Pattern of Shadows (25 page)

The rich smell of leather mixed with lavender polish. The Coroner sat behind the long mahogany table. A large man with thinning grey hair and spectacles, he filled the upholstered chair which he gently swivelled from side to side as he read the notes in his hand. Every now and then he glanced over the top of glasses at the dozen people scattered about the six rows of chairs in front of him.

Sitting between Jean and Patrick, Mary closed her eyes, although most of the swelling around her nose and eyes had gone, the bruising, now mottled purple and yellow, still hurt and the heat in the large room was oppressive.

The Coroner – Mary had been told he was the same man, a solicitor from a large firm on Bradlow, who’d had a role in the inquest when Peter was shot – now leaned forward, his arms resting on the desk. ‘To sum up,’ he said, ‘this inquest was convened to look into the death of Frank Shuttleworth on,’ he glanced at the papers, ‘on the 27
^th
April 1945 at Ashford and to seek and ascertain the cause of his death.’

There was a moan from the other side of the room. Mary looked behind Jean along the row to where Nelly Shuttleworth was clutching a wicker-shopping basket to her chest and resting her forehead on the handle. Frank’s brother, George, was sitting next to her, one arm around her ample shoulders, and he was glaring at Mary. She felt a frisson of fear; his eyes were flint grey, darker than Frank’s, but it was the same baleful stare.

She turned away, forcing herself to concentrate on the
Coroner’s words. He appeared to be as uncomfortable as her in the stifling heat. He was wearing a shirt and tie under a thick tweed suit and now he was sweating. He removed his spectacles and wiped a large white handkerchief over his red face as he spoke.

‘I would like to thank the three witnesses, Mr Baxter and Mr Stokes, for their accounts of what they saw from the bridge above the canal after the incident and Miss Howarth for her clear account of the sequence of events leading up to the deceased’s death.’ He paused, cleared his throat. ‘So far as she can remember them. I have noted that at the actual point of his death she was only partially conscious and has therefore only limited recollection. I wish her a speedy recovery from the injuries she incurred.’ He looked at Mary, his lips twitching into a small smile.

‘The pathologist established the cause of death as drowning. However witness statements and the injuries sustained by Mr Shuttleworth immediately before death indicate without doubt that he suffered a violent and unnatural end.’ His gravelly voice deepened. ‘A death instigated by a third party or third parties and it is my view that there is a strong possibility that he was first beaten and then thrown or pushed into the canal.

‘Therefore my verdict must be unlawful killing by person or persons unknown.’

‘Huh! I think we all know who the bloody
third party
was.’

The Coroner removed his glasses and looked at George. ‘And you are?’

‘The brother of the poor bugger what’s been murdered.’ Nelly tugged at his jacket as George stood. ‘Murdered
by one of her bloody family.’ He pointed at Mary. Mary heard the stifled exclamation from Patrick.

‘You have some evidence that you wish to present?’

‘Ah, what’s the sodding use?’ George Shuttleworth jerked his coat from his mother’s grasp and flung himself out of the room, leaving the door open and letting in a cool waft of air. Mary breathed deeply, noticing that her brother was doing the same.

The Coroner nodded to a policeman at the back of the room who closed the door. Then he coughed and replaced his spectacles. ‘To continue, I am satisfied that I am now able to instruct the Registrar to register the death of Mr Shuttleworth and to issue a Burial Order. However I have been informed that thus far the police authorities have been unable to discover the identity of the third party or parties and investigations will continue.’

The words echoed in Mary’s mind as she stood on the steps of the Town Hall.

‘Come on, let’s go to Lyons’ for tea.’ Jean held Mary’s arm. ‘It’s all over, no more worrying. The Registrar will issue the death certificate, they can get the funeral over and done with and then you can forget all about it.’

‘I’m off back to work.’ Patrick circled his cap in his hand. ‘OK?’

‘OK.’ Jean nodded.

‘Thanks for coming with me, Patrick,’ Mary said.

He looked down at his boots and then up and down Manchester Road. ‘Right.’ He clumped down the steps and, without looking back, jumped on the platform of a passing bus.

‘Jean, now he’s gone, there’s something I need to ask you. Peter –’

‘Shush,’ Jean hissed.

‘What?’ Mary glanced around. ‘Nobody knows who I’m talking about. I just want to know if he’s all right, if he’s said anything about me?’ She put a hand to her throat. ‘Does he know Frank raped me? And if he did, how did it make him feel?’

‘I’m not doing this, Mary.’

‘Jean –’

Her friend sighed. ‘He’s fine as far as I can see. He’s back on the ward full time and no.’ She held up her hand as Mary started to speak. ‘No, he’s not mentioned you to me lately. I told you before, after the … attack he asked how you were and I told him. Twice. And then I had to tell him not to ask again. I’ve said it before, Mary, don’t involve me, Patrick would go mad.’ Jean put her hand on Mary’s arm. ‘The whole hospital knows what happened, Mary, so Doc –’ She stopped. ‘So Peter must too. No one blames you for anything. It wasn’t your fault.’

‘Except for Frank’s cronies,’ Mary said bitterly.

There were footsteps behind them. ‘Mary?’ Nelly Shuttleworth stood on the next step.

‘Oh God, what next?’ Jean tugged her arm. ‘Come on.’

Mary let herself be led away. Looking back at the woman she said, ‘I can’t … not yet.’

She knew she would have to talk to Frank’s mother sometime; to explain how it had ended up like this. But not yet.

‘I hope you don’t mind me calling. I was on this side of town and I wanted to see if Mary was all right.’

Winifred looked the woman up and down. Dressed in black the large figure filled the doorway. ‘She’s not up to visitors.’

‘I know.’ The woman fingered the clasp of her handbag and looked past Winifred. ‘I just wondered if …’

‘Who is it, Mam?’ Mary stood in the kitchen doorway.

‘Well, it’s not the police again, thank God.’ Winifred moved to one side.

‘Mrs Shuttleworth,’ Mary couldn’t prevent the shock in her voice.

‘I was just saying …’

‘Mam this is …’

‘I heard.’ Winifred started to close the door. ‘I don’t want you in this house.’

Nelly’s face crumpled. ‘I know how you must feel, Mrs Howarth.’

‘It wasn’t her fault, Mam.’

‘She brought him up.’

‘And I’m ashamed for what he did,’ Nelly said. ‘He always had a temper, just like his father.’ She fumbled in her handbag and brought out a handkerchief. ‘He was worse since he came back home. He said it was Dunkirk. I always thought something would happen.’ She blew her nose loudly. ‘But not that, never that.’ She put out her hand towards Mary. ‘I am so sorry. I haven’t known what to do.’

‘It was his funeral today, wasn’t it?’ Mary said quietly. ‘That’s why you’re here.’

Nelly looked down at the step. ‘We had him buried at St John’s. He wasn’t religious, he didn’t believe in it, but he was christened C of E so I thought it only right.’

Winifred snorted. ‘There was nothing right about that bugger.’

‘There was nobody there, just George and me.’ Nelly’s shoulders shook.

‘Come in.’ Mary moved back. ‘Let her in, Mam, she shouldn’t have to stand on the doorstep.’

‘I don’t want her in the house.’ Winifred stood firm.

‘Well, I do,’ Mary said. ‘Let her in.’

There was disgust on Winifred’s face as she stamped down the hall. She was just closing the sideboard door when they walked into the kitchen.

‘I’ll be in my room.’ Wrapping her shawl around her arms she pushed through the stair curtain. Mary sighed, looking from Winifred to the sideboard. ‘All right?’ her mother challenged.

Mary shrugged and, crossing the kitchen, sat on her father’s chair.

‘How are you?’ Nelly stood near the table, twisting the handkerchief. ‘I tried to ask last week.’

‘I know, I’m sorry, it was difficult,’ Mary said.

‘I know, lass.’

‘But I’ll be fine,’ she faltered. She saw Nelly flinch. ‘I’m OK. If it wasn’t for the nightmares.’

‘I shouldn’t have come.’ She was close to tears.

‘I’m glad you did,’ Mary said. ‘I’ve been wondering how you were.’

Nelly glanced at her, surprised. ‘I thought you’d hate me.’

‘It wasn’t your fault.’ Mary said. ‘I should have gone to
the police when he started following me all the time.’

‘Following you?’

Mary kept her voice low, ‘And threatening me.’

‘I had no idea.’ Nelly sat down hard on one of the kitchen chairs, her hand over her mouth. ‘I didn’t know. I could have done something.’

‘There was nothing you could do. I’ve thought about it a lot lately.’ Mary smiled at her. ‘Frank was ill; we both know that, don’t we?’ She hesitated, wondering whether to say the next thing. ‘Have the police spoken to you since the inquest? Have they any idea who it was?’

‘No.’ Nelly sighed. ‘And you didn’t see?’

‘No,’ Mary said, ‘it’s like I told the Coroner, I just heard the fight.’ She shifted in her chair. ‘And then lots of shouting.’

Nelly stared down at her hands. ‘Can I ask you something?’

‘What?’

‘Just now your mother said something about the police. Was it about Frank’s murder?’

‘No,’ Mary said, ‘they were here about Tom, my elder brother. He’s in prison: Wormwood Scrubs. He’s a Conscientious Objector.’

‘Oh.’

‘He’d escaped. The police came to tell Mam he’d been caught.’ She put her hand in her skirt pocket, fingering Tom’s note and the letter she’d received from Gwyneth that morning.

‘Where was he found?’

Mary thought she heard a thread of suspicion in Nelly’s voice. ‘He’d hidden at a house in Wales. A friend of his had died in prison and Tom was very upset. But it was a
stupid thing to do and got him in a lot of bother.’

‘Grief affects us all in one way or another. I’m having awful bother with George. He’s drinking a lot at the moment.’

Mary thought about her mother upstairs. No doubt she’d be well into that bottle by now.

‘You were right about Frank’s mind,’ Nelly said. ‘He frightened me with his temper sometimes.’

The back door opened and Jean came in. ‘It’s quite pleasant out there today, Mary. We could sit in the yard if you want.’

‘Jean, remember Mrs Shuttleworth?’ Mary said. She frowned, warning her friend not to say anything.

Jean spoke slowly, staring at Nelly. ‘I just came round to see how you are.’ She looked at Mary pointedly.

‘I must go.’ Nelly picked up her handbag and pushing down on the table, stood up. ‘Don’t get up.’

‘Bye.’ Mary smiled.

‘Bye then.’

Jean banged the front door having seen the visitor out and came from the hall, bristling with indignation. ‘Well I never! How dare she come here?’

‘I thought it was a brave thing to do. He was still her son and someone killed him.’

‘How can you think like that? God only knows what would have happened to you if he hadn’t been stopped.’

‘I know,’ Mary said, ‘I know, but I feel sorry for her.’

‘Don’t waste your sympathy on her.’

‘Just think if you had a son like that.’

Jean placed her arms protectively over her stomach.

‘Anyway I like her,’ Mary said. ‘I’ve met her before and she’s kind-hearted. And she saw Mam take a bottle of Mr
Brown’s wine from the sideboard before she went upstairs and she didn’t say a word. I could have died from shame.’

‘Have you thought what you’re going to do about Mam?’ Jean said.

‘No, not really.’

‘Well, something will have to be said before long.’

‘And I suppose that the one doing the saying will be me,’ Mary said resignedly. ‘But forget Mam for now, I’ve something to show you’.

‘I’ve had a letter from Tom,’ Mary took it from her pocket. ‘It’s only a note really. Here, read it.’ Jean sat at the table and skimmed through it. ‘Well?’ Mary said.

‘I don’t know.’

‘It was this bit here …’ Mary took the letter from Jean and studied it. ‘Here:
I’ve had a visit from Patrick. I’ve been very low and it was difficult, but for the first time ever I feel we really understand each other. Now the War is coming to an end maybe we can put our differences to one side
. What does that mean?’

Jean stared at the words and then abruptly stood up. She walked across to the door and leaning against it, looked out at the yard.

‘Jean? Patrick’s hated what Tom’s done, he’s despised him for being a CO, so why has he been to see him now? The war’s more or less over. Tom should be released in the near future, even taking into mind the pettiness of some of them in charge of him,’ Mary said quietly. ‘He must have visited Tom as soon as he came out of solitary.
So why? And why didn’t you tell me?’

‘I don’t know, honest. I meant to tell you.’ Jean turned to face Mary, her arms crossed. ‘I just didn’t want to worry you.’

‘Worry me? After all the nagging I’ve done to get Patrick to go and see him, after all these years?’ Mary was incredulous. ‘You must have known I’d be glad that he finally went, especially after what Tom’s been through. Why should I be worried?’ Suddenly she knew. ‘Oh my God, it’s something to do with what happened, isn’t it?’ She said. ‘It’s about Frank, that’s why you’re not telling me.’ The kitchen started to tilt.

‘No. I don’t know.’ Suddenly Jean had her arms around her. ‘Honestly, Mary, Patrick didn’t tell me. And he won’t talk about it.’ She faltered for a moment then spoke quickly, her words running into one another. ‘But think about it.’ She shook Mary’s arm. ‘Tom
was
interviewed by the police. He
was
out same time Frank was murdered.’

‘So? He was in Wales.’ Mary forced herself to breath evenly.

‘Not all the time. Apparently he was trying to get to see you and Mam, but he saw some policemen on the railway station at Bradlow. He was that close to Ashford. He said he thought they were looking for him so he hid on the train and didn’t get off. But Mary, he has no alibi.’

Mary looked at her in dismay. She knew it was the truth. She had read and re-read Tom’s note and felt he was trying to tell her something. She forced herself to stay calm. ‘He said that to Patrick?’

‘Yes.’

‘So Patrick told you that much at least,’ Mary said slowly. ‘Has he been interviewed as well?’

‘Well, yes but only as a matter of course.’ Jean said. ‘Loads of the men round here have been seen by the police.’

‘And where was he when it happened?’

‘He was with me. He’d been on nightshift.’

Mary stared at her. ‘He would have been coming home at the same time as me, then. I didn’t see him. Surely I would have seen him?’

‘What are you trying to say?’ Jean stood up, her hand cradling her stomach.

‘I’m not saying anything. I’m just trying to understand what it all means, why Patrick went to see Tom.’

‘I’ve no idea.’ Jean shrugged. ‘But I do know Patrick was with me that morning.’

‘Why are you being so defensive?’

‘I’m not. I’m just saying he was with me and I’d say that to anyone.’

‘Anyone? Even me?’ Mary frowned. ‘Jean, he’s my brother. These are
my
brothers we’re talking about. I’d do anything for them. Even lie. So … are you lying for Patrick now?’

Jean flushed. ‘No,’ she snapped, ‘I’m not.’

‘I’ll tell you what I think, shall I?’ Mary clasped her hands tightly, resting them on the table. ‘I think one of them killed Frank.’ She lifted her head and held Jean’s gaze. ‘I’m not sure which one. Patrick has a temper. Tom worries about the people he loves and he can be very protective, too much so, sometimes. I’d told him about Frank. If he’d been brooding about what Frank was doing …’ Mary’s voice cracked. ‘But if I’m wrong, you have to tell me.’

Her hand shook as she reached out to her friend. Jean
held on to it and sat down again.

‘Frank was badly beaten before he died,’ Mary continued. ‘The police said they knew I couldn’t have inflicted that amount of injury. So, was it Patrick? Did he do it? They’d fought before. You did tell Patrick about him following me, didn’t you?’ Jean nodded reluctantly. ‘And you know he’s always had a short temper, it’s been worse since they made him go in the mines.’

‘He’s not been as bad since we got married,’ Jean protested.

‘I know, love, but he’s still the brother I’ve always known and if something doesn’t suit, he still reacts with his fists.’ Mary squeezed her friend’s fingers. ‘So, please, if you know something, you must tell me.’

‘I don’t, I swear. Patrick says he doesn’t want to talk about what happened.’ Jean’s voice trembled. ‘He just says Shuttleworth’s dead and he’s glad.’ She shrugged in a helpless gesture. ‘But there is something …’

‘What?’

Jean jerked around in her chair as the toilet was flushed next door and, seconds later, a door banged.

‘Oh hell, I’d forgotten Mrs Jagger was on the prowl. She collared me about the celebration party they’re holding on our street. She wants to go. Apparently she fallen out with a couple of your neighbours and won’t come to the one they’re holding here. Peace on earth, eh? Except for her.’ Jean put her hand over her mouth. ‘Oh God, do you think she heard us talking?’

‘No,’ Mary said, first with uncertainty, then more firmly. ‘No. But just check she’s not still in the yard.’

Jean stood up. When she came back into the kitchen she shook her head. ‘She’s gone.’

‘What were you going to say?’

‘That morning Patrick was late home. He had marks all over his hands.’ Jean sat down carefully and spoke in a whisper. ‘First he said he must have done it in work … and then that he admitted he’d been in a fight. We had a row; our first proper set to. Things were difficult between us for a couple of weeks. Then he disappeared for over a day. I was frantic. When he got back he said he’d been to see Tom. He says it’s nothing to do with me. There were things they had to sort out, stuff they’d never talked about before.’ She looked at Mary, pleading. ‘It could have been anything, couldn’t it? Perhaps he sorted out how he feels about Tom; perhaps he’s tried to understand why Tom feels as he does about the war?’

Mary shook her head. ‘Doubt it.’

Jean felt her sleeve and produced a handkerchief. ‘Well I don’t know. I will tell you one thing, though.’ She blew her nose fiercely. ‘I’d not let him go to prison for killing scum like Shuttleworth. I’d lie through my teeth. I don’t care about the consequences.’ She leant forward across the table, her tone defiant.
‘This
baby has a father and I want him with me. He promised he didn’t do it and I believe him … I have to … and so do you.’

‘I’m not sure.’ Mary folded Tom’s letter, pressing it down on the table and sharpening the creases with her knuckles. ‘But I do know we haven’t heard the last of it.’

Mary couldn’t get her breath. Frank was holding her down. She could smell his sourness; feel the harsh rasp of his rough chin on her as he pressed his head against her neck. He grasped her wrists with one hand and she felt him inside her, his weight crushing her. She fought back,
the nightmare of the rape all too real.

She woke drenched in sweat, her heart racing. She sensed her cries were lingering in the room although the sound had gone.

She listened to hear if she had woken her mother. Nothing. Winifred must still be sleeping off the excesses of the street party that had gone on until the early hours. A bonfire had been built on the site of the bombed house at the far end of Greenacre Street and the screeching of fireworks drilled into her brain worse than any noises of sirens or bombing had done over the last six years. Mary had pressed her hands over her ears in an attempt to shut it out but she still heard people cheering and singing. At one point she thought that if she heard
Auld Lang Syne
one more time she’d scream. The thought had brought back a faded memory of Ellen saying something similar once about the girls where she worked and
Workers’ Playtime
, but she couldn’t be bothered pursuing the recollection. Instead she’d wrapped a pillow round her head to shut out the banging of dustbin lids and blown whistles that started each time the singing stopped. And at one point someone had even climbed up the lamppost outside her window and banged on the pane, shouting for her to come outside. She’d thrown the pillow then and screamed at them to go away. People outside were celebrating freedom and she was trapped in her own hell.

Mary pushed the covers away, her arms and legs entangled in the sheet and her mind a jumble of images: Frank, the sluggish canal, rain sliding off the leaves above her, the glowering early morning sky. The horrific scenes had been a regular occurrence in the nights that followed the rape. Now they’d returned and it could only
be because of her talk with Jean today. But this time there was a difference, this time there was the addition of an image of her brothers beating Frank repeatedly until he was a bloody mess lying on the canal path.

But then the face of the battered body became Peter’s.

Mary laid back clutching her arms tight across her chest and taking shallow breaths in an effort to control the pain that had started under her ribs. Her eyes stretched wide, staring upwards at the faint fingers of dawn light that played across the ceiling. Cold sweat trickled between her breasts and although the air was soft and warm on her skin she couldn’t stop shaking. Tears stung, she blinked rapidly and the image disappeared. ‘Peter,’ she whispered.