie, knockin’ ‘im down, then takes off. Patrick’s disappeared by the time Alfie gets to ‘is feet an’ the poor lad can’t take ‘is eyes off his sister. I reckons ‘e’d seen her die at the ‘ands of your father. When ‘e comes to ‘is senses, ‘e dashes out the room to get ‘elp and, going down the stairs ‘e ‘ears Patrick a-trying to start the car. By the time ‘e gets outside, the car’s still there but there’s no sign of your father.” Bella couldn’t help but think back to the first time she’d seen Alfie, when she and Ben had gone to The Lamb. Who would ever have guessed what he’d been through. You just never knew with people, she conceded. Briefly she thought of Ben. What had happened to him? Mirroring her environment, her life had taken on the profile of a country lane with all its twists and turns and she had cause to wonder if anyone was really who they appeared to be on the surface.

  “By the time we arrived,” Samuel continued, “we was too late to do anythin’ for poor Ruthy. We were devastated, ‘eartbroken to see the state of ‘er. Shortly after we got there, the bloke from Thornden turns up. When ‘e finds out what’s gone on, ‘e takes off again, straight away, without a word to anyone. He knows very square inch round about, see, cos he's the gamekeeper on the Estate. Always 'as 'is shotgun with 'im, most like 'is dog 'an all. While we was trying to get over the shock an’ get ourselves organised this bloke’s let his dog loose in Patrick’s car then set ‘im off after the scent. Alfie were in a terrible way, 'aving been…what’s the word they uses now”

  “Traumatised?” Bella suggested, quietly.

  “Aye, that’s the one. Poor bugger never recovered from the shock o’ what ‘e saw. Alfie weren’t exactly the full quid before but this sent ‘im proper doolally, it did.”

  “And, presumably, the man who went after Patrick caught up with him.” Bella spoke unemotionally, her voice calm and restrained.

  “That ‘e did, Miss Foxton. That ‘e did.” The look on Samuel’s face was softer, more relaxed, the tension having gone now that the mountain had been scaled. “The bloke caught up with ‘im in less than an ‘our. Patrick had turned ‘is ankle, scramblin’ through the undergrowth, an’ ‘e could barely ‘obble. His face an’ arm were bleedin’ a bit where Ruthy must’ve scratched ‘im. He were sittin’ by the far side of a stream way on the other side o’ Spinney Lane an’ he were taken out with a single shot to the chest from some way off.”

  “Lex talionis,” Bella murmured. She knew the stream well. May even have sat where he had been sitting.

  “Beg Pardon, Miss?”

  “An eye for an eye, Samuel.” She felt drained but couldn’t suppress a mounting anger that, regardless of what Patrick had done, he had been murdered, in cold blood. His killer, to her mind, no less guilty than Patrick had been.

  “That makes him no better than Patrick, then!” Her sudden vituperative response didn’t surprise him, with what she had just learned. The level of her voice rose as she continued, all the bitter, pent-up feelings, all the sadness and frustration coming out. The loss of Patrick, the death of Ruth and the tragedy of Alfie. All her emotions were suddenly channelled into a stinging attack.

  “Taking the law into his own hands and exacting revenge, it’s positively medieval. What gave him the right to play the role of executioner, tell me that?” Anger had brought a flush of colour to Bella’s cheeks and her eyes were blazing. “So what happened at his trial? He must have been found guilty.” She was glaring at Samuel, waiting for an answer. As she sat there, fuming, her mother’s words came back to her. ‘Nothing was ever proved.’ Samuel hadn’t found his voice, not knowing what to say.

  “There was no trial, was there?” The light of revelat
ion had dawned in her eyes and her voice was little more than incredulous. “So what happened, Samuel?” He had gone deathly pale, his normal easy-going demeanour replaced by a palpable nervousness.

  “Remember, Miss Foxton, you swore you wouldn’t repeat anythin’ you ‘eard in ‘ere to anyone.” There was little conviction in his voice, the words sounding more like a desperate plea, to her ears.

  “But we’re talking murder, here, Samuel!” she replied, in disbelief. “Two murders in fact and I demand to know what happened!”

  “We sorted it out, there an’ then, when the bloke from Thornden came back. Every man at the cottage knew ‘e’d o’ done the same if only ‘e ‘ad a gun at the time. Patrick Foxton weren’t goin’ to be missed by anyone, beggin’ your pardon, Miss, so we agreed to look after our own.” Still ashen-faced, it had taken Samuel a moment to marshall his thoughts before speaking and Bella listened dispassionately, as the story began to unfold. “Not a soul knew about them two deaths save for the folk at Willow Cottage and we put our ‘eads together as to what to do. The only risk, as we saw it, were Alfie but the lad had gone into a world of ‘is own an’ ‘e were just goin’ to need lookin’ after.” The landlord’s voice kept catching in his throat and he broke off, momentarily, to cough in an attempt to put it right.

  “We had to get the car away from here and It were agreed that we’d give Ruthy a decent burial but were to let on that she’d left the area…”