Down Weaver's Lane

by Anna Jacobs

  It was all her fault for accosting him like that. They shouldn’t allow whores out in daylight.

  When he got back to his horse it was fretting but he dressed again and re-mounted. He looked down at the muddy waistcoat, slung across the pommel now. It would have to be got rid of or the servants would ask why it was in such a state. He reined in and stared round, then remembered the old abandoned quarry and turned off along the stony rutted track towards it. He didn’t even need to dismount to toss the waistcoat over the edge and laughed as it vanished from sight. By the time anyone found it, if they ever did, it’d be weathered beyond recognition.

  As he rode slowly home, he smiled to think of what he had done. No one messed around with Marcus Armistead. He was a man to be reckoned with, a man who knew how to treat women. He felt good, happier than he had for a long time.

  But he had better be careful next time the rage rose in him. If he could.

  When he got home, he claimed a fall from his horse, something which had happened to him once or twice before.

  His father was loudly scornful of his horsemanship at dinner that night, but when Marcus said he’d been coming back from calling on Jane Rishmore, the old fool shut up about the fall and wanted to know about that instead.

  ‘I think we had a pleasant visit,’ Marcus said. It had been purgatory. She’d barely said a word to help the conversation along and she’d looked worse than usual, great ugly lump that she was.

  ‘Good, good. You’d better propose soon. I’ll speak to Rishmore and see when he wants the wedding to take place. Easter might be a good time. What do you think, my dear?’

  Eleanor nodded. ‘A very good idea. A young man needs some responsibility to keep him out of mischief.’

  What the hell did she mean by that? Marcus wondered. He avoided her eyes and concentrated on his food. He was hungry tonight and the lamb was particularly juicy.

  His parents continued to discuss the coming marriage for the rest of the meal until Marcus could have screamed at them to shut up. But he didn’t dare because his bloody father still held the purse strings.

  As he was getting into bed he again remembered the woman he’d killed, and smiled. One day her daughter too would find out that it did not pay to cross him. He would look forward to that.

  9

  Mrs Bradley came into the kitchen looking very grave. ‘There you are, Emmy. Could I have a word with you, please?’

  Exchanging worried glances with Cass, Emmy wiped her hands on her apron and followed her mistress along the corridor to the small sitting room in which parish business was conducted. Her heart was thumping and her hands felt clammy. What had happened now?

  ‘Sit down, child.’

  It didn’t sound as if she was in trouble, but she was so terrified she was going to be turned off, Emmy remained where she was and burst out with, ‘If I’ve done something wrong, Mrs Bradley, I didn’t mean to and I’ll never do it again, if you’ll only tell me what it is.’

  ‘Dear me, it’s not that. This is about your mother, I’m afraid.’ Again she gestured to the chair beside her.

  ‘Oh.’ Emmy’s heart sank still further as she took the chair. Surely her mother wasn’t causing more trouble for her? It’d be a long time before she forgave her for taking George’s side, that was for sure. If she ever did. ‘I don’t want to have anything else to do with her, ma’am, and I’m really sorry if she’s bothered you.’

  ‘It’s not that. Look, there isn’t an easy way to tell you but I’m afraid your mother’s dead, Emmy. She was found on the moors just outside town, lying by the side of the road. And, well - it seems someone had murdered her, beaten her to death.’

  Emmy clasped the edge of her mistress’s rosewood desk as the room wavered around her. ‘Dead? My mother’s dead?’

  ‘Yes. I’m so sorry. The constable wants to have a word with you later, to ask if you’ve any idea who might have done this.’

  Emmy could only think of one person. ‘It must be George Duckworth. Who else could it be?’

  ‘That was what Constable Makepeace thought, but it’s not possible. Mr Duckworth turned your mother out yesterday and sprained his ankle soon after she left. He was sitting in the bar for the rest of the day with his foot up, in full view of his customers, and then,’ she flushed, ‘he, um, spent the night with one of his - women.’

  Emmy wasn’t convinced. ‘But who else would ...’ She broke off as she realised that only one other person wished her ill and might have tried to get at her through her mother. But surely Marcus Armistead could not have done such a thing? He was a gentleman, and would he even know someone as old and shop-soiled as Madge Carter? And he wasn’t a very big man either. Her mother could have fought him off as Emmy had. Only - he’d hurt Emmy, had enjoyed doing it too. Maybe he’d planned the attack, taken her mother by surprise? Thoughts were whirling round her brain, but she kept seeing her poor mother - dying alone and in agony somewhere on the moors. And then remembering that Madge hadn’t even looked at her when George had carried her out of the inn.

  For all her faults, her mother hadn’t deserved to be murdered. No one deserved that.

  Mrs Bradley allowed the young maid a moment or two, then asked quietly, ‘Is there something you know that might help, dear?’

  She looked at her mistress. ‘It was only a thought, ma’am. Nothing definite. I’d better not say. It concerns the gentleman who ...’ She could not finish the sentence, could only swallow hard and stare down at her tightly clasped hands.

  ‘Hmm.’ Prudence looked at her thoughtfully. ‘I think you should tell Constable Makepeace everything you know and let him decide for himself whether it’s important or not. I’ll send you word when he arrives. If you wish to go to your bedroom until then, you may.’

  ‘Thank you, ma’am, but I’d rather get on with my work. It’s better to keep busy.’

  Emmy walked slowly back to the kitchen and told Cook and Cass what had happened. ‘Why am I not crying?’ she asked in bewilderment. ‘My mother’s dead. Shouldn’t I be crying?’

  ‘Shock,’ Cook said. ‘It’ll hit you sudden, then you’ll bawl your eyes out.’ Having offered that comfort, and being a woman of few words, she went back to her work.

  When Cass passed she gave Emmy’s back a friendly pat and smiled at her. It was comforting. In fact, Emmy found just being in that big warm kitchen comforting. If only she could stay here at the Parsonage! But she knew she couldn’t. It was even more important for her to leave Northby now that someone had killed her mother.

  She’d lost her dear mistress, then her mother, and now she was going to lose her only friend. You could not be much more alone in the world than she was. Once Mrs Bradley found her a job, she would probably never see Jack again. Life was cruel.

  Eli Makepeace came to the Parsonage that afternoon and spoke gently to Emmy, with such kindness in his weatherbeaten face she decided to do as her mistress had suggested and tell him everything. When she told him the name of the gentleman who had paid George to kidnap her, he whistled softly through his teeth.

  ‘Have you told anyone else about that, girl?’

  ‘Only Mr and Mrs Bradley - oh, and Jack.’

  ‘Would that be Jack Staley?’

  ‘Yes, sir. I bumped into him when I was escaping from the cottage. He brought me here and agreed with me that it was better not to mention the man’s name to anyone else.’

  ‘Well, lass, he was right, more’s the pity. He’s got his head screwed on, has young Staley. You were right to tell me about it, but it doesn’t do to set up the backs of the gentry unless you’ve proof. It’s not fair, but it’s how things are in this world.’

  Eli chewed the corner of his lip thoughtfully as he studied her. He’d seen Emmy Carter about town with old Mrs Oswald and knew her to be a decent lass. Surprising, that, with a drunken whore of a mother but he liked to take folk as he found ‘em, not let others tell him what to think. ‘I can’t see any reason why Marcus Armistead should have killed your mot
her, though, even if he is angry with you, so it’s no use bringing him into it unless I find cause. I won’t forget what you’ve told me, though, and I’ll keep my eyes open.’ It was surprising what you could piece together bit by bit sometimes.

  She nodded, accepting what he had said. Her life had given her no reason to believe in the fairness of things, either. All you could do was look after yourself to the best of your ability. And sometimes even that wasn’t enough to keep you safe.

  When the constable had gone she sat on for a few minutes in her mistress’s comfortable little sitting room, thinking about her mother. Emmy still couldn’t take it in that she was really dead.

  Mrs Bradley returned. ‘Are you all right, dear?’

  Emmy stood up hastily. ‘Yes, ma’am.’

  ‘My husband says they want to bury your mother the day after tomorrow. He’ll hold a short service but it’ll be a pauper’s grave, I’m afraid.’

  Emmy nodded. She had expected nothing else. And who but she would care that Madge Carter was dead?

  ‘I’ll find you some dark clothes to wear. You need some warmer things anyway.’

  As she went back to her work, Emmy could not help thinking about her future. Some maids stayed with families all their lives, Cook said, and she should know because she’d been with the Bradleys for nearly twenty years. ‘You put your heart into your work, my lass,’ she’d advised, ‘and you’ll make a good life for yourself in service.’

  Emmy intended to do that. But first they had to bury her mother - and bury the past with her, she hoped.

  It was Martin Graslow who told his friend that his sister had been murdered, and how.

  Isaac looked at him in shock and could not speak for a minute or two, then he swallowed hard. ‘I must go to the funeral. I can’t let them bury her without me. She was such a pretty little lass, our Madge was. My father used to think the world of her. I - I can’t rightly take it in that she’s dead.’

  He went to see his employer as soon as he was feeling more himself. Time to make a clean breast of things. ‘Madge Carter, the woman who was killed - she was my sister, sir.’

  Samuel Rishmore stared at him in amazement. ‘You never said a word about that when the woman came to work in Northby!’

  ‘Well, it’s not something I’m proud of. My father never spoke her name aloud from the day she ran away to the day he died. The reason I’m telling you now, sir, is that I should like to attend the funeral. I shall only need an hour off and I’ll make the time up.’

  ‘No need for that. You’ve more than earned an hour off. We’ll be holding an inquest tomorrow afternoon. It’s a clear case of murder, but I can’t see us catching the criminal who did it. He’ll be miles away now. A disgruntled customer, I should think. Makepeace tells me there’s a daughter. Is she a whore too?’

  ‘I don’t know the girl, because we didn’t associate with my sister, but I’m told the lass is not at all like her mother. She’s working for Parson at the moment as a maid, it seems, but used to work for Mrs Oswald.’

  Rishmore nodded. He remembered now seeing her in church and thinking her pretty. Too pretty. ‘Well, you’re her only relative now, so you’d better make sure she’s all right. Let me know if there’s anything I can do to help. We don’t want her turning to the streets like her mother, do we?’

  When Isaac went back to the office he sat down heavily behind his desk, forgetting to shut the door. There was something he had to do for his sister before he could bury her and her murky past.

  After a few minutes’ deep thought he went to the door and called Jack in. ‘I want you to take the afternoon stage coach to Manchester and deliver a message for me, then wait for an answer. You’ll be late back, I’m afraid, so here’s some money for a meal as well as the fare. Make sure you’re not late for work tomorrow, though.’ He felt guilty about doing this in his own interests, but doubted Mr Rishmore would question the junior clerk’s absence.

  Jack was startled at this order, but the thought of going into Manchester excited him for he’d never visited the city. Carefully he memorised his instructions about delivering a message to a lawyer called Reynolds who had offices just off Deansgate, then went to catch the stage coach that passed regularly through Northby on its way to the city.

  Jack hadn’t believed it when people told him there were over a hundred thousand people living in Manchester, but as the coach creaked and rumbled towards the smoky mass he gazed out of the mud-splattered window in awe. On and on the city went, a great sprawl of buildings: houses of all sizes, terraces of workers’ dwellings, mills with big smoking chimneys, workshops, manufactories, smithies, shops, innumerable public houses, and nearer the centre a few imposing civic buildings. And people everywhere you looked! Rich ones in their carriages, hawkers with trays hanging round their necks, people on foot, and beggars at the corners of the meaner streets. It made his head spin to see it all.

  As the coach drove into the city centre it had to slow down to a walking pace because there were so many other vehicles on the roads - fancy carriages, gigs, carts, drays carrying heavy loads, men pushing handcarts, everything you could think of. And the people on foot were bustling to and fro as if their lives depended on them getting somewhere as rapidly as possible.

  Jack had heard Mr Butterfields say how important a city Manchester was becoming, and he had read about it in Parson’s newspapers, but it hadn’t seemed real before. Now it was. And he was proud to see such progress, even though he’d not like to live here himself.

  Once out of the coach he walked as briskly as he could through the crowds, following the clear directions he had been given by the head clerk. He delivered the letter and had to wait a few minutes for a reply, then was given another letter, its edges stuck down so hastily the sealing wax was smeared everywhere. He didn’t waste time wondering what it might contain. Mr Butterfield did not confide all Rishmore’s business to him and relied on his discretion. He made the most of the chance to see a bit of the city in the two hours before he could set off back on the last coach of the day.

  When he got to Northby, it looked very small to him and almost deserted, only a few people to be seen by the light of the lamps the parish council insisted be kept lit until midnight in the centre of the town. He shivered as he walked briskly to Mr Butterfield’s house and knocked on the front door, handing over the reply to what must be a very important message indeed.

  Then he made his way home to the much smaller house that felt more like a prison each year. He hesitated outside the front door, listening to the sound of yet another shrill argument between his sister and mother. It had been wonderful to escape, if only for a few hours. He just wished he didn’t have to go back inside again!

  The day of the funeral was cold but fine, with an icy wind whistling through the streets and sucking the warmth from those who had no choice but to be out in it.

  Emmy helped out in the kitchen, then at ten o’clock went up to the chilly attic to change into her new clothes, shivering in the raw air of the unheated rooms. The matching skirt and bodice fitted nicely, though she’d had to take the hem up. And the clothes hardly showed any signs of wear. Imagine people giving away clothes as good as these! She fingered the material, a sturdy dark grey wool that would keep her nice and warm, then swung the lighter grey woollen cloak round her shoulders and picked up the small felt bonnet with the new black ribbons on it.

  When she went down Cook stopped work to stare at her and nod approvingly.

  Cass came in and said, ‘Eh, them dark colours suit you, Emmy love.’

  ‘Who will be there to notice? There’s only going to be me at the funeral.’

  She walked across to the church with Parson, keeping her eyes cast down, relieved when he didn’t say anything. She still hadn’t wept for her mother and that made her feel so guilty.

  The air inside the church seemed no warmer than that outside and Emmy shivered as they walked across the stone-flagged floor at the back towards the aisle. On Sundays they
lit braziers in here to try to warm the place up, and usually she’d have been in the crowded back pews with enough people around to kept her warm. Today, with only a pauper’s funeral taking place, the sexton hadn’t bothered lighting any braziers and the empty church seemed larger than usual as their footsteps echoed around them.

  Automatically she moved towards a rear pew.

  ‘You must sit at the front today, my dear,’ Parson said in his kind, plummy voice.

  It made everything feel even more unreal to follow him towards the altar. She took the seat he indicated on the right side of the aisle and bent her head. She tried to pray for her mother, she really did, but no words would come.

  The coffin was already standing at the front of the church. It looked small and the wood was roughly finished. The thought that her mother’s battered body lay inside it made Emmy shiver again.

  Parson, who had vanished to one side, now came out to the front in his vestments. He opened his mouth to speak then closed it again with a look of surprise.

  The big door at the rear opened and shut again with a bang that echoed through the church and footsteps paced slowly along the aisle. Emmy didn’t like to turn and stare so waited to see who this was. When a man joined her in the front pew, she glanced quickly sideways and saw in shock that it was the one her mother had said was her brother, Mr Butterfield who worked at the mill. He had always walked straight past them in the street, never showing by so much as the flicker of an eyelid that he recognised them, so she was astonished to see him here today.

  He nodded to her, then sat down beside her and bowed his head for a minute in prayer.

  The door banged again and another set of footsteps came along the aisle. Emmy could not help turning round to stare this time, even if it was bad manners, but the newcomer was a complete stranger, a man she had never seen before. Who was he? What was he doing here? Had he known her mother too? And if so, how had he found out about the funeral?