The Keepsake. Sheelagh Kelly
out of sight, for he would instantly know it was she who had given the game away, especially now, as an even louder hullabaloo preceded the Ibbetson girl being dragged protesting down the grand central staircase, the thwarted bride-to-be digging in her heels and gaining a grip on the ornate ironwork, refusing to obey, only to receive a vicious rap from her father’s cane and her fingers wrenched free.
At the sight of his loved one so mistreated, the levity drained from Marty’s face. Immediately he elbowed his way through the watchers, intent on rescue, but Ibbetson had seen him too and roared to his son, ‘That’s him!’ And in seconds they had abandoned Etta and came rushing to tackle him. He saw the upraised cane, feinted to avoid it but only succumbed to a blow from Etta’s brother John. Whilst he was reeling from this the heavy silver top of Ibbetson’s cane thwacked his cheek, causing him to yell in pain, the crowd to gasp and Etta to scream.
‘Stop, stop!’ Horrified at the sight of blood upon her lover’s face she tried to get near, to save him, but the windmilling arms prevented it, knocking her off her feet. ‘Martin!’ Heroically she rose and tried again, but someone pinioned her arms. ‘Father, stop!’
But her screaming entreaties did no good, for her father and brother seemed to have lost all reason, ignoring the hotel manager who had finally been roused from his office and tried politely to intervene – lashing, punching and thrashing Matin with no one doing a thing to stop it, knocking him to the ground until his only recourse was to curl up like a hedgehog. Still they showed no mercy, the silver-topped cane berating him again and again.
Appalled to have brought this upon the one she loved, at first Joanna stood frozen to the spot, biting her lip in terror at the violence, but when no one ended it, when it seemed that Bootsie might even be killed, she found the courage to rush forth and protect his cowering body, imploring his attackers to desist, and only now did they do so, standing back to examine their work, panting with grim satisfaction at the vengeance meted out, the victim’s blood sprayed upon their clothes.
‘Martin!’ Etta screamed and struggled to be free, even biting one of the hands that imprisoned her in order to run to him. But she was not allowed to do so, her father and brother grasping a slender arm each and dragging her from the hotel, protesting and shrieking for her lover. ‘He’s injured! I demand to see him! You cannot keep us apart!’
‘I can and I will,’ came her father’s grim reply, his fingers digging into her flesh as she wriggled.
‘I am most exceedingly sorry, sir!’ The hotel manager tried to make amends, wringing his hands and hurrying alongside them, but was ignored by all, his voice drowned out by Etta’s.
‘You can drag me to the altar but you can’t force me to utter the vows! I’d cut out my tongue before that! I’ll run away again and again! You’ll never stop me – Martin, I’ll love you forever!’
Through a fog, Marty heard the declaration of undying love, formed a bloody, grimacing smile and attempted to nod, before entering a tunnel of unconsciousness.
Angry at being demeaned by the Ibbetsons, the manager came hurrying back, growling at those who huddled anxiously around Marty to ‘Remove him’ before shooing the rest of the staff about their business then forming an obsequious explanation for the guests who had been disturbed.
Hefting him between them, Marty’s colleagues struggled to convey his dead weight to the servants’ quarters, a frightened Joanna hovering alongside, the rest dispersing to chatter about the incident in shocked tones.
‘Oh, Bootsie, I’m sorry!’ With others laying him on a table, Joanna fetched a cold damp cloth to tend his injuries, wincing and whining as she dabbed at the blood. ‘I never meant to get you in trouble.’
‘I think he did that for himself,’ a porter comforted her, then clicked his tongue at the audacity. ‘The scallywag.’
A younger male conveyed admiration. ‘Good old Bootsie, I say. What a dark horse – how did you know he’d stashed her up there?’
‘I only found out by accident. I thought I was helping him out of trouble by getting rid of her.’ Joanna looked shifty, trying to convince herself as much as anyone. ‘I didn’t know they were going to half-kill – aw, Bootsie, please don’t die!’ She dabbed at him frantically, nauseated by the sight of blood on the cloth.
To the relief of all, Marty soon came round, and by the time Mr Wilkinson appeared he was sitting up, despite remaining shocked and in terrible discomfort. His superior was relieved too, although he showed no sympathy. Having received a personal grilling from the manager for his lack of supervision, his eyes were hostile and his request was delivered through gritted teeth. ‘Would you care to explain yourself?’
At the victim’s bruised and bewildered expression, Joanna answered for him. ‘I think he’s too dazed, sir.’
Wilkinson did not thaw. ‘Am I to assume that Lanegan has been consorting with a guest’s daughter?’
Unable to defend him, those supporting his battered carcass turned their eyes on Marty, who did not appear to know where he was, let alone what had happened.
‘I shall take your silence as an admission, Lanegan,’ hissed Wilkinson. ‘You will therefore remove yourself from the premises.’
Seeing that the boot boy still failed to understand, his friends exchanged looks. ‘You’re dismissing him, sir?’ ventured one brave soul.
‘I most certainly am.’
Feeling guilty, Joanna risked her own position. ‘But, begging your pardon, sir, he’s the victim of a dreadful crime.’
‘The only crime that has been committed here is that Lanegan has brought this hotel into disrepute!’
‘But he’s too ill to walk, sir!’
‘Then fetch a cart and convey him to those who care – and it does not take all of you to do it!’ Ordering all but two back to work, the furious Wilkinson strode away.
The page and the chambermaid studied their friend, who had begun to shiver. Marty beheld them too, but did not respond to their questioning for their voices were muffled as if emerging from a drainpipe. ‘Oh, look at his eyes,’ he heard Joanna say, ‘they’re right odd.’
Avoiding the nasty lesion, Joe pressed the victim’s brow. ‘He’s really cold an’ all. And he looks as if he’s going to throw – whoa!’ He jumped back as Martin spewed vomit, Joanna taking the full force of it.
Regarding her frontage in disgust, she did not cast blame – it did seem poetic justice after all – but stoically removed her apron and carried it between thumb and forefinger for disposal.
Whilst Joe tended Marty, whose teeth had started to chatter, she returned with mop and bucket and swiftly cleared the mess. Then the page suggested, ‘Away, we’d better get some transport and take him home to bed.’
Averse to consigning him to a handcart as their superior had suggested, they hailed a cab and with the jarvey’s assistance bundled him inside, a guilt-ridden Joanna pressing the shilling fare into Marty’s hand and closing his fingers around it.
‘We can’t send him on his own like a parcel,’ decided Joe. ‘Look at him, he doesn’t even know what day it is. One of us should go with him and explain to his ma what’s happened.’ When Joanna shrank at the thought of her own malicious role in this, he announced, ‘Right, I’m off then and bugger me job!’
Marty could not summon the words to thank him. He was hardly aware of anything as he was taken home in disgrace. Dazed, and barely able to hold a handkerchief to his cheek, he stumbled from the cab as, simultaneously, his mother responded to the knock on her door.
‘Mother o’ mercy!’ At the bloodied state of her son, Agnes Lanegan was instinctively protective and, along with Joe, supported him over the threshold to a chair. But then there came fury as the full tale emerged and she raged at him, ‘Didn’t I warn you about wanting things you can’t have? You damned fool, look at the state of ye!