He did not come within her experience of waggoners, a man in his mid-twenties, perhaps a year or so younger than herself, and she was struck by his bearing and good features, gipsy features she would say, for he was very dark, with crisp, curly hair and an effortless way of using well-developed muscles. He was impudent, too, showing his white teeth in an evaluating smile as they exchanged glances when she crossed from office to stables to discuss the parcel run to Harwich. When she was back at her desk she looked him up in her book, finding that his name was Wickstead, Tom Wickstead, and that he had once been a stablelad at Newmarket. The records did not help her much. The name Wickstead did not suit him, for there was a suggestion of the Latin about him and he seemed old for a stablelad, unless he had been employed in some other capacity in the interval. From her perch in the office she was able to study him at leisure, noting his masculinity and deciding, with a grim smile, that he was almost certainly a wencher but an engaging one, of the kind likely to make a strong impression on women. Then she forgot him in order to give her full attention to Beckstein's letter.
Beckstein, a goldsmith and gem merchant, was in a fair way of business in the territory. She had handled his goods in the past but they had been low-value consignments, sporting trophies, flat plate, and clocks, passed on to Vicary in The Bonus for transit to London. This latest proposal was something that needed thought, a packet of uncut diamonds consigned to The Hague via the Harwich packet, a routine shipment, no doubt, as far as Beckstein was concerned, but the first of its kind entrusted to her and possibly a tryout on his part. Beckstein's agent asked her to quote, allowing for generous insurance rates, and it crossed her mind that if the terms were attractive this would not be the last high-value goods they carried, for Beckstein did a good deal of Continental business. On the other hand, no haulier liked to handle precious stones and if it had been a matter of taking them overland by waggon she would have declined to quote. The established rail service, however, made a difference. Sealed in a small-parcel bag, the jewels would be safe enough, and might lead to more of Beckstein's Harwich-bound traffic. She worked out a rate, keeping it as low as possible but pointing out that it was safer to send high-value goods without special insurance. In her experience there was security in anonymity, even for small packages. She marked the letter “urgent” and sent for Duckworth, one of the few who had accepted her promotion philosophically. He said, when she explained the possibility of landing other Beckstein commissions, “I’m not sure I’d want ’em, Miss Wadsworth. Hauling gunpowder and high-grade china is bad enough, but packages of that kind are freight that could keep a man awake o’ nights. Why doesn’t Beckstein send ’em to Harwich by special messenger?”
“I can make a guess at that. The messenger would need an escort and both would have to be thoroughly trustworthy. He's probably lost jewels en route in his time and is changing his policy. Our responsibility would end with delivery to the purser. They would go straight into the ferry safe and you can depend upon him having made inquiries concerning our reliability. ”
“They should have satisfied him,” Duckworth said. “We’ve never lost a parcel yet. But wouldn’t insurance run high?”
“Not the way I would arrange it. It would go as an ordinary package marked ‘Fragile’ and we can send someone along to make the actual delivery. This is a sprat to catch a mackerel and I mean to get his contract if it's possible. I’m quoting and I’ll let you know whether we land him or frighten him off.”
“Aye, do that. But for my money I’d as lief see someone else get the job.”
He went out shaking his head like an old collie and Edith pondered the reluctance of men to vary the pattern of their day-to-day routines. Once a man passed thirty, it seemed, he was deaf and blind to adventure, and thinking this she glanced once again at that handsome young spark in the yard, now rolling casks up the steep incline of a plank as casually as though he was pitching marbles.
The post, and a rush of business, drove Wickstead and Beckstein out of mind. It was not until the following Thursday, the day before the weekly parcel inn, that she remembered either of them again. Then Beckstein wrote, accepting her quotation and saying that packages would be delivered by hand from three of his branches in time for the evening train. He must have taken her point about insurance, for he made no mention of it and Edith thought, gleefully, “I’ve netted him, and that's another feather in my cap, for Duckworth would have let him slip away.”
She was clipping the letter on the file when she happened to take one of her wardress peeps into the yard to see how things were shaping there, and it was as well she did. A load of cast-iron drainage pipes, piled high upon a man-o’-war, were stacked in such a way as to ensure that the load would slip at the first gradient. She called, “Hold that dray, Bastin!” and went into the bright sunshine where three waggons, the flat, and two frigates, were standing in line awaiting their turn at the weighbridge.
She recognised the carter as one who had made no secret of his resentment at taking orders from a woman and now, called to account for slipshod loading, he scowled like an overgrown schoolboy.
“They’m on’y going as far as Oundle,” he growled. “Where's the sense in using chains?”
She noticed then that the drivers behind him were watching her, probably to see if Bastin's obvious truculence would cause her to back down. It had the opposite effect and she snapped, “I don’t give a damn whether they’re going a hundred yards. You’ll fasten them more securely than that. There are humpbacked bridges between here and Oundle, and your whole load will likely finish up in Willow Brook. Pull out of line,” and she swung herself on to the floor of the flat as Bastin, swearing under his breath, jerked his leader left to make way for the frigate behind.
It might have been bad luck or the sullen force he exerted on the bridle, but the load began to slip just as she stood upright. She heard a shout of warning from behind and then, amidst a vast clutter, she jumped clear as the pipes spilled over the tailflap, crashing down on the cobbles with a din that set every horse in the yard rearing. A length of pipe hummed past her head like an enormous arrow as others poured down either side, like logs spilling over a dam. She crouched there on her hands and knees, fury at such manifest incompetence submerging every other instinct, even that of self-preservation. Then, half-rising, and conscious of a sharp stab of pain on her knee, she realised how she had avoided being buried under the load. Wickstead was braced against the rear of the waggon, supporting the tailboard with his shoulder. He looked, she thought, like a statue of Atlas, arms half-raised, feet planted astride, sustaining what must have been a crushing weight, and it seemed to her that he remained like that a long time while other men ran in to take the strain and Bastin backed his team on to the bridge, so that they were able to force the flap into an upright position and check the cascade. He was beside her then with his arm about her waist, and even the shock and dismay of the accident did not deprive her of the pleasant sensation communicated by his firm, strong touch. He said, breathlessly, “You hurt, ma’am? You fell very heavily,” and she said, breathlessly, “I’ve cut my knee. That's all, thanks to you,” as Bastin came prancing up, his face white and his expression confused as he mumbled, “Gordamme, Miss Wadsworth, I made sure you was gone! There's two ton or more up there and when I saw you fall…” but she interrupted, saying, “See to your vehicle and load up again. I’ve seen men crippled for life by sloppiness of that kind!” and then her knee began to smart horribly, and she saw blood on her shoe buckle and said, addressing Wickstead, “Give me a hand into the office,” but he replied, gallantly, “I’ll carry you, you’ll need that cleaned and bandaged,” and before she could protest he had whisked her off her feet and was shouldering a way through the waggoners who had converged on the spilled load.
There was nothing she could do about it. His grip, although gentle, was very firm, and suddenly the narrowness of her escape caught up with her so that she felt lightheaded but very comfortable there, with her head
against his chest, and one hand about his neck. He marched into the office, kicking the door shut with his heel and looking round for somewhere to put her down, but the moment they were alone she felt shamed and her anger against Bastin mounted for putting her in such a ridiculous position. She said, “Set me down, for Heaven's sake…I’m not hurt…” and he obeyed her but reluctantly she thought, for his hands lingered a moment under her thigh and below the swell of her breast. She sat on her swivel chair, half-expecting him to go and then wishing that he would, for she wanted to lift her skirt, roll down her stocking and staunch the flow of blood from her knee. He must have noticed her embarrassment for he said, with a pleasant smile, “Don’t be shy, ma’am. I’ve got five young sisters and over at Newmarket I worked for a vet. Let me look at it for you’ve had a rare shock. There's running water out behind, isn’t there?”
It seemed ungracious to refuse and suddenly she stopped feeling ridiculous, thinking it rather pleasant to be fussed over for a change. “There's a first-aid box above the sink,” she said, “I bought it the week I took over but it didn’t occur to me I’d be the first to need it,” and he nodded, going into what had been the scullery of the cottage before it was converted into a yard office.
She took advantage of his absence to lift her skirt and petticoat and roll down her bloodsoaked stocking. Contact with the cobbles had jarred the knee badly, and there was a wide area of grazing on the cap. She rested her leg on the visitor's chair and dabbed the wound with a handkerchief, hearing him run water into a bowl, and calling, “It might have been worse! Just bruising and a bad graze. I’ve a good mind to sack that idiot. Suppose his load had slipped in the town and killed half-a-dozen people?”
“Swann would have had a very long lawsuit on his hands,” he said, reappearing with the bowl and the first-aid box, setting the bowl on the floor and the box on her desk. “Keep the leg stretched out, ma’am, and don’t worry, I won’t touch it. I’ll squeeze the rag.”
He had, she decided, altogether too much authority for a man in his position. His masculinity reminded her of Matt Hornby and Adam. He had their deliberation too, as she noticed when he stripped off his neckerchief, dipped it, and wrung it out over the wound until he was satisfied it was clean. She was going to tell him there was a tube of salve in the box but he was not the kind of man you directed so she let him find it and squeeze some on to a square of lint, applying it gently and finishing off the dressing with a bandage that was neither too tight nor too loose. She found herself watching the deftness of his supple fingers and wondering how many women they had caressed in their time. A hundred or more she wouldn’t wonder, for he certainly had a way with women. She said, for something to say, “That vet taught you a thing or two about bandaging. How do you come to be a waggoner? It's a bit of a come-down from riding at Newmarket, isn’t it?”
“Not if you backed a string of losers two seasons running,” he said, gaily, and left it at that.
She contemplated the ruin of his neckcloth, noticing that it was silk. “You’re very kind,” she said, “and I haven’t thanked you yet. I should have needed more than a vet's services if you hadn’t stopped the rest of those pipes falling on me.”
“It was nothing,” he said, carelessly, “I saw what was likely to happen and was there before you hit the ground. Give Bastin another chance. He won’t forget that in a hurry. It might even win him over.”
“Win him over?”
He smiled. “To taking orders from a woman.”
“I see. And how do you feel about it, Wickstead?”
“I’ll take instructions from anyone who knows their trade, ma’am,” and she thought, with a subdued chuckle, “I warrant he plays every woman he meets like a fish on a line. I wouldn’t care to be in love with him,” and she rose, stiffly, saying, “I’ll run the tap on that neckcloth. Later I’ll launder it.”
She carried the bowl into the scullery and gave the square a rinse, but when she returned a few minutes later he was still standing with his back to her, seemingly preoccupied with thoughts of his own.
“How long will you stick at this kind of work?” she asked, and he said, with a shrug, “Until something better turns up, ma’am.”
“Are you married?”
“No, I’m not that much of a gambler.”
It was, she thought a friendly rebuke for prying, so she dismissed him, saying, “Well, I’ve work to do notwithstanding a cracked knee. Thank you again, Wickstead, and if you care to stay on in haulage I’ve no doubt my Gaffer could find you a better job than a waggoner.”
“What kind of man is Mr. Swann?” he asked, unexpectedly and she replied, without thinking, “Your kind. Capable but bossy!”
That rattled him, she thought, and smiled as he absorbed it. Then, with a cheerful salute, he marched out and she was left with the impression that she had had the better of the exchange, for it was clear that, given the slightest encouragement, he would have lost no time at all in exploiting his advantage.
Once again she became absorbed in work and although her knee was stiff and uncomfortable she was soon able to forget it coping with a shower of orders, and the making up of the manifests for the parcel runs to Grimsby, Yarmouth, Leicester, Cambridge, and, above all, Harwich.
She had evolved a system by now, converting a shed adjoining the stables into a sorting centre like a miniature Post Office, where frames supported rows of gaping canvas bags, each larger than a soldier's kit-bag and fitted with a chain and padlock. Over every bag was a shingle painted with the terminus of a run, together with a list of dropping-off points en route. Harwich served Whittlesey, Chatteris, Bury St. Edmunds, Stowmarket, and Hadleigh and sometimes consignments for this area required half-a-dozen bags. At most stopping-places a Swann-on-Wheels waggon met the train and began the local deliveries and as goods travelled in vans under the eye of the guard there was no necessity to send a man on the majority of the runs. Only when traffic was particularly heavy, or when carters were in short supply in a particular area, was a waggoner sent along with the goods, but it occurred to her that here was a case when an escort as far as Harwich was obligatory.
Duckworth came to help check the manifests and lock the bags with a string of keys, for which waggoners along the line held duplicates, and it was while they were fastening the Harwich bags that he mentioned the escort, saying, “I’ve detailed Wickstead. We owe him a day, and it so happens he's making a private trip to Newmarket. I asked him to take an extra half-day and see our parcel aboard the ferry at Harwich. He suggested it, as a matter of fact. Seems he lived at Newmarket, and it's well over halfway there.” The coincidence alerted her so sharply that she bit back the comment that rose to her lips and walked the length of the shed, leaving him to fasten the rest of the padlocks. Wickstead— Newmarket—Harwich—Beckstein. Somehow they made a pattern in her mind, but for a moment it was blurred. Then, as she stood in the doorway looking across the yard, another factor clarified it, for she suddenly recalled the incident of the previous day when he had carried her into the office, set her down in her chair and gone into the scullery to run water for her knee. She said, rounding on Duckworth, “I hope you said nothing about the contents of that bag,” and he said, in an aggrieved tone, “Why, naturally I didn’t. The less anyone knows about that the better. It doesn’t even carry special insurance, does it?”
“No,” she said, “it's going under a ‘Fragile’ label,” but she answered vaguely because her mind was still occupied marshalling the suspicions aroused by the fact that Wickstead had volunteered for a job, a job he had no reason whatever to anticipate. Then, quite suddenly, she understood that he did know, and that his foreknowledge was related to the fact that, for the space of perhaps three minutes, he had been alone in her office, and within touching distance of Beckstein's letter on the clip over her desk. Thinking back she could see him there when she came out of the scullery, standing with his back to her, as though looking out into the yard, and her stomach muscles contracted as the pattern became m
uch clearer, almost clear enough to assume a definite and sinister shape. She said, “Where is Wickstead now?” and Duckworth replied, “He signed off mid-morning. He was on a night haul to Thetford and promised to report back at four, in time for the parcel-run to the station.”
She considered then taking Duckworth into her confidence, and might have done so had he been a younger, quicker-witted man. As it was he would almost surely panic and she had no real evidence at all to lay before him, nothing but the impression that haphazard events of the last forty-eight hours came together in a way that was logical and frightening. She said, abruptly, “I’ll leave you to finish,” and returned to her office, shutting the door and moving across to the hook where the clip enclosed letters of the last few days. Beckstein's was buried now so she extracted it, clipping it back on top, rehanging the file, and standing where he had been standing when she emerged from the scullery. She found that she could read the letter quite easily, and this converted suspicion into certainty.
She stood there for several minutes, testing the evidence for coherence and conformity. Every circumstance fitted. Wickstead's superior manner, his eagerness to enter the office, his access to the letter and, above all, his action in volunteering for a trip to Harwich, with Beckstein's consignment for company. She was on the point of returning to the shed to ask Duckworth precisely how this had come about but, then she had a better idea and turned instead to the card-index containing the names and addresses of all the employees in the Crescents. His card told her that he had lodgings at The Wheatsheaf, just off the market. She went into the scullery, collected his neckcloth and put it inside a buff envelope. Then she crossed the yard and walked the short distance to the market.
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