The Girl from the Tanner's Yard

by Diane Allen

  ‘I’m Adam Brooksbank, and I live up at Black Moss. I’ve been there a few weeks now,’ Adam shouted across the bar, but his voice was lost in the noise and hullabaloo from the other room. He glanced at all the faces of the men who had just come in from the flay-pits, remembering especially the dark, foreboding face of Thomas Farrington, who stood at the back, next to another fireplace that was the main feature of the room. The large sandstone open fireplace had a fire burning brightly in it, and a gleaming copper kettle stood on the side of the hearth, with a pair wrought-iron firedogs, with a poker and shovel balanced upon them. The room was divided: on one side were the flay-pit lads, and on the other stood the lads from the quarry, and neither gave one another the time of day.

  Adam went and sat in his corner with his gill. What he had thought was going to be a quiet drink was promising to be anything but, as the banter between the groups started.

  ‘God, there’s a stink in here! Have you noticed it? For God’s sake, Ernest, why do you serve rabble like that?’ one of the lads from the quarry shouted, loud and clear, for everyone to hear.

  ‘Now then, hold your tongue. You lot are not much better yourselves, and I can throw the lot of you out, if I have a mind,’ Ernest said drily, watching both sets of men as they settled down.

  Adam observed both groups and noticed that Thomas Farrington sat on his own, drinking tots of gin, unlike his colleagues who sat and discussed the day’s affairs and played a round of dominoes while enjoying their gills of bitter. He was a surly one, a loner – a man that it would seem no one trusted, Adam thought, as he went to the bar and got himself another ale.

  ‘There’s always fun and games when I have these lots in. The mouthy ones are not too bad, but that bugger in the corner, sitting by himself, he’s got a nasty temper on him and his liking of gin doesn’t help him,’ Ernest said, nodding his head in the direction of Thomas as he poured Adam his gill from a jug that he kept under the counter.

  ‘Yes, he looks black in mood, scowling away at the lads near the bar,’ Adam said as he handed Ernest his tuppence for his gill.

  ‘Aye, the trouble is they take great delight in winding him up, the silly buggers. It often ends in a fight and I’ve to throw the lot of them out.’ Ernest grinned and went and leaned on the opposite bar to keep an eye on his over-zealous customers.

  ‘Hey, Alex, I saw that lass from the flay-pits making eyes at you on Sunday in church. She’s yours for the taking, I’d say, by the looks of her,’ one of the lads from the quarry said loudly to his best friend and slapped him on the back, while the rest of the group laughed and jibed at Alex’s expense.

  ‘I could have her any day. Just imagine her lying on a bed, whispering for me to satisfy her, that long blonde hair and those blue eyes begging me to do what I’ve been wanting to do for weeks now.’ Alex swigged his ale back and looked at all his mates, and saw how envious they were of his imaginary conquest.

  Thomas Farrington looked over at the group and scowled. It was the drink that was talking, but they were talking about his Lucy. They’d no right to talk about her in such a way. He felt his blood boiling as he jumped to his feet and walked to the bar. He’d wanted her for so long, and didn’t they know that she was to be his, no matter who she flirted with.

  ‘You shut your mouth, do you hear? I’ll not have Lucy talked about like that in here. Besides, she’s to marry me, so you needn’t even look at her, you bastard,’ Thomas yelled at Alex and stood just a few inches from his face. ‘You get your hands off her – she’s to be mine.’

  ‘Give over, she’d never marry you – look at you. You are filthier than the rats that scuttle around that yard you work in. Now piss off and go back to your corner.’ Alex turned his back on Thomas and looked at his group of friends, who slapped him on his back and jeered.

  Thomas wasn’t having any of it. Lucy Bancroft was his, and he’d prove it. He reached for his inside pocket, where his knife for skinning hides was, and pulled it out and stood his ground. He’d make Alex Braithwaite not fit to look at, by the time he’d used his skills with his knife.

  ‘Alex, he’s got a knife – the bastard’s pulled a knife on you.’ His friends stepped back and watched as Alex turned and looked at the man who had taken his jibes all too seriously.

  ‘Put that down, you idiot. You can punch me, but I’m not fighting you with a knife in your hand.’ Alex looked at the wild-eyed man who stood in front of him.

  ‘Aye, put the knife down, lad. We’ll have none of that in my pub.’ Ernest Shepherd lifted the bar hatch and stood next to Alex, while Adam put his gill down on the table and walked round to the next room, standing in the doorway.

  ‘No, you’ve insulted me one too many times, and I’ll not have Lucy talked about in that way. She’s mine, do you hear? And you are going to pay for your words.’ Thomas lunged forward, his hand outstretched, with the knife pointing at Alex. But Ernest was too quick for him and pushed Thomas hard to one side, making him fall and lose his balance. His body fell heavily onto the flagged floor of the inn, and his head hit the firedog and the sandstone hearth of the fireside, spilling blood onto the sandy-coloured stone and making everyone gasp as the pool of blood trickled around the lifeless form, and the knife lay a few inches from his hand.

  ‘Is he dead?’ Alex Braithwaite whispered as Ernest stood over the body.

  ‘I don’t know. I just wanted to stop him – I didn’t mean to kill him.’ Ernest looked fear-stricken.

  Adam pushed his way through both sets of young men and bent down to feel the pulse on Thomas’s body. He looked up at the worried faces and shook his head, as he wiped his fingers clear of the blood upon them. ‘Aye, I dare say he’s gone. One of you go for the peeler down in Cullingworth. They’ll need to be informed about what’s gone on here tonight.’ He stood up and looked around him. ‘Nobody was to blame – he pulled the knife. I saw it all, and I used to serve in the police around here, so there should be no repercussions.’ Adam looked at the innkeeper, whose face was ashen. In his head Adam replayed the words said by the now-dead Thomas; why had he said he was to marry Lucy? She hated the man and she’d probably rejoice at the news of his death, her loathing and fear of him had been that deep. There was more to this than met the eye.

  ‘I didn’t mean to kill the bugger, just stop him!’ Ernest muttered. ‘He always was a bad lot, but I never saw that coming. What possessed him, and what made Thomas think he was to wed that lass of Bancroft’s? She’d not look the side he was on, if she had any sense.’ He shook his head and sat down on one of the chairs, as everyone muttered and whispered and patted him on the back, knowing that if Thomas had not been stopped, it could have led to Alex Braithwaite lying dead – and perhaps more besides.

  ‘Don’t worry, Ernest, we all know Thomas was off his head. You saved Alex here and, as this good gentleman says, it wasn’t your fault – you were simply defending your customers. He’s had it coming to him for a long time, has the bastard; nobody could abide him down at the flay-pits.’ One of the lads from the flay-pits slapped Ernest on the back. ‘You shouldn’t speak ill of the dead, but he was a right Nickey. We were all winding one another up; it’s part of the banter between us lads, but there was no need to pull out a knife.’

  Alex Braithwaite walked over to Ernest. ‘You saved my life. I’ll tell the copper that it was either Thomas or me. And that Thomas cracking his head open was an accident. I wish I’d never egged him on about Lucy Bancroft, else this would have never happened.’ He bowed his head.

  Adam looked around him at all the worried faces. He had meant to have a quiet drink and enjoy his evening, but now he was a witness to the death of Thomas Farrington. But perhaps it was no loss. He knew for sure that one person would not be mourning over his death, and that was his supposed bride-to-be.

  14

  It was just six-thirty in the morning when Bill Bancroft saw the peeler coming in through his yard gates. He felt panic and looked quickly at the lime pit where the bodies of the babies wer
e hidden, hoping that no one had told the policeman of his crimes. He sighed deeply in relief as he heard, with some disbelief, the real reason why he was visiting, and couldn’t quite take in the words that the peeler was telling him.

  ‘Nay, you must have got it wrong. Thomas Farrington can’t be dead – don’t talk daft. You’re talking about the wrong man. He’ll be coming out of his back door and starting work any minute now, along with the rest of them.’

  ‘I’m afraid he won’t be, sir. He’s cold to the touch on the mortuary slab. He got himself into a bit of bother last night at The Fleece, where the landlord had to protect one of his valued customers from being attacked. Unfortunately it ended up with Thomas’s demise, when he fell and cracked his skull open on the hearth. It was an accident – we have reliable witnesses to prove it. By all accounts, your Thomas Farrington was a nasty bit of stuff, if riled, and that was what had happened, when somebody was bragging about catching the eye of your daughter. And Thomas lost his rag, because he said he was to marry her. In fact I need to talk to your daughter to tell her the news, if they were to wed.’ The constable looked at the open-mouthed pit owner and saw a smile come onto his face.

  ‘Now I know you’ve got the wrong man. Our Lucy would never marry Thomas. She thinks him thick in the head, and I’ve never heard a wedding mentioned, or even his name uttered by her in my house. In fact she plays hell with me, whenever I mention the lad’s name.’ Bill laughed.

  ‘No, it’s right, boss. I was there when Thomas died. And it was all through him getting it into his head that he was to marry your lass,’ Ted Briggs, who had just entered the yard and overheard the conversation, butted in. ‘Thomas went mad when Alex Braithwaite was jibing him about her. He pulled a knife on Alex, so he did.’

  ‘Well, I don’t know what to make of it. The poor bugger – Thomas might not have been the full shilling, but he was a bloody good worker. You’d better come into the house and see our lass, before she sets off to work. I’m sure she’ll put you right, Officer, that there was no such marriage planned and it was all in his head.’

  Bill walked across the yard and into the kitchen, which was busy with his children wanting their breakfasts and Lucy getting ready to go to Black Moss Farm.

  ‘This lad has come with bad news this morning, and he wants to get something straight with you, our Lucy.’ Bill looked at the faces of his family as they realized that a peeler had entered their house.

  ‘I’m sorry to disturb you. I can see that you are busy. But it’s like Mr Bancroft says: I’m here with bad news, especially for you, Miss Bancroft.’ The peeler hesitated for a moment, watching an expression of puzzlement on Lucy’s face. ‘I’m afraid there was an incident at The Fleece last night and your husband-to-be died in a terrible accident.’ He dropped his eyes and heard gasps all round the room.

  ‘What’s he on about, Bill? Our Lucy isn’t promised to anyone.’ Dorothy wiped her hands on her apron and looked at her eldest daughter.

  ‘I don’t know what you mean. I’m not wedding anyone. Who’s dead? And why am I involved?’ Lucy stood up and felt her legs shaking. This news could only mean one thing: that Thomas Farrington had died. But she didn’t know just how much the peeler knew. And she had no intention of telling him about his blackmail unless she had to.

  ‘That’s not what Thomas Farrington thought,’ Bill said to his daughter. ‘He’d got into his head that he was marrying you, and he pulled out a knife on Alex Braithwaite, the stupid bugger. But old Ernest came between them and pushed him to one side, only for Thomas to hit his head on the fire hearth. This lad says he’s laid out in the mortuary in Keighley, dead as they come.’ He shook his head. ‘He always was a hot-headed devil, but why he decided he was to marry you, lass, I don’t know.’

  ‘Tuppence short of a full shilling, that’s what he was – always had been. His mother, when she was alive, worried about him and was thankful he found work with you, our Bill. Perhaps we should never have kept him on, as he was a dark soul.’ Dorothy sighed. ‘Are you alright, Lucy? You’d better get a move on. Adam Brooksbank at Black Moss will be waiting for you, because I can’t see you shedding any tears over the news that’s been given. You hated him more than you loved him, the stupid bugger.’

  ‘So Thomas was not to wed. He’d imagined it, and his death was over nothing.’ The peeler looked around him, especially at Lucy.

  ‘It would be a cold day in hell, Officer, the day I married Thomas. He was the lowest of the low and, personally, I’m glad he’s gone to his grave. Now if you’ll excuse me, I’ll be on my way to Black Moss.’ Lucy felt shaky, but at the same time she was jubilant over the news of the death of Thomas. Her secret, and that of her family, was safe, as Thomas Farrington would be taking it to his grave.

  ‘So you work for Adam Brooksbank? He was one of the witnesses who gave a statement on behalf of the landlord. I’d never come across him before, but the sergeant down at Keighley had. He told me Brooksbank was an ex-peeler, but lost his way when his wife and unborn child were killed. He seems like a decent man.’ The peeler looked at Lucy as she threw her shawl around her.

  ‘He is a good man. I’ve no complaints. Now if you’ll excuse me, I’ll be on my way.’ Lucy looked around at her family: the oldest of her siblings were not daring to stir, with a peeler’s presence in the kitchen, and her mother and father were shaking their heads at the news.

  ‘No, you get away. I’ll not keep you any more,’ the peeler said and then turned to Bill. ‘Do you think we could have a look around his home? I understand he rented it from you? Just to see what state of mind he was in when he picked his fight with young Braithwaite.’

  Lucy made for the kitchen door and caught her breath, hoping against hope that there was nothing in Thomas’s home to contradict her saying that her marriage to him was simply a fabrication, made up by his unstable mind. She said a silent prayer also that nothing would be found that would incriminate her father; with the babies buried in the lime pit, she hadn’t had time to move them, and had not relished the idea of digging for the poor lost souls or known what to do with them if she did find them. She glanced at the flay-pit workers, who all watched her as she walked across the yard.

  ‘We all know Thomas was fucked in the head; we all know he was lying. We didn’t believe for one minute that you were going to wed him. Nobody in their right mind would even look at him,’ Ted Briggs shouted to Lucy, as she put her head down and made for the pathway and the sanctuary of Black Moss Farm.

  Lucy did not reply. She didn’t know what to say in reply to the curious workers.

  Bill and the peeler stood in the bedroom of Thomas Farrington and looked at the possessions and sketches carefully arranged on the set of drawers.

  ‘These are our Lucy’s buttons and ribbons. She kept saying she was losing things off her clothes, when they had been hung out to dry, but none of us took any notice. The carts and animals push back the washing, and the clothes could easily become snagged. The weird bugger has been collecting things of hers. And look at these pictures he’s drawn – now that’s not normal.’ Bill rubbed his head and looked at the peeler.

  ‘He’s obviously been obsessed with your daughter and perhaps you should be thankful that he’s died, for there could be no knowing what he’d have done over time.’ The peeler looked around him. ‘How could anybody live like this? He’s got a two-bedroom house to himself, yet it’s like a pigsty inside.’ Both men inspected the room, which was covered in filth and dirt and still had the same curtains hanging at the window that had been there since his mother had died, when Thomas was just in his early days. ‘Now what do I do with his body? Are you willing to pay for him to be buried?’

  ‘I am not. Seeing this around me, Thomas can rot in hell, because that’s where he looks to have been living for quite a few years. He’s nowt to do with me, and definitely nowt to do with our Lucy.’ Bill spat out a mouthful of saliva and looked at the peeler.

  ‘Pauper’s burial then, unless he’s left some
brass to bury himself with,’ the peeler said.

  ‘I doubt you’ll find a farthing. He spent all his money at The Fleece and never had two pennies to rub together. I’ve been bloody blind. All I saw was how hard Thomas worked, but now I know differently; he was a filthy, weird bugger who could have harmed my lass. As I say, he can rot in hell, as far as our family is concerned.’ Bill shook his head at the state of Thomas’s home, along with the state of his mind.

  ‘If you don’t mind, sir, I’ll have a quick look round – see if I can find anything that might lead us to a family member who might help with his funeral costs, or any savings that he might have stashed away.’ The policeman looked around him again, not wanting to stay too long in the foul-smelling place. How anybody could make their home on Providence Row, he didn’t know, but this house was worse than anything he had ever seen. He could see that it was infested with vermin, and that Thomas Farrington had been anything but houseproud.

  ‘Aye, do what you want. I’ve never known him to have visitors, nor known of any relations. Nobody ever crossed his doorstep, and now I can see why. It’ll take my old lass and me some work to get this anything like inhabitable, and I dread telling her. I can’t believe that all this was going on, under my own nose. I’ve been blind to how the mucky bugger was living,’ Bill growled and looked at the room again in disbelief, before going down the stairs and out into the flay-pit yard.

  ‘Are you alright, Mr Bancroft?’ Ted Briggs yelled across to his boss and the owner of the yard.