Sixpenny Girl

by Meg Hutchinson

  ‘But you says her’s been gone all day!’

  ‘Ain’t been back to my knowledge.’

  ‘But that ain’t like her.’

  Lifting his cap Ben ran the back of his hand over corn-stubble hair.

  ‘Well, you knows the wench better’n I does, but the fact don’t alter for all that; her went from ’ere this mornin’ and her ain’t been back since. You go speak to the wife and her will tell you the same thing, we ain’t seen hide nor hair of the wench and that be the truth of it.’

  Saran had gone. She had waited for him to go to his work then she had left. She had broken her promise. A lump solid in his throat, Luke walked from the stable. He would never have thought . . . never have believed she would go back on her word. Saran was not that kind of girl. Yet she was not here!

  What did it matter who earned the bread! Ashamed of the tears stinging his eyes he turned face to the wall, kicking savagely at the glazed brickwork adorning the front of the tavern. He was happy to share and he could keep them both, so why couldn’t that have been enough for Saran?

  ‘Be you lookin’ for an hour’s work, lad?’

  Keeping his face turned away, Luke shook his head. What did he need with tuppence if Saran were not there to share it!

  The howl of a dog coming to him from the darkness Luke stared about him. He didn’t remember walking from the Turk’s Head, hadn’t noticed the direction he had taken. So where was he? His glance swept the dark silhouette of buildings, each low roof huddling against its neighbour and none showing a lighted window. Yet there were lights, small pinpricks too anaemic to cast a glow beyond a few inches and each pale sickly gleam coming from the rear of houses.

  The howl of the dog becoming a sharp challenging bark, Luke stared into the thick darkness. Those dots of light could only be workshops, nailers’ workshops. He had come to Russell Street. Could one of these people tell him of Saran . . . could one of them have seen her?

  It had been like trying to mine coal with a needle; it had brought no results. Each door he had knocked on had been opened to him and, though the rise and fall of hammers had not ceased, his questions had been answered, but none of those answers had been the one he hoped to hear.

  ‘What do you be about, standin’ looking at folks’ houses? Be off afore I lets the dog to you!’

  Turning quickly Luke’s glance found the woman, a lighted candle in the jar held in her hand.

  ‘I seen you.’ Her voice accusing, she held the jar higher. ‘I seen you from the privy; skulking about looking to steal, I shouldn’t wonder, but you’ll get more’n you bargained for when my man—’

  ‘No . . . no, I ain’t come to steal,’ Luke answered quickly. ‘I be come to ask about Saran . . . my name be Luke Hipton.’

  A breeze sweeping the yard the candle spluttered as the woman held it closer to Luke.

  ‘Well, so it is, but why stand in the yard, lad; come you inside.’

  ‘I’ve already talked with your husband, I asked had Saran – you know, the girl with me when we come to the Elwells – I asked had her called today but he said as her ’adn’t.’

  ‘He were away to the fogger’s.’ She led the way into the workshop, setting the jar next to a cracked jug placed on a shelf. ‘The wench made a visit, ’sides which I seen ’er earlier on. I talked with her in the town this very mornin’. But why be you ’ere askin’ after her?’

  Outlining his story briefly Luke watched the woman heat a narrow iron rod, hammer it into a point at one end and a flat head at the other before a final blow severed the finished nail and the process began again.

  ‘Well, lad, I can tell you what were said atwixt her and me, that be easy enough. I told her same as I told you, the Elwells had been throwed out on the streets.’

  ‘Could her ’ave gone to look for ’em, do you think?’

  Selecting a fresh length of rod from a bundle on the floor the woman pushed one end into the glowing forge, sparing a moment to glance at Luke.

  ‘A nailer don’t ’ave time to think.’ She twisted the iron in the fire. ‘I told you what passed between the wench and meself, though what were said atwixt her and the man—’

  ‘Man!’ Sharp as the ring of hammer on metal, Luke’s retort followed the woman carring the red-hot strip to the anvil. ‘What man were this?’

  Her concentration on her onerous task the woman replied, her words keeping to the rhythm of quick hammer blows. ‘I only seen him from across the market square. I turned to mek sure the wench were all right . . . her had seemed upset on hearing of the Elwells, and with that there accident her had suffered . . . I were thinking to go back when I seen him come up to her so I went on me way; as for who he were I couldn’t say certain, but he were tall and broad in the shoulder.’

  tall and broad in the shoulder

  His boots clattering on the cobbles Luke raced across the empty market place and on up Spring Head towards Walsall Street.

  tall and broad in the shoulder

  He needed no more description . . . the man Saran had talked with was Gideon Newell.

  Today he had found what had been asked for. Settling deeper into his chair Gideon watched the play of flames, their brilliant orange, blue and violet radiant against the black of coal. Both parties had been satisfied with the deal, a deal that would see him and his mother gone from Oakeswell End; a week or two more and—

  The thoughts ripped from his mind, he jerked to his feet and was across the room when a second violent knocking sounded on the door . . . his mother . . . ! Lord, had anything happened to his mother?

  ‘Gideon Newell!’

  As a voice shouted his name, Gideon almost leapt the last few feet. Snatching open the door he stared, forcing his vision to accustom to the night shadows.

  ‘Where is her . . . what ’ave you done wi’ her?’ Strident with anger the words lashed with the speed of a striking snake.

  His mind still vibrating with anxiety for his mother, Gideon looked at the lad stood at the door. ‘Luke, is something wrong?’

  ‘Don’t pretend you don’t know . . . now where is her?’

  This was nothing to do with his mother. Gideon felt the anxiety drain from him.

  ‘It be you!’ Luke flung the accusation. ‘You was the one ’alf killed her, you, Gideon Newell, so don’t go pretendin’ . . .’

  Allowances had to be made . . . lads went through all kinds of moods . . . Thoughts which had played in his mind an hour before returned, but were pushed aside; allowances . . . well, this lad had used all he was going to get! With one hand fastening about the collar and lifting Luke clear off his feet, Gideon snatched him into the house, one foot closing the door at his back.

  ‘Now, young ’un,’ he gritted, ‘no man goes accusing Gideon Newell, not even one that be only half grown. You’ve had something in your craw long enough, my advice be to spit it out afore I shake it out of you!’

  Eyes catching the lamplight glittered unafraid against the threat. ‘Like you shook her . . . like you shook Saran afore you ’alf killed her . . .’

  ‘Saran!’ Gideon was suddenly tense. ‘Has something happened to Miss Chandler?’

  He was trying to mek out he knew nothing about it! Luke glared at the man he wanted only to kill. ‘It won’t work!’ he spat furiously. ‘I knows it were you done it that day, same as I knows—’

  ‘Done what!’ With anger threading dangerously through his veins, Gideon spent some of it crashing a fist on the table. ‘What is it you think you know?’

  He had flinched at the strength displayed in that blow, a strength he knew was still tightly curbed, yet Luke did not back down. Saran had no one other than himself to fight for her and he wouldn’t stop ’til he was dead.

  ‘Think!’ His lips curling in disgust he let the words flow in a torrent. ‘I don’t need to think, I be sure—’

  ‘That isn’t enough!’ Gideon cut the flow short. ‘You need to be more than sure, you need to be absolutely positive. I like you, Luke, but that doesn’t me
an I’ll take anything you throw; whatever you come here to say best be said now.’

  There was no mistaking the meaning, the ice-cold warning gleamed from hard eyes but, drowning in his own anger, Luke failed to read it.

  ‘Then I’ll say it,’ he answered through clenched teeth, ‘not as you needs to be told, but I’ll say it anyway. It be you I told about that brooch, you and no other. It were you went absent from the works the day Saran were attacked and left in the hedge along of Bilston Road, and you again today who left the works and was seen talkin’ to her, and now her be missing. But you knows where her be. You couldn’t get that trinket the first time cos Saran ’adn’t carried it with her so you tried again today—’

  ‘Stop there, Luke . . . stop right there!’ It was almost a whisper, ominous, quiet yet screaming caution. ‘Are you saying I tried to steal that brooch, that I attacked Saran Chandler in an attempt to rob her?’

  A few feet from the figure head and shoulders taller than himself, Luke felt the first tremor of apprehension shiver along taut nerves. Gideon Newell had strength born of years of manual labour and it would be no hardship for him to break a lad’s neck.

  ‘Who else?’ Luke refused to be deterred. ‘Who else but you; ain’t nobody ’cept the Elwells knowed of our ’elping that woman on the ’eath and they wouldn’t never harm Saran.’

  His fingers curling into fists, Gideon looked at the lad glaring defiance. ‘But you think I would . . . you think me capable of such an act.’

  ‘What I thinks of a man sneakin’ from his work to go trackin’ down a wench he’s already beaten black and blue don’t bear the speakin’ of, so just tell me where I can find her . . . lessen you wants to talk to the constables.’

  ‘There’s going to be talk all right.’ Reaching for the jacket hung on a peg behind the door, Gideon slipped it on. ‘But this I’ll tell you now, I’m no thief, Luke, regardless of what you might think and I know nothing of any attack made on your friend, nor do I know of her whereabouts. If she hasn’t turned up by the time we get back then we will talk to the constable.’

  ‘Get back from where?’

  With a firm grip on the boy’s shoulder Gideon propelled him from the house, his answer tight as his grasp.

  ‘From showing you what a young fool you are!’

  16

  ‘Where be we going?’

  His shoulder still caught in Gideon’s grip, Luke had asked the question several times but the man who literally frogmarched him along had made no answer. Gideon Newell was going to show him what a fool he’d been. Luke’s anger sat chokingly in his throat. Yes, he’d been a fool, a fool to go knockin’ on Newell’s door instead of going to speak with the constable. He’d given the man the opportunity he needed, the chance to get shot of the only one who could point the finger, the chance to get rid of him as he’d gotten rid of Saran.

  Leaving Oakeswell End and making their way to Wood Green, speaking not a word, they had strode through what could have been an empty world. Fields Luke knew were filled with waving corn hid their faces beneath a veil of deep shadow. Stretching away into blackness it seemed they shrank from a road devoid now of the carts and wagons of daytime; afraid of the silence of night.

  Wood Green had been where they were headed. Recognising a large house set between dark stretches of ground, windows winking like great yellow stars, Luke tried to twist free but the grip which held him was strong as the iron it worked. Surely this was not where Saran had been brought . . . whatever Newell had done with her he wouldn’t dare ’ide it here, Wood Green was home to the richest folk in Wednesbury; the men at the tube works had said that even John Adams lived along here!

  But Gideon had turned between tall pillared gates, marching not to the rear but to the front entrance of the imposing three-storeyed building.

  ‘Tell John Adams it be Gideon Newell asks to speak with him.’

  Luke remembered the indignant splutter of the black-coated butler who opened the door; as he looked down his nose the rebuke had died on his lips when Gideon had repeated the request in a cutting ‘don’t play with me!’ tone of voice.

  They had waited only moments in that high square entrance hall, but Luke knew that the gleam of polished wood beneath the glitter of a chandelier, whose crystal droppers sparkled like gigantic raindrops, the graceful curve of a staircase winding upward towards a landing which separated into two diverging corridors from whose walls painted portraits stared down at them, would never be forgotten. It had been as if he had entered heaven, but a heaven that improved as they were shown into what the long-nosed butler described as the small sitting room. Entering that room, fitted with sofas and chairs with long elegant legs, pretty tables with prettier ornaments, tall pointed windows with drapes that fell in sweeps to a floor almost lost beneath a carpet wide as a small field, he had held his breath. Were this room small then what paradise constituted a big one?

  ‘Gideon!’ John Adams had risen as they were shown in. ‘Is something amiss at the works?’

  ‘No, there be naught amiss there.’

  ‘Then what?’ The man had frowned.

  ‘You have my apology for disturbing you in your home, sir.’

  John Adams had waved away the apology. ‘There is no need for that, Gideon, I well know you wouldn’t do it were it not important; but would it have to do with the lad you have by the scruff of the neck?’

  Releasing his hold of Luke’s shoulder, Gideon had nodded.

  John Adams had stared hard at Luke, but behind it had lurked a half smile. ‘So, the young lion has found its roar, and what particular flea do you have in your mane?’

  Luke had opened his mouth to reply but Gideon was quicker. ‘If you have no objection, sir, I would ask you answer a question of mine afore being given answer to your own.’

  The smile fading, John Adams had transferred his gaze. ‘Very well, Gideon, ask your question, though I must first ask why come here tonight when questions can be asked just as well tomorrow at the works?’

  ‘I realise that, Mr Adams,’ Gideon had replied with a short glance at Luke, whose saucer eyes were staring at everything in sight. ‘I also realised it could be thought I’d had a word with you before that, a word the lad here had not been privy to, so with your leave I ask it now. Would you please tell where it was I went when leaving the works not only today but earlier in the week?’

  ‘That be nobody’s business . . . much less that of a boy. What on earth are you thinking of, asking a question like that!’

  It was sharp, anger raising dull red to the man’s cheeks and Luke had felt like taking to his heels, but the thought of Saran hurt and possibly dead held him fast.

  His fascination with the room suddenly disappearing, taking with it the tingle of fear, Luke’s head had lifted and the look he gave his employer held none of its previous awe.

  ‘It be my business!’ he had said calmly. ‘It be my business when Saran be knocked ’alf dead one day and gone completely the next, and Gideon Newell being the only one with reason to do it.’

  Had John Adams seen the pain Luke could not keep from entering his eyes or heard the slight quiver that trembled on the last words? Thinking of it now, as he walked in silence beside Gideon, he could not be sure but the man had glanced once at Gideon before saying, ‘On both occasions I had Gideon go to Monway Field, there to inspect a piece of land I am thinking to purchase; I know the making of tubes, but a man born to Wednesbury knows better the attributes of the land. I trusted Gideon Newell to inspect and tell me truthfully of its worth or otherwise in the use I envisage for it. Should he have had business elsewhere then it cannot have been carried out during either of those absences for I also make it my business to know how long it takes a man to walk from the High Bullen to Monway Field and, given a half-hour to walk the ground I wish to purchase, he took no longer than that. Does my explanation take the bone from the young lion’s throat or is he still choking?’

  It had been logical. The night of finding Saran in that ca
rter’s wagon, he and Gideon had left the works together; time would not allow Gideon to have gone halfway to Bilston, found Saran somewhere in the darkness and beaten her senseless . . . But then if not Gideon . . . who?

  He had apologised to John Adams but the man had not left it there, he had demanded to be told the reason Gideon had been the source of suspicion, and when given the all of it had immediately offered the help of his staff to search for the missing girl. But Gideon had suggested that they return to enquire for her at the Turk’s Head before mounting a full-scale search.

  But Saran had not returned to the tavern. Luke felt the despair which had settled on him then weighing even more heavily now. If not Gideon, then who? The same thought plagued him as he strove to keep pace with the wider stride of the man who had brushed aside all apology. They would walk the length of the Bilston Road, Gideon had said, they could have that done in the time it would take to organise men with lanterns and dogs, and if they did not find her then he would accept John Adams’s offer and begin again with the dawn.

  He could so easily have agreed to the proposal of the owner of the tube works, that Luke be dismissed from his job, so easily have turned his back, leaving further searching for Saran to Luke himself, but Gideon had done neither. He had taken things into his own hands and, walking beside him now with the silence and the blackness of fields all around him, Luke had to admit the relief of it. Gideon had refused to listen to any contrition on his part, saying only he would have thought the same were he in Luke Hipton’s shoes, but that did not lift the guilt from his heart. He had practically accused the man of murder.

  ‘Gideon, about what I said—’

  The words were hardly out when a sharp hiss had the rest silent on his tongue, the hackles on the back of his neck stiff and hard.

  ‘Listen!’ The whisper barely loud enough to hear, steel-like fingers fastened on his shoulder warning him not to move.

  What was it . . . what had Gideon heard coming from the surrounding darkness? Straining his ears but hearing nothing, he turned his head to speak but the fingers pressed harder, repeating their own unspoken warning. It was then he heard it, softly at first it came on the silence, a tap . . . a crunch on the hard ground. His breath held in his throat, blood freezing in his veins, Luke listened. Footsteps . . . footsteps coming towards them out of the night . . . someone else was walking the Bilston Road!