Chapter 8
‘What time is it?’ whispered Will.
‘I don’t know,’ replied Nye. The partners were sitting in darkness in the foundry.
‘Do you still think the bombers will come?’ asked Will. It had been a long night. The first glimmer of dawn was beginning to push the black of night west. Dark clouds hung low across the sky. A cockerel crowed in the distance. The first shift would be arriving soon to begin the day. Will stood up, stretched and said, ‘They won’t come now. Let’s get some breakfast.’
‘Sh,’ said Nye and pulled his companion down.
There was a squeaking noise outside. The squeak grew louder and stopped. There was a murmur of voices. Wood splintered. Someone was forcing the doors. They watched as the doors opened and three men entered the gloomy foundry, two were pushing a barrow loaded with a keg.
‘You should have oiled that wheel,’ said one.
‘Shut up and bring the powder,’ said another.
‘Stand still or we’ll shoot,’ shouted Nye and cocked a pistol. A bomber raised a gun and aimed at Nye. The others turned and ran for the door. Nye fired at the man with the gun. The bomber dropped the gun. It hit the ground and discharged. He stumbled out through the doors. Will lit a lantern and walked over to the discarded weapon. ‘There’s blood on the floor. You hit him Nye,’ he said retrieving the gun.
They found the bomber outside the door. Nye’s bullet had passed though his chest. He was dead.
‘I know him. He’s one of the ruffians who gave me a beating,’ said Nye.
‘What are we going to do with him?’ asked Will.
‘Give me a hand,’ said Nye. They lifted the body onto the barrow and wheeled it to the river. Nye broke open the gunpowder keg and emptied the contents into the river then they tipped the body into the water. ‘Promise me Will, to tell no one or we will both hang,’ said Nye. They watched the body float downstream.
‘What about the other two?’ asked Will.
‘They can’t say anything. If they do they would have to explain what they were doing here and there's no evidence,’ replied Nye. They returned to the foundry and covered the bloodstains with sand as the morning shift arrived to light the furnace.
Isaac Thomas listened while his thugs told how they were ambushed.
‘What happened to Sam?’ he asked.
‘We don’t know. Haven’t seen him since,’ replied one. Isaac told the men Sam was probably drunk somewhere spending his gold. He gave them an extra five guineas and told them to keep their mouths shut.
Delyth was angry when she learned the plot had failed. Had Vaughn discovered their plan? She accused Isaac of telling someone but he was adamant, he hadn’t. Then, she remembered the night of the argument and Isaac’s father asleep in the room next door, or was he?
The following afternoon, Delyth announced she was going for a walk and made her way to the George Hotel. She entered the hotel, walked through the bar, up the stairs and into room eleven. The solicitor, Marcus Jacobs was sitting on the bed waiting for her. She kissed him and undid his shirt. Later, while Delyth was dressing the solicitor began to tease her. ‘I wrote a will last week.’
‘How interesting,’ replied Delyth in a disinterested way
‘It concerned a certain foundry.’ Delyth’s ears pricked up.
‘What foundry might that be?’ she asked.
‘It seems your husband has lost part of his inheritance. He’s only going to get a legacy. Old man Thomas has left the foundry in a trust for Eira and the workers,’ said the solicitor and grinned. He was enjoying himself. Delyth thought for a moment.
‘Marcus, where’s the will now?’ she asked.
‘Don’t worry. It's quite secure. It’s locked in my desk,’ replied the solicitor.
Delyth didn’t tell her husband about her afternoon with Marcus Jacobs. There were pleasures a woman was entitled to keep private and as a result she could hardly tell Isaac about the will. The fact that the old man had disinherited Isaac, infuriated her. In her mind the foundry was Isaac’s by right. Wasn’t he the one who was building it up? Her husband deserved the foundry, more importantly she wanted it. Who else knew about the will, Delyth wondered? Had the old man told Eira? Delyth decided to find out. She found Eira sewing in the parlour.
‘What did the solicitor, Mr. Jacobs, want with father the other afternoon?’ she asked innocently.
‘Presumably, they had some business to conduct,’ replied Eira, guardedly.
‘I thought he might have been making a will. Has he said anything to you about a will?’ asked Delyth.
‘A will, I believe he made one several years ago. Why do you ask?’ replied Eira.
‘No particular reason. So he hasn’t spoken to you about his will,’ asked Delyth.
‘No Delyth. My father hasn’t spoken a word to me about any will,’ replied Eira testily. Satisfied with the answer, Delyth left Eira alone, to continue sewing.
That night as the maid was clearing the dinner table Delyth declared she had a headache and was retiring early. Delyth went upstairs to Mr. Thomas’ room and quietly closed the door. The old man was dozing but woke with a start as his unexpected visitor approached the bed.
‘Isaac worked hard to make the foundry a success and you want to steal it from him. That isn’t right, is it?’ whispered Delyth in the old man’s ear. Mr. Thomas’ eyes were wide open. He tried to speak but no sound would come.
‘You never liked me,’ she added and pulled the pillow over the old man’s face.
Delyth pressed down hard on the pillow until the old man stopped moving. Then, she replaced the pillow under Mr. Thomas’ head, straightened the sheets and retired to her own room. When Isaac came to bed, Delyth pretended to be asleep. On her way to her room, Eira cracked open the door to look in on her father and seeing him sleeping comfortably she closed it again. The maid discovered Mr. Thomas’ body the following morning when she opened the bedroom door and recognised the smell of death.
‘It was to be expected. His suffering is over now,’ said the doctor after examining the corpse. He wrote ‘heart failure’ on the death certificate.
Thomas and Son Foundry shut on the day of the funeral and the workforce walked behind the dead man to his final resting place. Some of the men wanted to show their respect. Others, aware they would lose a day’s pay, were less charitable towards the Thomas family. After the funeral service in St. Tydfil’s Church, Mr Thomas’ coffin was carried, shoulder high, through the streets of Pen-y-darren where it was transferred to a horse drawn hearse for the journey through Dowlais to the family vault at Caeharris. A priest led the procession, ringing a small corpse bell to frighten away evil spirits. Isaac walked behind the hearse. Eira and Delyth followed in a carriage. The men of Castle Iron Works stood erect and removed their caps as the cortege passed. Nye Vaughn saw Eira slumped in the carriage but her head was down and she did not see him. Pen-y-darren Iron Works, Dowlais Iron Works and other smaller foundries closed as a mark of respect. Workers lined the streets in silence as the procession of mourners trudged by.
After Mr. Thomas’ interment, there was a funeral feast at the town hall for friends and dignitaries. The Thomas’ were seated in the main room, accepting condolences. Eira was tearful. Her brother looked uncomfortable. Delyth was beside her husband and appeared to be enjoying the attention. Nye Vaughn approached cautiously to express his sympathy.
‘I’m sorry that your father has passed away Mr. Thomas. He was a good man,’ said Nye. Isaac Thomas ignored Nye and turned to speak with another mourner. ‘I’m sorry Eira, I shouldn’t have come,’ said Nye and left.
‘The impudence, coming here and gloating like that,’ said Delyth and put a protective arm around her sister in law’s shoulder.
The following day Isaac, Eira and Delyth went to the solicitor’s for the reading of Mr. Thomas’ will. Marcus Jacobs sat on the large leather chair, behind his desk and surveyed the family. All three were dressed in black. Black veils hid the women’s
faces. Jacobs produced an envelope from the desk drawer, with a theatrical gesture, opened it, placed the contents on his desk and began to read;
“This is the last will and testament of me Richard John Thomas of Bryncoch in the parish of Dowlais in the county of Brecon iron manufacturer. Subject to the payment of my just debts funeral and testamentary expenses I give the sum of four hundred pounds unto my son Isaac Thomas of Bryncoch in the parish of Vaynor upon trust to invest the same upon mortgage of freehold or leasehold property in England or Wales or in any investment authorised by law for trust funds with power to vary the investments thereof from time to time and to supply the income thereof towards the support of my daughter Eira Thomas of Bryncoch in the parish of Dowlais. I give the sum of three hundred pounds to Marcus Jacobs of Dafadfa Uchaf in the parish of Dowlais in the county of Brecon. The remainder of my property of whatever nature or kind soever I give to my son Isaac Thomas and I appoint him sole executor of this my will. I revoke all former wills made by me and declare this to be my last will and testament in witness whereof I have hereunto set my hand on this sixth day of August one thousand seven hundred and eighty four. Signed Richard John Thomas.”
‘It’s quite straight forward. Mr. Thomas has provided an income for Eira and left the bulk of his estate including of course the foundry to Isaac,’ offered the solicitor by way of explanation.
‘That isn’t what he told me before he died. My father said the works would be placed in a trust, I can prove it,’ said Eira.
‘I assure you the will is perfectly in order. I was with him when he signed it,’ said the solicitor.
‘Yes and suddenly you are a beneficiary,’ snapped Eira. Her invective electrified the room.
‘Eira you’re upset. You don’t know what you are saying,’ said Isaac, trying to calm her.
‘You told me your father never told you about a will. If you have proof, produce it,’ said Delyth.
‘I said my father never spoke about a will. He couldn’t. He wasn’t able to speak but I still have the notes my father wrote. They clearly show what he wanted. They’re in my room. I’ll fetch them,’ said Eira and stood up.
‘I’ll take you in the carriage,’ said Isaac and escorted her from the room.
Delyth lifted her veil and smiled at Marcus Jacobs. ‘The trust fund for Eira was a nice idea, especially with Isaac controlling the money,’ she said.
‘You can’t leave her with nothing. It would look odd. Even you aren’t that heartless Delyth,’ replied the solicitor, ‘If she has kept notes her father scribbled they won’t be a problem. The will is a legal document renouncing all other wills. That includes hand scribbled notes that someone might have forged. You realise she is slandering me. If she defames my character in front of others I shall sue.’
‘I’m sure that won’t be necessary Marcus,’ said Delyth with a grin.
Isaac followed Eira upstairs to her bedroom. She opened the drawer of her chest and felt under her clothes for her father’s notes. They had gone. Someone had been through her things and removed them. Isaac had never heard his sister tell a lie before and wondered why she was behaving so strangely.
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