‘I can’t stand by and do nothing. Not again,’ Percy exclaimed.
‘I’m not sure I’m following you,’ the Reverend muttered, creasing his brow in confusion.
‘I didn’t help my mother,’ Percy finally blurted. ‘I could have, but I didn’t.’
Reverend Shackleford raised his eyebrows. ‘I’m not sure how you’ve come to that conclusion, Percy lad. Last I heard, she was running that pub in Salcombe.’
‘But that was Jago,’ protested Percy. ‘And you and he saved her from the rope. All I did was pray.’
‘Now just a deuced minute,’ the Reverend sputtered in outrage. ‘Since when did you begin underestimating the power of prayer, Percy Noon? The Almighty’s got us out of more scrapes than we’ve had hot dinners and why do you think he’s done that? It’s not because I’ve spent my life running around like a deuced headless chicken. You’ve always been the steadfast one, not me. It’s you, standing behind me giving the Almighty a good talking to, Percy. That’s how your mother’s still here, that’s how we’re still here and that will be how Lizzy Fletcher gets out of the hole she’s found herself in.’ He shook his head and began rummaging around inside his cassock.
‘I’m not saying action’s not called for, lad, but without a few Hail Mary’s behind it…’ He trailed off with a shrug.
‘But we’re not Catholic,’ frowned the curate, puzzled.
Reverend Shackleford finally located what he was searching for and brought out his small flask of brandy in triumph. Unscrewing the top, he gave a long sigh and said, ‘You know what, Percy? I don’t think He really cares…’
Chapter Eighteen
Lizzy Fletcher looked round the squalid room her so-called husband had been living in for the last two years and wanted to scream. The object of her affections was lying on the filthy mattress complaining that his head hurt, and she’d probably damaged his brain.
‘Well, since most o’ your thinkin’s done in your bleeding nutmegs, it ain’t much of a bloody loss,’ she responded callously, picking up something that appeared to have started life as a vegetable and slinging it out of the open door. ‘I don’t know ‘ow you’ve lived like this for so long, Charlie,’ she muttered hoarsely, fighting back tears. For pity’s sake, she thought she’d cried her last tears, bloody years ago. ‘Ow could this be better than wot we ‘ad?’
‘E owed me money, the bastard. I came up to get it,’ the prone man mumbled.
‘Who owed you money, Charlie?’
‘Your bastard brother, that’s who.’ Groaning, he struggled into a sitting position, a sheen of sweat dotting his brow.
Against her will, Lizzy stepped over and felt her husband’s brow. He was cold and clammy to the touch. She shuddered, stepping back. ‘Well, if John owed you money, ‘ow come it’s taken two bloody years to get it back?’
‘He says it’s all inthere.’ Charlie shot back savagely, stabbing his finger in the direction of theFlying Horse. ‘He told me if I waited, we’d be rich. Me an’ you, Liz. Rich. No more charity from Duke high an’ bloody mighty.’
‘Wot the ‘ell are you talking about Charlie? ‘You tol’ me the Duke of Blackmore was the best you’d ever served under. Them’s were your exact words. That’s how you dragged me all the way to bloody Devonshire.’
‘That’s wot ‘e tol’ me to say,’ Charlie muttered, rubbing his head. ‘Fact is Liz, ‘e din’t want you ‘ere. Your ma cocking up ‘er toes an’ you turnin up like a bloody bad penny. He wanted you gone. Said you wos too ripe and ready by ‘alf. He knew you’d see through ‘im, start askin’ questions, get in the bloody way.’ He paused and swayed before continuing. ‘Sinclair was out by then too. ‘E wanted me to keep an eye on the bastard. So we killed two birds wi’ one stone.’ He finally collapsed back onto the bed. ‘Get me some grog, woman,’ he mumbled.
Lizzy grimaced. She picked up the small bottle of rum but held it high above her husband’s head. ‘Not ‘til you tell me wot the bloody hell this is all about Charlie. I swear on my life, I’ll pour this ‘ole bottle in the gutter if you don’t tell me the bleeding truth.’ Charlie howled and made a feeble swipe before falling back and groaning.
‘You’ve bloody killed me, you bitch,’ he muttered.
Lizzy said nothing, just continued to hold the bottle high over his head, waiting.
‘’e said ‘e’d split it if I lied for ‘im,’ Charlie finally slurred.
‘Lied for who? John? Wot did ‘e do?’ Lizzy demanded.
‘Killed ‘im. Stuck a knife right between ‘is shoulder blades. ‘E tol’ me if I said it wos Stanhope did it, ‘e’d see me right.’ Lizzy blinked trying to make sense of her husband’s words.
‘But the bastard jumped,’ Charlie suddenly cackled. ‘E jumped afore ‘e could swing. So there wos John, left wi’ a ruby up ‘is arse…’ Lizzy watched in distaste as her husband started laughing, until suddenly he began to cough, a line of crimson dribbling from the corner of his mouth.
‘Course we could ‘ave split it when ‘e sold the bleeding ruby,’ he rasped. But, no, ‘e ‘ad big ideas. Bought this bloody place instead.’ He gave a pained shrug. ‘I told ‘im we was doin’ alright. We din’t need ‘im peddlin’ ‘is bleeding fancy ideas. But did the bastard listen?’ He started to cough again, his chin now stained a dark red.
Hastily, she lowered the grog and pulled out the stopper, but before she had the chance to put it to his lips, a huge gout of blood suddenly shot from his mouth. Sobbing, Lizzy tried to lift his head up, but the bright crimson liquid continued to slide down his chin. In the end, all she could do was watch in horrified fascination as her good for nothing husband, eyes bulging, choked to death on his own blood.
And then, abruptly, it was over. Slowly, without taking her eyes from his sightless, staring ones, Lizzy lifted the bottle of grog and put it to her own lips.
∞∞∞
