Dancing in the Moonlight Page 8

  Tom was taking off his hat and coat as Jacob followed him into what was a spacious but dark hall, the wood panelling such a dark brown as to be almost black. He watched his brother sling his hat onto the marble-and-gilt hallstand and hand his coat to the housekeeper, who had come hurrying through. ‘This is my brother, Jacob, Mrs Hedley. As you can see, he’s a little wet. Could you take his things to dry in front of the range before you bring a tray through to the drawing room?’

  ‘I’m not stopping.’ Jacob stood awkwardly, aware of the pool of water at his feet, his shabby jacket and wet trousers, and his big hobnailed boots. Tom, on the other hand, was dressed like the well-to-do businessman he now purported to be. ‘I’ll keep me things on, thank you very much.’ It sounded crass, but he couldn’t help that.

  Tom shrugged. ‘As you like.’ He turned and opened a door and, as Jacob followed him into the drawing room, he had to stop himself gaping. From the long velvet drapes at the two windows to the fine pieces of furniture dotted about, it was clear no expense had been spared. The heavily patterned carpet in varying shades of red and blue stretched to the four corners of the room and the blazing fire in the ornate fireplace glinted on the gold-framed picture above the mantelpiece. There were other paintings adorning the walls and a cabriole-legged display cabinet held several delicate pieces of porcelain in the space between the two bay windows.

  Tom walked across to the fire, turning and lifting up the bottom of his suit jacket as he warmed his backside, his feet slightly apart as he looked at his brother, brows raised. ‘So?’

  Tom had put on some weight; it added to his prosperous air. Clearing his mind, Jacob said, ‘I need to talk to you.’

  ‘Aye, so you said. About what?’

  ‘You’ve heard Lucy’s da and brother were found yesterday, I suppose? They fished them out of the docks.’

  Tom’s expression became grave. ‘Bad business. How’s she taking it?’

  Ignoring this, Jacob said, ‘What do you know about it?’

  ‘Me? Same as you, I should think. Mam said they’d been drinking and left some pub or other three sheets to the wind.’

  ‘They weren’t drinking. They were on a job.’

  Tom straightened. ‘Oh aye? Who told you that?’

  ‘I was round at Lucy’s the night they went missing and she said her da and the lads had got some work, but they wouldn’t tell her what it was. She was worried, as well she might have been, as it’s turned out.’

  Mrs Hedley knocked and came bustling in with a tray of coffee and there was silence until she had left after pouring two cups. Tom gestured to the tray. ‘Help yourself. I always have a tot of brandy in mine at this time of night. Care to join me?’

  ‘They were working for you that night, weren’t they,’ Jacob said with quiet certainty. ‘This thing stinks of you.’

  ‘Me? Don’t be barmy. Walter wasn’t pally with me, as well you know, and I thought you just said Lucy was worried about the three of them? Well, Donald’s alive and kicking, isn’t he? And according to Mam, he told the law he’d left them in the pub after some fella didn’t turn up. Why would he say that if it isn’t true?’

  ‘Cos he’s scared witless.’ Jacob had remained standing just inside the room, but now he walked up to his brother until they were eyeball-to-eyeball. ‘Of you.’

  It was Tom who broke the stare, ostensibly to reach for the decanter of brandy next to the coffee tray. He poured a measure of the spirit into his coffee cup and then sat down in one of the elaborately upholstered chairs the room held. He stretched out his legs in front of him and took a long swallow of the coffee, smacking his lips as he finished. ‘I know we’ve never got on, but don’t you think this is taking your dislike of me a little too far, baby brother? Accusations like the one you’ve just made should come with proof or they could be very dangerous indeed.’ Jacob breathed out slowly. ‘For me or for you?’ Tom didn’t speak for some moments, but when he raised his head and looked at him, Jacob found himself thinking: He’s sold his soul to the devil, that’s what he’s done; because there was something straight from the pit staring out of Tom’s eyes. When Tom spoke, his words came slow and deep: ‘You dare to threaten me in my own home? You’re scum and you’ll always remain scum, and do you know why? Because you’re content to wallow in the gutter, that’s why, like the rest of the herd. You try and bring me down and you’ll wish you’d never been born, I promise you. No one crosses me and gets away with it. Now get out of my house.’

  More shaken than he would care to admit, Jacob concentrated on hiding the fact. Men like Tom preyed on weakness. ‘If there is proof you’re involved, I’ll find it,’ he said quietly. ‘And your threats don’t frighten me. I intend to get to the bottom of this, for Lucy’s sake, if nothing else.’

  ‘Since when did you become her keeper?’ Jacob’s chin lifted. ‘We’ve got an understanding.’

  ‘An understanding?’ Tom laughed harshly. ‘You think someone like you could hold a lass like that? Think again. You’re old Williamson’s skivvy, a nowt.’

  Jacob held onto his temper, but there was a tightness in his jaw that was painful as he gritted his teeth. He wanted to wipe the smile off Tom’s face. Although he knew he probably wouldn’t win a fight with his brother, they were definitely better matched than they’d ever been in the past.

  His mind was racing, warring with animal instinct.

  But that was what Tom wanted him to do – to fight. It would give Tom the upper hand. It was the language he understood, that of might over right.

  Slowly, deliberately, Jacob reined in the bloodlust. His voice deep in his throat, he said, ‘I don’t care a monkey’s cuss what you think of me, I never have. I’ve known what you are from when I was a bairn. But for the record, Lucy and I love each other. And you’re right on one thing: I’m not good enough for her, but I thank God she doesn’t see it that way. So say what you want and be damned. And I’ll keep digging about her da and Ernie. Someone, somewhere knows the truth.’

  He had turned and reached the drawing-room door before the low growl halted him in his tracks. ‘You’ll never have her, boy. I’ll make sure of it.’

  Jacob only paused for an infinitesimal moment before quietly opening the door and as quietly shutting it behind him, but he could still hear the curses that followed him when he walked towards the front door, ignoring the housekeeper who came fluttering after him. Once outside in the cold fresh air, he stood for a second, breathing it in in great gulps to rid himself of the contamination of Tom’s presence. Then he squared his shoulders and walked away.

  Chapter Eight

  ‘I won’t let Tom Crawford pay for the funeral.’ Lucy faced Donald, her face as white as lint and her hands clenched into fists. ‘You can go straight back and tell him that.’

  ‘Be reasonable, lass.’ Donald’s voice verged on tearful.

  ‘Reasonable?’ Lucy stared at him, this brother she felt she didn’t know any more. At first she had put Donald’s withdrawal and long silences down to shock at what he’d experienced. He and Ernie had always been close, only two years separating them, and she knew Donald had hero-worshipped his big brother, content to follow where Ernie had led. Now it seemed as though Donald’s mainspring had snapped. And she felt sorry for him, she knew he was suffering too. That’s why she had let him sit huddled in front of the range day after day, cloaked in a silence even the twins hadn’t tried to penetrate.

  Donald and Jacob had gone to the mortuary together to officially identify the bodies, both adamant that she remained at home. And she had agreed to this, mainly because the grim-faced policeman who had called at the house to tell them about Walter and Ernie had made it clear the identification would be harrowing. There had been some sort of an investigation, but the verdict had been that the two men had fallen into the docks while intoxicated and been crushed by one of the vessels in the water. Now the police had released the bodies for burial.

  Lucy took a deep breath, lowering her voice as she said, ‘It�
�s not a matter of being reasonable, Donald. Tom Crawford is responsible for Da and Ernie dying, and you know that as well as I do, and I don’t care how much you try and say different. And to do what he did afterwards, branding them as drunkards and throwing them in the—’ She stopped abruptly, her throat filling. It was some moments before she could continue and, when she did, her voice was resolute. ‘I don’t want anything from him. We’ll manage.’ Somehow.

  She turned back to the vegetables she was preparing for the rabbit broth they were having later that day for dinner. Jacob had dropped the rabbits in the night before, already cut into joints, and she had accepted them gratefully. The money Tom had given her father was gone and Donald’s dole money didn’t go far. They were weeks behind with the rent. The police investigation had delayed the funeral. It was now three weeks since her father and Ernie had died, but Lucy had used the time to sell the brass bed in the front room along with her father’s and Ernie’s Sunday suits and shirts. She had kept the proceeds to pay for the funeral. Even so, her father’s and Ernie’s send-off would be a poor affair and there would be no wake afterwards, not when the cupboards were bare of food and she didn’t know where the next penny was coming from. If only Donald would look for work, or at the very least go beachcombing or hunting for rabbits or pigeons in the countryside. But no, he sat on his backside in front of the range with his head in his hands.

  What were they going to do? Panic swept over her and she swallowed against the tightness in her throat. Jacob had tried to reassure her that Donald would pull himself together once the funeral was over, but she had sensed he didn’t believe what he was saying. Neither did she. But she was praying it was so.

  The joint service for Walter and his son was held a few days later on a sunny May morning that seemed to mock the family’s grief. Whether it was the shadow of impropriety over the manner of the deaths that discouraged attendance or the absence of a wake, Lucy didn’t know, but numbers were few. She didn’t mind this. Several of Ernie’s friends and a couple of her father’s old pals were at the church, along with one or two neighbours, but everyone seemed awkward and uncomfortable. Lucy had insisted that she was present and Donald hadn’t argued. Enid had stayed behind to look after Ruby, John and the twins, and Lucy stood between Donald and Jacob during the short service, but she was vitally aware of Tom Crawford the whole time. He stood with his father and other brothers in the opposite pew and barely took his eyes off her. He had called at the house twice since the night of the accident: the first time to offer his condolences, and the second when he offered to cover the expenses for the double funeral – a ‘private arrangement’ he had said. On both occasions Lucy had refused to see him and Donald had spoken to him at the door.

  They emerged from the church into bright sunlight and followed the pallbearers to the gravesides. A hundred memories were burning in Lucy’s mind of happier days, moments that had seemed unimportant at the time, but which now held a poignancy that made them unbearable. Her da tramping into the countryside to pick a bunch of wild flowers for her mam when she’d first got sick; Ernie spending umpteen evenings whittling a small carved wooden boat for John’s birthday the year before and sitting up with her through one long night when Flora was delirious with a fever . . .

  The clods of earth hit the coffins and she flinched visibly, glad of Jacob’s solid bulk at the side of her. She knew exactly where Tom was standing. He had come up behind them as they had left the church and caught Donald’s arm. The two men were now side by side some yards away, although a minute or two ago they’d been whispering together. For a brief moment she wondered what they had been discussing, then she told herself she didn’t care.

  Her fingers searched for and found the little silver heart nestled in the hollow of her throat and the token of Jacob’s love warmed her for a moment, even as she wondered how two brothers could be so different. She found herself wishing she was a man, a big tough man with fists like hammers, so she could batter Tom Crawford into a pulp. She’d said those very words to Donald, and her brother had had a blue fit. He was scared to death of Tom, she accepted that now. Ernie had been a different kettle of fish from Donald; she hadn’t realized that until the last three weeks, or appreciated how much she loved him, and her da too, of course. But it was too late to tell them. Were they with her mam now, reunited at last? Oh, she wished this day was over, this endless, terrible day.

  Donald was longing for the same thing, although for different reasons. He had known Tom wouldn’t leave him alone. Deep down he had been sure he was caught like a fish on a hook and sooner or later Tom would reel him in. Sure enough, Tom had made it clear he was on the payroll a minute ago. Tom had even made out he was doing him a favour when he’d mentioned the job he’d got arranged the following night, but they’d both known it was a warning that Donald toed the line or else.

  Dammit, he didn’t want to end up like his da and Ernie. Donald’s tongue flicked at the film of perspiration on his upper lip, caused more by the man at his side than the hot sunshine. But what could he do? That night at the docks Maurice Banks had made it clear that no one said no to Tom Crawford. Some of the tales he’d told – he still couldn’t sleep for thinking of them.

  Donald shut his eyes and bowed his head as the vicar began to intone the last prayer for the newly departed, but Donald’s frantic prayers were for himself.

  It was just gone ten o’clock in the evening that same day and Jacob was finishing work in the forge. He hadn’t liked leaving Lucy at the churchyard earlier. He’d have preferred to see her home, but the blacksmith had been generous in giving him time off for a funeral that didn’t involve a family member and he hadn’t wanted to take advantage of the man’s kindness, particularly as they were busy on an important job. One of the big houses on the edge of Castletown west of Southwick had commissioned a large number of iron railings, enough to enclose some half-acre of grounds, along with two fancy gates in an intricate design complete with the family crest. He’d promised Mr Williamson he’d stay late the next few evenings and for the last couple of hours they’d been working by lamplight. The blacksmith had disappeared into his cottage for his supper a little while ago, but Jacob had refused his employer’s offer of a meal and bed for the night, on the grounds his mother would worry if he didn’t go home. This was true enough, but the real reason was that he wanted to see Lucy if he could.

  He’d finished clearing up and now he closed the gates to the forge. Stretching his aching back, he looked up into the black sky alive with twinkling stars. It was a bonny night.

  The winding lane leading from the blacksmith’s cottage and forge to the North Hylton Road was dark and full of dense shadow in the silvery moonlight, its thick fringe of trees and hedgerow scented with the sweetness of May blossom and bluebells. Jacob breathed in the cool air, its balmy fragrance soothing after the heat and smells of the forge, but his mind was on Lucy.

  He had faced the fact that this latest blow to the Fallow family had caused a hiccup in his plans to court and marry her as soon as possible. There was no doubt now that when he and Lucy wed, he would be taking on a ready-made family comprising Ruby and John and the twins. Donald had gone to pieces; he couldn’t be relied upon to take care of the little ones. But, somehow, he and Lucy would manage. She was a grand little housewife and an idea that had been brewing in the back of his mind for some time had taken shape over the last days. The blacksmith’s cottage and forge were on a plot of land that included a dilapidated dwelling on the edge of it, an old tumbledown place close to the blacksmith’s stables. At present it was used for storage and had mice and beetles aplenty, but the roof was sound enough. It would take time and effort to get it habitable, but once restored it would boast two good-sized bedrooms upstairs and a large living area downstairs. It would be a start. Later on he could build more rooms onto the back of it, but that would be in the future. He knew Mr Williamson would agree to the proposal when he put it to him, for his employer would see the benefits of having him liv
ing on the job as it were, and Dolly, his wife, would be tickled pink. She was a canny little body who loved bairns; her biggest regret was in having none of her own to mother and worry over. She and Lucy would get on like a house on fire.

  Deep in his thoughts, he didn’t sense the two dark shadows that detached themselves from the blackness on either side of the lane just behind him. The first he knew of their presence was when something struck him on the back of his head with enough force to fell him to the ground. He must have rolled over, because when a hobnailed boot caught him under his jaw it seemed to snap his head from his body, a red mist exploding in his brain. After that he knew nothing about the two big men continuing to use their feet on him, laughing as they belted into him time and time again until, panting and sweating, they rolled him into a ditch at the side of the lane and unhurriedly walked away.

  The silence of the night settled once more, the odd bird that had been sent squawking out of its roosting place quiet now, and only the hoot of an owl in the distance disturbing the peace. And some miles away in the house on The Green, Tom Crawford sat devising the next stage of his plan like a hungry spider in the middle of its sticky web.

  Lucy awoke the following morning feeling more optimistic than she had for a long time. Donald would rally now, she knew he would, and Sid Chapman’s son had taken her to one side on leaving the churchyard and told her that as far as it lay in his father’s power, Mr Chapman would see to it that Donald was in line for some regular shifts at the shipyard. She hadn’t had a chance to discuss it with her brother yesterday. Donald had left straight afterwards with some of his and Ernie’s pals who had come to the funeral, returning at teatime for a bite, whereupon he’d gone out again, but she knew he’d be pleased. And the twins started school in September. With them off her hands for most of the day, it meant she could look for work doing some cooking and cleaning, or even taking in washing. Her da had gone through the roof when she had mentioned taking in washing before, but he wasn’t here now and needs must. It didn’t pay much, no women’s work paid much, but every penny would help. And maybe, if Donald was willing, they could take in a lodger now that the front room was empty. They could move what had been her mam’s bed down from the boys’ room and she could put a table and chair in there.