Mulligan's Yard (46 page)

‘Amy?’ The doctor rose and stepped back.

She stared into the grate, watched the flames dancing and darting as if they believed this to be just another day. An awareness was creeping over her, pushing its face into her mind, making her
think, remember. Eliza. So beautiful, so creative, so . . . cold. Cold now, certainly, but cold in her heart for some time . . .

‘Can I get you something?’ asked the doctor.

‘No.’ It was all becoming clear, beginning to make sense. But first, there was a question to be asked. ‘Dr Jones?’

‘Yes?’

‘Something in her head?’

‘A brain tumour, Amy.’

She nodded slowly. ‘Might such a growth have affected her behaviour? She changed so much after Mother died – oh, poor Eliza. We all thought—’

‘Calm yourself.’ Dr Jones placed a hand on her head. ‘I brought the three of you into this world. You were all lovely girls, clever, gifted and beautiful.’ He blinked
away a mist over his eyes. ‘She changed, yes. There is a theory that severe shock can activate a tumour. Your mother’s death might have made Eliza’s condition worse. That is not
to say that the tumour was caused by Mrs Burton-Massey’s sudden death – it was probably there already – but shock may have been a factor in the tumour’s accelerated
development.’

Amy smiled. ‘Thank you.’

‘Not at all. Would you like a sedative?’ he asked.

‘No. I must visit Margot and arrange the funeral. Although we have to wait for . . . for whatever must be done with Eliza’s body, I shall talk to the undertaker.’ She stood up
and shook his hand. ‘Thank you,’ she repeated. ‘You have answered so many questions. But I have one more, one you failed to answer earlier.’

‘Fire away,’ invited the doctor.

She inhaled deeply as if arming herself. ‘The thing on her brain, the tumour. You have said that it might have been made worse by Mother’s death, but could it have altered
Eliza’s behaviour, turned her into someone different?’

‘The short answer is yes, Amy. The longer version is that we don’t know enough yet about the human brain, though patients with problems like Eliza’s have altered beyond
recognition. Their movements, speech and hearing can be affected, as can memory and behaviour.’

‘She stopped caring,’ whispered Amy.

‘No,’ replied the doctor. ‘Parts of her brain ceased to function. Her soul remained much the same, I’m sure.’

‘I thought she was bad,’ explained Amy. ‘The things she did, the icy attitude to me and to Margot. It was all a part of her illness, wasn’t it?’

‘Yes.’

Amy’s shoulders relaxed. Perhaps the wicked Wilkinson had done poor Eliza a favour, because she would not have to linger now in pain and confusion. How easily and readily we judge one
another, thought Amy, as James saw the doctor to the door. I believed that my sister was evil, even told her that she was a nasty piece of work. But I was ill-informed and cannot blame myself, as
that would be negative and stupid. All the same, I shall direct my prayers to Mother and ask her to keep Eliza with her.

Had Eliza killed Rupert Smythe? Had she pushed him down those tortuous stairs? Well, Mrs Smythe could not expect an answer now. The blue-eyed boy was gone and . . . and Margot was expecting his
child. How simple life had been before all of this.

James came in. ‘More tea, Amy? I am just about to send Moorhead to take the children to school.’

‘Yes, a cup of tea, please. And . . .’ She looked at him, saw a face made dingy by stubble, a creased coat, tired eyes, limp cuffs on a shirt loaned to him by a policeman.
James’s own shirt, stained with Eliza’s blood, had been removed as evidence. ‘I don’t know how I would have managed without you.’

His eyes met hers. ‘You would have managed, Amy.’

‘I think not.’ She was uneasy, yet the discomfort was not a bad feeling. ‘I might not have overcome him, James.’

‘Oh, you would have stopped him. You are a strong girl, Amy.’

What was he really saying? And was this the appropriate time to be finding a man attractive, effective and kind? ‘Not as strong as you seem to think, James.’

He felt a heat in his face, stepped back and went off to brew yet more tea. Brushing aside Elspeth Moorhead’s offer to help, he warmed the pot, set a tray, found spoons, cups, saucers.

Elspeth carried on peeling carrots. In her almost seventy years on God’s earth, she had learned a thing or two. Even at this unbearably sad time, Elspeth Moorhead recognized a man in love,
so the tears that tumbled into vegetable peelings were not all sad. Mr Mulligan would do very well for Amy, very well indeed.

Sally woke at about seven o’clock. The great house was always quiet in the mornings, yet today’s silence was particularly empty, causing her to feel that she was
the last creature alive on earth. Ah, she remembered now. The police had been here, then Mary and her two brothers had run away into the night, leaving Sally all alone in a place with fourteen
bedrooms.

She jumped up, splashed her face, dressed quickly. Mr Mulligan was under arrest. The police had reported that Eliza Burton-Massey had been found dead. On the stairs outside her attic room, Sally
paused, remembering how kind Miss Eliza had been for a while. Then she had changed, had become sullen and dismissive, almost cruel. Perhaps Eliza had upset some ill-tempered man, but that man was
not Mr Mulligan. Poor Eliza. Whatever she had done or been, she had not deserved to die so young.

Sally knocked, then opened Mary’s door. The bed had not been slept in, so Mary had probably gone for good. Mary Whitworth had accused Mr Mulligan of locking those two brothers of hers in
the cellar. Rubbish. And once the cellars had been searched by police everyone knew that there was nothing else down there. So much for the prisoner under the kitchen, mused Sally, as she reached
the main landing.

He had not been home. She looked around the neat room: just a bed, a table, a chest of drawers and a small wardrobe. The man lived so sparsely, as if he meant to leave no mark here. Having sold
the inn in town and some paintings from the house, he was now investing in a hydro so that the Burton-Masseys would have a good living once he had returned to Ireland. But would he ever get home?
Would he be out of prison? God forbid that he should hang . . .

What could she do? She cut and buttered a slice of bread, poured herself a cup of milk, carried her makeshift breakfast through to the hallway. When she opened the front door, she saw that his
car had gone. So, as well as being under wrongful arrest, Mr Mulligan had lost his car. She glanced sideways in the direction of the larger of Pendleton Grange’s two conservatories, but
no-one had arrived yet. A swimming pool was under construction inside the building, while tennis courts and some extra stables would be built when spring came. Would the builders bother to turn up
when they found out that their employer had been put behind bars? ‘Ooh, hurry up back, Mrs Kenny,’ Sally pleaded softly. ‘This all wants sorting out.’

On a whim, she ran back to the kitchen and dragged her outdoor clothing from a peg. She could not work, could not sit and wait while one of the nicest men on earth languished in jail. Something
had to be done. Sally wasn’t quite sure how or why, but this all needed to be put right. Mrs Kenny was going to be home this afternoon, but that was hours away. And who had stolen the
car?

The tram terminus was over three miles away by road, so she decided to cut through fields to save time and feet. Sally was on her way to Bolton; Sally would give the police a piece of her not
inconsiderable intellect.

The trouble with grown-ups, Diane decided, was that they kept too many secrets. They knew a lot but, whenever pressed, they said things like ‘You’ll find out when
you’re older’, then went off in whispering huddles, thereby making the whole thing even more interesting than it might have been.

But Diane had her ways, and these ways were aided by the fact that three bedrooms had been created with partitions so thin that everyone could hear snores, coughs, sneezes and even shifts of a
quilt on a bed. So she sat upstairs and listened. Within the space of three minutes, she learned that Eliza Burton-Massey had been killed and that Mr Mulligan had been put in prison.

She indulged in a few quiet tears, then decided to ration the weeping, save it until later. Because Diane Hewitt was suddenly very angry. Mr Mulligan hadn’t killed anyone. The
child’s first instinct was to tell her grandmother about the guardian in the woods, but she could not. Last night’s expedition had been explained away by lies, and Ida Hewitt was not
fond of untruths these days. Also, Diane could not say how she had found out just now about the murder, or she would be chastised for eavesdropping again.

Mona was speaking now. ‘Aye, the milkman told me – it’s all over the village, he says. But Mr Mulligan could never kill anybody. And Margot were there and all, stripped down to
nowt. Well, he’d not do a thing like that.’

‘No, no, you’re right there, Mona.’

‘In prison and all,’ continued Mona, ‘for summat he’s definitely not done. I mean, I’m sure many an innocent man dangles on the end of a rope. Police is only
interested in tidying up, not bothered who they hang. Courts is the same.’

‘Well, the kiddies’ll have to stop at home today,’ said Ida. ‘He always takes them to school – what shall I tell our Diane?’

‘Eeh, don’t ask me, love. That granddaughter of yours is as old as the hills any road.’

Ida coughed. ‘This cold’s hanging on a bit.’ Diane heard the sound of Gran blowing her nose. ‘I’d decided to shift them over to the village school and all, but will
we still be living here?’

‘Course we will,’ replied Mona immediately. ‘I’ve enough to buy the house if needs must. But it won’t come to that, will it? He’s innocent. And any road, he
says he’s going to give the estate back once he’s mended his dad’s doings. So whatever happens, Amy’ll have a say in it.’

‘I hope so,’ answered Ida. There followed a sizeable pause. ‘How will you get to work, Mona? That shop’s had enough setbacks, and I can’t see Amy being up to much
now that her poor sister’s been murdered.’

‘Oh, I can’t think,’ said Mona. ‘Let’s make a bit of breakfast, then decide what’s to be done. But I’ll tell you one thing for nothing, Ida.’

‘What’s that?’

‘I’d like to know where Peter Wilkinson were last night. Supposed to be in Birmingham by all accounts. He’s no more in bloody Birmingham than thee and me. Remember that lass me
and James Mulligan found in your old house? That were Wilkinson’s doing. I get a funny feeling yon man’s at the back of this lot and all.’

Diane tiptoed out of the room and down the stairs, the truth fizzing about in her head and tempting her to speak up. No, she must say nothing yet. She tried to keep her face normal as Gran and
Mona entered the kitchen. ‘I’ve put the kettle on,’ she said.

Joe came in from the front garden. He set four places, found butter, knives and cups. Diane brewed the tea while Ida brought bread and porridge to the table. The child could not look at the
adults, could not say anything about what she had seen. But she would – oh, yes, she would.

The car pulled up at the front gate.

‘Here’s Mr Mulligan,’ cried Joe.

Diane pretended not to notice hope dawning on the faces of the two women. After all, Diane knew nothing. She drank her tea, put on hat and coat, made sure that little Joe was warmly clad.

Mona was first at the car. ‘Oh, it’s you,’ she said to Eric Moorhead.

He nodded. His instructions were that he must not say a word about what had happened, especially in front of the children. ‘Mr Mulligan’s busy,’ he said, ‘so I’ve
to do the driving today.’ He smiled at the children. ‘Come on, then, let’s be getting you to school.’

The drive was conducted in total silence. Moorhead, who was used only to farm machinery, simply ploughed ahead, ignoring most crossroads, hitting the verge a few times, blissfully unaware of his
passengers’ misgivings. He dropped a shaky Mona at the shop, then deposited the children outside their school. ‘Er . . . don’t go to Mr Mulligan’s yard after your
lessons,’ he said. ‘I’ll pick you up here. Stand where I can see you.’

He drove off.

Joe looked at his sister, an expression of bemusement on his face. ‘Well, we’re alive,’ he said, his eyes fixed on the disappearing car. ‘That was frightening, it’s
a wonder we’re still in one piece.’

‘Only just.’ What was going on at all? Why hadn’t the man said about Mr Mulligan being away at least? She bent down. ‘Joe?’

‘What?’

‘You know how Gran’s had that cough for a week or two?’

He nodded.

‘Tell them I’ve caught Gran’s bad cold. Say I’m in bed, too ill for school.’ She squeezed his arm, fixed him with a gimlet stare. ‘Please, Joe?’

‘Why?’

‘Because I’ve got to go and do something.’ Her thoughts remained disordered, but something had to be resolved.

‘What have you got to . . . ?’ Joe’s words trailed off. Their Diane had a face on her like a clog bottom when she was determined. ‘You’ve got Gran’s
cold,’ he said resignedly.

‘Good lad.’ She planted a kiss on his cheek, then skipped off down the road. She was going to be a heroine, like somebody in a book who just turns up and puts things right. Plans
were vague, but anger sustained her.

Then the spring went out of her step when she thought about Eliza and Margot and Amy. But she was hell bent on making the police let Mr Mulligan go. So, instead of skipping, she adopted a slow
march and said a little prayer for Eliza.

For over an hour, Diane walked the streets of Bolton, her whole being concentrating on what must be achieved. Whatever the method, she would get Mr Mulligan out of jail today. Halfway through
her third tour of Deansgate, she bumped into Sally Hayes, her greatest friend in the whole world. ‘What are you doing here?’ she cried.

‘You should be at school,’ answered Sally.

‘And you should be at the Grange.’ They both stopped outside a chemist’s shop, each pretending to be interested in great bottles of coloured fluid and advertisements for liver
pills.