Authors: Tania Anne Crosse
Elliott tried, but only one eye would open and that only a slit. He could see blackness, and a veil of red. Nothing more.
‘You keep away from Barney Mayhew’s wife, d’you hear? You goes near her again and next time I’ll kill you. D’you understand? I’ll kill you.’
Harry released his hold with a jerk so that Elliott’s face fell heavily against the ground. Yes, he would kill him and enjoy it. But why wait until next time? Barney had paid him a paltry two pounds, so why shouldn’t he reap the full pleasure of the attack to make up for it? Barney might be suspected and be arrested for murder. Serve him right. There was nothing to connect Harry Spence with Elliott bloody Franfield. A vicious grin distorted his face. Ling Southcott. Stuck-up cow. She was the one who had stopped him getting back with Fanny and from getting his hands on some of the money he was sure had come their way from the Warringtons. It was because of her that he had ended up in the gutters of Tavistock, a beggar, frequently locked up by the town’s constables, or, if he was sober enough, spending the night in the vagrants’ ward of the workhouse after the gruelling task of breaking a yard of stones. His only solace was the bottle of gin he would buy with pickpocketed money – or methylated spirit when pickings were poor. Damn the bitch to hell. And what sweet vengeance to bludgeon her lover to a bloody pulp!
He sneered down at the body writhing at his feet. It was beyond temptation. His boot found its mark. Again. And again. In a frenzied, unstoppable dance until Harry’s breath failed him. The body was motionless now. And, as Harry studied the lifeless form, cowardly dread began to creep into his gutless heart. Elliott Franfield was dead.
Harry Spence fled back along the way they had come. If he kept going he would reach Plymouth by morning. Enlist on a ship. To America. Better still, Australia. Give a false name. And no one would associate him with the tramp who used to slump on the bench by the canal.
Ling stared sightlessly out of the carriage window. She was going to see Elliott for the last time. At least, she imagined it would be. She had made her decision. To allow fate to decide.
It seemed the fairest choice. She would break it off with Elliott now and remain faithful to Barney until the child was born. And if it had Barney’s dark eyes and swarthy skin, that was how matters would stay. But if the infant was fair and resembled Elliott, when the time was right, she would agree to his plan of starting a new life somewhere far away from England’s shores. She just prayed the baby would not be a tiny replica of herself and bear a similarity to neither of its possible fathers. And if . . . if she lost the precious life as she had its four siblings, then . . . pray God she didn’t, for she simply wouldn’t know what to do. She loved Elliott with a passion that confounded her own understanding, but her duty was to Barney.
He had treated her with such care ever since she had told him she was pregnant. Not that he was ever anything but considerate, but he had stayed indoors every one of the four nights since, instead of spending the evening with his friends. She didn’t know how long it would last, and she wasn’t sure she wanted it to. Barney seemed on edge, one minute fluttering about her as if trying to prove his love and the next minute distant, and he seemed to have no appetite. He must be worried sick that her pregnancy would end in a miscarriage as all the others had done. Yes. That was the only explanation.
‘Take care on yersel,’ he had said, frowning anxiously as she’d set out that morning. ‘No running for that there train. And I reckon your friend’ll be so pleased as I am at the news. But you’m to tell her you cas’n visit her again. ’Tis too risky for the babby, what with your past.’
‘Oh, I’m sure she’ll understand,’ Ling had said, and had smiled back. Though the smile had been forced.
And Agnes
was
pleased. Delighted. Ling had gone there first to tell her, putting off the dreadful moment when she was to give Elliott her decision.
‘Now you really must have a physician take care of you all the way. No, I insist,’ Agnes said as she saw Ling go to protest. ‘I shall pay for one to go out and visit you regularly. Dr Greenwood has retired now, so it will have to be Dr Ratcliffe. It can’t be that lovely young Dr Franfield, poor soul, not for a while anyway. Not after what happened to him the other day.’
The blood instantly drained from Ling’s head, but she knew she must resist the instinct to react to whatever dreadful news Agnes had to impart. ‘Happened?’ she repeated, struggling to sound casual.
‘It was in yesterday’s
Gazette
. Didn’t you see it?’
‘No. I haven’t bought one yet,’ her lips articulated.
‘Poor chap was attacked.’ Agnes shook her head in horror. ‘Badly beaten and left for dead, it seems. Happened along the old canal towpath near Crowndale. Luckily, he’d just attended a delivery at one of the Fitzford Cottages and the husband saw him going along the path with a stranger. Shortly afterwards, the new mother had a funny turn and the husband ran after the doctor to fetch him back. Ran straight into the attacker and then found Dr Franfield further along the path. Thank God he did, or he wouldn’t have survived the night, the article says. Oh, my dear!’ Agnes leaned forward and took Ling’s cold hand in hers. ‘I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to upset you. I shouldn’t have mentioned it with you in your condition. One can become so sensitive—’
‘But . . . he’s alive?’ Ling murmured, clawing her way back to reality.
‘He was when the article was written. Oh, Ling, dear, you look so pale. Let me order some hot, sweet tea.’
Hot, sweet tea. Oh, how very English. It was what . . . Oh, Elliott. Dear God Almighty . . .
Somehow, she managed to spend another half hour in Agnes’s company, stifling her desperate, crucifying desire to get to Elliott’s side. The instant she felt she could leave without suspicion she ran down into the town and bought a copy of the paper, searching dementedly for the article. The letters leapt up and down, jigging on the page. Just one sentence jumped out at her: Dr Franfield was recovering at Dr Greenwood’s house.
She broke into a run once more, stumbling, not caring about the life inside her. It wasn’t far to the Parkwood area. She remembered quite clearly which was Dr Greenwood’s house.
The elderly man opened the door himself, and his kind eyes stretched with surprise at her agitated knocking. ‘Why, Mrs Mayhew, isn’t it?’
‘Elliott. Where is he? Is he all right?’
William Greenwood blinked at the breathless, hysterical woman before him, and all became clear. He hadn’t spent a lifetime dealing with people in dire distress not to recognize its effects at once. Oh dear. What had young Elliott been up to? Was there a flaw in his perfect ways after all? They were all only human, and he was a handsome, amiable fellow and this girl was so striking . . .
William cleared his throat. ‘You’d better come in.’
She was agitated beyond measure, he could see, scarcely able to perch on the edge of the chair he offered her as if it were red hot.
William pursed his lips and fixed his eyes on her over the rim of his spectacles. ‘I take it you read what happened in the paper?’ he asked solemnly. ‘And I take it you and Elliott are friends?’
‘Yes,’ she choked, her brow puckered excruciatingly.
More than friends, if William wasn’t mistaken. He had thought he’d seen a look pass between them at Chantal Pencarrow’s wedding. They had disguised it well but even then he had wondered, before putting it out of his mind. Surely, Elliott wouldn’t have been so stupid as to become involved with a married woman? But, if he had, it would have been from the heart. And now, possibly, the poor lad was paying for it.
‘I’m afraid he’s in a bad way,’ he said gravely. ‘He had severe abdominal pain and I had to open him up. There was severe bruising under his left ribs, from being kicked several times, I’d say. I found what I suspected. A ruptured spleen, so I had to remove it. Don’t look so alarmed. We can live quite happily without a spleen. But it was tricky. Touch and go. I’ve never performed a splenectomy before. Few surgeons ever have. Even now we don’t know . . . It was major surgery, and he lost a lot of blood. He was also hit several times in the head and face. As you may imagine, he’s still very groggy, and he’s bruised and lacerated all over.’
He stopped as the girl’s face contorted. Oh, yes. This lovely young woman loved Elliott with a deep, sincere passion. And William’s heart ached for them. ‘Would you like to see him?’
She nodded, tears trembling on her lashes, and William wetted his lips. ‘It’s not a pretty sight, I must warn you. And he may not know you’re there. I’m keeping him on laudanum, although the last dose will be wearing off by now. So, are you sure?’
Ling rose to her feet, almost fainting. But she had to let Elliott know she was there for him.
A whimper lodged in her throat when she saw him. He was barely recognizable as human, let alone the handsome young man she loved. One eye was a dark, oozing slit in its swollen, discoloured socket. Blood was still matted in his hair near a row of neat stitches closing an ugly wound on his forehead, the catgut standing out like a tramline, and the left side of his jaw was stained the colour of ripe mulberries. Where it wasn’t livid with bruising, the rest of his face was like putty. His leanly muscled arms lay outside the covers and she could see a large purple blotch on his chest disappearing beneath the snowy sheets. He lay so still, hardly breathing.
Ling swayed, and felt the supportive arm of William Greenwood about her. She had hardly noticed Mrs Greenwood sitting vigilantly by the bedside, and Ling took her place in the chair, her eyes riveted on Elliott’s mutilated face and her horrified mind scarcely able to think about the broken body hidden beneath the bedclothes. Mrs Greenwood crept from the room, and Ling was aware of the doctor standing back from the bed. It seemed that Elliott was not for one moment to be left unattended by someone with medical experience, but Ling was beyond caring what Dr Greenwood might see.
She brushed away her silent tears and leaned forward, hesitating as she went to take Elliott’s hand. His long middle fingers were strapped together and she glanced up as William appeared at her shoulder.
‘He obviously tried to fight back,’ he whispered. ‘Broke his finger in the process. The man who found him said he saw the attacker lure him away. Reckons poor Elliott thought he was being called to an emergency. The devil probably turned on him so suddenly that he didn’t stand a chance. The police have a full description. He wasn’t as tall as Elliott but was built like a bull apparently. You can hold his hand if you want to. Just be gentle.’
Slowly, with the deftest touch, she took Elliott’s hand and carefully lifted it to her lips. Laid it against her cheek, her tears dripping on to the bandaging.
‘Ling.’ A barely audible sound scraped itself from Elliott’s parched mouth and his good eye opened just a fraction.
A cruel pain stabbed at Ling’s throat as she turned her gaze back to his battered face and forced a smile. ‘Yes, I’m here, Elliott,’ she croaked, and then, as the appalled horror swamped her again, she groaned, ‘Who on earth did this to you, Elliott? And . . . and why?’
‘I . . . don’t . . . know,’ he grated, wincing as if the very words had caused him grave distress.
‘Time for some more laudanum,’ William said from behind. ‘But first try and get him to drink some water if you can. He’s severely dehydrated.’
Ling drew in her lips
. Oh, sweet Jesus, don’t die, Elliott
. She slipped her left arm under his neck to lift his head, and taking the feeding jug William passed her, placed the spout between Elliott’s lips.
‘Drink, my love, for me.’
He did. Sipping. Finding it difficult to swallow. Water sometimes dribbling down his chin. Ling’s patience was unending, and she crooned and cajoled until the cup was nearly empty, and William added a dose of laudanum to the last drops of the life-giving liquid. Within another five minutes, Elliott was asleep.
‘Will he . . . will he be all right?’ Ling dared to ask when they were out in the hall and Mrs Greenwood had taken over the vigil again.
William’s eyebrows swooped. ‘I’d be a liar if I said a definite yes. He’s far from out of the woods yet. However, I didn’t think he’d survive the anaesthetic the state he’s in, but he did. But, Mrs Mayhew, he
is
still very poorly.’
Ling rolled her head, but there was no escape. ‘Who could do such a thing, Dr Greenwood?’
‘Are you sure you can’t tell me yourself?’ William’s voice was low. ‘The attack was unprovoked and nothing, no drugs, were taken from his medical bag. He still had all his money in his pockets. And yet it seemed planned. Now, I know it’s really not my business, but you and Elliott are more than just friends. Don’t deny it, Mrs Mayhew. So . . . you don’t think it could have been your husband?’
Ling gasped aloud and shook her head in disbelief. ‘Barney? Oh, good Lord, no! The idea’s preposterous! Barney’s not capable of such a thing. He’s a good man.’ Her face fell and she lowered her eyes. ‘That makes me sound like a proper scarlet woman, doesn’t it? But . . . I just married the wrong man. But I’m certain Barney doesn’t know about . . . about Elliott and me. And besides, it was Tuesday night, wasn’t it? Barney was with me. At home. Up at Foggintor.’
William took a deep breath and released it through flared nostrils. ‘Well, the police have issued a description. And, by God, I’d like to get my hands on the scoundrel when they catch him. But in the meantime—’ he sighed wearily – ‘your secret is safe with me. And I pray to God that Elliott survives.’
‘So, had a good day, have you, my love?’ Barney turned from the range, his voice deliberately light and carefree. But his smile faded and turned instead to a frown as his heart began to pound. Ling’s shoulders were drooping and her skin was pale as death.
‘Ling? Ling, be summat wrong?’ But he knew at once that there was, and his blood ran cold. ‘The babby . . .?’
‘Is fine. But . . .’ Her face crumpled and tears spilled down her grief-ravaged cheeks as she threw the newspaper purposefully on to the table, which Barney had already set for their meal. ‘You remember Elliott Franfield?’ she said, gulping wretchedly.