The Knapthorne Conspiracy by Malcolm Ballard (best english novels for beginners txt) 📕

prepared to discuss with Samuel. It was a proven fact that he had been violent and abusive but murder? And this was the man who could have been her father. The senselessness of it all defeated her. Why hadn’t she thought to  mind her own business? Well it was too late now and she was determined to track down the man who had killed Patrick Foxton.

There was a sad air about Thornden, another village that had succumbed to the cancer of rural decline. In the name of progress it had had the heart ripped out of it after centuries of unfailing service to its country. The closure of the Post Office started the rot, the first domino in the line to be knocked over, the beginning of the end. Thornden’s death warrant was signed when the local bus service was withdrawn but, in between times, the shops, the church, the pub and the school had all fallen by the wayside. From being a thriving little community with its families all working on the land, the volatile political and economic scene had wrought changes that no-one could have foreseen. Families were broken up as both the men and the women lost their jobs and had to seek work further afield. The bitter pills of inflation, restructuring and redeployment became their daily medicine. The European Union, free trade and market forces crept, unnoticed, into their lives. Jobs for life and secure employment were rapidly becoming a thing of the past as spectacular advances in technology began to further decimate the workforce. As incomes dwindled and people began to move away, the impact on the local economy was devastating and it was only a matter of time before the trickle turned into a flood. The remaining residents were, primarily, elderly with many of the houses empty and victim to either the elements or vandalism.

Bella stood nervously at the gate surveying Frank Allsop’s home and wondering, not for the first time, why she was there. Was there some illicit thrill to be gained from meeting the man who had put an end to Patrick’s life? Perhaps there was a need to close the final chapter in the story now she had found out what had happened. Or maybe it was plain curiosity that had brought her to the threshold of his property. The house looked ordinary. Very ordinary, in fact. To Bella’s way of thinking, not the sort of residence to house a murderer. It had a slightly tired, run-down look about it, as though it had been standing there observing Thornden’s gradual demise for too long. The small, two-storey house stood alone, overlooking an untidy garden. Its sandy-coloured walls of brick were scarred with patches of moss, its slate roof also supporting some form of plant life. Weeds sprouted, too, from the rusty guttering. As she walked up the path, Bella noticed the dark green paint peeling from the sills and, similarly, the front door. Reaching for the knocker, she saw that the uppermost pane of frosted glass in the door had a crack right across it. In every way, the house reflected the general atmosphere of the village. Giving the knocker one sharp rap she stood back and waited, not knowing what to expect.

The man who opened the door did so with hesitation, neither used to nor expecting visitors. Wary of callers, the door stopped halfway before he appeared from behind it. The smell of the place wafted out to Bella from behind him. A dank, sour smell. The smell of an old widower living his lonely life and it made her nostrils twitch. As Samuel Handysides had described him, Frank Allsop had once been a tall, muscular man but it was hard for her to picture him that way. The person at the door was elderly and the passing of the years had not been kind to him. At the sight of the man Bella felt an impulse to turn round and go. Go back down the path and leave him with his memories but it was too late for that. Illness or disease had wasted him away so that his old, dark suit hung on him and, where his scrawny neck emerged, the collar of his once-white shirt was frayed and grimy. The flesh of his face had the consistency of rice paper, stretched tightly as it was across the bones and his eyes were sunken and circled with dark shadows. But they were alive and curious beneath his sparse grey hair, their penetrating gaze focused on Bella, wanting to know who was calling on him and why.

“I’m Patrick Foxton’s daughter,” Bella announced, deciding that the lie would be the most effective introduction. A narrowing of his eyes was the only visible response then his lips began a chewing action, as if he were tasting the one word before spitting it out.

“So?” It was a surprisingly deep, gruff voice given its source and it looked like Samuel Handysides’ warning was right. There was no alternative, she felt, than to press on now that she had come this far.

“I’d like to talk to you.” It was impossible to ignore the smell from the house and the thought of going inside, however unlikely that might seem, made her squirm. For the first time she noticed that his hand was trembling, if that was the right word. It was more like a continual shake.

“What’s to talk about? I’ve nothing to say.” To her horror, the door began to close.

“I’ve been talking to Samuel Handysides, from The Lamb, at Knapthorne.” The words tumbled out in a rush as she tried to prevent him shutting the door. “He’s told me everything…about Ruth Flint, Alfie, and the death of my father. Please, Mr. Allsop! I need to talk you. There’s things I want to know about my father!” Immediately she had uttered the words, Bella realised why she’d been drawn to Thornden. It was the enigma of Patrick Foxton, the roguish charmer who