Seated at his desk, the large man leaned back and closed his eyes. There should have been two Paradise Mills by now, two sources of income. He had fought tooth and nail throughout the war, had explained to the authorities that two mills could make twice as much cloth for the war effort. No joy there. The recreation ground and the four houses were the property of Mr Joseph Heilberg who had been interned for the duration. And that had been a piece of positive discrimination, thought Andrew Worthington. Everyone had been so embarrassed about the internment of German Jews. If the land had belonged to any other man, its acquisition might have been assured.
Heilberg. His hatred of Joseph Heilberg was something he fed regularly. The hatred, in its turn, fed its master until his whole being had become a shrine to the animosity he nursed. One day soon, he would have his revenge.
His eyes flew open. Why did that one day never arrive? Why was he just sitting here when the tools were at hand? Bert Simpson. For fifty pounds, Bert Simpson would not be averse to blowing up Westminster. He lit a Navy Cut, spat some loose tobacco from his tongue. As the match dwindled, he set the tiny flame to some paper and placed the small conflagration in an ashtray. It would be wonderful if he could destroy Joseph Heilberg as easily as that. The paper was soon curled into crisp blackness that writhed and twisted until its death throes were over. Fire. He would burn the pawnbroker’s property until nothing remained.
Where to begin? At the shop on Derby Road where Heilberg lived, at the lock-up on Wigan Road, at the shop in town that was occupied by Heilberg’s son? Or . . . what about the houses? If they were wiped out, perhaps the old man would sell the land. After all, he was on good terms with his tenants, would surely be too heartbroken to consider rebuilding. Andrew Worthington agreed with himself, nodded to demonstrate the fact, stopped congratulating himself when another thought struck home. Houses were difficult. Even with three of them empty, there might be people cutting through the lane on their way to Worthington or Spencer Streets. Even in the night, folk arrived home at odd hours after shift work or overtime. A main road might be easier, in fact. A lock-up should be the best bet as a start.
He thought about the names Worthington and Spencer for a second or two. The houses of Worthington and Spencer had been joined together in unholy matrimony and by Paradise Lane. Paradise had seemed such a wonderful title for the bond he had expected to develop between himself and his young wife. But, with the carelessness of youth, he had failed to acquire that land. Andrew had always taken for granted the idea that Paradise was there for the taking. His father, too, had apparently been of the same opinion, because the original mill – Worthington’s – had stood on this very site.
Then . . . then, along had come the people’s hero, Joseph Heilberg. He was from rich stock, from a family of successful Austrian businessmen. Every penny the man could collect during Hitler’s rise had been diverted across the English Channel. And now, that clever little foreigner stood between the mill and the rest of Paradise.
He picked up the phone, gave his home number to the operator. Prudence hated the telephone. It would ring for ages before she plucked up courage enough to—
‘Hello,’ said Prudence after the third ring.
‘Get Simpson,’ replied her lord and master.
There was a pause. ‘Is that you, Andrew?’
‘Who the bloody hell else would it be?’ He was feeling uneasy, had heard a new note in his wife’s voice.
‘Any one of a number of people,’ she told him. ‘Just wait a moment, please.’
He tapped on his blotter with a pen.
‘Andrew?’
‘What?’ he shouted. ‘Where is he?’
‘Mr Simpson is weeding the garden,’ she informed him. ‘There was rain last night, so he is muddy. When he has finished the gardening and cleaned himself, I’ll get him to telephone you. Goodbye.’
Andrew Worthington stared into the dumb instrument as if it was some terrifying apparition. What the hell was going on? She was supposed to answer the thing and do as she was told. Furiously, he rattled the phone and barked at the operator, demanded to be reconnected. ‘The line is busy, sir,’ announced the disembodied woman.
‘Busy?’ he roared. ‘I don’t care whether it’s busy or not, it’s my bloody phone. Connect me at once.’
‘Is this an emergency, sir?’
‘Is that anything to do with you? It’s my phone in my house and—’
‘Sorry, sir. Do try later.’
Again, he sat with a dead receiver in his hand. Oh, he would put a stop to Prudence Spencer’s behaviour right away. She couldn’t do this and get off scot-free. He marched through the main office, snapped orders at those who laboured there, went out into the mill yard and climbed into his car. As he pulled past the open gates, he saw the Blunt woman sweeping the flags in front of her house. She, too, was on his list, though the bigger fish must sizzle first.
He pulled into the semicircular driveway of Worthington House, dragged his ever increasing corpulence out of the car. His wife was in the drawing room chattering away with Gert Simpson. The two women separated quickly, but he had seen them, all right. He marched into the hall, threw open the drawing room door. ‘Mrs Simpson? A word.’
Gert followed Worthington into the dining room, stood mutely with a yellow duster in her hand.
‘What the bloody hell are you up to?’ he asked in a whisper.
Gert shrugged, placed the duster on a side table. ‘It’s called gaining her trust, sir.’
‘To what end?’
‘I’m going to take her to town and lose her, sir. Her’s not set foot outside this here house for many a year, so I’m persuading her, like, trying to get her to come out with me.’
‘Ah.’ He didn’t trust Gert, yet he had to, must force himself. Bert was another matter, because the man owed a few favours to the master of Worthington House. ‘Where’s your husband?’
‘Back garden, sir. He’s covered in nettle stings. I’ve put some calamine on him, but he’s in a right state.’
Without another word, the monarch of all he surveyed walked through the kitchen and awarded Cora Miles a grunt before stepping into the garden. It was a large area with two lawns separated by flower-beds, but it had gone to seed since the jobbing gardener had been slowed by age. Simpson was near the fish-pond, leather gloves on his hands as he tore at weeds.
‘Hello, Mr Worthington.’ Glad of an excuse, Bert dragged off the gloves and showed the boss the condition of his hands. ‘Your missus doesn’t half lay the law down,’ he commented.
An unease crept through Andrew Worthington’s veins, but he shrugged it off. No, she couldn’t have changed – the old fears and phobias would still be there. It must be a phase of some sort, and it wouldn’t last. No, she wouldn’t reign long with her list of orders for these new servants. ‘I want you to do a job for me. A very special job. Remember how I spoke up for you when you were charged with disorderly behaviour?’
The man nodded mutely.
‘And how I still hold the evidence about the robbery at Foster’s shop?’
‘Aye,’ breathed the reluctant gardener.
‘Time for you to scratch my back, Simpson. I want a favour. Tonight, when your wife is asleep, come round here. Because this will be between just the two of us. You will tell her nothing. Is that understood?’
Bert’s eyes narrowed. He was beginning to know this man, understood that none of Worthington’s threats were ever empty. ‘I get your drift,’ he said finally.
‘There’ll be a hundred pounds in it for you.’
The man’s face lit up for a second. But he realized very quickly that such a sum must mean a very special request. ‘Right,’ he muttered lamely. ‘I’ll have to get on with shifting these nettles.’
Andrew Worthington nodded curtly, then strode back into the house. Prudence was waiting for him in the hall. There definitely was something different about her. What was it? Ah yes, she was staring straight at him – almost through him – and her hands, which usually fidgeted in his presence, were folded neatly just below her waist. ‘Why did you not bring Simpson to the phone?’
The nervousness sat in her chest, as always, but it failed to bubble up into her tone. ‘These people are being paid to attend to domestic matters. I should have thought your workload at the mill would be sufficient to keep you occupied.’
He stepped closer to her. ‘Don’t try to get clever with me, Prudence.’
‘I wouldn’t dream of it,’ she replied.
A thrill of alarm snaked its way the length of his spine, while his heart thudded faster. ‘Remember who is master here.’
‘I remember.’
God, she had changed, was altering here and now, right in front of his eyes. ‘What’s happened?’ he asked.
‘I beg your pardon?’
‘Why are you . . . different?’
A shoulder raised itself, the movement all but imperceptible. ‘I’m a grown woman, that’s all. I can’t seem to worry about things any more. There comes a time when one must take a firm hold on one’s own destiny.’
‘Must one?’ he sneered.
She nodded just once. ‘Oh, yes. One must.’ Prudence turned away and walked into the drawing room, her head held high. Once inside, she leaned against the closed door, a hand pressed to her lips. Sometimes, she thought she might be living with a close relative of Satan. What was he cooking up now with Bert Simpson? Gert wasn’t as bad as she had first appeared, but the husband was . . . sly, shifty about the eyes. She moved away from the door, watched the car as it swung into Wigan Road. ‘I wish you would go away and never come back,’ she mouthed as the vehicle disappeared from view.
Gert entered the room. ‘He’s gone, madam.’
‘Yes.’
‘Stick to your guns,’ said the brown-haired woman. The crowning glory was still not a convincing shade, as the rinse had been forced to mingle with red dye, but she looked better. ‘Whatever Mr Worthington wants out of Bert, I’ll get to the bottom of it, don’t you worry.’
Prudence smiled. ‘Thank you for telling me what was afoot. My husband wants me to leave, and you were in danger of becoming a pawn in his evil game. Are you sure about Mr Simpson? Does he not suspect that you have spoken to me?’
Gert shook her head. ‘If Bert wants to go about trying to hurt you, that’s his problem. As for me, I want that kiddy, you know. But I’m not like Mr Worthington. I’d not go to all kinds of lengths to get me hands on Sally. But my Bert’s under your husband’s thumb, madam. And your husband wants Ivy Crumpsall’s heart in his hand so he can crush it till the blood flows. On top of that, he wants to kill Joseph Heilberg. Any road, I’m with you, but I have to pretend I’m not.’
Prudence smiled. ‘Complicated, isn’t it?’
‘You’ve never smiled before,’ said Gert. ‘You should do it again, because it suits you.’
Prudence was a light sleeper. When she heard the front door opening, she switched on a bedside lamp, looked at her watch, doused the light immediately. Twenty-five minutes past twelve. What on earth was happening? Who could possibly want to visit Worthington House in the middle of the night? She rose from the bed, crept to her door and listened. Was that a murmur of voices? If so, who could be here at this ungodly hour? She drew back both bolts, turned the key quietly.
The landing was like a mined beach – it was difficult to know where to step without setting off squeaks and creaks. But she managed not to draw attention to herself, got downstairs and pinned an ear to the dining room door.
‘Nay, that’s going too far, is that,’ said Bert Simpson. ‘I could finish up in jail.’
‘I can put you away tomorrow if you’d rather. I know who broke into Foster’s – remember? I’ll help you on your way to court, Simpson. I’ll tell the police of my suspicions and—’
‘She’d leave me.’ Bert’s tone was frantic. ‘Our Gert wouldn’t stand for nothing like that. Stealing’s only stealing, Mr Worthington. This caper’s in another league altogether.’
Prudence pressed a hand against her heart, hoped that nobody could hear the pounding in her chest. Footsteps approached and she twisted on the spot, her eyes searching frantically for somewhere to hide. Just in time, she concealed herself behind the drawing room door, waited for whoever had moved to return to the dining room.
She heard a clatter in the kitchen, then heavy footfalls retracing the route. ‘Here’s an ashtray,’ said Worthington. ‘Smoke if you wish.’
Prudence leaned heavily on the wall. It occurred to her that Gert might be double bluffing. No. There had been just two voices in the dining room, one she knew and hated well, the second a high-pitched whine that she was learning to detest. Unless Gert was being extraordinarily quiet, Bert had come alone, must have waited for his wife to be asleep.
It seemed like ages before Bert left. Prudence positioned herself behind closed curtains, watched through a tiny gap while the odious little man walked down the driveway. He was alone. She suddenly felt grateful, almost happy. It seemed that Gert was trustworthy after all. And Simpson’s words still echoed in her mind, ‘Our Gert wouldn’t stand for nothing like that.’
Andrew was on his way to bed. She moved to the doorway, listened as he muttered a few words under his breath, thought she heard the name ‘Heilberg’ being spat. Should she contact the pawnbroker? And what would she tell him? ‘I think my husband is planning to . . .’ To what? To have Bert Simpson break into a shop? Oh, what a furore such a warning could cause!
Hard evidence was needed. Hard evidence would not present itself until after whatever had happened. Even then, Prudence’s suspicions might well remain no more than hearsay, and it was not usual for a wife to testify against her husband. This required a lot of thought. And would Gert prove useful, would that very ordinary woman have the strength to go on the attack against Bert?
When all was quiet, Prudence Spencer-Worthington made her way back to bed. Along the landing, she could hear his snoring as she closed and locked the door of her room. On her knees, she prayed for the Heilbergs, prayed that her husband’s malice would be found out and punished. Most of all, she begged God to keep Gert on the side of righteousness. Then she slept fitfully, woke knowing that the dreams had been bad, though she remembered none of their content.