The Great Betrayal (23 page)

It was Dolly’s turn to protest. ‘Don’s not a true murderer because he didn’t mean to kill that man. It’s not as if he shot him. They say it was an accident. The man was hit on the head and fell and hit his head again on the floor and—’

‘Exactly. He was hit on the head – by John! No one has suggested it was self-defence. Just a foolish man trying to be a hero.’

‘But he wasn’t shot or stabbed. It was an
accident
.’

‘Maybe, maybe not . . . but he’s still very dead, poor man, and John’s to blame. If they hadn’t been robbing the shop . . .’

Dolly frowned in an effort to solve yet another problem thrown up by the circumstances. ‘I shall have to tell my son the truth because round where I live everyone knows everyone else’s business and he’ll find out from his school mates. Sure to!’

‘You could move away from there,’ Lydia suggested. ‘Anyway, you might have a girl. Things are a bit different for girls.’ She saw Dolly’s expression change. ‘What is it?’

‘I’ve just realized – they’ll be related. Our children!’

‘Related? Oh no!’ Taken aback by the idea, Lydia had allowed her dismay to show and now, not wishing to hurt Dolly, hastily tried to lessen any offence she might have caused. ‘You’re right, of course. Half brothers . . . or is it step brothers?’

At that moment Adam came into the kitchen looking troubled. ‘Grandpapa is sad,’ he announced. ‘He says he’s not crying, but he is!’

‘Oh, Adam!’ She jumped to her feet. ‘Excuse me, Dolly.’

In the front room she found her father weeping silently and threw her arms around him. ‘You’re tired, Father. Come up to your bedroom for a rest, and I’ll make you some porridge with cream and sugar the way you like it. You always find that comforting.’ She helped him, unprotesting, from the chair, and they made their way up the stairs to his room, where she took off his shoes and jacket and helped him into his favourite armchair beside the window.

‘I’m useless!’ he complained suddenly. ‘Just a useless old man. What good can I do for you, eh, Liddy?’ He accepted the handkerchief she found in his top drawer. ‘Just when you need me I’m utterly useless.’

‘No, Father! That’s not true. Just having you around is a great help to me. To both of us. And Adam adores you.’

He shook his head. ‘I wish that were so, but I sometimes think he’s afraid of me. He doesn’t understand me, and I can’t blame him. I don’t understand myself half the time!’

Fresh tears filled his eyes, and Lydia searched for some way to convince him. ‘We both love you . . .’ she began.

‘But I’m a liability! Just an extra worry for you. Don’t think I don’t know!’

‘Father! Please listen to me and don’t cry any more. You are very important to me and to Adam. You know how much he loves you. And I need you. Without John I shall be so grateful for your company. You are
not
a liability.’

‘But I do silly things. I worry you. I wander off. If only Robert were here. He’s a sensible young man. He’d be a great help.’

Lydia let it pass. She closed her eyes and leaned down to kiss the top of her father’s head. ‘I won’t listen to another word!’ she said, in an attempt to sound brisk and purposeful. ‘You rest in this chair until I bring up your porridge, and no more tears and no more worries. I think we still have some demerara sugar, and I know you prefer that.’ She forced a smile. ‘My shoulders are broader than you think, Father. We’ll help each other through this. I’m quite determined.’ She took the damp handkerchief and found a replacement. ‘You’ll see. We’ll manage without my wretched husband. You were right about him all along, but now we know the worst and we can survive.’

He caught her hand and squeezed it. ‘You’re a good girl, Liddy. You don’t deserve all this trouble.’

She was halfway to the door when he said, ‘That other poor woman! His other wife. What will she do now?’

‘I don’t know, Father. We’re talking it over at the moment.’ And she’s not his ‘other wife’, she argued inwardly. They were never married . . . But there was the baby, she conceded unwillingly, so she did have some claim on him.

As she made her way downstairs, Lydia, for the first time, felt a first real flash of anger towards her husband and found, to her surprise, that it was so much easier to bear than grief.

Later that night, Leonard Phipps laid down his pen and reread what he had said to his mother in the letter. He had told her the situation with some reluctance because he knew it would worry her, but a change of address would need an explanation. He had started and ended with the good news, so hopefully she would be distracted from the less welcome news in the middle:

Sighing, he signed off in the usual way and slipped the letter into an envelope.

That night Lydia lay in bed as the church clock struck two, as wide awake as when she first scrambled between the sheets. She thought about those around her – Adam fast asleep, clutching his teddy bear; her father, tossing restlessly in the room on her right; Mr Phipps, silent in his room next to her father.

And upstairs in the attic on a makeshift bed – Dolly, crying herself to sleep. Lydia had felt quite unable to send her away, knowing that she had nowhere to go since she refused to forgive her mother for her ‘treachery’.

Lydia’s confusion was total, and for the first time in her life she had no idea what to do next. Her entire life and its familiar routines had been snatched away, not only by John’s defection, but also by his crime, and she dared not dwell on the horrors that awaited her family when, if, he was brought to trial and possibly hanged.

‘You’re out of your depth, Lydia!’ she told herself. The security of a home and a husband who paid the bills had vanished and, unless her father had some money tucked away, they had nothing coming in except the small amount she earned from Mr Phipps’ occupation of their spare room.

This line of thinking was abruptly interrupted by a new thought which made her gasp with horror. Was Dolly the only one? Or had John ‘married’ anyone else?

‘No!’ she whispered. ‘I mustn’t think that way. I’m just torturing myself.’

She supposed that Dolly was also wide awake and pondering her future and that of John’s other child – a future that seemed bound inevitably with that of her and Adam.

‘Where
are
you, John?’ she muttered, and then made a new and devastating discovery. They could never be together again the way it was, even if he somehow escaped the arms of the law, because his betrayal had been complete. Too many lies had slipped glibly from his tongue! He had lied to her about everything, painting himself as a man she could admire and trust; painting their life together as something beautiful. Now she knew that it had all been a deliberate sham – and shabby, to boot.

‘So how will we live?’ she asked, staring up into the darkness. Perhaps they could sell the house and rent something much smaller and live off the remainder until it ran out. But what then? And there was the question of her father. He would never improve, but might well deteriorate. The idea of hiring a nurse to care for him when it became necessary was now an impossibility. She would be tied to the house, looking after him, so could hardly find herself a little job – and anyway, what could she do? Serve in a shop, perhaps? Write letters for London’s illiterates? Work in an office? Scrub floors . . .?

Lydia did not hear the clock strike three, for she had slipped into a troubled sleep, temporarily leaving her worries behind her. But those same fears and dilemmas would be waiting for her when she awoke from her dreams to face the nightmare of the new day.

Dolly woke up just as it was getting light and was surprised to see George Meecham standing by her bed in his pyjamas. ‘What is it?’ she demanded, sitting up hastily. ‘What do you want?’ She fumbled on the bedside table for the matches and lit her candle.

He leaned down to peer at her. ‘You’re not Robert!’ he said. ‘Where’s Robert?’

‘He’s away for a few days,’ she invented, unwilling to enter into a long discussion. Better to go along with him, she thought. ‘Go back to bed, Mr Meecham, or you’ll catch a chill.’ She pulled the bedclothes up around her neck. ‘It’s a cold night,’ she lied. ‘Go back to bed and in the morning we’ll—’

‘He never stays out this late.’ George hesitated. ‘This is his room, you see. Who are you?’

‘I’m Dolly Wickham, a friend of your daughter Lydia. She knows I’m here. She said I can stay until tomorrow, and then I’ll be looking for somewhere else.’

‘Ah! I see.’ He looked perplexed. ‘So he’s not lost then. Robert? He’s not . . . he hasn’t wandered off?’

‘No.’ She smiled. ‘He’s quite safe. Now, you should go back to your own room, Mr Meecham, and get back into bed. We’ll talk about it tomorrow.’

‘Will we? Right. What did you say your name was? Dotty?’

‘Dolly.’

‘Ah! Well, goodnight, Dolly.’ Obediently, he turned to go, and when he had left the room she slid from the bed and ran after him to make sure he had indeed gone back to bed. Once he was safely tucked up she crept back to her own bed, blew out the candle and climbed back into the comfort of the bedclothes. She didn’t envy Lydia her future, with a child to bring up, an income to earn and a confused old man to look after.

‘You’re going to have your work cut out!’ she muttered. ‘But then so am I. Donald Wickham alias John Daye, has left us both on a very sticky wicket!’ She closed her eyes, but immediately opened them to add, ‘Damn him to hell!’ and then cried herself to sleep.

When Dolly left the house next morning she heard Lydia stirring in her room and Adam calling to his mother from his bedroom. She presumed that the old man was still asleep and smiled with satisfaction. They would all assume that she was still asleep also. She hoped that by the time they realized she was missing she would be back and would have succeeded in her rather daring plan.

She presented herself at the reception desk of the local police station and said, ‘My name’s Jenny Ellerway, and I need to talk to someone in authority.’

‘That’s me then. Constable Bluitt at your service.’ He smiled at her.

‘It’s about Mr Sidney Wickham,’ she told him.

He was looking at her swelling belly, but made no comment.

He was very young, she noted, and hopefully still gullible. Dolly shook her head. ‘I’m his sister-in-law,’ she told him. ‘They say he’s been found guilty and sent down. I need to talk to him.’

‘Hard luck, miss – or should I say missus?’ She gave him a sharp look, and he hurriedly continued: ‘He went before the magistrate a day or two back and is being transferred today to Strangeways Prison to join his partner in crime, Willis Burke. From here on in your Sid Wickham will be known as Prisoner 7221, and he’s currently tucked up in his cell –’ he jerked his thumb towards a long corridor – ‘waiting for his breakfast of cold porridge and weak tea. A taste of things to come, if you’ll pardon the pun!’

Dolly had no idea what a pun was so let it pass without comment. ‘His ma’s just died,’ she said, hastily adjusting her expression. ‘She sent me a message to him, to say “goodbye”. I was wondering if I could just pass it on to him in person because it was her last request, poor old dear.’ She took out a handkerchief and dabbed at her eyes

‘Pass on a personal message? Certainly not!’ He looked pleased by this opportunity to show the power of his position. ‘Strictly against the rules.’

Dolly sized him up. He was about twenty, with blue eyes, nice fair hair, middle parting, trying to grow a moustache. Too young to be married, she decided, but might be courting.

‘I could make it worth your while,’ she whispered. ‘Not with money but – you know. No one would ever know except the two of us.’ She smiled from beneath her lashes and twiddled with a long blonde curl, winding it round her finger.

He looked suitably surprised, she thought and added, ‘Just a kiss and a cuddle, nothing more, but most men wouldn’t say no.’

‘I don’t know about that.’ He hesitated. ‘Not that I’m a married man or anything . . .’

He was flummoxed, she thought, and she could almost see his mind working. Almost hear the gears whirring! So where’s the power now? she thought gleefully and said, ‘How would you feel if it was your ma what had died?’ When he still did not respond she gave a long sigh, glancing at the clock on the wall. ‘Well, it was worth a try! Never mind, Constable. You’re not the only pebble on the beach. What time do you go off duty, Constable Bluitt?’