by Alan Lawton
He paused.
“True enough, Stovepipe might well have planned that ambuscade at ‘Hells Corner’ simply to pay your son back for the rough handling that he received earlier in the day. But why should he care?After all, a quick dustin’from some irate client must have been a risk-in-trade to a small no account creature such as Arkwright.”
Robert lit his pipe and drew in a lungful of smoke.
“No sister,” he continued. “You can be sure that a far bigger man was standing behind him and pulling the strings that made him jump about. I reckon that man is Albert Pike, the gymnasium owner and boxing promoter!
Young Darryl, if you recall, flatly refused to take part in a private contest with Silas Oldshaw’s pet bare-knuckle fighter and you can bet your life that Pike stood to lose plenty of cash if he failed to stage the meeting. Aye, and it was no secret that Darryl only fought to pay of the dept upon his boat; so it’s quite possible that Pike somehow discovered that the lad would be carrying most of his cash on the day that he was attacked, and ordered Stovepipe to organize the robbery as a means of driving Darryl back into the prize ring?”
“There could well be something in what you say.” The wisewoman admitted. “But can you really believe that a substantial man of business, such as Albert Pike, would take the risk of playing the felon, simply to regain the services of a part-time pugilist, when a score of other competent fighters could be hired in his place?”
Robert blew a cloud of blue tobacco smoke towards the ceiling.
“Perhaps he had good reason to do so lass,” he replied, “Black Darryl was becoming a well fancied boxer in the Manchester halls and some rich sporting toffs were beginning to wager heavily on your son. Pike might have thought the lad was capable of earning him a tidy amount of brass and it seems that yon bugger can use all the cash that he can lay his hands upon, if my information is correct!”
The old waterman laid aside his pipe and filled a bowl with the hot soup that was now bubbling on the hob.
“I have a mate of mine working as a drayman for one of the larger breweries,” he said handing her the steamin gbowl.“ Those draymen get all over the city in order to do their deliveries and they see plenty of what’s going on. They also do plenty of talkin’ with potmen and landlords and the like. Well, that mate of mine tells me that a man called Joe Pasco, a fella who used to run a small pub in Bury, has recently set up in a fair way of business in Manchester. The man has bought two commercial inns and a large eating house close to the Cotton Exchange, a place where the better paid clerks often take their midday meals. Recently, the man has spread his wings even further and has opened up a new combined public house and music-hall at a spot near Prussia Street, about midway between the Rochdale Navigation and the Lancashire andYorkshire railway station.
He paused, “The place is called ‘The Cleopatra’ and it’s reckoned to be patronized by a mixture of well-to-do rakes and groups of young clerks doing the town on payday.
He paused to re-light his pipe.
“Yon Pasco is Albert Pike’s brother-in-law, him being married to Pike’s sister Mildred. But the draymen say that Albert Pike’s always about the place and that Pasco, himself, is no more than a puppet. Think now, sister, if Pike’s stood paymaster for all these new investments; then its small wonder that he’s being forced to milk all the profit that he possibly can from fighters such as Darryl.”
Hetty nodded. “There could be much in what yon drayman says,” she replied. “That boxing agent certainly appears to be more than he seems. Now, please tell me everything that you know about that giant bruiser who helped Stovepipe to attack my son and have you identified the girl who led him away?”
Robert shook his head.
“I’ve discovered nothing. The ground might well have opened up and swallowed the pair of them.”
Hetty stood up and laid her hands upon her brother’s shoulders.
“I can never thank you enough for the help that you have afforded my son. But your relationship to Darryl and myself could put you in great danger. It would be best if you quit the district for a while until matters are satisfactorily resolved.”
The old waterman laughed. “Well, I’ll have no problem in letting out my cottage for a few months, and the coinage earned will take me to some secluded portion of the canal system where no one will find me in a hundred years.
The wisewoman kissed her brother fondly upon the cheek.
“Once again, I give you my thanks. Now I must rest awhile, for I must depart well before dawn!”
The wisewoman was tired and footsore, for she had quit Robert’s cottage about two hours before dawn, and the long walk into Manchester had given her ample time in which to digest the full significance of her brother’s words.
Albert Pike was implicated in her son’s downfall. Of that she was sure. Although the manner of his involvement still mystified her. Yet, even as she trudged through the dark streets of the city, she became ever more convinced that the fight promoter held the precious key that could unlock the deepest secrets of the whole affair. She had quickly realized that nothing would be gained by confronting the man openly; and she had resolved to find employment in some part of his business empire and patiently ferret out the proof of her son’s innocence from within. Dawn had found the witch standing outside one of Pasco’s commercial hotels, but this hostelry, like its sister establishment that was situated only a few streets away, had a very un-welcoming feel. This had warned the wisewoman to avoid the place like the plague and she hurried across Manchester to her alternative point of entry namely, the solid looking eating house called, ‘Masterson’s Pie and Pudding Emporium,’ having a much more welcoming feeling.
“Nothing ventured, nothing gained!” She muttered to herself as she followed a narrow alleyway leading her into a substantial courtyard lying to the rear of the establishment. Hetty knocked vigorously upon the door of the restaurant’s kitchen and her summons was answered by a burly man who wore a blue striped apron and casually cleaning a bloodstained meat cleaver with a piece of linen rag.
Hetty bowed her head. “Please sir,” she began. “I am in desperate need of work, washing, scrubbing, anything….”
The man abruptly curtailed her plea. “Come on in wench, for today must be your lucky day! One of my kitchen hands got knocked down by a cab on her way to work this morning and its left us short of help.”
He drew her into the kitchen and pointed towards a bench, where a dark-haired and rather slightly built girl was busily rolling dumplings from a mound of suet dough.
“Wash your hands and put on a clean pinny and give Mary-Helen a lift with the dumplings. But remember, no talkin’at all. I won’t have it in my kitchen!”
Hetty began rolling dumplings as fast as she was able and laid them out on the floured trays that were periodically removed by a male cook. As she worked, she was able to steal a few swift glances to familiarize herself with her new surroundings that at first glance, resembled a scene from some madhouse.
The kitchen was not large, being about thirty feet square, but it was packed with workbenches and sinks, at which a score of women worked without pause and where puddings, pies and stews were constantly being made ready for cooking. The far wall of the room was completely dominated by the long coal-fired range, where Masterson’s much vaunted pies were baked; together with the bread cobs and jacket potatoes that satisfied the hunger of the young clerks who laboured in the nearby offices and warehouses. On the top of the long range stood a row of copper pots, in which simmered the hundreds of beef puddings and many of the suet dumplings the wisewoman was now helping to prepare.
At the very end of the range stood a massive cauldron of shredded cabbage that bubbled endlessly and filled the kitchen with its acrid fragrance.
After about an hour, the mound of suet dough that had stood upon the top of the work bench had disappeared entirely and Mary-Helen led the witch over to a sink standing in a distant corner of the room. The two women began washing up t
he discarded pie tins casually flung in their direction by the sweating cooks who laboured at the ovens.
The dark-haired girl leaned over and began talking quietly to her new helper.
“Don’t worry yourself lovie,’” she said in broad cockney accent. “Mr Simister can’t see us in this corner, so bugger him and his no talkin’rule. Me name’s Mary-Helen Jones, but most folks just call’s me ‘Marsie’ sept’ for that gafferman. But he’s not such a bad old cove is Simister, for all his stuck-up chapel ways. Even he needs to come to heel when the owner shouts, for he has to make a livin’ like the rest of us; him with nine hungry young mouths to feed at home.”
She laughed quietly. “Me. I was born and bred in Bermondsey, London, but I took the train north, about a year ago, after me fella started beating me about something awful.
He was threatening to put me on the game after he got sacked and blacklisted from the docks.”
Marsie’ chuckled. “I reckon scrubbing pie tins aint’ so good, but It beats havin’ to flog me arse for a tanner a go, to them bloody stinkin’fish porters over on Billingsgate market.”
She laughed again. “Well girl, if we get’s done with this washing up, then we might get the chance to have a good chin-wag, for we usually gets a break once the waiters start serving the first of the customers.”
The two women continued washing up kitchen utensils and to Hetty’s inexperienced eye, it appeared that the mad confusion in the kitchen could get no worse. However, a little before midday, a group of white-coated waiters and waitresses suddenly burst into the kitchen and began shouting out their customers orders to the sweating cooks; the cooks immediately responding by loading the dining room staff’s serving trays with bowls and plates of steaming food.
“No break today!” Simister shouted above the din. “The dining rooms near full already and the toffs are still flooding in through the front door. So you must all grab a bite of food and a drink of tea as you work!”
Aw’ Christ,” Marsie’ groaned in response to the gaffers words. “No time for a moment’s rest, only more piles of dishes to wash.”
Soon, heaps of dirty crockery began joining the used pie tins in the sink and the two women were hard pressed in keeping up with the demand for clean plates and kitchen utensils.
The clock on the wall struck one o’clock and the chaos in the kitchen continued unabated, with the overworked operatives pausing only for a few seconds to swallow some broken pie and wash it down with a mouthful of black tea.
The clock struck two and the waiting-on staff began entering the kitchen at a rather more leisurely pace as the clerks in the dining room began returning to their places of work.
By half past three, the women at the sink had cleared the backlog of dirty crockery and were ordered to move across the kitchen to assist some other workers who were washing and preparing the vegetables that would be needed on the following day.
Afterwards, they scrubbed down the workbenches until they were perfectly clean and their last task of the day was to swill down the stone-flagged kitchen floor with buckets of boiling water mixed with strong washing soda.
It was well past seven in the evening before Simister declared himself satisfied with their day’s endeavours and dismissed his tired kitchen staff to their homes and families.
The gaffer walked over to Hetty who was putting away the mops and buckets in an outside closet.
“You worked well enough today, lass,” he commented, “you can count on the skivvying job as being yours, if you still want it? But first tell me a bit about yourself, for I’ve never seen your face around here before and I wouldn’t care to find myself employing someone who’s known to the Constabulary!”
Hetty smiled to herself, for she had anticipated the possibility of being asked to account for her origins and had taken the precaution of concocting a plausible story.
“Please sir; I am a respectable working widow.” She said, bowing her head. “My husband was a labourer working in one of the quarries above Kendal, but he was killed in a rock fall over a year ago. Havin’no close kinfolk, I had no choice but to leave my home village and seek work elsewhere.”
Simister nodded sympathetically, appearing to be satisfied with her explanation, for dispossessed country women were often found seeking work in the factories and households around Manchester.
“Very well,” He said. “You may continue here. You may also bed down above the vegetable store along with Mary-Helen, if you have no adequate lodgings. You will be paid four shillings per week and you may eat your fill of the left-over’s from the kitchen. Now I bid you goodnight.”
The gaffer clamped a bowler hat upon his ample head, locked the door of the kitchen and then disappeared into the darkness.
Marsie’took the wisewoman by the hand and led her across the courtyard to a small storehouse lying against the boundary wall. The building had evidently been originally intended as a stable, for the girl led Hetty up an external staircase and into a disused hay-loft that had once held the provender for the animals below.
The young woman lit a candle and the witch was able to make out pair of straw filled pelisses, two rickety chairs and an upturned box that evidently served as a table.
“Aint’no palace,” the cockney woman remarked, “but I’ve cleaned the place up and no rats get up this far. It gets cold at night, right enough. But we’re not short of blankets and I reckon that hundreds of homeless folk around Manchester would give a year of their lives to be as well fixed up as we are this night.”
Marsie’ removed a cloth from the top of the cane basket that she was carrying and drew out a pair of steaming hot beef puddings, a fruit pie and a bottle of warm black tea.
“Best thing about working in a kitchen,” she said with a laugh. “Is that you aint’ likely to starve, and old Simister isn’t above turning a blind eye if we take a bit of good stuff along with the slops. Now get stuck in before this lot gets cold and then we had best get under the blankets and catch some sleep. For we have to get the grates cleaned out and the fires lit before half past five in the mornin.’Aye, and god help us if the ovens aint’ hot when the cooks arrive for work at six o’clock sharp!”
Hetty quickly became accustomed to the routine of the kitchen in the days following her arrival. The work was hard and the long hours of unremitting toil often brought her to the point of almost complete exhaustion. Even a good night’s sleep was sometimes difficult to obtain, for the unheated hay-loft was cold and draughty. One evening, the temperature suddenly plummeted and the two women had been forced to pile all of the available blankets onto a single pelisse and spend the night clinging together for warmth.
Marsie’ however, proved to be an excellent workmate, for she was invariably good humoured and possessed all of the irrepressible wit of her cockney ancestors.
The girl would always crack a joke when the drudgery of the kitchen became unbearable and Hetty’s face would then contort with silent laughter.
The eating house, she soon discovered, was closed on Sunday and the operatives were relieved of their duties for the day. On her first free Sunday, the wisewoman walked through the quiet streets until she came to a boat-chandler’s store that was situated on the banks of the Rochdale Canal. The owner, it was said, often allowed his premises to be used as a postal accommodation address by the itinerant boat crews who plied the waterway for the payment of a small fee.
The establishment was closed, but the proprietor responded to the wisewoman’s knocking and after a short bout of haggling, the man agreed to receive and hold her mail for the sum of three pence per week. The wisewoman’s inner-eye warned her that the chandler was shifty and unreliable, but she desperately needed to keep in touch with Elfencot so had little choice but to reluctantly trust in the man’s honesty. However, she took the precaution of giving her name as Hetty Walters, rather than Littlewood, and she also resolved to make sure that she was always alone and unobserved whenever visiting the store.
Hetty had been w
orking in the restaurant for almost a fortnight before she set eyes upon Joe Pasco, the official owner of the establishment.
The man had entered the kitchen about midmorning in the company of Mr Simister and began giving the workplace and its edible products, a rapid and far from searching examination.
None of the operatives dared to pause for a moment as they worked under the eye of the proprietor. Yet the witch had no difficulty in observing the man out of the corner of her eye, and she was soon able to make a tentative evaluation of both his character and his appearance.
Joe Pasco was tall, being over six feet in height, and possessed a lean and athletic build that would have done justice to a professional sportsman. In addition, a shock of shining blonde hair fell almost to his shoulders and his unusually loose hairstyle tended to act as a backdrop to his remarkably handsome features.
‘Indeed, a man born to turn the heads of the ladies.’ The wisewoman concluded.