Without either shifting his gaze or uttering a word, Caleb Crowther raised his cane and pointed it towards the far right of the stage. When, in a low cunning voice, the proprietor murmured in his ear, ‘The redhead? . . . you mean the tall redhead?’ he merely nodded, lowered his cane and gave a soft laugh as he turned to his companion saying, ‘Come on, damn your eyes . . . there’s a game waiting.’
‘The little baggage third along,’ the willowy fellow told the proprietor with a drunken giggle. ‘The little blonde. Do you see the one?’ he asked.
‘I see,’ confirmed the proprietor, with a knowing look from one man to the other, asking, ‘I take it you want their company after the game?’
‘Of course after the game!’ Caleb Crowther intervened, ‘Use your common sense, man!’
‘Of course, yes, indeed!’ came the hurried response, ‘I’ll see to it.’ He held out one hand, and, when the tall, willowy fellow dropped a guinea into it, he bent his head forward, saying in a patronizing manner, ‘Off you go then . . . room eight. You know where it is.’
In room eight the evening was spent in a serious mood, with a number of straight-faced, dedicated men seated round a table, each one with a fist full of cards and a wallet bulging with money – most of which rapidly found its way into the centre of the table, until the mound of bank bills there represented a small fortune.
As the night went on and the pile of money grew, each man furtively watched the others, wallets were emptied and flung down in anger, and the atmosphere became unbearably tense. Of all the devastated faces, there was none more so than Caleb Crowther’s. Having lost more than most, and seeing no way to make restitution, he was obliged to bow out of the game, after which he sat in a dark corner downing glass after glass of whisky. Finally, in the small hours, when the game was eventually over and the players departed, he struggled to his feet, hardly able to walk across the room to where his companion, Bartholomew, was gleefully counting his handsome winnings.
‘Leave it!’ he said, in a slurred voice, ‘get the women!’
‘They’ll be along, Crowther . . . any minute now,’ assured his companion, ‘and you surely don’t expect me to leave this money just lying about?’ The very thought caused him to glance at Caleb Crowther with horror. He finished stuffing the bank notes into his coat pockets before reverently folding the coat and laying it over the back of a chair some safe distance away. ‘You know how light-fingered these trollops are!’ he reprimanded, ‘Pluck the gold from your teeth, they would!’
Apart from the large oval table in the centre of the floor, and the chairs around it, there were five other items of furniture in the room – an ornate wash-stand containing a jug and bowl, a tall, ungainly clothes cupboard, a short, broad chest of drawers, and two narrow iron-framed beds, one either end of the room. As the girls were ushered into the room by the proprietor, Bartholomew grabbed the small blonde one and hurried her away to the farthest bed, the pair of them laughing and stumbling as they went, eagerly shedding their clothes along the way.
For a long moment, the tall red-haired girl stayed by the door, her round green eyes intent on Caleb Crowther’s features. On seeing his unsteady gait and the manner in which he began to look her up and down, she asked cheekily, ‘D’yer think yer can manage me, Toff? . . . Yer look to me as though it’s all yer can do to stay awake!’
‘You think so, do you?’ murmured Caleb Crowther, a strange look on his face as he gestured for her to go to the bed. As he followed, the cries of pleasure coming from the other side of the room caused them both to look. The two figures thrashing away there were already naked, both in a frenzy of excitement, and both totally oblivious to the presence of anyone else. Like their gyrating bodies, their anguished and fevered groans rose and fell one into the other, the sight and sound of which enthused Caleb Crowther into hurrying toward the other bed where the red-haired girl stood waiting.
With his eyes looking directly into hers and without uttering a word, he lifted his hands and began fumbling at her clothes, firstly loosening the straps at her shoulders, then tugging at the tiny pearl buttons at her breast. The drink he had swallowed that evening made him more clumsy than usual, and when, after unsuccessfully attempting to undo the buttons, she began to softly laugh at him, he became agitated and the look in his eyes darkened with fury. With a low, rumbling growl, he clutched his fingers over the bodice of her dress and, leaning all his weight forward, he ripped the garment from top to bottom, afterwards wrenching it from her back and slinging it across the room. The girl was not shocked, nor was she afraid, for she had been subjected to such rough handling before. It was not in her nature to question such men – only to assure herself that they were here to make love, not to hurt or maim.
Now, when Caleb Crowther pushed her back on to the bed, she lay there impassively, looking up at him as he made hard and laborious work of undressing himself – all the while muttering and cursing – until, with a smile still on her lips, she stood up to help. Presently, they faced each other in their nakedness, all barriers between them gone, and in their eyes the look of hunger – his for the taste of her body, and hers for whatever money he might later see fit to leave her.
At first, as his fingers explored every inch of her body – touching first her ravishing red hair, then travelling from her neck to her nipples, where the light touch of his fingers lingered a moment before reaching down to where her thighs were warm and moist – there was a gentleness in his approach, almost a reverence. But then, when she also reached out to stroke and caress that most sensitive part of his body, he began to shiver and grow excited. Suddenly, he had his arms around her and was pulling her to him, moaning in ecstasy as her warm naked body merged with his. In a moment they were on the bed and he was bearing down on her with bull-strength.
It was then that Caleb Crowther was rendered useless by the drink he had consumed and, in spite of his repeated attempts, it became obvious to both himself and the girl that he was unable to satisfy either of them. With a contemptuous expression, she pushed him away from her, saying with a laugh, ‘I’m buggered if you ain’t the very first let-down I’ve ever had!’ The effect that her cruel taunt had on Caleb Crowther was immediate. With a cry of ‘Bloody whore!’ he flung out a hand to grasp the back of her head, his fingers intertwined in her hair and his nails digging into her scalp. Even before she could cry out, he had formed his other hand into a fist, and with a cry of ‘Trollop!’ he swung it into her face with such force that he sent her reeling across the room towards the fireplace, where the coal was still glowing. As she fell against it, her arm was flung sideways to touch the searing-hot bars of the basket. With a cry of pain she snatched it away and, clambering to her knees, she looked up at Caleb Crowther with venom in her eyes. ‘You bastard, you!’ she uttered through clenched teeth, at the same time raising her hand to where the blood was gushing from her nose and from the deep gash along her cheekbone made by his ring.
‘Get out!’ came the instruction, ‘before I forget altogether that I’m a gentleman!’ He scooped up the torn dress and, with an angry flick of the wrist, sent it through the air towards her. Without delay, she collected the garment, held it over her nakedness and swiftly left the room.
Unaware that the two occupants of the other bed had ceased their activities to watch his treatment of the girl, Caleb Crowther stumbled to the table, from where he collected the last remaining bottle of booze. Then, throwing his grotesque and naked form on to the bed, he downed every last dreg of the fiery liquid. Soon after, he fell into a deep, restless stupor, every now and then flailing the air with his arms and constantly calling out two names – first Mary, then Emma. Only once did the name Thadius touch his lips, after which he was seized by a fit of uncontrollable trembling.
For a long while afterwards, Caleb Crowther’s companion lay quite still on the other bed, his eyes narrow and wary as he studied Caleb Crowther’s sleeping form. ‘You really are a bastard, Crowther,’ he murmured, giving a low laugh, ‘but you
’ll get your come-uppance if you’re not very careful.’
‘What’s that you say, darlin’?’ came the sleepy voice beside him, ‘Want some more do yer, duckie?’ Whereupon he told her with a friendly laugh that she had worn him out. Then, throwing Caleb Crowther a scornful look, he flung his arm about the girl next to him, and the pair of them fell into an exhausted sleep.
With the dawn came a summons from the proprietor that the hansom cab was waiting outside. In no time at all, Caleb Crowther and his companion were out of their beds; washed in the warm water brought by their host and poured into the wash-stand, and were hurriedly on their way downstairs before the coming day might rise to light up the skies and expose them for the dregs they were.
At the door, Caleb Crowther felt the urge to glance back, and there he saw the tall, slender red-headed girl watching his every move. While he had slept, she had paced the floor, her swollen face a mass of pain, and in her heart the fervent desire to see the devil who’d done it fester in Hell! Pure hatred was in her eyes now as she glared at Caleb Crowther. Seeing the loathing she harboured for him, Caleb Crowther thought it thoroughly amusing. With a gentle laugh, he reached into the top pocket of his waistcoat, from where he withdrew a silver coin which he spun in her direction. ‘For services rendered,’ he told her with a cunning smile, which became a laugh when she plucked the coin from the threadbare carpet and threw it back at his feet.
‘Your money’s tainted darlin’,’ she said scornfully, ‘like you! . . . And just as bloody useless!’ At the last words, the smile slithered from Caleb Crowther’s face. Ignoring the coin at his feet, he swung away and went smartly through the double doors to where the cab was waiting.
‘Cor! Gerra bloody move on, mate!’ urged the driver, ‘The old horse is bleeding-well agitated . . . an’ I’m bloody frozen!’ He pulled his cape tighter about him and began blowing into his gloved hands, at the same time giving instructions to the handsome bay horse to ‘be patient, yer old mare! Be patient!’
Once inside the cab, Caleb Crowther settled back into the buttoned leather seats, as Bartholomew gave the driver directions. ‘14 Bedford Square,’ he called out, adding at Caleb Crowther’s request, ‘then on to King’s Cross Station.’
Before the driver could urge the horse forward, three men appeared as if out of thin air; in fact they had been waiting for quite some time in a second carriage further down the street, and had observed the proceedings with particular interest. When one of the three dark-suited men took hold of the horse’s reins, saying to the astonished driver, ‘Just sit tight. None of this is your business, grandad!’ he did exactly as he was told, for this was an area where crooks and villains thrived in every dark corner. Behind him, the driver could hear a scuffle and shouts of protest from the occupants of his cab, but he wisely kept his eyes looking directly ahead; even when he heard a heavy thud as the tall, willowy fellow was pulled from the cab to the pavement, he did not avert them. The other two dark-suited men had by now climbed into the cab, and placed themselves one either side of Caleb Crowther. When he began thrashing his arms about and threatening to call for assistance, the larger of the two men grabbed his arm, wrenching it behind his back until he cried out. The second man, finding it amusing, said in a mocking voice, ‘Really Jack . . . you mustn’t hurt Mr Crowther.’ Then, throwing Caleb Crowther a menacing look, he continued, ‘Not yet anyway. You know the boss likes folk to be given every opportunity to settle their debts. Now . . . if they don’t care to settle their debts, well . . . they deserve to be hurt, don’t they?’ He prodded a sharp stiff finger into Caleb Crowther’s fleshy stomach. ‘It’s well-known that Victor Sorensen has a kind heart. Wouldn’t you agree?’ he asked quietly, his eyes never leaving his victim’s fearful face.
‘Yes! Yes . . . you tell your boss I have every intention of settling my debts.’ With this, Caleb Crowther drew up his shoulders in a futile attempt to regain his dignity. Then, looking from one of his assailants to the other, he told them in a more controlled voice, ‘I’ve never let Mr Sorensen down, he knows that. It’s just that, well, I have to step carefully with my brother-in-law not long gone. But, I have it all in hand . . . in fact, I have a meeting with the bank official this very week.’
‘Is that so?’ remarked the fellow seated on Caleb Crowther’s right. ‘Mr Sorensen heard about the responsibilities you inherited. Cash, too, we understand?’
‘No! . . . no cash. Just two mills, and they’re like a dead weight round my neck! I’d sell them tomorrow if I could.’
‘Well now, the boss don’t care which way you get the money. Just get it, Crowther – or there’ll be more of a dead weight round your neck than the mills! Get my meaning, do you?’ When Caleb Crowther nodded, he continued, ‘You’ve got one week from today.’ He prodded Caleb’s stomach again, this time more viciously. ‘Remember that, Crowther. One week!’ Then he made a short sharp movement of his head, whereupon the other man released Caleb Crowther, before throwing open the cab door and stepping out into the road. His colleague did the same on the pavement side, after which he held the door open and, peering into the club doorway, where Bartholomew Mysen had retreated, he beckoned him forward. ‘You were going somewhere, I believe,’ he said in a smarmy voice, as the man came out of the shadows to climb with haste back into the cab . . . but, not before the dark-suited man had slipped a roll of notes into his fist and given him a knowing wink.
The journey was completed in silence. Only when Bartholomew was delivered to Bedford Square and was about to close the door behind him, did he warn Caleb Crowther, ‘You don’t mix with their sort, Crowther . . . not if you’ve got any sense. You’re a bloody fool! For too long you’ve been sailing close to the wind. I’m telling you for your own good . . . get them off your back, man! Whatever it takes to free yourself of them, do it!’ With that, he slammed the door shut and called up to the driver, ‘Get him to King’s Cross Station,’ at the same time reaching up to hand him a generous fare. As he watched the cab pull away, he clicked his teeth and shook his head. ‘You’re a fool, Crowther,’ he murmured, thinking how glad he was that it wasn’t he who had fallen foul of the likes of Victor Sorensen, for he did not know of a man more evil than that one. This abominable fellow ran his own empire underground; every sordid and corrupt organization was under his control; yet he was so cunning a fiend that nothing could be traced back to him. He preyed on men like Caleb Crowther – weak, indulgent men, who took women and played the gambling dens as though their lives depended on it. Well, now it did, and the possible consequences made Bartholomew Mysen shiver in his shoes. He fingered the notes in his pocket, and reflected on his part in betraying Caleb Crowther. But he had few regrets, for, if he had refused, it was likely he would not have lived to see another day. Besides which, he had come to know the dark side of Caleb Crowther’s character, and was repulsed by it.
The very same sentiments were ravaging Caleb Crowther’s thoughts as the train carried him back to Blackburn. What he had told Sorensen’s men was the truth. He had every intention of selling the mills, but his hands were tied, and the bank already held them as security against recent loans. He had little hope that his meeting on Friday would bring the results he wanted, for, on the last occasion, the bank had warned him that he was getting in over his head. That left only the trust fund which Thadius had left in his charge for Emma. It was this which played on his mind for the remainder of the journey, and the manner in which he might safely cheat her of it! His thoughts might have been less feverish if he had known how events in his absence had already presented such a possibility.
‘I hate these damned meetings!’ exploded Caleb Crowther, as he got up from the fireside chair to storm across the drawing-room towards the window. ‘Little bloody men . . . with little ideas!’
‘But it’s those men who keep things going in your absence!’ Agnes Crowther pointed out in a respectful tone, being still somewhat peeved that her husband had stayed over so long in London. ‘Thadius was always insistent on the
se meetings, as you know. He thought them very necessary.’
At this point he might have made a caustic comment, but his glance was drawn through the casement window to where Emma was running from the house. At the sight of her, he became darkly silent, as all kinds of thoughts crossed his conniving mind.
Unaware that both Caleb Crowther’s thoughts and his eyes were on her, Emma kept running. After the deluge of rain yesterday, the sun on her face was warm and the birds could be seen nestling in the tree tops. Today was one of those rare autumn days which held a semblance of spring, and now, as the daylight began to fade, Emma felt her heart lighter and closer to the past than she had for a long time. At this hour, when her duties at the mill were done and she had talked long and deep with Mrs Manfred, her thoughts invariably turned to the happy times she’d had with her papa.
Now, with Marlow’s dear love alive in her heart and with thoughts of him in her mind, Emma made towards the bottom of the hill, where, gathering up the folds of her skirt, she ran and ran until her chest became a tight band squeezing the life from her. Yet, with the effervescence of youth – and feeling the need to put as much space between herself and the Crowthers as possible – she kept on running, stumbling and scrambling ever upwards over the grassy slope which fronted the house.
Only when Emma had reached the very top of the hill did she stop to look back. She felt exhilarated and as free as the wind, which, up here, was strong enough to blow her about. Oh! The taste of freedom – it was wonderful! Here, she could touch the sky and vie with nature; here, there were no rules or regulations, no Caleb or Agnes Crowther to scowl at her and make her miserable; here, there was only her, the breeze, God’s lovely creations and her own thoughts. Feeling inspired, Emma loosened her auburn hair from its confining ribbons so that it tumbled about her shoulders and spilled down her back to touch her waist. Then, she began running like the wind, flinging out her arms to the heavens as she laughed aloud. Exhausted, she sank to the grass where she lay prostrate, blissfully out of breath and staring up at the sky to follow the light curling clouds as they were shifted first this way, then that, by the heightening breeze.
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