The Cuckoo Child (38 page)

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Authors: Katie Flynn

Tags: #Fiction, #Sagas

BOOK: The Cuckoo Child
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Corky thought this a good idea, so as soon as the tea was finished Nick set out for the
Echo
offices on Victoria Street. He walked into the foyer and was amazed at his reception.
A tall, gangling young man, who had been talking to the reception clerk, turned at his entrance and slapped a hand to his forehead. ‘He’s here! Nick Randall, I mean. Don’t cut them off,’ he said urgently. ‘Well, if that ain’t a coincidence to end all coincidences. Nick, someone’s been telephoning you for the past half-hour, wouldn’t speak to anyone else . . . look, you’d better take it in the editor’s office – he’s at a meeting – because the girl on the switchboard said it sounded real urgent, and private too.’
Nick felt his heart give an enormous bound. For a moment, the nagging worry which had haunted him ever since he had heard of Emma’s disappearance lifted. Was it she? Had she managed to escape from wherever they were holding her? Then he realised that she was unlikely to telephone for half an hour; she would surely have made her way either straight to the nearest police station, back to Church Street, or even round to his lodgings. His heart sank. It could be anyone on the other end of the line; it could even be bad news. As he ran up the stairs, two at a time, he tried to comfort himself with what Corky had learned. The boy was certain that Emma had the necklace, was equally sure that she would not have shown it to her captors, if captors they were. She might tell them that the necklace was hidden, Corky had said stoutly, that she had friends who knew of its whereabouts, and this could be used as a lever;
let me go and the necklace will be in your hands within the hour
. . . that sort of thing. But Nick could not banish the uncomfortable knowledge that Emma had trusted McNamara.
He pushed open the heavy oak door and hurried round the big mahogany desk, snatching for the phone as he sank into the editor’s leather swivel chair. ‘Hello?’ he said breathlessly. ‘Nick Randall here. Can I help you?’
Emma awoke to find herself in a strange and rather frightening world. Her eyelids were terribly heavy and she could not move so much as a muscle, so she lay just where she was and listened with all her might. She heard quiet footsteps, then rustling. A woman’s voice spoke. Emma could not hear what she was saying but realised she was asking questions since, at the end of each sentence, her voice went up. Then there was a murmur, gruff and croaky, which Emma took to be a reply. Still scarcely conscious, she tried to move her hand and immediately remembered a good deal which, she thought fretfully, she would be happier forgetting. Mr McNamara had hit her on the head and, presumably, thrown her over the bridge, straight into the train’s path, only he must have miscalculated and she had landed in a coal tender instead. After remembering that much, the rest was easy. She had left the train at Crewe, had been trying to run along the platform to get help when she must have swooned or fainted; at any rate, she could remember nothing more until she had muzzily awoken two or three minutes before. She was still trying to convince herself that it was safe – indeed, sensible – to open her eyes, when she realised that it was not only her ears which were passing messages to her brain, but her nose also. She smelt antiseptic, floor polish, and a certain something which reminded her of her stay in hospital at the age of eight, when her tonsils had been removed . . . chloroform? The smell of it was faint but hung about her and was sufficient to bring her eyes wearily open for a moment. Everything about her was dazzlingly white: ceiling, walls, everything. Even her arms, lying on the white coverlet, seemed drained of colour, but she managed to raise one and put it to her head. Gracious, her head seemed to be bound up in something . . . bandages!
Emma heard firm footsteps approaching up the ward and hastily shut her eyes again. She felt it was too soon to be able to answer questions and realised that questions were certainly going to be asked. Whoever had brought her into the hospital would be completely in the dark as to why she had come stumbling down the platform and collapsed . . .
‘Miss? Wake up, my dear. You’re quite safe now. You’re in Crewe General Hospital, though I dare say you’re feeling a bit sleepy and stupid – you had to have an anaesthetic so that the surgeon could stitch up your forehead. You’ve got a long, shallow cut just below your hairline which he felt simply must be sewn up, but don’t worry, you’ll soon feel much more like yourself. What’s your name, luv?’
It seemed downright rude to continue to pretend she was still unconscious. Emma moved her head a little on the pillow and fluttered her eyelashes. ‘I’m Emma Grieves,’ she whispered, ‘and – and someone tried to kill me.’
There was a startled hiss of indrawn breath and Emma opened her eyes a slit to find a large woman in a navy blue dress and a white cap staring down at her. ‘Tried to murder you?’ she said incredulously. Then her face cleared. ‘That’s a very nasty cut on your forehead, my dear, and you’ve got a bump like an egg behind your ear. What’s more, you’re barely out of the anaesthetic, so I dare say you’re a trifle confused, but not to worry. The station staff thought you might have been stealing coal but they soon revised that opinion. After all, why climb into a tender which might whisk you away at any moment when there was so much fuel in the nearby coal yard?’
‘How did they know I was in the tender?’ Emma whispered. Every sound seemed to reverberate off the walls and to hurt her throbbing head.
‘One of the porters saw you climbing out . . . and besides, you were smothered in coal dust.’ The woman chuckled. ‘We had to bathe you from head to foot and wash your hair, of course, before we could admit you. You didn’t regain consciousness but you were having – or seemed to be having – some horrible sort of dream. You begged someone, Mr McEvoy was it, not to hit you, not to take your necklace . . .’
‘The necklace!’ Emma had forgotten the necklace, forgotten that it was the main reason for the constable’s attack. ‘It was Mr McNamara, not Mr McEvoy,’ she whispered huskily. ‘And – and he
did
take the necklace, truly, nurse. He stole it and then swung his baton . . .’
The woman took Emma’s hand gently in her own. ‘You mean you really were attacked, it wasn’t just a nightmare?’ she asked incredulously. ‘Why, you poor little thing. No wonder you were in such a state when you were brought in. We checked to see if you wore a wedding band, just in case you were Mrs McEvoy – I mean McNamara – and had been involved in what the police call a domestic, but you seemed much too young. Also, your voice was that of an educated person, even when you were only half conscious, and clearly very frightened.’
Emma gave a very, very small smile. Her face felt stiff and even smiling hurt, and her mouth was dry and parched. ‘I’ll tell you all I can, nurse,’ she croaked, ‘but could I have a drink, please? It hurts me to talk.’
‘I’ll send a nurse to get you a cup of tea, but in the meantime you can have a tiny sip of water,’ the woman promised. She called down the ward and a round-faced, pink-cheeked girl in a green dress and white apron hurried up. ‘Yes, matron?’ she said.
‘Fetch me a glass of water right now, nurse, and then go down into the kitchens and get a cup of tea with plenty of sugar for this patient, please,’ the older woman said pleasantly. The girl hurried off and the matron turned back to Emma. ‘They only gave you a whiff of anaesthetic when they stitched you up, otherwise I’d not dare risk a cup of tea in case your stomach rebelled. And now, my dear, I think I ought to telephone to the police station; this is too serious a matter to be ignored.’
Emma heaved herself up in the bed and spoke urgently. ‘Oh, please . . . is there a telephone I can use? I don’t have any money but I’ll pay the hospital back . . . only I’ve friends who simply must be warned . . . they think Mr McNamara is an honest man . . . I simply must warn them.’
The matron looked undecided but at that point the little nurse scurried up with a glass of water which Emma sipped cautiously before trying to get herself out of bed. The matron watched, indecision playing on her face, but when Emma told her of the jewel robbery and of her grandfather’s murder, she seemed to make up her mind. ‘Fetch a wheelchair, nurse,’ she said briskly. ‘Take this patient along to Sister’s office and stay with her while she uses the telephone. Then bring her back to bed and make sure she’s comfortably settled.’ She turned back to Emma. ‘I’ll go back to my own room and phone the police from there. If you haven’t succeeded in reaching your friend by the time the police arrive, then I’m sure we’ll do it for you.’
Emma asked the operator for the
Echo
office number, but was unlucky; Nick had not called in that day. She left an urgent message for him to ring the hospital and returned to her bed but, by now, she had remembered that McNamara knew of Dot’s involvement in events and fretted so much that the little nurse wheeled her back to Sister’s office three times.
‘It’s a good job for the pair of us that Sister has been called over to theatre, or we’d be in hot water, I can tell you,’ she told Emma. ‘But she might be back any minute so this is the last time I’m taking you to the telephone – until I get more instructions from Matron, of course.’
It proved, however, to be fourth time lucky and it was with a great surge of relief that Emma heard Nick’s voice in her ear. ‘Hello? Nick Randall here. Can I help you?’
‘Oh, Nick, thank God!’ Emma said, her voice breaking. ‘It’s me, Emma. I’m – I’m in Crewe hospital.’
‘In hospital? In Crewe? Oh, Em, my darling. We’ve been worried sick. Are you all right?’
‘I’m okay, just bruised and shaken up,’ Emma said.
‘Tell me what happened – was it McNamara?’
‘Yes it was,’ Emma said, ‘and he knows Dot’s involved. Nick, he tried to kill me and jolly nearly succeeded. But you must warn Dot because I think she’s in dreadful danger. I – I didn’t realise he was Ollie – did I tell you he was Ollie? – and I mentioned Dot’s name . . . dear God, you’ve simply got to warn her, make her stay out of sight until McNamara’s arrested. You see, I—’
‘Hush, my love,’ Nick said, his voice gentle. ‘Let me get a word in edgeways! Dot knows that McNamara is Ollie and I’m pretty sure she knows she’s in danger from him. But I’ll find her and stick with her from now on, and so will Corky.’
‘Oh, thank God,’ Emma said. ‘I can’t go into much detail because I’m using the hospital telephone, but I’d got the necklace back and, like a fool, I showed it to McNamara. We were on Brownlow Street by the railway bridge and he asked me if he could see the necklace. Nick, I honestly thought he was a friend. He pretended he was taking me to see a magistrate so I could tell my story to someone in authority. I pulled the necklace out of my pocket and before I could do anything, he hit me over the head with his truncheon and tipped me over the railway bridge in the path of an express train. Only I landed in the coal tender so I expect he thinks I’m dead and no threat to him . . .’
‘The evil, murdering swine,’ Nick said between clenched teeth. ‘When I get my hands on him . . . but what happened to the necklace? Have you still got it?’
‘Oh, didn’t I say? He snatched it out of my hand, just before he hit me. I’m so sorry, Nick . . .’
To Emma’s bewilderment Nick laughed, a triumphant sound. ‘It’s all right, love. In fact, it couldn’t be better. Look, I can’t explain now but just you get back to bed and relax. I’ll sort everything out this end and then come for you. And whatever you do, don’t worry.’
‘I don’t want to go back to bed, I feel much better,’ Emma said, rather fretfully. ‘The police are coming to interview me and it would be much nicer – much easier that is – if you were here to back up my story.’
‘Be sensible, my love; the fact that you’re in hospital should be sufficient proof that something’s going on . . . look, I must go. You said yourself that it’s important to take care of Dot and I’ve got this idea . . . Emma? Try to understand!’
Emma was about to reply indignantly that of course she understood when she turned her head to see a tall young policeman, accompanied by two others, entering the room. At the sight of the uniforms, Emma’s heart gave an uncomfortable bound, then settled down as she saw that the policemen were strangers to her. On the other end of the line, Nick was still talking but she cut across his words. ‘Sorry, Nick, but the police have arrived. See you later.’ And with that, she put the receiver down firmly and turned to smile at the newcomers. ‘Good morning, officers,’ she said formally. ‘I’m sorry I’m in my nightclothes – they aren’t even mine – but when I tell you how I came to be here at all, you’ll understand. It was like this . . .’
Dot was only in the waiting room for an hour before a nurse came to fetch her. ‘Mrs Brewster’s lost the babies,’ she said briefly. ‘She’s far from well, weak and feverish, but she keeps saying she must speak to you, she has something terribly important to tell you. In fact, she’s made so much noise and fuss that Sister told me to fetch you along though, as a rule, children aren’t allowed on the maternity ward. I doubt they’ll let you stay for more than ten minutes, but perhaps you’ll be able to relieve your aunt’s mind of whatever is troubling her in that time.’
Dot found her aunt in a small, curtained-off cubicle at the end of the ward. Her face was flushed and her eyes were unnaturally bright, but when she saw Dot she managed a small smile and relaxed against her pillows. ‘I’ve lost me twins, queen,’ she said huskily. ‘I feel bad about it, a’ course I do, but I reckon it were for the best. Money’s that hard to come by and Sammy don’t seem inclined to hand over any of his earnings; it’s like getting blood out of a stone to prize so much as a bob a week out of him, and I dare say Lionel will be the same. But there’s something I’ve been meaning to tell you – oh, for a long while, only I kept putting it off. You see, I’m ashamed, only now I know you’ve gorra find out ’cos if I snuffs it, no one won’t ever tell you.’

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