The Corner House by Ruth Hamilton Read Free Book Online Page A

mine, Mr Churchill.’
    Pauline called down the stairwell. ‘Mr Chorlton?’
    He stepped out of the strongroom. ‘Yes?’
    ‘Customers, sir.’
    There was no respect in the ‘sir’. If she didn’t buck up, Mrs Pauline Chadwick could get on her broomstick and bugger off into munitions. A customer? At worst, it could be someone looking for a new watch strap; at best, there just might be a club card to be updated. Many locals paid into the all-the-year-round club as a way of saving towards the bigger of life’s punctuation marks: silver and golden anniversaries, a christening, a special birthday.
    But the more useful type of client came to the back door. At the top of the cellar steps in the rear yard, a bell summoned Mr Chorlton himself. No mere assistant was ever allowed to respond. Maurice asked few questions whenever a grimy, beer-soaked tramp exchanged a silver tea-set for ale money. A person who made no enquiries got told few lies. With a world war on the go, who was going to worry about a few missing sugar bowls?
    ‘Coming,’ he answered eventually. He closed the thick metal door and spun its dial.
    Halfway up the stairs, an odour floated down,causing him to widen, then pinch his nostrils. Fish. He stopped in his tracks. Fish: Bernard Walsh. Bernard Walsh and Eva somebody-or-other, one of those self-appointed busybodies. April. January. About nine months between those particular markers of time. Fish. Bernard Walsh and Roy Chorlton. Rape.
    Maurice entered the shop. ‘Would you like to run your errands now?’ he asked Pauline.
    She froze for a second, then grabbed her coat from a hook, picked up her purse and scuttered out of the shop.
    Maurice Chorlton shot a bolt home and pulled down the window blind. ‘Well?’
    Eva Harris placed a shopping basket on one of the glass counters. ‘Theresa Nolan survived the birth,’ she announced. ‘Which was a miracle, what with her heart being poor.’ She sniffed, looking the jeweller up and down. ‘It was surprising when she recovered from what your lad and his friends did to her.’
    Chorlton fiddled with his gold albert and fixed his gaze on Danny. He had not dealt with the man before, not with regard to this particular business. ‘Walsh,’ he stated flatly. ‘Brother to the so-called witness, I suppose. I think I’ve seen you on the market – first stall on the left near Ashburner Street.’
    Danny allowed a beat of time to pass. ‘Our Bernard saw what he saw,’ he whispered. ‘No more and no less. He’s not one for making up tales, Mr Chorlton.’
    ‘And neither is Theresa,’ snapped Eva. ‘A more honest young woman I’d defy you to meet. And your Roy was the ringleader, all right.’
    Maurice Chorlton gritted his teeth and waited. When the silence became unbearable, he spoke up. ‘What do you want this time?’
    ‘In case you’re wondering, like,’ said Eva, ‘it’s a little girl. Jessica, she’s to be called. Theresa’s mam was Jessica, God rest her soul. Anyroad, it’s a right bonny little lass. So get your mates round the table and cough up a bit extra for the child’s needs.’
    The jeweller contained himself, just about. He, George Hardin and – sometimes – Alan Betteridge had been coughing up thirty bob a week for months, while their respective sons, the supposed rapists, were playing soldiers somewhere in Cheshire. And now, the blackmailers had arrived to ask for more. ‘How much do you suggest?’ he managed through a rigid jaw.
    ‘Extra pound a week should do it,’ replied Eva.
    Maurice Chorlton paid lip-service to Methodism. He attended chapel each Sunday and, as a lay-preacher, delivered the odd sermon. He liked being holy and noticeable on Sundays. When Monday arrived, he slipped easily into his other role and received goods whose origins were sometimes uncertain. His flawed philosophy was simple: God came first on Sundays and business ruled for the rest of the week. Unfortunately, these two people were bringing God into the