The Legacy Read online

  Freedom halted and she walked straight into him. He gripped her arm, hurting her. Evelyne looked into his face, she wasn’t afraid, she never had been afraid of him, but he hurt her wrist and she jerked her hand free. ‘I said the fourth boy’s here in the village, and you know it, that’s why you’re here.’

  Freedom took the tree branch from her hand and swiped at the bushes in anger.

  ‘I’m here to fight at Devil’s Pit, nothing more.’

  Evelyne fell into step beside him, told him he was crazy, the police wanted to question him about the murders. If he came out in the open to fight, they would certainly arrest him. They had even put his name in the papers.

  ‘So, Evelyne, you came to warn me, is that it?’

  She tripped over a stone and he caught her, but she moved quickly out of reach. Flippantly, she said she was amazed that he remembered her name.

  ‘You remembered mine, I heard you asking for me, and I thank you.’

  They walked on and she asked after Rawnie. Freedom told her that she was now Jesse’s woman and would be at the camp. As they walked she became aware of his familiar but strange, musky perfume, and even more aware of his cat-like litheness. He seemed hardly to make a sound as he walked, his step surprisingly light for his size.

  ‘Have you got yourself a man yet then, Evelyne?’

  She flushed and bit her lip, and he laughed softly with his little lopsided smile and slightly raised eyebrows.

  ‘Did you ever go to an inn close by Cydwinath Farm? When we last met I thought I’d seen you before, a long time ago.’

  Evelyne shook her head.

  ‘Oh, it wasn’t you, huh? See, first I saw this girl in a field - like a mermaid she was, and dressed in naught but her shift - and then I saw her again, a big society dance, it was.’ He gave her his strange half-smile, his eyes twinkling, ‘I was standing in the dark and it was as if she was lit up by the moon, like a moment of magic. It was a mermaid again, only, only this time she was a princess in a flowing gown, and she was dancing with an old fella with white hair, there on the lawn with not a soul to see but me.’

  Evelyne stopped and bit her lip so hard her teeth almost went straight through. He looked down into her face and cupped her chin in his hand.

  ‘I was never at a dance, and most certainly not at any farm in my shift, and I find it very ungentlemanly of you even to suggest it.’

  Again he laughed, and he did a small jig then bowed low. She knew he was laughing at her, and she almost -just almost - laughed at herself.

  They were coming closer and closer to the edge of the village and could see the lights twinkling from the houses. The track was smoother here and soon they would be on the cobbles leading to the main street. Freedom still walked at her side. All she needed now was for someone to see her - pray God it would not be Mrs Morgan or it would be all round the village by ten o’clock next morning. As if he could read her thoughts he stopped, bowed again, and without another word made to move away. This time Evelyne caught hold of his arm. ‘Don’t be a fool, mun, don’t fight, don’t let them arrest you, get away from here.’

  Freedom’s eyes went darker than dark, and his voice was soft but cutting, ‘My people depend on the fight for their living. Money is scarce all round, but no scarcer than with us travellers.’

  Evelyne told him angrily that his people would be a lot worse off if he were put in prison, which would certainly happen if the people arrested him. He turned on his heel, swishing at the air with the stick. ‘They’ll have to find me first.’

  Evelyne let herself in by the back door. She was greeted by an irate Hugh who was worried stiff about her being so late and not letting him know where she was, and they had an argument for the first time in years. She accused him of not letting her know about his friendship with Gladys, a stupid, simpering woman if ever there was one. The stinging slap from Hugh shocked her and she lifted her fist to go for him, but he held her too tight.

  ‘You’ll take that back, you’ll not say those things about her, it’s jealous you are, girl, jealous, you who’s too bound up in your books and readin’ to find yourself a decent lad. They’re all laughin’ at you an’ callin’ you Doris behind your back. And by God, girl, you’ve got like her, with your mouth always turned down and your nose never out of paper!’

  Evelyne countered this by telling Hugh he was behaving like a foolish eighteen-year-old, and making himself the laughing stock of the village with that Gladys. And as for her nephew! He was a pig-eyed, sweaty, revolting youth, it ran in the family. Wallop! She got another stinging blow and she backed away, scared; she had not seen Hugh so angry for such a long time.

  Hugh started on about David - all that show about her going to Cardiff to find the boy she loved, the boy of her dreams. It must have been all fantasy because she came back with a face like a nun’s, and a tongue so sharp no one could speak to her.

  ‘What happened, Evie? Did he turn you down? Can you blame him, look at you, you act like an old woman … dear God, gel, what are we doing, what are we saying? Come here, for the Lord’s sake, come here.’

  Evelyne went into her father’s arms as if he were a long-lost lover. He held her, rocking her, kissing her hair, her neck, and saying sweet, soft things, taking back everything he had just said. She found herself kissing him back, she was so in need of love, so in need of physical contact that she was bursting inside. They were held suspended, staring into one another’s eyes.

  The crash of the door-knocker brought them round, and Gladys’ voice, high-pitched and hysterical. Hugh let her in. It was Willie, he’d not been home since tea, and now it was one in the morning and she was worried stiff. No one seemed to know where he was.

  On hearing that Willie was missing, Evelyne said that he had gone to the picture house to see the jazz film. ‘Perhaps he met a girl there, Da? Wait, I’ll come with you.’

  She ran down the street after Hugh and Gladys, who were calling out Willie’s name along the way. Lights were coming on in the houses, heads popped out of windows. Soon there was a trail of people behind them, like the children following the Pied Piper, everyone looking for Willie. Evelyne’s heart hammered in her chest… ‘Dear God,’ she prayed, ‘let him have met someone and gone walking.’ Anything but what she dreaded.

  Gladys began to shiver with cold and Evelyne took off her greatcoat and slipped it round Gladys’ shoulders, forgetting the newspaper clippings in the pocket.

  By the time they reached the picture house the village bobby was wobbling along beside them on his bike. Evan Evans asked over and over what the fuss was about and slowly pieced the story together in his thick brain. ‘The lad’s missing, is that so? We’ll get a search party out.’

  ‘What the hell do you think this is, mun? That’s what we’re doing.’

  The manager of the cinema, Billy Jones, lived in the house next to it. They woke him by hammering on his door.

  ‘All right, I’m comin’, I’m comin’ …’ He stood on the doorstep in his dressing-gown as they explained the problem to him, then fetched a torch and a huge bunch of keys. With everyone rushing him he had trouble finding the right keys to open the door. He took so long that Hugh wanted to belt him.

  ‘There was not a soul left in the theatre, I’m telling you, unless he went to the gents’.’

  Gladys, panicking now, wanted to know if Billy had definitely seen Willie.

  ‘Yes I did, he was here nine o’clock just before the start of the film, It’s the Jazz, Man - best houses I’ve had for weeks.’

  Eventually he got the door open and they spilled into the auditorium, calling for Willie.

  ‘Now, everyone, keep back, this is police work.’

  Ignoring Evan Evans, Hugh bellowed for Willie, while Billy tried to light the gas lamps.

  ‘Which bugger’s got me torch? I can’t see to light the lamps.’

  As they walked around peering along the rows of seats, the lights came on. Billy, up on a ladder, looked down and screamed hysterically
, pointing. Hugh pushed his way through to where Billy was pointing, looked for a moment and then turned, ‘Stay back, Gladys, Evie. Don’t come up here, any of you … Evan, get the doctor.’

  Gladys screamed and screamed, then fainted in a heap at Evan’s feet. Evelyne moved cautiously between the seats.

  ‘Aw, Christ almighty … Holy Mother of God …’

  Willie lay between the seats. Blood from an open wound on his neck had formed a thick, dark pool which had already congealed. It was obvious from his open, staring eyes that he was dead.

  Next morning the village was in an uproar. There’d not been a murder since 1905 when Taffy Ryse hammered his mother’s head in, but then he was funny upstairs. Who would have wanted to kill Willie? They could all understand why Taffy had beaten his mother to death, she had been a right bitch, but Willie?

  Doc Clock was limping badly from yet another car accident, and he was also getting old. He examined Willie’s body and muttered that he was dead all right, which got everybody shouting at once that they’d already told the soft bugger he was dead - what they wanted to know was when it had happened. Doc Clock shrugged.

  ‘How the bloody hell do I know - I’ve not been to the pictures since last year.’

  Evan Evans was buzzing around with his notebook and a blunt pencil which he had to keep on licking. Doc Clock said he would give himself lead poisoning if he carried on. Poor Evan was out of his depth and was very swiftly pushed aside when a motor vehicle arrived with three uniformed police and a plain-clothes officer from the main station in Cardiff. They were all banned from the cinema and poor Billy was beside himself. He’d only got the film on lease and he had to send it back; if he couldn’t let his customers in then how was he going to run his business?

  The police searched for the murder weapon and drew chalk marks around the body before it was removed. They began questioning everybody who was known to have been in the picture house the previous night, and put out a request for any person not on their list who had been in the cinema or in the vicinity to come forward. A lot of folk, who were interested in the proceedings rather than having anything useful to say, couldn’t wait to be interviewed. One of the harassed police officers was heard shouting, ‘No, no, we’re not interested in the week before the murder - just if you were in the picture house itself on that specific night or if you happened to pass it.’

  Billy hovered and moaned as they closed the cinema, and begged to be allowed to open up before he went bankrupt. The police eventually conceded, and Billy opened up with a broad, white ribbon carefully hooked around five seats in two rows. He had never done such business in the whole time the place had been open. He played three shows a day with a Charlie Chaplin short in between for half-price. Not that anyone was watching the film, they were all agog at the bloodstained seat and took turns to sit close, whispering and pointing out to each other the bloodstains and the chalk marks around the spot where the body had lain. Mabel Hitchins, the pianist, drummed her fingers to the bone playing along with the films. Her neck was at a permanent angle from twisting round to tell the kids to leave the ribbons alone, they were police property.

  For the three days that the murder investigation was centred in the village, Evelyne stayed indoors. She knew the police had questioned the gypsy men, and in fact seemed to have talked to everyone in the village. They mentioned nothing about the murder being one of the ‘revenge killings’, but there was an undercurrent of emotion among the villagers and the blame was laid on the ‘gyppos’. The police were very firm, warning that there must be no vendetta between the miners and the gypsies. The law would handle the case, and once they had completed certain inquiries they would return to the village.

  Hugh came home with the local newspaper and read aloud to Evelyne while she darned his socks. ‘It’s the gyppos, the police have been over the camp, got to be one of them, must be, police say there’ll be an arrest any time now.’

  The paper also stated that the murder had to have taken place during the second half of the last showing of the picture. This was because Mrs Dobson remembered selling Willie a toffee-apple. She remembered Willie very clearly because he had demanded his money back as the apple under the toffee had been rotten. The police placed the killing between nine thirty-five and ten fifteen. They also believed the weapon was similar to the one used to kill the boys in Cardiff: a thin blade, perhaps even a cut-throat razor. The gypsy camp had been searched, but they had found nothing.

  Hugh shook his head and grunted, ‘Be one of them vermin, sure as I’m sitting here.’ He continued to read aloud from the paper, where it stated that no one at the picture house recalled seeing a gypsy at the box office. Nor had they seen any in line for Mrs Dobson’s toffee-apples and coconut slices. This was also verified by Billy. Hugh jabbed the air with his finger. ‘Too right, he said he wouldn’t allow the buggers in his picture house anyways, not that many went in by the front door. Ask me, most of the audience slipped in the back way.’

  He frowned, looking at the paper. Evelyne finished one of his socks and looked up. ‘You’d think if anyone did see the killer they would come forward. It’s common knowledge that most never pay at poor Billy’s, though, so if they did speak up they’d have to admit they’d slipped in the back door too.’

  Hugh sniffed, spat into the fire and jabbed his big finger at the paper. ‘Says here they given orders for the gyppos to stay put until the police had finished accumulatin’ their evidence, the way those lazy so-and-sos go about it I’m surprised they ever catch anyone. An’ wouldn’t you know there’s not one man up at that camp who can’t vouch for the others being up there all night, the bastards - killers, bastards!’

  Evelyne had nightmares. She kept waking up sweating, going over and over the time she went from the house up to the camp. She was sure it was after nine. She remembered Gladys telling old Evan, the policeman, that Hugh had returned quickly because he wanted to hear something on the wireless at nine. The walk up the mountain would have taken her at least three-quarters of an hour. Freedom was there, she could see him clearly, dropping from the tree with that smile of his on his face. Could he really have slit that lad’s throat and then laughed and joked with her? Walked almost into the village, right up past the picture house itself? The more she turned the evidence over in her mind the more she knew deep down that Freedom could not have killed Willie. Freedom couldn’t because the time wasn’t right, but what of Jesse? He had been at the camp, but she had not seen him. Had Jesse killed Willie? Freedom had told her Rawnie was now Jesse’s woman. She knew she should go to the police - knew it, but then she would have to go through all the questions about how she knew Freedom, how she knew about the rape, why she hadn’t come forward before. Even worse would be the questions about the other lads’ deaths. Why hadn’t Evelyne said anything before? Told the police what she knew? No matter which way she looked at it, silence was the only way out, but it was giving her sleepless nights. She prayed for the fair to be over, for the gypsies to leave, and for the village to return to normal.

  The terrible scandal began to die down and the Cardiff Constabulary returned to their station, leaving the ‘Super Sleuth’, Evan Evans, pedalling around the village with his notebook and pencil at the ready. They had found no murder weapon, and no evidence against anyone in the village or at the gypsy camp. Willie’s body was sent back to Cardiff for burial, and without his corpse the Easter festivities began to pick up in earnest. Life was so harsh that any reason for a moment’s relief was grasped with both hands. The band marched through the streets and the choir sang their hearts out at Sunday service. Easter Monday came, and the Bank Holiday gave the village even more of a festive atmosphere; they were still poverty stricken, but the gaunt, grey, worried faces relaxed, if only for a few days. Children’s money-boxes had been raided by their parents, and somehow the odd few coppers had been found for the Sunday fair.

  The gypsy men were no fools, they knew they would be targets. Freedom warned them all to keep out of harm
’s way. Don’t start anything, just let the folk spend their few coppers, read their palms. There was to be no fighting, they were in trouble enough as it was. He didn’t have to say why; the hooded looks and downcast eyes were enough. The revenge was complete now.

  Freedom wondered if Evelyne would come. He doubted it, but he was sure she had kept her mouth shut, but then he had known she would. He had even sworn as much to the men and women of the camp. The paleface woman was their friend, and they could trust her as they did him.

  As the villagers prepared for the fair, the travellers got out their gladrags, set up their booths and tables, brought out all their wares to sell. The older women made doll’s house furniture and small, carved flowers from wood chippings, which were painted bright colours. There were goldfish for prizes and headscarves hand-sewn with beads and embroidery.

  The streets were filling up with families on their way up the hill to the fair. Evelyne closed her window and went down to make herself a cup of tea. She boiled a big pan of water and had an all-over wash, scrubbing her skin until it hurt, then brushed and brushed her hair. Then she went back upstairs and lay on her bed, listening to the sounds of the fair drifting down, the music, the laughter. Her mouth went tight, and she wondered if they would all be having such a good time if they knew what she knew.

  Hugh had gone off to a meeting in another village, and Gladys said she would wait for him to return. She couldn’t think of going to the fair, not after the terrible tragedy.

  ‘Yes, lovey, you can, it’ll do you good. When I’ve finished my meeting I’ll come and collect you, walk you up the hill, just for a while.’

  Gladys was dressed and ready. She fetched the coat she had borrowed from Evelyne and hung it in the hallway to give to Hugh. Noticing a mud stain on the hem, she tut-tutted and carried it into the kitchen to clean it. Humming to herself she wet a sponge and rubbed at the mud. As she turned the coat round she felt a bulge in one of the pockets, slipped her hand in to see what it was and brought out all the newspaper cuttings Evelyne had kept so carefully. Laying them on the table she took out her glasses and began to read.