Paradise Lane (34 page)

Gert Simpson popped her head into the room. ‘Ivy?’

‘Hello?’

‘They’re off. Are you coming?’

Ivy jumped up. ‘Come on, Featheringay. Let’s see Tom and Maureen on their way. Africa,’ she mumbled to no-one in particular. ‘I bet they come back with malaria and all sorts.’

Paradise emptied itself into the lane and watched while Maureen and Tom set off on their honeymoon. Ivy wiped a tear from her face, clung to Tom’s hand for a moment. ‘Write, lad,’ she said gruffly.

‘Are you with us?’ he asked.

‘Aye, yon daft lawyer of yours has got me in up to me neck. And we’re off back to Hampshire tomorrow. That chap of yours is coming up for me and Ollie and Rosie. Aye, Red and all, God help us.’ She sniffed. ‘Our Sal will be wondering where I am.’

Maureen put her arms round the old lady. ‘Give Sally my love.’

Tom eyed Perry, wondered where this particular set of dreadful clothing had come from. The craftsmen of Savile Row probably paid Perry to stay out of the area. ‘Get that mill,’ he said quietly. ‘And make sure that Prudence Worthington’s rights are upheld. She’s ready to sell her share, but make sure she gets a decent sum for it.’

‘I will.’

Tom clapped the trilby onto his head. ‘There’ll be no other bids from Bolton. The decent mill owners are with us all the way. Watch for interest from out of town. If things get difficult, get Sutcliffe to have a word in the right ears. I’ll be back when I’ve found my sister.’ He climbed into the taxi cab with his new wife.

A small figure ran along Paradise Lane. ‘Tom!’ called Joseph Heilberg. ‘A moment, please.’ He reached the car and poked his head inside. ‘If you see an elephant on his own, do not approach him.’

Ivy stepped back towards her house, remembered what Derek had said to Joseph just a few months ago.

‘Are you all right, love?’ asked Gert.

‘Aye, I’ll do.’

Joseph joined the two women. ‘Your son was a good man, Ivy.’

‘He was.’

‘And his daughter will make a good woman, I think. Tom will bring her a photograph of some elephants. I promised Derek that I would bring pictures for Sally if I ever went to Africa.’

Gert Simpson carried her terrible secret into the house. The man birthed by Ivy Crumpsall was not Sally’s father. Sally’s father was up Wigan Road in a huge and empty house. Gert’s hands travelled of their own accord to cover her belly, and she remembered the pain, could almost feel it again.

‘You ill, lass?’

Gert turned on the spot. ‘No. I’ll finish packing your bag.’

Ivy sat by the window and fixed her eyes on Paradise Mill. Soon, a painter would be employed to redecorate the chimney.
the goodfellow co
-
operative
should be in existence soon. She smiled, thanked everyone’s lucky stars that Tom had not been burdened with a horrible name. In fact, Goodfellow was cheerful, which was why they’d decided to hang on to it for business purposes. But Fotheringay? It didn’t bear thinking about.

Andrew Worthington had done the rounds of Winchester during his brief visit. He had stayed at an inn for the night, had ambled along to a house on College Street inside which a female called Jane Austen had died. She had been some sort of a writer, he thought, though he had never spent a lot of time on novels. Prudence would have read the woman’s work, no doubt.

He cast an eye over the College of St Mary, remained unimpressed by a notice declaring this to be the oldest public school in England. There was no real pleasure to be gained from walking; he did it simply because the doctor had advised gentle exercise and a light, alcohol-free diet. Behind a hand, he belched and caught an echo of this morning’s breakfast – bacon, eggs, sausages and toast. The exercise was just about manageable, but dieting was proving impossible.

Determined to persevere until his mission had been accomplished, he climbed into his car and placed the trilby on the lid of a small suitcase. Lord Goodfellow. Very soon, Andrew Worthington would arrive at the Goodfellow estate. Sir Peter had died, it seemed, had left all his goods and chattels to a man who had been living in a scruffy, cramped Paradise hovel belonging to a foreigner called Joseph Heilberg.

The pain paid a brief visit, was shooed away by one of those funny little pills. He waited, sat perfectly still until the tightness relaxed. That Jane Austen woman had come here to be near her doctor, but she had died anyway. Amused by the concept, he started the engine and pulled away. With or without medical intervention, he intended to have his moment of triumph.

Finding Goodfellow’s hide had not been difficult. In the reference department of Bolton’s Central Library, he had pored through a list of gentry, had discovered the tale of the Goodfellows’ laughable beginnings. After hunting wild boar at the other end of Hampshire, a Marchant had been knighted by the inebriated Henry VIII. The woman would be there, thought Worthington. Ivy Crumpsall and the brat were no doubt living on the fat of Goodfellow’s ancestors’ land.

He left Winchester, followed a ribbon of road through fields where harvesters toiled. The anger seethed just beneath the surface, making his skin hot and wet. When the discomfort became intense, he pulled over and braked, climbed out, removed his jacket and waistcoat.

Prudence was buying a little semi-detached on Crompton Way, just a couple of living rooms, a tiny morning room, a kitchen. The Miles woman had given up her house to stay with Prudence, while Gert Simpson was residing at number 1, Paradise Lane. About this house-sitting arrangement he could do nothing, because Heilberg was the landlord. A sigh of relief bubbled past the large man’s lips. If that trollop had brought a case against him . . .

Gert had not prosecuted him. Like the rest, she would probably come to terms with what had happened. Because, in line with all the other women he had known, Gert had been asking for trouble by flaunting her assets in front of a full-blooded male. Some damned fool of a Cockney had taken over Goodfellow’s cottage, a chap with burns, a thin wife and a couple of babies. The rest . . . the rest did not bear thinking about too closely.

But the story wove itself through his mind, would not leave him in peace. He had sold his portion of the mill to a so-called conglomerate from the south, a group of businessmen who were anxious to upgrade the cotton trade. But these invisible purchasers had been non-existent. He ground teeth and gears, managed not to hit a milestone as he steered himself out of a ditch. Fotheringay and a little, grey-suited friend from London had signed on the dotted line, had handed over a sizeable cheque before handing over the mill to Goodfellow, now Marchant, and Joseph Heilberg. Oh, how that had hurt! He had been tricked, swindled, made to look a fool.

Worthington tried to control his breathing, in, out, in, out. The deed had been done and he must simply accept that Heilberg and company had won. They were forming a co-operative, were preparing to labour under the socialist delusion that workers should hold shares in their factories. How easily that Fotheringay chap had twisted the truth. ‘We shall get exactly what we need from Mr Heilberg,’ the Londoner had said. ‘As we speak, plans are waiting for a signature, Mr Worthington. The bottom of the H – the place now known as the Paradise Recreation Ground – will soon become part and parcel of the mill.’

He slowed the car, told himself to be more careful. After all, he had to survive to take his revenge. Those bloody London lawyers had been in on the plot to oust the mill’s rightful owner. Oh yes, the recreation ground was going to be developed, but not under the watchful eye of a Worthington, not with the guidance of a family steeped in cotton. For years he had fought to acquire that land, but it had remained beyond his reach. Now, the dream would finally materialize, but Heilberg and Lord Wotsisname would be in charge.

The rightful owner of Paradise drove steadily, shirt sleeves rolled for comfort, his window lowered to stir the placid air of this warm autumn day. They had duped him into handing over his livelihood. No, no, he must not think . . .

Gears ground again as an unexpected hairpin bend was negotiated. The Recreation area would soon sprout a canteen, half a dozen baths, a medical room, some classrooms and a hall for indoor sports and social gatherings. The thieves had taken everything, right down to the office chair in which two generations of Worthingtons had sat.

The Blunts, too, had disappeared, were probably here, in Hampshire, with Ivy Crumpsall and her granddaughter. He covered his mouth to stifle a laugh. That child was no kin to the Crumpsalls. She was just another by-blow, a thing that had been conceived against an office wall or across a desk. Lottie had been a lively lass, too feisty for the numbskull she had married. He sneered again, patted the steering-wheel. Lottie Crumpsall had given him many a good time, and he had given her a daughter.

He passed an inn, decided not to stop just yet. His denial of paternity had been fierce, but the pregnancy had lasted over ten months. Derek had been abroad for forty-two weeks by the time ‘his’ daughter had put in an appearance. Lottie had been wont to remind Andrew Worthington of his obligations, but he had stuck to his guns until her departure for foreign parts. On Trinity Street, he had pushed money into the hands of a tomato-spattered whore, had admitted paternity in writing and in exchange for a letter penned in the waiting room. The missive had been intended for Lottie’s sister – its contents stating that Gertrude Simpson should rear Sally. But Bert and Gert Simpson had failed to wrench the girl from Ivy Crumpsall’s arms. Now, Andrew Worthington would grab his pound of flesh.

He entered Oakmead, took his bearings from a signpost at the end of the street. The place was silent, almost asleep. Two large dogs lay in the doorway of a thatched cottage, their ears pricking as if to mark the arrival of a stranger. But they neither moved nor barked as Andrew Worthington stepped from his car and walked along the pavement. A post-office-cum-general-store had the word
closed
printed on cardboard in its window. Across the way, a row of cottages bore the legend ‘
ALMSHOUSES
’ and ‘
AD
1815’, which date was repeated on a wall of the adjoining school. Where was Goodfellow Hall?

He entered the Boar’s Head, felt swamped by the gloom inside. Tiny windows allowed very little light to infiltrate the small and stuffy room. Behind a bar counter, a dim shape moved. ‘What’s your pleasure, sir?’ asked the formless creature.

The newcomer blinked, waited for his eyes to adjust. ‘A pint of bitter and the directions to Goodfellow Hall, please.’ It was a woman of about forty, he realized. She had black hair and was wearing a dark dress, but the bared teeth were shining between parted lips. She poured the beer, placed it on the counter. ‘The Hall’s a couple of miles that way.’ She waved a cloth. ‘Big gates and a long drive. The master’s not there – he’s in Africa with his wife. Got married, he did. Though there were some hereabouts who said he never would, not after the tragedy.’

He decided to act cannily. ‘Quite. That was a dreadful business.’

The barmaid leaned against the counter. ‘You from the north, then?’

He nodded, took a draught from the glass, gave himself time to think. ‘That’s where I met Lord Goodfellow.’

‘Mr Marchant now. That’s what he likes to be called these days.’

‘I know.’ He licked froth from his upper lip, cursed the doctor who had tried to no avail to separate him from his pint of ale. ‘Tom and I have been close for many years,’ he informed her.

She picked up a tankard and polished it with a yellow duster. ‘He’s got other folk from the north around here. Rose Cottage, they’re staying in. There’s a woman called Ivy and a little girl . . . now, what’s her name?’

‘Sally,’ he said, his tone warm and helpful. ‘Sally Crumpsall. And her grandmother is Ivy.’

‘That’s it. Then the other lady’s Rosie something or other—’

‘Blunt,’ he told her. ‘Her husband is Ollie.’

‘Daft in the head. Nice man, comes here with servants from the Hall. The farmers are letting him help bring the harvest in, bless him. Then there’s a lad they call Red – on account of his hair, I shouldn’t wonder. Nice lot of people.’

He drained his glass. ‘The same again and one for yourself.’

‘That’s kind of you, sir.’

While she pulled at the pump handle, he gazed round the bar and saw that he was the sole customer. ‘Quiet today.’

‘Harvest,’ she replied. ‘Another ten minutes and they’ll all be in with a terrible thirst. Bring their own sandwiches, they do.’ Her accent was mellow, as if it had ripened like fruit in the sun-splashed atmosphere of this bucolic setting. Though her sallow skin spoke of many hours in the twilight of Oakmead’s sole public house.

He had to be out of here quickly, then. Ollie Blunt might be ageing, but he would surely recognize the boss from Paradise Mill. ‘I hope Tom will be happy now,’ he said. ‘After the other business, he deserves a chance.’ She had talked of trouble, and he wanted to know more.

The woman leaned on the counter, gave him the dubious benefit of a full if somewhat wrinkled cleavage. ‘That Master Jonathan was never any good. What he did to Lady Sarah was terrible, by all accounts. Course, when she put an end to herself, we all knew why. Even after all these years she wasn’t getting over it. That’s what they all say, anyway.’ She paused, plainly expecting a comment.

‘Sad ending,’ he managed.

‘Killed her dad, too. Lord Collingford took some sort of fit and keeled over in his bedroom a few days after Lady Sarah’s death. Had nightmares, did Lady Sarah. So it was like she was raped over and over again.’

The cogs in his brain began to mesh. ‘By Master Jonathan.’ He shook his head. ‘Rape is a disgusting crime.’

‘Well . . .’ She rolled her eyes, batted the too-fine lashes. ‘I mean, what else could Master Tom have done? He was standing there watching when Lady Sarah was tossed into the lake. Then, I suppose he saw his brother falling in. He could only save one of them, being a poor swimmer and all. So Master Jonathan was drowned and Lady Sarah was saved by Master Tom.’

The bloody hero of the piece, thought Worthington. Goodfellow should have been in films as the leader of the sheriff’s posse, a white-hatted man on a pale, prancing horse. Damn him. In Africa, was he? So Ivy and the girl would be completely unprotected. He said goodbye, made for the door.