by Diane Allen
‘Mrs bloody Bloomenber – Dora bloody Dodgson. Married to an old man of nearly seventy: now what can she be after? Not a bit of “how’s your father”, not at that age. Could it be his bank balance, I wonder?’ said Mazy.
‘Mazy Banks, will you wash your mouth out,’ Mrs Batty scolded. ‘But you are right, lass. Gold-digging bitch!’
‘Now whose mouth wants washing out?’ Yates grinned. ‘What goes around, comes around. She’ll get found out, whatever her game, you mark my words.’
A week went by in no time and Charlotte threw herself into motherhood, watching every move that baby Isabelle made. Every gurgle and cry made her love her daughter more, and even the night-feeds that she had been dreading weren’t so bad. But in the back of her mind she knew that she was denying the obvious: that her real place was at the helm of Ferndale Mill, even though it felt like a weight around her neck.
‘What’s up, ma’am? You look sad today, and baby Isabelle is such an angel, she hardly ever cries. Are you thinking about Mr Dawson? It’s a pity he’s never even seen the lil’ lass.’ Lily looked at her mistress. Her heart bled for her plight. Charlotte had always been so good to her, from the first day she’d set eyes on her.
‘I doubt Mr Dawson will return. Let’s face it, Lily, he was responsible for the death of Betsy, and he would be a fool to return to me and lose his own head. Besides, he never really loved me; he just used me. It was convenient for him to settle down with me, and then of course there was my father’s money – or so he thought at the time. Looking back, he was after that, for sure.’
‘You don’t know that for certain. I’m sure he loved you in his own way.’ Lily folded the nappies and placed them in the drawers next to the baby’s cot.
‘Loved me so much that he left me with his baby to raise, and his debts to pay. I do owe him something, though. I have the sweetest child anyone could wish for, and a grand house that I never in my wildest dreams thought I would own, now that I have managed to come to an agreement over Joseph’s debts, with the help of Mrs Cranston. The one thing I could do without is Ferndale Mill, especially now that I have Isabelle. I don’t want to leave her with some uncaring nanny, and that is what I’m going to have to do. And at this moment in time the mill isn’t worth a penny. Nobody in their right mind wants a cotton mill in this economic climate, and while the Confederates and Unionists battle for power.’
‘But, ma’am, the local people depend on you and that mill to keep themselves fed. Bert Bannister’s a good man. He’s well respected – he’ll teach you all you need to know. The war over in America won’t last forever, and then you’ll have a thriving business in your hands. Something for baby Isabelle to inherit, when she’s old enough.’ Lily sat down next to her mistress, who was obviously suffering from baby-blues, along with her other worries.
‘I don’t want to leave my baby with someone I hardly know. That’s the top and bottom of it, Lily. I owe her more than that.’ Charlotte put her head in her hands and sighed.
‘Then don’t, ma’am! Why don’t you promote Mazy to Nanny, instead of being a scullery maid. She’s good with children; she’s the oldest of five. What she doesn’t know about babies, nobody does. And she’s a local lass, so you know all about her. She’s forever telling us what she’s been up to, with her brothers and sisters. It would help them at home as well. There are seven of them, sleeping head to toe in a two-bedroomed house. Mazy would think she’d gone to heaven if you gave her her own room with baby Isabelle.’ Lily couldn’t believe she’d suggested that to her mistress. She’d always been proud that she was her mistress’s earpiece, and now she was promoting Mazy as the answer to all Charlotte’s worries. Mazy had a mouth on her like a sewer, but there was one thing she was good at, and that was looking after children, and everyone knew it.
‘Mazy, little Mazy, who lights my fire in a morning and looks like she’d run a mile if I spoke out of turn to her? She’s so timid.’ Charlotte lifted her head up.
‘You obviously don’t know our Mazy, ma’am. Believe me, she says what she thinks. Her and Dora Dodgson hated one another. She’d have thrown a party, if she could have done, when Dora left. Come to think of it, we all would have done. No disrespect, ma’am. But, yes, Mazy is really good with children, and you will easily get a replacement scullery maid. Especially now Mr Dawson has left. You might have struggled beforehand, with his reputation—’ Lily stopped herself from saying more.
‘What do you mean, “with his reputation”, Lily? Just say it. It makes no difference now. I can’t be hurt any more than I already am. Send young Mazy up to see me, but don’t say why. I just want to ask her a few questions. And, Lily, can you ask Mrs Batty for the menu for the week? Normality should be maintained, with or without my husband’s presence. Could you also ask Jethro to take this note to Mewith and to wait for a reply from Mr Atkinson.’ She passed a handwritten note to Lily, who curtsied as she left the room, making Charlotte smile. She was indeed the lady of the manor and should not forget it.
It was the writing of her note, announcing the birth of her child, that had darkened Charlotte’s spirits. She had a beautiful baby, while Archie had neither wife nor newborn bairn. And there she was, having to leave her baby to be brought up by another woman, while she went about men’s business. However, the mill could wait no longer. Bert Bannister knew about the functioning of the mill, but when it came to the accounts and the welfare of the staff, he knew nothing. She had to run the mill, or face more than a hundred locals losing their livelihoods; and she herself losing the mill to Lorenzo Christie, who she knew was just waiting for her to fail. She could never let that happen. She needed to prove a point. She could run the mill and keep her farm. And, by hook or by crook, she would do so, with or without a man by her side.
23
Inspector Proctor and Sergeant Capstick stood outside the padlocked mill gates of the Helene Mill, which had once been owned by the family of May Pilling, the first wife of Joseph Dawson. May’s name was the only lead Charlotte had been able to give them, to her husband’s past life. The four-storey-high, dark building lay silent, just like two-thirds of the other cotton mills in Accrington, throwing their starving workers onto the streets.
‘Penny for an old woman, sir?’ An old crone sat crouched next to the gates and shuffled in her rags, holding her hand out for any alms that might come her way.
‘I’ll give you a penny, if you can tell me about the mill owners and what became of them.’ Percy went down on bended knee and looked at the old woman. He’d decided to come to Accrington after his conversation with the young lad at the Talbot Arms, but so far he’d found out nothing about Dawson.
‘Do you mean the Pillings? They are long gone. Only poor May was left, and she married that bastard Joseph Dawson,’ spat the old woman.
‘Joseph Dawson?’ Percy helped the old woman to her feet and questioned her more.
‘I may be old and hungry, but I’ll not forget his bloody name in a hurry. Right little bastard, he was, when he was growing up. Him and his sister terrified half of Accrington, and then poor May fell for his charms, and he took over this place until they moved.’
‘Moved where? And are you sure his name was Dawson?’ Percy squeezed the old woman’s arm tightly, eager for more information.
‘Get off me! It’ll cost you more than a penny, if you are that desperate. What’s the bastard done anyway? And aye, his name was Dawson all right; and his sister married Ted Dodgson, until he upped and left her. Ask anyone in Accrington. The bastard moved and took his sister with him to somewhere in Yorkshire, I think. God have mercy on their souls, wherever he’s at.’
‘This sounds like the man I’m after. We’re not certain, but we believe he’s killed one of his workers. We need to find him.’ Percy tried to keep his voice calm.
‘Killed someone! I bet it was a woman; he always had a nasty streak when it came to women. His mother was a prick-pincher, who stood on this very spot – the whore. He was brought up in the gutter, alon
g with that thieving, lying sister of his. Everyone was thankful when he buggered off to Yorkshire, taking his sister with him. Poor May, I don’t know what became of her. He just used her to get his hands on her money, and to make money out of the poor buggers that worked at this place. He worked them until they dropped, and then sold the place to line his pocket. Now what’s that worth to you? Hurry up, my belly is rumbling with anticipation.’ The old woman looked up at the inspector with a keen eye.
‘Is there anyone in Accrington you know who could be hiding him?’ Percy rolled a coin between his fingers, the silver glinting in the sunlight. ‘A friend or confidant?’
‘For that threepence?’ The old woman’s eyes lit up.
‘Aye, for that threepence. But make sure you tell me the truth, else it will be the worse for you!’ He stood back and started to walk away.
‘Go look for Arthur Simmons. He’s a solicitor on Albert Street. He’ll tell you all there is to know about Joseph Dawson. They were thick as thieves, until they fell out. He’ll know all Dawson’s old haunts and who would give him the time of day.’ The old woman held her hand out and caught the coin as Percy flipped it up in the air to her. ‘God bless you, sir, and I hope the |bastard hangs.’
‘He will, if I catch him.’ Percy and Sergeant Capstick walked quickly to interview the new lead, Arthur Simmons, in the knowledge that perhaps they had a double-murderer on their hands. What had happened to May Pilling? Was Dora Dodgson, the so-called ‘housekeeper’, really Joseph Dawson’s sister? And where was the bastard?
Arthur Simmons sat behind his dingy desk, listening to the threats of being thrown into the cells overnight, as Inspector Proctor tried to draw out whatever information the solicitor knew about Joseph Dawson.
‘I knew him. And aye, it was me the spit lad described to you. Dawson owed me some money, so I came up and frightened him. Told him I’d tell his pretty new wife about his old lifestyle. Plus I reckoned I knew what happened to his first wife.’ Simmons leaned back in his chair, lifting his feet up onto the edge of the desk, and twiddled his thumbs while Sergeant Capstick took notes and Inspector Proctor leaned on the desk, looking at the piece of dirt he had quickly recognized Simmons to be. ‘Has he killed that pretty wife of his? Is this what it’s about? He never could keep his temper under control.’
‘No, Mrs Dawson is well, but Mr Dawson is at the centre of our investigations. What do you mean by “I reckoned I knew what happened to his first wife”? Where is she, do you know?’ Percy looked around the room and noticed the damp running down the dark walls. Even in the middle of summer the office looked dingy. God only knew what it looked like in the bleakness of a mill town’s winter.
‘No idea, Officer. One day she was here, and the next day gone. He could have thrown her in the cut, for all I know. He was that sort of fella – you didn’t cross him. But he soon coughed up the money he owed me, when I mentioned May Pilling, and his sister Dora Dodgson. He wasn’t going to be having his dirty washing waved in the faces of the good people of Settle. He had his new life to protect, with his bonny new wife, who was the talk of the county. Just because he’d moved to some backwater in Yorkshire, it didn’t mean that I didn’t keep my eye on him. I wanted my money back, and threats and violence are the only thing Joseph Dawson recognizes, believe me.’
‘I could nick you, Simmons, for blackmailing Joseph Dawson.’ Percy was beginning to realize just what a dark life the Dawsons had lived, and he didn’t like it. Their lifestyle had started to come together in his mind, when the death of the rogue and thief Roger Wilson had been reported taking place at Crummock. No self-respecting businessman gave shelter to a common guttersnipe like Wilson.
‘What for – for getting back the money Dawson owed me? That’s not blackmail. It’s his fault that he’s got a past like hell behind him. I was only pointing out what could have happened. I walked away and came back to my offices to look after the poor, unfortunate people of Accrington.’ Simmons grinned.
‘Aye, the folk of Accrington are poor and unfortunate if they have to use you as their solicitor. Take care, sir, else you will one day be smiling from the wrong side of a cell’s bars.’ The inspector summoned Sergeant Capstick.
‘Talk to his sister. She’s the one you want, Inspector. And let me earn my living here in peace. I washed my hands of the Dawsons the minute I got my money back off the lying bastard. If it’s any consolation, I hope the lass that he married is safe and well, and I hope you find out what happened to May. She was a quiet, nervous woman, too well bred and flighty for the likes of him. She should never have met him. Their maid sensed something was wrong, but nobody listened and now she’s moved away; gone where the work is, down south.’ Simmons leaned back and watched as the two lawmen left his office. Well, that would be the last money he got out of Joseph Dawson. Dawson was a wanted man, and he couldn’t afford to get his hands caught in such business. Because it would be dirty, no matter what Dawson had done. Of that Simmons was certain.
Percy Proctor walked up the pathway to Ingfield House. Up until a few months ago Dora Dodgson had been a humble housekeeper. He couldn’t help but think she’d done well for herself, as he climbed the bleached white steps and stood to one side of the mock-Roman pillars to ring the bell-pull next to the green-painted door. He waited as he heard the patter of feet from behind the door, and doffed his hat as a maid answered the call.
‘Good morning, what may I do for you, sir?’ The pretty little maid curtsied and waited for a reply.
‘Is Mrs Bloomenber at home, my dear? I need to speak to her.’ Percy stepped close to the open doorway and tried to peer into the hallway.
‘If you can give me your calling card, I will see if she is available to take visitors.’ The maid reached for a silver tray, on which the visitor was expected to place a calling card.
‘I don’t need a calling card, my dear. She’s no option but to see me, as I am the local constabulary. Now take me to her.’ Percy wedged his foot in the doorway and pushed his way into the house.
‘What’s all the noise, Gladys? Who are you talking to?’ Dora Bloomenber walked into the hallway and looked at the stranger there. ‘Who are you? And have you no manners? Gladys, go and get my husband!’ She stood back, affronted by the stranger standing in her hallway.
‘But, ma’am, he’s the police,’ Gladys stuttered.
‘Just bide your time, Gladys. I don’t think Mr Bloomenber will be impressed, if he knows that a member of the West Yorkshire Constabulary is visiting his home. What do you think, Dora?’ Percy stood his ground, watching the face of the woman, which looked as hard as nails.
‘I’m sorry, Gladys, I’d forgotten this gentleman had said he was calling. It’s a charity event you want us to sponsor. Is that right, Constable . . . ? I’m sorry, I’ve forgotten your name. Now, I must stop you from teasing my maid. Mr Bloomenber is all too happy to sponsor your event.’
‘It’s “Inspector” actually – Inspector Proctor. Now can we talk business somewhere private, perhaps?’
Percy watched as Dora dismissed her maid like a piece of dust from her highly polished shoes, telling her not to disturb them when an offer of morning tea was made. The woman could lie, there was no doubt of that. She’d have made an excellent card player, for there wasn’t a sign of what was going on in that head of hers. Percy followed her across the hallway into the main living room. Ezera Bloomenber was obviously a man of great wealth and good taste, and had spent countless amounts of money on his comfortable home. The windows were draped in the finest material, and the walls were decorated with heavy coverings, while on top of the Adams fireplace a fine French timepiece kept the time with a steady tick.
‘Nice home, Dora, you’ve done well for yourself.’ Percy sat down on the couch and watched as the woman stood with her back to the fireplace.
‘Stop the idle chatter. I know why you are here. It’s about my brother, Joseph. I knew it would only be a matter of time before you put two and two together. I don’t want my hu
sband to know that I’m Joseph’s sister. I’m trying to start a new life without him, and I don’t want to lose all this. He won’t look kindly on being married to the secret sister of a suspected murderer.’ Dora folded her hands behind her back and stared at Percy.
‘So, I take it he’s not here then, and that you don’t dispute that you are Joseph Dawson’s sister?’ He watched her as she put one hand on the mantelpiece and rubbed her brow.
‘No, he’s not here. And yes, we are brother and sister. We had a row before I left Windfell. I told Joseph I wanted a life of my own and was tired of living in his shadow. Besides, I’d met Ezera, and how could anyone turn this lifestyle down? There’s a lot of difference between being housekeeper to the most dysfunctional household and being mistress of your own household. Joseph won’t come here – he knows I’ve washed my hands of him.’ Dora sat down next to Percy and watched him as he made notes.
‘Did you know he was having an affair with Betsy Foster, when you worked at Windfell Manor?’ He watched her closely.
‘There was only that simpering wife of his who didn’t know what he was up to. God knows why she stayed with him. He treated her like rubbish, poor cow, whilst he trailed in at all hours of the day and night and slept in a separate bedroom. It’s our mother who is to blame. She treated him badly when he was young. He saw things no child should see and it’s rubbed off on him. It warped him slightly; he doesn’t respect women.’ Dora twisted her handkerchief in her hands and looked at Percy.
‘Mentioning wives, what became of May Pilling, Joseph’s first wife?’ Percy looked across at the surprisingly revealing woman.