The Drayton Legacy

by Rona Randall

  A nod from Joseph dismissed the housekeeper and an exclamation from Agatha brought Martin’s glance round to her again.

  “My goodness, Martin, where have you been? What have you been up to? You are filthy! And look at your boots, they are dirtying the carpet!”

  “My apologies.” Unceremoniously, he removed them, but his stockinged feet were little better. Muddy water seemed to have oozed through to them. “Lay no blame on me for the state I am in. Blame your husband.”

  “Blame me?” Joseph echoed in pained surprise. “How can I be responsible for your rolling in the slush, as you appear to have been doing? Have you been drinking? Were you thrown out of the Red Lion into the mud of Cobblers Green? If so, you’d best straighten yourself before returning home to distress your mother — ”

  “You know damned well I’ve not been drinking! You know what I have been doing because you made it necessary — ”

  “Agatha, my love, all this must be as incomprehensible to you as to me. Have I not been sensibly at home these three hours and more?”

  Agatha loyally declared this to be true, not revealing that he had gone to bed late last night (or was it this morning?) and, in consequence, had departed late for the pottery and returned equally late this evening. His whole day had been set back by last night’s delayed retirement.

  “If Martin would explain himself more clearly,” she said, “we should be able to straighten any misunderstanding.”

  Martin paid no attention. His eyes were fixed on Joseph and he was saying, “I can well believe you have been here, brother. You would take care not to revisit the scene of a crime. Did you go straight from Medlar Croft to Cooperfield last night? I suspect so, because you knew that Jessica and Simon were away for the night and you could do your damnedest and take your time about it. How long did it take you to smash everything within sight? And did you really imagine it would wreck all my hopes as well? Or was it done solely for enjoyment, the way you have enjoyed destroying things, and people, all your life? What were you planning to do to Max and how did you feel when you found he had escaped you? Thank God, I have escaped you too. I shall rebuild my pottery item by item, step by step. The rubble has been cleared away already, the wreckage gone. It has taken the three of us all day, and tomorrow I will salvage what little I can towards new shelves and benches. The wheel will be rebuilt, everything will be rebuilt, and nothing you can ever do will stop me from becoming the best Master Potter ever to come out of Staffordshire. You have destroyed everything I possess except the kiln I built, but you will never destroy me.”

  “Joseph! What is he talking about? And Max — what is he saying about Max?”

  “I wish I knew, my dear. The lad is demented. I will take him home at once — ”

  He tried to seize his brother’s arm, but Martin side-stepped and in so doing overturned a small table. Items went scattering, including a green beaker which landed at his feet. He stooped and picked it up.

  “So you brought it home, Joseph. Who is meant to drink from it this time?”

  “That is mine!” Agatha cried. “I pray it is not damaged! How clumsy you are, Martin! I confess I am not enchanted by this, but it is a present from Joseph and I would be grieved were it broken.”

  Martin said quietly, “Don’t drink from it, Agatha. There is lead in that glaze, as there was in the glaze on my father’s things. His contained an exceptionally high proportion. This glaze might, also. I strongly suspect that my father died of lead poisoning. He suffered many of the symptoms over a period of time — symptoms which were taken as indigestion; stomach upsets causing vomiting. There are all sorts of signs and there may be more not yet recognised, nor is it yet known in how many ways lead can be absorbed, but eating and drinking from vessels with a high lead glaze could well be one of them.”

  Agatha uttered a horrified cry. Joseph, did you hear what he said? Indigestion, sickness — I have been suffering those!”

  “For no other reason than over-indulgence, my love. I fear you do tend to overeat. And all Martin’s ramblings are mere supposition, so pay no heed. You have nothing to fear because the Drayton Pottery never uses lead glazes.”

  “Not in the ordinary way,” said Martin with a look which clearly recalled their earlier meeting and a package of white lead…so easily added to food or drink, and so safe from discovery if kept in some very private place, to be taken out only when required…and, unlike red lead, totally lacking in colour.

  He turned away, despairing, disgusted.

  With Martin’s going, the atmosphere in the room seemed to have changed. Now it was Agatha who was withdrawn, and Joseph who must woo her.

  “Come,” he said, “we were on our way to bed.”

  “Not yet.” Evading the hands on her shoulders, she moved away.

  “You would like something before retiring, my love? Some chocolate, perhaps.”

  “No — no, thank you — ”

  She had the beaker in her hands. He took it from her.

  “I can see that brother of mine has made you uneasy, and quite without cause. He talked a lot of wild nonsense. Lead poisoning, indeed! As if glazed pots could possibly cause such a thing! Whom do you trust — your husband, or a youth plainly suffering from delusions?” When his wife made no answer he decided to make light of it. “I will throw this beaker away, and then my wife will have no cause to suspect her loving husband of harbouring murderous intent.”

  His jocularity passed unnoticed. Impatiently then, he asked what else was troubling her.

  “The things he accused you of, even to wrecking his workshop … I didn’t know he had one…”

  “Do you really think a man as busy as I, with a thriving pottery to run, could spare time to smash places, destroy property, or whatever else he so stupidly declared?”

  “But you did go out last night, did you not, after telling me you had papers to attend to?”

  “To Medlar Croft. You heard the boy refer to that. After I settled down to work I decided to see whether my mother had returned safely. I went no further than her house.”

  “But what did he mean about Max, about his having ‘escaped you’…and asking what you had planned to do to him…”

  “That baffles me as much as yourself, though I pay it no heed because Martin has always resented Max’s presence at the pottery and no doubt wished to make mischief. As for what I planned to do for Max — ”

  “He said to him, not for him — ”

  “ — all I have ever had in mind is to see him prosper at Drayton’s, a state of affairs which would well satisfy your father. And I hope that satisfies you, my love, for I have no more to say on the subject. Now may we proceed to bed?”

  “Soon,” she said uneasily, crossing to the fire and warming herself at the blaze despite the heat of the room.

  Impatiently, he began to snuff candles.

  “Why are you doing that?” she cried.

  “Why else, but to retire?”

  “That is servants’ work — ”

  “And I, my love, am yours — your very devoted servant.” Picking up a candelabrum, he held out his hand. “Come, my dear. I grow impatient.”

  But still she lingered, glancing uncertainly round the room. “I dislike half-lit candles,” she murmured, “they cast such eerie shadows.” Then she added unexpectedly, “But this is a house of shadows, isn’t it? Or so I have heard tell. There are stories about it…legends…and all of them sinister…” She shivered. “Are they true, Joseph? And does history repeat itself, as people say?”

  Chapter Thirty

  The news of Martin Drayton’s departure from the family pottery was known throughout Burslem long before that day was out. Frank Tinsley heard it as he spread sawdust on the floor of the Red Lion. A crateman named Zach Dobson had it from one of Drayton’s packmen who, unbeknown to his master, obliged many of the hated cratemen in return for a pint of Staffordshire ale, reporting the loss of a few pots as being the result of brutal attacks by these scavengers of the cou
ntryside.

  Many of the dreaded cratemen were known to be well nigh invincible, armed with crude but devastating weapons against which respectable packmen were defenceless, so stories of robbery under threat were accepted, and plundered pots regarded philosophically provided they were few in number. Greater robberies would be substantiated by undeniable evidence of attack, and the only sympathy the victims then earned took the form of advice from their employers to be braver, fight harder, and wield their own weapons with greater skill.

  But a draught of Staffordshire ale was sometimes more persuasive than violence or threat, and a tidbit of useful information — such as when a valuable load was due to take the road, and in what direction — could even earn a coin or two. So the news of a member of the Drayton family setting up in opposition was news indeed. It meant yet another source of supply to be waylaid on the road to Stoke or Liverpool or Chester; one more packhorse to be attacked and robbed.

  But not all cratemen were brutal and not all packmen dishonest. Zach Dobson was decent enough, and too old for violence. Frank had come to know him well, for the man hailed from across the Mersey, plying a route from Birkenhead to Staffordshire and sometimes, if his haul were a good one, selling his plunder for better prices on the Liverpool side.

  In his younger days Zach had known Frank’s mother well — how well, Frank never enquired — and this had ensured the man’s friendship. The moment he heard the potman’s Lancashire dialect, Zach’s allegiance had been won and whenever he arrived in Burslem he headed for the Red Lion for a drink and a yarn.

  “So there be trouble at Drayton’s, I’ears tell,” he said to Frank that afternoon. “The young’un be gone — startin’ up way out in some village. I’ad it this noonday from that lyin’ Seth Cave, only this time Seth weren’t lyin’. Seems all the works is abuzzin’ with it. Sacked by the Master Potter,’is own brother! The late Master would turn in’is grave if’e knew, Cave said.”

  Meg confirmed the news when Frank met her that night. Walking her to work of a morning and meeting her at the end of her day’s work had become a ritual, vital to both. He had to be back at the Red Lion in time to unlock its doors, so every moment was precious.

  To Meg, the snowy spell had become vitally important. She dreaded its end, knowing it would mark Frank’s departure. Icy gales at sea he could tolerate; to be restricted within the limits of a village cut off from the world, he could not. So long as the snow lasted, it kept him beside her, but he felt imprisoned and said so.

  “As soon as thaw comes, I’ll be off, lass, an’ if ye don’t come too, I’ll go alone. Mebbe that’ll knock sense into thee.”

  She had pleaded, beseeched, urged him to wait for just a while longer. “It’ll only be a short time now, I knows it!” But how she knew and why she had to stay she still stubbornly refused to tell.

  “I can be stubborn too, lass. Either ye comes or I goes alone. It be up to thee. I won’t wait around, leastways not in Burslem. I’ve worked it all out. There be a man named Zach Dobson, a crateman travelling t’wixt Mersey and the potteries. He’ll take ye as far as the Seamen’s Mission in dockland. The price is fixed, and I’ll pay it afore I goes. I doss down at t’mission when I’m ashore and I’ll doss down there till ye come. By day I’ll work the docks and by night I’ll be waiting. I’ll give ye two month and not a day more. If ye don’t come, back t’sea I goes. A man can wait only so long, me lovely. ’Specially a man like me.”

  “And this Zach Dobson — where’ll I find him?”

  “Me ould auntie’ll put ye in touch.”

  “Not Martha Tinsley! She’ll do me no good turn.”

  “She will if I say so. She’ll do anything for her darling Frankie, and if I tells her to make sure Zach Dobson brings ye t’Liverpool, she will, or nevermore catch sight nor sound o’ me. Zach dosses down at Red Lion when in these parts. He does the stretch t’wixt Mersey and the potteries every week. Arrives around Friday or Saturday, and leaves on Monday morn, five sharp, and I knows where I can trace him at Mersey end, so he won’t dare let me down.”

  “I don’t fancy travelling with a crateman, Frank.”

  “Ye’ll be safe wi’ this one. Zach Dobson will look after thee like a father. I wouldn’t trust no other. When time comes, ye must wait by the Hiring Cross north of Burslem.”

  “On a Monday.”

  “Aye, a Monday. If so be Zach gets thee t’Liverpool afore I knocks off, wait at mission till I come.”

  “Can’t they tell me where to find ye?”

  “They can that, but I’ll not be letting’em. Them docks ain’t safe. Ye’d be on thy back afore ye took ten paces. Stay at mission till I comes. An oath on it, lovely Meg?”

  “An oath on it, Frank. But I wish ye wouldn’t go — ”

  “If I don’t, ye’ll keep me in Burslem, and I ain’t a man t’do a woman’s bidding, much as I loves thee.”

  “I’ll never trap thee, Frank. Never tie thee down.”

  “Then prove it. Come wi’ me now, or come later. Choose.”

  “It has to be later, Frank. Trust me. Believe me. Come to Liverpool I will. Ye can tell Zach Dobson that, and tell him not to forget it.”

  The news about the destruction of Martin’s workshop was the second item to spread like wildfire through Burslcm. Clara had the details from her sister, the blacksmith’s wife over at Cooperfield, who had it from Sarah Blake, who had cooked and cleaned for Master Kendall when his wife was staying at Ashburton. Real nosey was Sarah, though never light-fingered or such. She’d had a good pry around the Kendalls’ place when working there. Sarah was one cat that curiosity never killed, so of course she knew all about Master Martin’s workshop. She’d even taken a good look at the things he made, and very fine she thought them.

  The morning after the disaster Sarah had a stroke of luck — she dropped in with a bunch of freshly picked celery from her patch, crisped up a treat by the frost, and found Master Kendall and Master Martin going through wreckage piled outside and salvaging what little they could.

  But before Clara heard these details, when her sister came to market and dropped into the kitchen at Medlar Croft for a draught and a gossip, she had also heard sobbing from the poor lad’s room the night before, stifled the way he useter as a mite. Clara’s ears being as sharp as her eyes, she knew summat were up.

  Then his mother, poor lady, were real upset; red-eyed at breakfast next morning. Not so Master Martin, who’d never shown private grief so long as Clara had known him. Instead, his chin had been set and his face more stubborn than ever. Pugnacious, Miss Jessica used to call it in that fond way of hers, but though Clara knew what it meant it was a word she could never get her tongue around. Fightin’ mad, was the way she put it. After eating a hearty breakfast he had set off for Cooperfield even earlier than he used to set off for Drayton’s, eager to go.

  This spate of gossip came to Meg’s ears the moment she reached her bench. Speculation about the perpetrator of such destruction was rampant amongst Drayton workers and the anger over young Martin’s dismissal increased with it, fanned by suspicion of the most damning kind. Everyone knew the Master Potter would stop at nothing when angered. He was hated and feared, but though workers were powerless against him, injustice or cruelty against any one of them would cause resentment to smoulder dangerously.

  It smouldered now.

  For five years the younger Drayton had been one of them, liked by all and loyal to all; his dismissal had aroused anger in the sheds and the deliberate wrecking of his workshop fanned it even more. It was plain as a pikestaff who had done it, and why. The story of the boy’s triumph at the Ashburton reception had been repeated by every servant in the place, and hard on its heels had come his discharge from Drayton’s Pottery. Within two weeks he should have stepped into his rightful place there, and if anything spoke for itself, that did. The Drayton tradition was that of any family trade, and young Martin Drayton had been cheated out of it.

  Many said the Master Potter had kept the lad down
with that very intent, and now this — destroying all he possessed before he even got started! Malicious damage was putting it mildly. It was a stab in the back, and someone should avenge it.

  But all this was fine talk since none of them knew how to go about it, nor would get a chance to try. And of course no one could prove a thing. The most anybody knew was that the midwife over at Cooperfield, the one who had tended poor Mistress Kendall when she lost her child, had trudged past the wheelwright’s cottage on her way home from a late confinement and heard a fair to-do going on there.

  “From one of the outhouses,” she said later, adding that at the time she couldn’t think why Master Kendall should be breaking wood for tinder in the early hours, though it seemed the only explanation. Then she had seen a horse tethered within shadows by the gate. A fine horse, from the size of it, though she couldn’t see closely in the dark. The only available light flickered inside one of the sheds, where the noise came from.

  Then there had been a mighty crash of glass, followed by an even greater din as if things were being overturned and then smashed. Such violence made her afraid and being a lone woman at such an hour and on such a night — fair bitter it was, and the confinement had been long and tiring — she had hurried on, minding her own business. But she regretted it later, when learning that the Kendalls had been absent and all this had been going on behind their backs. She was glad she hadn’t risked life and limb by interfering, but sorry she hadn’t caught a glimpse of the vandal.

  The only clue was that fine horse which, in itself, was surprising since no rough hoodlum would be likely to own such a costly animal — unless stolen, of course. Had it belonged to a visitor it would have been accommodated in the Kendalls’ small stable, not tethered out of sight, but would a couple who lived a quiet, hard working life be likely to entertain visitors at such an hour? And in any case the cottage was in darkness, its shut-up look confirming their absence. So why was a horse which must have cost a fine penny-piece hidden so carefully? The only thing she had observed about it, as her eyes struggled to focus in the shadows, was a dappling on one foreleg.