Jane suddenly sat bolt upright. She stared over at Anny, who stopped whimpering immediately. Jane stood and stepped over to her. Anny looked up and Jane brought her hand down very fast, whacking her hard on the ear. Anny cried out, then bit her lip and cupped her hands over her poor ear. Her ear throbbed with sharp pain. Jane bent down very close and delivered her words in a breathy yet vicious whisper: ‘Hush your noise! I’m in here for assault, see? I know how to handle meself with a chit like you. You wake me up again and I shall thrash you. I shall murder you.’
Chapter 15
Margaret had found out that morning. She had gone to sleep early the night before with bad pains from the monthly curse. She had slept late and was breakfasting in bed when the news came. It was the maid, Lucy, that had gently knocked on her door, come in and told her: ‘I thought you’d want to know, miss. Your friend, Miss Woodvine. They say she took money from the safe. They found it in her bag.’
The news had almost shocked Margaret into silence. It was so preposterous. ‘Lucy, what are you talking about?’
‘Anny, miss. They’re saying she stole from the master.’
‘It is a mistake,’ said Margaret. ‘Anny would never do that.’
‘Yes, miss,’ said Lucy.
‘But, what is happening? Where is she now?’
‘The constable Finch came and they locked her up last night. It’s said she’ll go to the Dana today to wait for trial.’
‘The what?’
‘The prison in Shrewsbury. They call it the Dana there.’
‘What do her parents say? They must be distraught.’
‘Her father goes to visit her tomorrow, I heard. At the prison.’
‘Forgive me, Lucy, but I must go and speak with my father.’
Margaret had not known what to do. She was frightened of her father, more so of Cyril. But she had to do something. She called for her maid Royce, who dressed her. Then she gathered her nerve and went straight to her father’s study, knocking meekly on the door. But he was not at home. He had gone out for the day. Cyril too. Queenie was in bed and not to be disturbed. Her father did not return all day. She sat in her room and thought it all through. It filled her with fear, the thought of acting beyond the narrow confines of her existence, but her friend’s peril spurred her on.
She swallowed her nerves and walked to the stables. She spoke quietly with the coach driver and instructed him to take her to Shrewsbury first thing in the morning. The driver looked askance, momentarily seeming to doubt her authority. She had cleared her throat and spoken louder, telling him to be ready at dawn. She knew that all of her family were slugabeds, unless a trip out beckoned them from their abandoned sleep. She could leave early and face her father’s wrath when she returned. Then, once she understood the situation better, having heard the details from Anny herself, she would speak to her father. She would insist, she would make him listen. Seeing Anny would give her the strength to do it, to face him and tell him: this simply must be wrong. This was not possible. Anny would never do this. Her father must believe her.
The ride to Shrewsbury the next morning was long, hot and uncomfortable. She tried to imagine the inside of a prison, tried to picture her friend there, but all that came were scenes from French novels of convicts chained in dungeons with long white beards. She scolded herself for being so unworldly, so sheltered and foolish. When she arrived, she must face it with fortitude, for her friend, for Anny.
The coach wound its way through the city that she had visited before, for trips to the theatre and to buy clothes with Benjamina. She had seen the castle on the hill and glimpsed the prison beyond it, but had never given it a second thought. The coach jolted to a stop and the driver opened the door for her. She gathered her embroidered purse and hitched up her stiff skirts as she descended the step onto the street. Then, someone said her name.
She looked up. Before her stood a very tall, very broad man, dishevelled, his boots grey with dust, his hair thick with it, his face grimed by it. She had not heard what he’d said and was about to ask what on earth he wanted, when she recognised something in his face. He spoke again: ‘I am Anny’s father, come to see her. Are you come to see her too, miss?’
‘Indeed, Mr Woodvine,’ she said kindly. ‘One moment, please.’ She turned to the driver and told him to wait for her there, for as long as it took. The driver nodded and prepared to move along to find a more permanent spot to rest in. She looked back at Anny’s father and glanced behind him. ‘Is your wife here with you?’
‘She is at home. She . . . took it badly. She collapsed.’
Margaret thought of the strong-armed, vital woman she had met and could not imagine her fainting. Only news as bad as this could fell such a woman.
‘Oh, I am so sorry to hear of it. Is she being looked after?’
‘She is. We have good neighbours. She is not strong enough to travel, so I have come alone, bringing things for Anny that her mother packed for her last night.’
‘Mr Woodvine, how did you travel here today?’
‘Walked through the night,’ he said, fingering his hat nervously.
‘Please forgive me,’ she said. ‘I have been so thoughtless. I should have arranged to take you myself.’
‘Very kind of you, miss. But I think we both know, that wouldna do.’
Perhaps he is right, she thought. But she felt it was the right thing to say. ‘Yes, I have come to see Anny. You may not know, sir, that your daughter and I are dear friends. I’m sorry to say we have hidden this fact for some years now. We felt it would be better to be . . . discreet about such a close friendship. But I assure you, that Anny is the best friend I have in the whole world.’
Woodvine seemed abashed by this. He looked down, sidelong, up. Then he said, ‘I didna know of that. But I’m hoping now it’ll be something that’ll help my girl. Can you help her, miss? Can you?’
‘I will do anything in my power,’ she said earnestly. ‘Anything a friend can do, I shall do.’ But she had nothing for him, no plans and no information. She saw his expectant face and wanted to answer it, to give him the hope he clearly wanted, but she had only her position, her money, her friendship to offer. What good it would do, she knew not. She smiled at him wanly, pityingly, and his face changed. It fell and hardened. He shoved his hat back on his head.
‘You’d better not go in there, miss,’ he said gruffly. ‘Not a place for young ladies.’
‘Oh, but Mr Woodvine, I am determined. I must see Anny. Shall we not go in together? It would be my honour if you accompanied me.’ Something in his face and manner made him comfortable to talk to. She had not been this at ease talking to someone since Jake. She saw Anny’s features in this man’s face and it made her feel at home.
‘Mr Woodvine, I assure you that once I have heard Anny’s side of the story, I will be going directly to talk to my father. I am convinced that this must surely be a miscarriage of justice.’
‘That’s what I think,’ said Woodvine, his face lit with possibility now. ‘My lass would never do this.’
‘I know that, sir. I do. Anny is the most honest, upright person I know. Your family are well respected in my father’s works and in the neighbourhood. I am sure we can settle this, once we have the facts.’
She had no idea where this resolve had come from, never in her life being sure of herself in any single thing. But there was a first time for everything, and this was hers. How would she persuade her father? What could ever move a weak-minded, selfish fool such as Ralph King to help a girl like Anny? Now, standing with Anny’s father, she saw he was everything that Mr King was not. In his shabby working clothes he had more dignity in his fingernail than her father would ever have in his whole person. She felt that envy again, that pang of wanting to have another family, another life. The wish to be a changeling. But then she caught herself, her stupid self, wishing her lucky life away while her poor friend sat in the hellish place before them. And Anny’s father stood and looked to her, the rich frien
d, for some crumb of help.
‘Come,’ she went on. ‘Let us go and see her now.’
Woodvine nodded and they approached the gate. Once inside, the gatekeeper searched through Woodvine’s package, scattering the contents. Three bread rolls fell onto the filthy floor and Margaret cried out as they were soiled. The silly man, ruining Anny’s precious food like that. She helped Woodvine pick them up.
‘Should we throw these away?’ she said quietly to Woodvine.
‘No, miss. She’ll be in need of them.’
She noted that the gatekeeper did not ask to see inside her purse. They waited in silence for some time, the gatekeeper having taken Anny’s name and told them someone would come soon. She glanced at Woodvine, who stood as solid as oak, patient, unreadable. Then a man in uniform approached and gestured at them to follow. What came next was as a nightmare, the kind of dream that wakes you in dreaded wonder at how your mind could dream up such a thing, yet this was real. The sounds that came from the women, the screams and yelps and sobs. The stink that flowed through the fetid air, so thick and rank that Margaret feared she would faint. Woodvine kept an eye on her, at one stage putting a hesitant arm about her shoulder to steer her away from arms reaching out from bars, streaked with filth and what looked like dried blood and their owner screeching at the rich girl passing, calling her words that Margaret had never heard but sounded like the names that demons would dream up in hell for the torture of its inhabitants.
Not soon enough, they arrived at a room set out with tables and chairs at which sat women in grey dresses and opposite them an assortment of people, mostly poor, one or two more well-to-do. There was a woman nursing her baby, and the thought of babies existing in this dreadful place sickened Margaret more than anything. And then she saw Anny.
Woodvine was already there. He had stridden across the room before Margaret had had a chance to register her friend, so different did she look at first glance, an impression that increased with every step towards her. It had only been three days, but already Anny looked like a shadow of the feisty young woman she knew and loved. Her face was pasty, marked only with dark shadows beneath her eyes. Her glorious copper tresses were mostly hidden under an off-white cap, the strands that escaped messily were lank and greasy, the hair dirty-red, as if the colour had leaked out of it. She sat upright though, her back straight, her face uplifted. They had not broken her yet. She stood as her father approached, her face crumpling into distress and joy intermixed, an expression Margaret had never seen in a person until that moment and it broke her heart. Margaret’s eyes filled with tears and she caught a sob in her handkerchief, raised to her nose to try in vain to block out the smell. She watched as Anny’s father threw his arms about her, his huge frame enveloping her utterly so that she temporarily disappeared, but a guard by the wall shouted at them ‘No touching!’ and they pulled apart reluctantly, Woodvine shooting a look of hatred at the man, as if he would kill him with a flick of his hand. Anny was whispering to him, beckoning him to sit down, her eyes wary of trouble. Then she looked over and spotted Margaret. Her face changed again, this time showing surprise, then a smile and a frown at once, her hand raised towards her. Margaret came quickly, grasping it, and then remembering the guard’s order, letting go quickly and taking the seat that Woodvine held ready for her, trying to dust it off. Margaret had worn her plainest, dullest gown but still felt a perfect idiot in that place, like a peacock in a coal mine.
‘Ow bist, my wench? How be it here?’ Woodvine was gabbling. ‘I brought things from home. Here, food, clothes. Your mother packed them. She’s ill or she woulda come. No, dunna fret. Dunna fret, little’un. Dunna cry. She’ll be right. Just upset with all this business. I’m here. I’m here, now. Dunna cry, my sweet lass.’
Woodvine’s commentary ran on desperately as Anny wept and wept. She had not spoken properly yet; neither had Margaret. She was crying too; her eyes blurred, she wiped them with her lace handkerchief which soon crumpled into a useless wet rag. She had another one in her sleeve and passed it instead to Anny, who did not see it, blinded by tears as she was. Woodvine took it and used it to wipe his daughter’s face tenderly, so tenderly, the huge hands capable of such sensitivity.
After a time, Anny calmed down and composed herself. She looked up at her father, then at Peggy, and forced a feeble smile.
‘Thank you for coming,’ she said in a small voice.
‘Anny,’ said Margaret, determined to be of some use now. ‘I intend to speak to my father about this tonight. I need to know everything you can tell me of what happened. I need all of the facts, so that we can try to fathom what happened here. So we can solve it.’
Anny nodded solemnly, then began to tell it all: how Paddy had come and called her away to the library, which of course Margaret remembered, how strange that was; how she’d gone back, followed by Cyril, and unlocked the office, found it empty, Brotherton away somewhere; how she’d worked for a while then he’d come back, complaining of an errand to town for Mrs King senior, to fetch some ink, usually Anny’s job, so that was strange, too; then they’d worked all day and only discovered the money missing at the end of the day; how Mr King had found it in her bag.
Margaret had listened keenly to each turn of events. ‘So, the office was left locked and unoccupied for a time, between Mr B being sent to town and you returning from the house.’
‘Yes, that’s right.’
‘That’s when it happened,’ said Margaret.
‘Yes, that’s what I think,’ said Anny, her tired eyes brightening.
‘Think what?’ said Woodvine, slow to catch on.
Margaret answered, ‘Someone went into the office when it was unoccupied, took the money from the safe and put it in Anny’s bag.’
‘Yes!’ cried Anny.
Woodvine said, ‘But who? Who would do such a thing? Why wouldna they just take it for themselves? And how would they get in? It was locked. Who could do that and how? Why?’
So many questions. But Margaret knew. She looked at Anny and saw that Anny knew too. She wondered if Anny did not want to speak of this before her father, but saw also that they must be allies now, the three of them, if they were to save her.
‘Anny,’ she said and leant forward, speaking low. ‘That day, in the library, you were going to tell me something but we were interrupted. What was it?’
Anny glanced at her father.
‘What is it, lass?’ he said gently.
‘Cyril – Master King – he found me in the woods the day before and he asked me to be his wife.’
‘What?’ gasped Woodvine, turning to Margaret for some enlightenment, but did not wait for further explanation, his mind clearly running onwards. ‘Well, if he’s sweet on you then this problem is solved. He can vouch for you. He will speak to his father, surely.’
‘No,’ said Margaret firmly. ‘Anny, what did you say to Cyril when he asked you?’
Anny looked down at her lap, pain flitting across her eyes. ‘I refused him.’
‘Well, I’m not surprised,’ began Woodvine, then, remembering the company they kept, gave a sidelong look at Margaret and muttered, ‘No offence to you, miss.’
‘None taken,’ said Margaret. ‘How did it proceed, Anny? How did Cyril take it?’
‘Not well,’ said Anny, grimly. ‘He . . .’ Another glance at her father.
‘Please, Anny,’ said Margaret. ‘We must know it all.’
‘He attacked me, tried to kiss me. I fought him off. I told him I hated him. I ran away.’
‘I’ll get him,’ said Woodvine, in a guttural tone. ‘I’ll get him and I’ll lamp him.’
‘No, you won’t!’ said Anny. ‘Mother needs you. Don’t get yourself in here, for assault.’
‘It’s more serious than that,’ said Margaret, and they both looked at her. ‘From what you’ve told me, Anny, I am convinced of it. Cyril put that money in your bag, as revenge for turning him down.’
‘Yes,’ said Anny. ‘I’m certain of it.’
Woodvine erupted, standing up, his puny chair careering backwards as if made of matchsticks. ‘I’ll murder ’im!’ He stood, puffing like a bull, clenching his fists. Two guards hopped to it and were beside him in a second, shouting at him to clear out. There was a scuffle and Anny called out to her father to calm down, and to the guards to leave him be. Thus, Woodvine was manhandled from the room, calling behind him to Anny, saying sorry, how sorry he was. Margaret called to him, told him to wait for her outside, that she would come presently. One of the guards stayed and told her she’d have to go too.
‘If I may, a further few minutes is all I require to speak to Miss Woodvine here. I would be most grateful.’ She smiled at the sour-faced oik who stank of spirits and sweat. He grinned as she raised her purse a notch, catching his eye. She removed a couple of coins from it and handed them to him.
‘Long as you want, miss! Well, until visiting time is up, anyhow,’ he said, taking the coins and performing a twisted kind of bow, taking his place again in the corner, watching her closely as she sat down once more with Anny.
‘Dear Anny,’ said Margaret, risking the guard’s wrath by taking her friend’s hand and enfolding it.
‘I’m so glad you came. I’m so glad you’re here,’ said Anny. It was the kind of thing someone would say and smile, but there was no smile. It was as if her face had been newly made, only for sadness.
‘I will talk to my father tonight. But it will have to be handled carefully. I will have to think on it, how it is to be done best. He adores my brother and will not hear him badly spoken of by others, so I need to be clever in the way I do it, the way I say it to him.’
The Daughters of Ironbridge Page 16