‘No, love. He lives,’ Tom muttered eventually, mopping blood from his nose. He gathered his arms around her and held her close as she sobbed into his shirt. ‘There, there, love, don’t take on. There’ll be no trouble for you from this, I promise. Dry your eyes, Nellie. You’re a brave lass …’

‘Oh, Uncle Tom, I just knew – I don’t know how but I sort of guessed that summat was going to happen and I came back to see if you were all right, and then … and then …’

‘Shush, love. You’ve been that brave. Where’s your mum? Is she safe?’

‘Yes, she’s inside. I locked the door when I came out. I couldn’t risk an intruder getting in.’

‘No, love, not an intruder. A rat, as I said earlier. Now, you go up to the house and get Gina to phone for the police and an ambulance.’

‘Will I be arrested?’ Her eyes were wide.

‘No, love. We’ll tell the truth and there’ll be nowt to worry about.’

‘I think Gina’s out this evening.’

‘No matter. Go and telephone yourself. There’s a telephone in that little room where we saw Mr Stellion on your first day, remember, near the conservatory? Go now.’

‘Yes … yes, I’m going.’ Ellen backed out of the door and ran as fast as she could back to the Hall, knowing even as she ran that this was a turning point; that from now on her life would be changed for ever and, more importantly, so would her mother’s.

PART TWO

Ellen
March 1957–November 1957

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

THE POSTMAN, ARTHUR Smollett, pedalled up the drive of Grindle Hall and round to the courtyard where he rang the bell at the back door. Gina knew what time he came by and she was there ready to take the parcel she was expecting, delivered safely into her hands and unseen by anyone else at the Hall.

‘Some letters for Mr and Mrs Stellion and another parcel for you, Miss Arnold,’ said Arthur. ‘You’re very popular lately.’

‘Just a few bits of shopping that caught my eye in a magazine,’ said Gina. ‘I like to stock up with birthdays and the like in mind.’

‘Very wise,’ said Arthur. ‘I wish my wife was as organised as you.’

Gina smiled and wished him a good morning. A few seconds later the brown paper wrapping with her name and address on it had been ripped off and burned in her little fireplace, leaving only a plain cardboard box, which Gina hid under her bed. She knew the kind of things it would contain. Not birthday presents, exactly – though some might eventually make someone’s birthday treat – but the small items that James Stellion dealt in: jewellery, miniature paintings, little ornamental boxes, that kind of thing. All stolen.