by Diane Allen
‘Of course, ma’am. But, ma’am, you are a woman with a baby on the way.’ Yates looked at Charlotte as she stared at the letter in her hand.
‘Aye, I’m a woman. But when threatened, we are at our strongest, especially when our offspring’s going to suffer. I’m glad he’s gone, Yates. He was no husband – you know it, and I know it. I hope I never hear of him again.’ She spoke softly and looked at Yates in a fixed gaze as she thought of the future; a future without a husband and with a failing business. Could she face the world and do what she had spoken of so strongly? Only time would tell.
Jethro stopped the trap at the top of the bridge that spanned the River Ribble at the beginning of the town of Settle, on the way to a meeting with the bank. Charlotte and he watched as the local police carried a body out of the river. The crowds gathered around, as the body of the young woman was carried up onto the river bank in the blaze of the hot summer sun. There was a murmur throughout the locals as they realized that it was the body of missing mill worker Betsy Foster.
‘Help me down, Jethro.’ Charlotte asked for the footman’s hand as she struggled to alight from the trap.
‘Don’t go there, ma’am, you don’t want to see her – she looks in a right state.’ He looked at his mistress.
‘She worked at the mill, Jethro. The least I can do is tell them her full name and offer to pay for a decent burial.’ Charlotte stood next to the trap and waited until the officers struggled up the banking with Betsy’s body, now covered by blankets, the crowd parting as the body went past.
‘Officers, is it true: is that Betsy Foster from Langcliffe Lock cottages, who worked for my husband at Ferndale?’ Charlotte asked the officer taking up the rear, as the body passed her to be put on a waiting cart.
‘Aye, that’s right, Miss – drowned herself, we think. It looks like she’d got herself in the family way. A shame she never thought of her brother, as he’s all alone in the world now.’ The officer wiped his brow and walked on behind the corpse.
A man in the crowd spat loudly at Charlotte’s feet and the women whispered around her, looking with both hatred and pity in their eyes.
‘Why are they looking at me like that, Jethro? I’d nothing to do with her death.’ Charlotte looked at the angry crowd.
‘No, ma’am, but they have to blame someone and, as you say, she worked at the mill. She was one of Mr Dawson’s favourites, ma’am, if I’m not speaking out of turn and saying too much.’ Jethro blushed.
‘What do you mean, Jethro? What are you trying to tell me?’ Charlotte watched as the crowd moved on with the cart carrying the poor wretch’s body.
‘I’m not saying, ma’am, it isn’t for me to say. But folk talk.’ The footman held out his hand and helped Charlotte back up onto the trap.
Charlotte sat putting two and two together, and watched as people bowed their heads in respect and then shot dark glances back at her seated in her trap: the wife from the big house, whose husband had had his way with one of his workers and got the poor lass in bother, giving Betsy no option but to take her own life by throwing herself into the raging river. What else, for the Lord’s sake, had her husband been doing behind her back? Now she realized that it had not been just work that kept her from having Joseph lying in her bed. He’d been lying in the arms of poor Betsy. What a fool she’d been!
‘Take me home, Jethro. I’ll undertake my business in the morning. I’ll not be welcome in Settle or Langcliffe today.’ Charlotte bowed her head.
‘Yes, ma’am. Sorry, ma’am, I didn’t mean to speak out of turn.’ Jethro flicked the reins, getting the horses to walk on.
‘It’s better I know, Jethro. Even at your young age, you seem to know more than me.’ Charlotte mastered a smile.
‘Me mam says I know too much, ma’am.’ Jethro grinned.
‘You can never know too much, Jethro, believe me. I am beginning to realize that quickly.’ She sighed.
Back at Windfell, Charlotte lay on her bed and thought about Betsy’s bedraggled body being pulled from the river. She tossed back and forth, trying to come to terms with the thought that the man she loved had been going with one of his lowly mill workers. Why? Had she not been good enough for him? Had she not been there when he needed her? A mill girl, of all people. Joseph had preached of his own high morals, but he was no more than a common guttersnipe. A common guttersnipe whose baby she was carrying.
The police inspector looked at the body of poor Betsy and shook his head, as he covered her battered body with a blanket in the cold of the mortuary’s four walls.
‘What a waste of a life – all for a bit of “how’s your father”.’ Inspector Proctor shook his head. ‘You say her brother’s been taken in by the neighbours, Sergeant Capstick?’
‘Yes, sir, up at Langcliffe Lock cottages.’
‘And she worked at Ferndale. Is it right that the owner there had an eye for her, or is that just gossip?’ Percy Proctor stood with his hands behind his back and thought for a minute, before uncovering Betsy’s head for another look at her face. ‘You know, I don’t like the look of this bash on her head – it’s not in keeping with the rest of the marks on her body.’ He ran his hand over her skull and felt the indent where Joseph had struck her, before covering her face once more.
‘Aye, that’s right, sir. The locals are full of it seemingly, and he was never away from her cottage. Her brother’s called Johnny, and he is with Gertie Potts now. She can verify anything that’s being said about Joseph Dawson visiting. The lad and one of our officers found an accounting book in her bedroom; she’d listed in it every time he’d visited her and how much he’d given her. Let’s say the lad won’t want for nowt: she made more lying on her back than she would if she had worked every day of her life at the mill. Not speaking ill of the dead, sir.’
‘I think we’d better make a call on Mr Dawson, see what he has to say for himself. These toffs – I can’t stand them taking advantage of young lasses. He’s a lot to answer for, if the gossip’s right.’ Inspector Proctor spat and lingered at the doorway, before turning round for a second. ‘There’s something wrong here, Sergeant. She wouldn’t have left her brother alone. From what I’ve heard, she worshipped the ground he walked on.’
‘That she did, sir; would do anything for him,’ Sergeant Capstick confirmed.
‘Then why throw yourself in the river, when she could have got rid of the baby at any old crone’s house? There’s always somebody that’ll help a young lass dispose of a baby she doesn’t want. Legal or not.’ Inspector Proctor shook his head. ‘I think we’ll find out more at Ferndale.’
Inspector Proctor sat on the couch in the morning room of Windfell and looked around at the elegant furnishings of the manor. Ferndale Mill, which he had just visited, was a stark place compared to the luxury of the Dawsons’ home. Riches made on the backs of the poor – he couldn’t stand it.
‘They said in the mill that they’d not seen Mr Dawson for two days now, not since the day of the storm. Is that right, Mrs Dawson? Do you know where he’s gone, and is he responsible for emptying the mill’s safe?’ The inspector waited, pencil ready and his notebook open.
‘I’m sorry, Inspector, I had no idea. I’ve been such a fool!’ Charlotte cried into her handkerchief. ‘He said he was going to the Talbot Arms to meet Settle town council to discuss the ongoing crisis with the cotton supply, and he just never came back. It wasn’t until the next morning that I realized some of his belongings were missing, along with his favourite horse. Then Bert Bannister came and told me yesterday morning that the safe had been emptied and the workers’ wages taken. It could only have been Joseph. He was the only one who knew the combination.’
She sobbed. She’d never known such days. The whole bank had gone quiet when she had entered, to plead for understanding until her husband returned. The bank manager had given her seven days for Joseph to return and put his account in order, before foreclosing on the mill. This had left Charlotte in a state of panic, while watching eyes ha
d pierced through her back, and ears had twitched to hear the business she was doing, and tongues wagged out of earshot.
‘I’m sorry, ma’am, but I have to ask. Do you think your husband was having an affair with Betsy Foster?’ Sometimes the inspector hated his job; it was obvious there were more people than just poor Johnny Foster left bereft in this affair. Charlotte Dawson and her unborn baby had been left high and dry, and the death of Betsy was beginning to look more suspicious by the minute.
‘I believe he was, sir. He’s never spoken of it, but I believe it is common knowledge among the servants and those employed at the mill. I knew nothing of it, until I saw poor Betsy being carried out of the river by your good sergeant here and his colleagues. Do you think she was carrying his child?’ Charlotte held her breath as she watched Sergeant Capstick, who sat fidgeting in an armchair across from her.
‘It’s hard to say at this point, but it does look likely. I’m sorry, Mrs Dawson, you must be tired in your condition, and I’m upsetting you.’ Percy Proctor had done a little research about Charlotte Dawson, the local lass made good, and hated the questions he was having to ask. ‘Capstick and I will walk down to Langcliffe Locks and talk to the deceased’s brother, see what he knows.’ The inspector rose from his chair and urged Sergeant Capstick to join him.
‘She’s got a brother?’ Charlotte asked.
‘Aye, ma’am, the neighbour has taken him in, I believe. Betsy and Johnny have no parents, from what we can gather. She came from Skipton, after losing them both to cholera. What I can’t understand is why she would leave her brother to fend for himself. It’ll be the workhouse at Giggleswick for him, if nobody wants him.’ Inspector Proctor took a final look around the stately room. ‘Happen somebody will take pity on him – you can but hope. Thank you for your time, ma’am.’
‘Thank you, Inspector. Please keep me informed, and if there is anything I can do for Betsy’s brother, I will do it. After all, it sounds as if he is without any family, thanks to my husband.’ She stood up and caught her breath as the baby moved inside her.
‘You take care of yourself first, ma’am. There’s a word for your husband, but I’m too much of a gent to say it. I’ll let you know of any developments.’
Charlotte stood at the same window that she had watched Joseph from and cried as the two policemen left the manor. Everything in her life was wrong: her husband had left her, the baby was nearly due, the mill was in the hands of an overseer, and the workers hated her. She had no idea how she was going to manage, but surely things could get no worse.
Percy Proctor stood in the kitchen of number two Langcliffe Lock cottages, making notes.
‘He was never away, Officer. You don’t have to look very far to find out who the father to the baby was. He paid her more to be his floozy than he did half his workers in the mill. Betsy changed from such a sweet lass to a hard-nosed cow. God have mercy on her soul and forgive me for saying that, but it’s true.’ Gertie Potts looked out into the garden, where she had sent Johnny to help her Stan weed the veg patch while she was interviewed by Inspector Proctor.
‘And the lad, did he know? Where was he, when all these visits were going on?’ The inspector watched the young lad helping the ageing mill worker in his garden, and thought how easy and at home they looked in one another’s company.
‘He knew nowt. He’s virtually lived with us since all this nonsense started; or Joseph Dawson visited when he was at school. Poor little bugger. The tears I’ve had on my shoulder this last day or two, he’s broken-hearted.’ Gertie breathed in deeply and sighed.
‘Are you willing for him to stop with you a bit longer, or do you want me to make provision for him in the workhouse at Giggleswick?’ Proctor looked out and watched as the two picked a lettuce for use in the kitchen, his mind going back to how he had helped his father garden, back when he was a lad.
‘Aye, I couldn’t do that to the lad – he loves my Bert. Neither of us are getting any younger, and he’ll help us in our old age. We’ve no bairns of our own; we never seemed to be blessed with them.’ Gertie stood behind the inspector and watched as the two planted new seeds in an already-raked patch of the garden, eventually to replace the cut lettuce.
‘You’ll happen be able to get some help with his keep from parish funds – he’s a worthy case.’ Inspector Proctor smiled at the old woman with a kind heart.
‘We are not dependent on charity at this house. We’ll bring him up like our own, and he’ll not go hungry.’ Gertie folded her arms, slightly offended at the suggestion that they might need an offering of charity.
The atmosphere was broken when an out-of-breath Sergeant Capstick came briskly in through the front door.
‘Inspector, come quickly. There’s something you need to see down by the millpond.’ He caught his breath and then backtracked the way he had come, followed by the inspector.
‘It’s there – look! The water has gone down, with the warm weather and the mill using it. One of the mill workers noticed it on his way to work this morning and nearly pulled it out, and then he noticed the shawl caught in the sluice gate and recognized it as Betsy’s. They thought it better not to pick it up, for want of being accused of anything that went on here.’ Sergeant Capstick pointed down to the side of the millpond at the shadowy sight of Joseph’s silver-topped cane, and then at the checked plaid of Betsy’s shawl, caught in the sluice gates.
‘Well, fish it out for me, man.’ Proctor watched as his sergeant lay on his stomach with his sleeves rolled up, as he pulled the cane from the murky pond’s depths. ‘Now, this alters everything. This looks like a very well-to-do gentleman’s cane. I’d say it probably belonged to Mr Dawson. If we put that with Betsy’s shawl, it probably places them in the same place at the same time. What are the odds on this fancy silver handle matching the indent on Betsy’s skull, Capstick? If I were a betting man, I’d say the odds were in my favour.’ The inspector fingered the fine cane. This was now murder, not suicide, and he was going to get that posh bastard.
20
‘Now, Miss Charlotte, how about you tell me why you are really here? You forget that I’ve known you since the day you were born, and I know this polite conversation and flirting around things is leading up to something more serious.’ Lucy Cranston sat back in the Windsor chair in her small parlour and stirred her tea, waiting for Charlotte to tell her what was on her mind.
‘Oh, Lucy, I just don’t know where to start. My life’s in turmoil. I wish I’d never set eyes on Joseph Dawson.’ She broke down and, between sobs, told Lucy of the passing days and what had unfolded since Joseph’s disappearance.
‘Now, lass, don’t take on so. I feel so bad, but I knew that bugger was a wrong ’un. Your father did too, towards the end of his life, but he said nowt. He just hoped he was wrong. Now, what are we to do? Between you and our Archie, there’s been a lot of heartache, and I don’t know which way to turn.’ Lucy puffed and then put her arm around the shaking Charlotte. ‘Now give over, you’ll only upset the baby with all this crying, and we’ve lost one. This one’s got to sit tight until its time.’
Charlotte sighed and dried her eyes with her handkerchief. ‘I just wondered, Lucy. Could you help by getting the bank off my back and lend me some of my father’s money, to pay the workers this week? I wouldn’t ask, but Joseph has left me penniless and I can’t see all them workers out of work, for they depend on the mill.’ She held her breath and watched as Lucy thought about it.
‘Aye, Charlotte, it’s a lot to ask. I was thinking of setting up Archie with his own farm. But I know your father would have left you the bulk of his money, if you hadn’t have married that bloody man.’ Lucy sighed and looked at the lass who was nearly begging her for support.
Charlotte dropped her head and whimpered, ‘I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have asked, but I’m desperate.’
‘Well, as I said, it should rightfully have been yours. I’ll give you half of what he left me. That should get you back in the good books of the bank and
keep your workers fed. On the understanding, mind, that you pay me back when you can, and I expect a bit of interest.’ Lucy sighed again; she could feel her heart fluttering, with the stress of losing her nest egg from under her bed. The nest egg that the bank had not wanted to give her in the first place, and now it was going back to them.
‘Oh, Lucy, how can I ever thank you? You’ll not be sorry, I promise you.’ Charlotte sobbed and hugged the woman she loved.
‘Aye, well, if things had been different, you could have been my daughter. And I loved your father, and it’s what he would have wanted me to do. Brass doesn’t mean a lot to me. It’s nice, but I’d rather see you and that baby happy.’
‘You’ll not regret it, I promise.’ Charlotte flopped in her chair and tried to control her sobs.
‘Now give over, lass. That’s your money worries sorted, but what about that man of yours? Where’s he gone, the bastard?’ Lucy watched as a cloud crossed Charlotte’s face.
‘I don’t know, but I never want to see him again. I hope my baby never knows about its father. I’m ashamed. I’ve been conned into believing he was a good man.’ Charlotte lifted her head and spoke the words that she’d been thinking ever since Joseph vanished.
Their conversation was halted by a knock at the door.
‘My Lord, I don’t have visitors for days, then everyone’s knocking at my door.’ Lucy rose from her chair and went to answer the fervent banging. She bustled back in, after answering the caller. ‘Charlotte, come quickly – it’s Arthur from Crummock. He recognized Jethro and the trap waiting outside. He thinks there’s something wrong with the tenant at Crummock, and he wants someone to go there and see what’s to do. He asked for Mr Dawson, not knowing your news.’
‘I don’t believe it! I’ve just solved one problem, then another raises its head.’ Charlotte went to the door and Mrs Cranston stood behind her, as Arthur told her of his concerns.