Death of a Blackbird (Paperback)

Chapter 1

Monday, 5th May 1930

Josiah Clough’s weather-beaten face screwed up in anger as he raised the spade above his head and brought the flat of the blade down hard.

The wooden post shuddered. He banged it three times more, forcing it deeper into the ground with each blow, then grabbed the top of the post with a gnarly, crabbed hand and wiggled it, making sure it was secure. Tossing the spade to the ground, he used both hands to set the painted sign nailed to it straight.

Heedless of the rain bouncing off the brim of his hat and slipping under the collar of his oilskin overcoat, he stepped back to examine his handiwork. Clough nodded with satisfaction. The Blackbird Farm sign was as it should be once more, how it had been for decades. And how, he’d decided, it was going to stay.

Closing the gate behind him, he picked up the spade and made his way along the path to the farmhouse. He propped the spade against the outside wall, then stepped into the hall, taking off his hat and coat and throwing them over the rickety settle. Muddy footsteps marked his way to the kitchen, where he filled the kettle and banged it down on the gas ring. The match he used to light the gas was shaken out and thrown on the floor, where it joined a multitude of others.

As he waited for the kettle to boil, Clough thumbed through the bills he’d tossed aside earlier in the day. Bills for chicken feed, for hay, for cow ointment from the vet. His lips curled in disgust. A tidy sum was owing and some of the bills were stamped with OVERDUE and PAY NOW in bright red ink. He turned to the shelves above the kitchen cabinets that were laden with tins, jars and packets of food, reaching up to take down a tin of OXO stock cubes.

Carrying it to the table, he sat down and pulled off the lid, tipping out the contents. Not stock cubes, but rolls of banknotes held together with thick rubber bands. Clough pulled off one band from a roll and, licking his filthy thumb, counted out six five-pound notes. These, he set to one side and rolled up the remaining notes, snapping the rubber band back on.

There was a loud click behind him and Clough twisted around in alarm. The back door opened and Father James Pettifer stepped in.
‘What do you want?’ Clough demanded.

Pettifer’s wrinkled face fell. ‘Is that any way to say hello, Josiah?’

‘Why are you coming in the back? I’ve got a front door, you know?’

‘This way is closer. I didn’t think you’d mind.’

‘You don’t bother knocking either.’

‘My apologies. May I come in?’

‘You’re already in, ain’t ya?’ Clough muttered, rising to lift the whistling kettle off the gas. He poured the boiling water into the teapot and banged on the lid. ‘What do you want?’ he asked again.

Pettifer shook his umbrella out and propped it against the wall. ‘I was taking my evening constitutional and I thought I’d pop in and see how you are.’ He looked around the kitchen, shaking his head at the mess, then saw the banknotes on the kitchen table. His eyes widened.

Clough followed his gaze. With a snort of annoyance, he grabbed the rolls and stuffed them back into the tin. ‘You don’t be looking at that,’ he said, replacing the OXO tin on the shelf.

‘You have all that money just sitting there on your kitchen shelf, Josiah? That seems a little reckless. Shouldn’t you put it in the bank where it will be safe?’

‘It’s safe enough where it is.’ Clough stirred the leaves in the teapot. ‘What do you mean, see how I am?’

Pettifer pulled out a chair from the table and sat down. ‘You’ve been out of sorts of late, even more so than usual, and I wondered if something was troubling you?’

Clough snatched up two chipped mugs from the draining board and banged them onto the table. ‘I was thinking about doing something, but I’ve decided against it,’ he said, pouring out the tea.

‘What were you thinking of doing?’

‘Never you mind.’ Clough splashed milk into the tea and pushed a mug towards Pettifer. ‘It ain’t going to happen now and I’m telling ’em so.’
‘Telling who so?’

‘I told you, it don’t matter now. Stop asking questions. It’s none of your business.’

Pettifer held up his hands. ‘Very well, I shan’t ask again. But there’s no need to be so defensive, Josiah. I only have your best interests at heart, and besides, your mother would never forgive me if I failed in my duty. She made me promise I would keep an eye on you and I intend to keep it.’
‘I don’t want you here.’ Clough slurped at his tea. ‘I’ve had enough of pests bothering me day and night. Coming round here uninvited, telling me what to do. Trying to make me turn my back on everything my family’s done.’

‘What are you talking about, Josiah?’ Pettifer cried indignantly. ‘I’ve never said anything against your family.’

‘Trying to push me into things,’ Clough went on. ‘I’m fed up with you all interfering. You can all bugger off.’

Pettifer rose, pink lips pursed, chin in the air. ‘I can’t think what I’ve done to deserve being spoken to like this, Josiah. I really can’t.’ He picked up his umbrella and left the kitchen, letting the door slam behind him.

Unmoved, Clough finished his tea. Pests, he thought. Why can’t they leave me alone?