Chapters (73)
- Cover
- Dedication
- PART ONE
- ONE
- TWO
- THREE
- FOUR
- FIVE
- SIX
- SEVEN
- EIGHT
- NINE
- TEN
- ELEVEN
- PART TWO
- TWELVE
- THIRTEEN
- FOURTEEN
- FIFTEEN
- SIXTEEN
- SEVENTEEN
- EIGHTEEN
- NINETEEN
- TWENTY
- TWENTY-ONE
- TWENTY-TWO
- TWENTY-THREE
- TWENTY-FOUR
- TWENTY-FIVE
- TWENTY-SIX
- TWENTY-SEVEN
- TWENTY-EIGHT
- TWENTY-NINE
- THIRTY
- THIRTY-ONE
- THIRTY-TWO
- PART THREE
- THIRTY-THREE
- THIRTY-FOUR
- THIRTY-FIVE
- THIRTY-SIX
- THIRTY-SEVEN
- THIRTY-EIGHT
- THIRTY-NINE
- FORTY
- FORTY-ONE
- FORTY-TWO
- FORTY-THREE
- FORTY-FOUR
- PART FOUR
- FORTY-FIVE
- FORTY-SIX
- FORTY-SEVEN
- FORTY-EIGHT
- FORTY-NINE
- FIFTY
- FIFTY-ONE
- FIFTY-TWO
- FIFTY-THREE
- PART FIVE
- FIFTY-FOUR
- FIFTY-FIVE
- FIFTY-SIX
- FIFTY-SEVEN
- FIFTY-EIGHT
- FIFTY-NINE
- SIXTY
- SIXTY-ONE
- ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
- Keep Reading …
- About the Author
- Also by Barbara Taylor Bradford
- About the Publisher
His thoughts turned to Moira Aherne. What on earth had she been doing in the Ham Shank, that stinking cesspit, he wondered again. His early life in rural Kerry had been harsh, and he had seen first-hand what poverty could do, but at least they hadn’t been crammed cheek by jowl with hundreds of other folk. What a horrific slum it was, bad people amongst the decent, and men who boozed and hurt women, and probably their children, and started to booze again.
What a mystery she was, Blackie thought, although he didn’t believe anyone else was as curious about her. How was it that her only friend in England had been a boy from Galway who sent her to relatives in Leeds?
Only today Mrs Wilson had come out to the garden, had brought him lemonade because it was a warm August day. She was kind that way.
After oohing and aahing about the terracotta slabs, she had stayed a bit longer to sing Moira’s praises.
He was certain she was not who she said she was, claiming to be the daughter of the housekeeper and butler in the household of Lady Henrietta Fitzgerald Chandler. He had noticed her breeding – for that was what it was – which had stood out the first moment he had come face to face with her.
She had what he thought of as classical looks, and a speech pattern that was used by aristocrats, and although her clothes were plain, they were well cut and of good fabrics. She had a certain style.
Yes, Moira Aherne was hiding something, he was sure. She had no friends or relatives, no one she visited or wrote to. He got glimpses of her often at Mrs Wilson’s little mansion in the Towers. And when they bumped into each other in the house or garden, she always spoke to him nicely and moved on swiftly. Somehow he felt she was out to make trouble. She was always too interested in what he was working on, and where he had been. But Moira Aherne was not really his problem, he acknowledged.
He sighed. He still thought too about the missing girl, Alf’s girlfriend Gwen, even though that was not really his concern either. She had never come home, nor had her body ever been found. She must have been taken, snatched up by somebody bad who’d made off with her. Everyone knew the terrible tales about Jack the Ripper in London some years back, and Blackie just prayed the girl hadn’t met a similar fate. Her poor mother was distraught and the whole Armley community were still talking about it.
Yes, the world could be hard and cruel, he reflected, but he could not change it.