Caleb Crowther thrust his chair back from the table and rounded on the little maid Amy, who, at that moment, had entered the room and was checking the big silver tureens on the sideboard. ‘You!’ As she turned round, he shook a fist at her. ‘Inform the cook that if she serves such pig-swill up again, she’ll find herself finished in this house . . . without references!’ When she hurriedly made a slight, nervous curtsy and scurried from the room, Caleb Crowther looked down scathingly on his wife, who deliberately kept her eyes averted. ‘Be careful not to question me or my movements again,’ he warned, ‘or it won’t just be the cook who finds herself out of the door.’ Then he left the room, slamming the door shut behind him.
‘Hmh,’ snorted Agnes Crowther, ‘you think so, do you?’ She laughed softly. ‘Well . . . be careful yourself, because I may not be quite the fool you take me for.’
‘He said what?’ Cook’s big round face went a painful crimson colour, and Amy feared it might explode. Why should she always be the one made to deliver such messages, she thought with alarm. She would have explained to Cook how the master was already in a terrible bad mood and perhaps didn’t really mean it, but Cook didn’t give her a chance. ‘Pigswill! . . . I’ve never heard the like in all my born days.’ The shock was so much that Amy had to fetch her a drop of port wine from the pantry.
‘I’m sure it wasn’t your breakfast that upset him,’ Amy assured Cook. ‘I’m sure it was the mistress. They’d been having an awful row . . . some’at about the mistress shouldn’t ever question him again.’ Oh dear, Amy never did like upsets. There were enough of them when poor Miss Emma was here, and there were always upsets when Miss Martha came to stay. That Justice Crowther seemed to be at the root of any upset. He was a misery. A real misery.
Before Cook had sipped the last of her port, she received another shock, which caught her unawares yet left her in a better mood. It was the sight of Agnes Crowther sweeping down into the kitchen, coming to tell the tearful woman, ‘Mr Crowther spoke too hastily, and you are not to take it to heart. As usual, your cooking was exemplary.’ After the mistress had gone, Amy declared how good it was of her ‘to come downstairs like that’. She also made mention of how the mistress had changed over the years ‘since poor Miss Emma were sent to Australia, for murderin’ her husband’.
Cook wasn’t having that. ‘Emma Grady did no such thing!’ she retorted, her own dilemma paling by comparison. ‘That lass didn’t have it in her, to “murder” anybody.’
‘No . . . she didn’t actually murder him, did she? It were that Mrs Manfred.’ Amy’s brown eyes swelled as she suddenly remembered. ‘Ooh! Just think, Cook . . . she were livin’ right under this roof as housekeeper. Ooh! . . . We might‘a been murdered in our beds.’ The thought was so frightful that she clapped both her outstretched hands up to either side of her face, her wide-open mouth and eyes giving her the look of a fish out of water.
‘They were neither of them murderers!’ exclaimed Cook, losing her patience. ‘Get away and clear the dining-room, you little fool,’ she told her. Amy knew Cook’s unpredictable moods well enough to make a hurried exit.
That night, in the safety and privacy of her own quarters, Cook took an envelope from its hiding place, this being the silk lining in the lid of her portmanteau. ‘Murderers indeed!’ she muttered, carefully opening the envelope and unfolding the letter from inside. She had read its contents many times before and she knew them word for word. Yet even now it struck her heart cold to read the letter again. It had been delivered by hand only minutes after Mrs Manfred was hanged. It was in her handwriting, though unusually sprawling and hurried. Cook had tried to appreciate how terrified the poor woman must have been with the gallows waiting. But it was beyond her comprehension, and she prayed it always would be. The letter read:
Dear Friend,
There isn’t much time left before I meet my maker. I don’t know if I am guilty of pushing Emma’s husband down the stairs, but I do know I am guilty of having the intention in my heart. My poor darling Emma is innocent of all, except for loving a man other than her husband, and being foolish enough to bear his child.
If there is a victim in all of this nightmare, it is Emma alone, and my heart goes out to her.
You may wonder why I am writing to you, instead of to my only relative. The reasons are these. Firstly, my sister has chosen to believe that I am guilty and has disowned me. Secondly, and for Emma’s sake, I feel I must confide in you on very delicate matters regarding Caleb Crowther. Please understand that nothing of what I am about to tell you can be substantiated, or would hold up in a court of law. But I must rid myself of the awful burden which I carry, and I trust that sometime in the future when, God willing, Emma is a free woman, what I am about to reveal might put into her hands an opportunity to question Caleb Crowther, and somehow, to expose the truth which would incriminate him.
I have reason to believe that Caleb Crowther is a murderer!
As I say, I cannot prove anything, and for that reason I have kept silent. Also, God forgive me, I have been cowardly enough to consider my own fate, were I to openly accuse him. I would do it now. But I believe my accusations would not only be received with ridicule by those in authority, but would warn Caleb Crowther enough to cover up his tracks.
When I first came to look after Emma, which was very soon after her mama’s killing, I was greatly alarmed by snippets of gossip in the area which suggested that Emma’s mama had been indiscreet with her affections, and had been unfaithful to Thadius Grady on more than one occasion. Mr Grady himself confided this to me, in a moment of deep despair. Also, I came across the burned remains of clothing in a secluded corner of the garden. It was only later that it occurred to me that the dark iron-like stains on the garments, which I disposed of, might have been blood stains. Of course, I instantly dismissed what, I convinced myself, were foolish and dangerous notions. But the discovery of such a fire, and in such a secluded part of the garden so soon after the brutal murder of Mary Grady, left me with many disturbing suspicions. These same suspicions were stirred up by the furtive comings and goings of Caleb Crowther to the house. Also, these visits, when he and Mr Grady would retire to the drawing-room in deep and whispered conversation, always left Emma’s papa in a most distressed state of mind.
I have no doubt that, if the two of them were involved in some dreadful secret, then it was brought about more by Caleb Crowther’s hand, than by the gentle Mr Grady’s. My only concern at the time was for little Emma.
There is something else also. On the day when Thadius Grady died, I was in the linen cupboard. I heard the bedroom door being locked and, on looking out, I saw the ashen, still face of Emma’s papa with all life gone from it. And I saw Caleb Crowther, with as guilty a countenance as I have ever witnessed, hurriedly replacing the pillow beneath poor Mr Grady’s head. I was surprised and filled with doubt when the doctor saw nothing untoward.
I pray to the Lord that I am wrong in the terrible notions that have haunted me since. And, if I am not wrong, then I pray to the Lord for his forgiveness, in being too cowardly to speak up. Yet always in my heart is Emma, and the fear of what such knowledge might do to her. As you know, she idolised her papa, and still deeply grieves for him. So I ask you to be very careful with this information; none of which can be proved, I think.
Yet, if you ever find an opportunity to use it in order to protect Emma from her appointed guardian, do not hesitate. I have a feeling that Caleb Crowther will try to rob Emma of everything her papa left to her. I pray you do all you can to prevent that.
A kindly warden has promised to deliver this letter to you. I trust you will get it. Goodbye and God bless,
Your friend,
Mrs Manfred.
The moment her eyes had read the last word and it was etched into her mind, Cook meticulously folded the letter, put it back into the envelope and carefully replaced the awful but precious thing into the silk lining of her portmanteau. On her round, shocked face there crept a look of cunnin
g, as she raised her small pink eyes to look in the direction of her master’s quarters. ‘Them’s terrible words in that there letter!’ she murmured, as though addressing someone in person. ‘Words as say that you . . . a fine upstanding Justice . . . are a thief and a murderer.’ Her mouth closed tight and the flabby jowls began working until they actually trembled. Then, lowering her head but keeping her accusing gaze fixed to the ceiling, she said in a grim voice, ‘Aye! Terrible words. But told by a poor woman who faces the gallows. An’ terrible they may be, Caleb Crowther . . . but I believe every last one to be the truth.’
Returning to her work, Cook began muttering to herself. ‘I shall guard that letter with me life. It’s me insurance against a sorry old age. But you’d best watch your step, else I might be tempted to use the letter afore I intended, Mr fine an’ mighty bloody Crowther!’ As she whisked the eggs around in the mixing bowl, she chuckled to herself, knowing that she had in her possession the means by which the wind might be taken out of the devil’s sails.
Chapter Six
The long harsh winter of 1873 had come and gone. The summer which followed was glorious and, on a day in September 1874, Caleb Crowther received his son-in-law, Silas Trent, into the library. His mood was brighter than usual, believing that this pre-arranged meeting would prove beneficial to himself and improve his finances considerably. The thought appealed to him, and when both he and his son-in-law were seated, he bestowed a rare smile upon his visitor. ‘Your business, then?’ he asked in a genial voice, and settled back in his chair while his son-in-law, somewhat encouraged by Caleb Crowther’s friendly disposition, eagerly outlined the reason for his visit.
Before he had even finished however, Caleb Crowther had sprung to his feet and gone to the fireplace, where he stood with his legs wide apart and his fists clenched by his side. The smile had gone from his face and in its place was a look like thunder. ‘You want me to throw good money after bad!’ he roared, afterwards storming towards the library door and flinging it wide open. ‘I’m surprised that you even had the gall to put such a proposition to me! Good-day to you, sir!’ He tapped his foot impatiently as he waited for Silas Trent to rise from the leather armchair, then, when the tall, well-built man with brown hair and military moustache approached him, he added sneeringly, ‘Your father left you a thriving shipping line, Mr Trent . . . and in only a few years you have seen fine ships slip through your incompetent fingers, until there is just one vessel left. One, Mr Trent . . . and the bank half-owner of it! I trust you have more sense than to let your marriage go the same way, because, to be quite frank . . . I am wearying of supporting your family while you travel the seven seas. If you’re not man enough to keep a shipping line successful, then your father should have had more sense than to leave it to you in the first place.’
Silas Trent stood only the smallest distance away from his father-in-law, so close in fact that he could see the delicate criss-cross pattern of purple veins which marbled the whites of the other man’s eyes. For a long moment he met Caleb Crowther’s vicious stare with steady, unswerving brown eyes, and it ran through his mind what a fool he had been to let Martha persuade him into approaching her father. He felt humiliated and, in the wake of Caleb Crowther’s cruel, unjust accusations, he felt a tide of dark anger rising in him. Yes, it was true that he had been left a fleet of proud ships, and that, sadly, that same fleet was now reduced to the Stirling, which he himself captained. But what the arrogant Caleb Crowther refused to acknowledge was the colossal cost of running and maintaining a large fleet of ships. While the contracts were plentiful, and there was money enough to take on the crews, there were no problems. But in recent years it was proving more and more difficult to secure good lucrative contracts. There were too many shipping lines chasing too few cargoes which, since the closure of many cotton mills and the stopping of convict transportation, had become more scarce. Indeed, if anything, Silas Trent was proud of the fact that he still ran the Stirling at a profit when so many other shipping merchants had lost everything. Then there was the growing threat from faster, iron-built steamers. Recently though, he had heard that a firm in Australia had invited tenders for the shipping of sandalwood to Singapore. There were also opportunities to get in on the expanding wool trade out there. In fact, Australia had become increasingly important for merchant trade, and Silas Trent regretted the fact that he had concentrated on other markets and routes these many years, since losing the government contracts to carry convicts. He had made his one big mistake there, and he was the first to admit it. However, the opportunity to make amends had presented itself. He knew he could make the most favourable tender for the sandalwood route from Australia to Singapore, and with careful planning secure the shipments of wool and other cargoes which would bring him back to England and his family. But he needed capital to get him started. He had been to the banks and other lenders without success. Caleb Crowther had been his last hope. Silas had stressed that he would win the contracts to carry goods to and from Australia, if only he could get the financial backing.
He had voiced these convictions to his father-in-law, who had rejected them out of hand. Now, he replied in a firm but cutting voice, ‘As for my marriage, don’t let it concern you, Mr Crowther, sir. Your daughter and I may have our difficulties like any other couple, but they are not insurmountable. ‘Then, being fully aware of the frostiness between Caleb Crowther and his own wife, Agnes, he quietly added, ‘When we have a problem, sir, we discuss it. I fully recommend that course of action: you will find that it works wonders.’ Before Caleb Crowther could recover from such insolence, Silas Trent gave a courteous nod, bade him good-day, and in a moment had departed from the room, left the house and climbed into the waiting carriage, which went sedately down the drive and out on to the street.
Seated in the ornately furnished drawing-room busy with her tapestry, Agnes Crowther had heard the conversation which had taken place between her son-in-law and her husband. The outcome had been exactly as she had warned her daughter Martha. Yet that foolish woman had insisted on harbouring false hopes and sending Silas on a fool’s errand. Silas Trent was a good man and had been a good husband to Martha. He was a wonderful father to the boy, Edward, and if there was a way by which he might recover from his present financial predicament, Agnes Crowther felt confident that he would do it. He must do it, for the sake of Martha and the boy, because it was a certainty that, should the worst happen and Silas Trent lose everything, neither he nor his family would be made welcome in this house. Martha’s father had made that very clear on several occasions, when he had stated, ‘I believe a man should be responsible for his own family. Martha has passed from my care into that of her husband’s, and she must stand or fall with him!’ The boy, Edward, however was a different matter: Caleb Crowther saw him as the son he had never had.
Sighing wearily, Agnes Crowther sank her needle into the tapestry and gave it her full attention. But not before murmuring, ‘You will find a way, Silas . . . I know you will.’ Just as she would, she thought. In the past she had done much to be ashamed of, and she had come to dislike her own husband because of it. Yet even now, if the opportunity came when she might make amends, she wondered whether she would be capable of doing so.
‘Sell the Stirling! There are other ways to earn a living!’ Martha Trent was in a fury when she realized that her husband had borrowed money on their home in order to finance his journey to Australia, where he intended to secure his future prospects. ‘You’ll see us without a roof over our heads,’ she accused him now. ‘Is that what you want? . . . To see us wandering the streets like beggars?’
‘Don’t be foolish, Martha. It will never come to that, and you know it . . . even if I have to buy a barge and fight for a cargo up and down the Leeds and Liverpool Canal!’ Silas shook his head and came to where his wife was petulantly beating the top of the piano with one hand, and dabbing a delicate handkerchief to her eyes with the other. Taking her by the shoulders, he would have held her close, but she tore
away from him, crying, ‘Go on then! . . . Go to your precious ship, and sail to the ends of the earth for all I care! You don’t want me and you don’t want the boy . . . or you would not be so heartless as to put up our home for security! You’ll never be the successful man of business that my father is, and you could do no better than to listen to his advice. Isn’t it enough to know that he will not invest in you?’
‘You know why he won’t invest in me, Martha,’ protested Silas, growing impatient at Martha’s hostile attitude. Like father like daughter, he thought. ‘Caleb Crowther won’t back me, because he has already backed one of my competitors. If I’d known at the time that he was hand in glove with Lassater Shipping I would never have been persuaded to approach him in the first place. I’ve also recently learned that not only do Lassater Shipping hold long-term contracts to carry cotton from your father’s mill and that he is a large shareholder in that shipping-line, but he has passed on confidential information which I confided to him during our conversation. The result being that Lassater Shipping is now a major contender for the sandalwood cargoes from Australia to Singapore. He betrayed us. Do you hear what I’m saying, Martha? . . . Your father who, in your eyes, can do no wrong . . . betrayed us!’
‘Liar!’ In a swift and unexpected movement, Martha Trent swung round, taking the silver candlestick from the piano top and, with a scream of ‘Get out!’ sent the object flying. Silas Trent was caught unawares, saw the heavy candlestick at the last minute and ducked quickly sideways, but not in time to avoid a glancing blow to the side of his head. When he put his hand up to touch his temple, the blood ran through his fingers and a small pool of crimson dripped on to his jacket.
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