Alley Urchin Page 13

  Of a sudden, Molly remembered something, and it brought a smile to her face. ‘Look here, Sal,’ she cried, fishing the fat wallet from inside her tatty dress, ‘see what I found!’ She was sure it would do Sal a world of good.

  At once Sal was attentive, stretching her scrawny neck and struggling to see what it was that Molly clutched so triumphantly. ‘What yer been up to, yer little sod?’ she demanded to know, as Molly laughingly thrust the article into Sal’s grubby fist. ‘’Ere, fetch that candle a bit nearer,’ she instructed Molly, ‘I ain’t a bloody bat, y‘know . . . I can’t see in the dark!’ Gabe Drury’s fate was quickly forgotten. ‘Feels fat, does this!’ she chuckled, turning the wallet over and over, and excitedly hoisting herself up to a sitting position. ‘Let’s see what we got, eh?’

  When Molly brought the candle and held it close, Sal tore open the wallet, and out spilled a fistful of notes, together with a carefully folded letter and a number of calling cards. ‘Bugger me, lass . . . if we ain’t hit the jackpot!’ cried Sal jubilantly. ‘Where’d yer get it, eh?’

  ‘Found it.’

  ‘Found it? . . . Well, I’m blowed!’ Of a sudden, Sal was rolling her small eyes heavenward, saying in a reverent voice, ‘There y‘are . . . I knew it! It’s the little people, tellin’ me I’m fetchin’ yer up right!’ Molly didn’t think so, but she wouldn’t dream of spoiling Sal’s astonishing recovery from the sad news concerning Gabe Drury.

  ‘What’s that say?’ Sal pushed one of the small cards under Molly’s nose. ‘I can’t mek head nor bloody tail o’ these words.’ She squinted her eyes and looked down the length of her nose at the card.

  ‘Oh, Sal . . . you know I can’t read the words either,’ protested Molly, making no effort to take the card from Sal.

  ‘Hang on a minute, lass!’ Sal pointed a dirty fingernail at the bold, black capitals printed there. ‘I’ve seen them words afore.’ Of a sudden, she had thrown the card down on the chequered quilt and was scrambling from the bed, her eyes. wide with fear and her finger still pointing to the card. ‘I know where I’ve seen them there words! It were when me an’ a few drinkin’ pals were fetched afront o’ the Justice. It was Justice Caleb Crowther as had the lot on us flung in the cells.’ She had backed away from the bed and was standing by the door, her stocky figure held stiff and upright as she told the astonished Molly, ‘Caleb Crowther! That were it. It were them words as were fixed on a board for all to see. Cissie Bent learned to read when she were in service at the big house down Lytham Way . . . it were Cissie as told me what them words on the boards were sayin’. Caleb Crowther . . . same as them words on that card!’ The next minute, she shot forward and caught hold of Molly by the shoulders. ‘Where’d yer get it, lass? Found it, yer say? Tell me the truth now . . . I’ll not have yer tellin’ me lies!’ She proceeded to shake the girl but instead was violently shaken herself when Molly instinctively braced herself. ‘Has Justice Crowther been round these ’ere parts? Is he looking fer us? Oh dear God . . . dear God! When will the evil fella leave us in peace!’ She was beside herself, and her face had turned bright crimson from the futile efforts she was making to loosen the girl enough to shake her hard. Of a sudden, she gave up the effort and ran round the room gathering up her bits and pieces. ‘We shall have ter gerrout o’ this place, an’ that’s a fact.’

  ‘Calm down, Sal,’ Molly told her, collecting the few sorry articles from Sal’s hands, and replacing them, ‘we’re safe enough here. Justice Crowther ain’t been nowhere near this place.’

  ‘Then where did yer get that there wallet from, eh?’ Sal demanded.

  ‘I told you . . . I found it!’ lied Molly, feeling satisfied in the face of poor Sal’s fit of panic that she had done the right thing in keeping secret that meeting between Gabe Drury and the gent. Sal was afraid. Really afraid, like Molly had never seen her before. ‘So you needn’t worry,’ she assured her.

  Sal needed more convincing and, looking deep into the girl’s big, black eyes, she asked, ‘Are yer sure, lass? Yer not lying? Yer really did find that there wallet?’ When Molly nodded, saying, ‘It was like I told you,’ Sal visibly relaxed. Then in the next minute, she became anxious again, ‘Where? . . . Where did yer find it?’

  Molly had to think quickly, because she daren’t frighten Sal by telling her that the Justice was in a carriage right outside the ale house, or Sal would never be convinced that he hadn’t come to cart every last one of them off to jail: ‘. . . so I wandered about a bit, and found myself nearer town. That’s where I found it . . . down Ainsworth Street.’

  ‘Oh aye? Well, that’s where yer gonna return it!’ declared Sal, going to the bed and folding everything back into the wallet.

  ‘Return it!’ Molly could hardly believe her ears. ‘What? Now?’

  ‘That’s what I said, lass! You’re gonna return it . . . right away. My God! The minute that fella finds his wallet gone, he’ll not rest till he’s found it. What! . . . The bugger’ll turn Lancashire upside down if needs be!’

  ‘But if we throw the papers and the wallet away . . . and just keep the money, he’ll never know it was us that had it,’ argued Molly, who was loath to let go of her prize.

  But Sal would have none of it. ‘Oh, he’ll know right enough, my gal!’ she retorted, shaking her grey head from side to side. ‘He’ll know well enough . . . ’cause he’s got spies everywhere! He’s a bad ’un, child,’ she said, thrusting the wallet into Molly’s hand, then frantically wiping her hands down on the fringe of her shawl, as though the very touch of Caleb Crowther’s wallet might have left its mark. ‘You don’t know that fella like I do! Long afore the little people sent you ter me, that Justice Crowther had a grudge agin the Tanners. Why! . . . He even took a horsewhip to my Marlow, when the lad were doing nothing more offensive than talking ter Justice Crowther’s ward, a nice enough lass, by the name of Emma Grady. Stripped the skin clear off his shoulders. An’ he hounded Marlow ever after . . . sacked him from running goods to his mills . . . not carin’ whether we starved because of it! Oh aye, he’s a wicked, spiteful bugger, is that one.’ She opened the door of the hut and pushed Molly towards it. ‘That ward of his . . . lass by the name of Emma Grady . . . she were accused o’ murderin’ the bloke as Crowther wed her off to. An’ d’yer know, child . . . that lass were innocent, an’ there’s plenty o’ folk who’d vouch fer it, I’m sure. She were heavy wi’ child an’ all, when they took her. An’ it were said that she begged an’ pleaded fer him ter come an’ help her. But the bugger never lifted a finger . . . an’ he could have done! Oh, aye, he could a saved the lass, I’ve no doubt at all.’ Here, she bent forward to whisper in Molly’s ear. ‘So y’see, Molly darlin’ . . . y’see how dangerous such a fella can be? If yer don’t shiver in yer shoes at the very sound of his name . . . then yer bloody well should.’

  Molly felt herself being firmly propelled through the door and out into the blackness of the night. With Sal’s instructions to ‘tek it right back where yer found it, mind!’ she took off at running speed in the direction of Angela Street. She had learned a very important lesson, and one which she wasn’t likely to forget in a hurry. This fella, this Justice Crowther, was someone to be avoided if at all possible because, if he frightened Sal in that way, then he must be fearsome. ‘Blimey!’ Molly muttered aloud as she ran along the bank. ‘What a good job I didn’t tell Sal that he were asking after her. Or she would have gone mad.’ She was struck by a sudden thought, every bit as unpleasant. He was asking after her as well. Of a sudden, Molly’s reluctance to return the wallet didn’t seem as strong. In fact, the more she thought of it, the faster her thin little legs ran, because now she couldn’t get it back to the spot fast enough.

  By the time Molly turned out of the canal banking and made towards the spot where the carriage had stopped, everything was quiet. She supposed that the sorry Gabe Drury had been taken away in a waggon by now, and folks had gone home to their beds. She wondered again about that strange meeting between the Justice and the old fe
lla, but her young mind couldn’t make head nor tail of it except to be even more certain that she’d done right in keeping her mouth shut. ‘After all,’ she whispered aloud, quickly laying the wallet on the flagstones, and looking round furtively before making her way back, ‘look what happened to old Gabe Drury!’

  No sooner had Molly disappeared into the darkness than a carriage drew up in Stephen Street, some short way from the Navigation. Out of it stepped Caleb Crowther, who moved softly, first to instruct the driver to ‘stay quiet’, then hurriedly to where he suspected his wallet might have fallen when he had climbed out of the carriage earlier. Coming to the top of Angela Street, he stayed close to the wall of the Navigation. Then, peeping round to satisfy himself that all was quiet, he quickly crossed the cobbled road and began searching the flagstones on the opposite side. It took a moment or two, as there was only one gas lamp lighting the comer, but after a determined and frantic search, he gave a small, jubilant cry and snatched up the wallet.

  In a few moments he had made his way back to where the carriage waited in an unlit part of Stephen Street. ‘Quickly man . . . get away from here!’ he told the bowler-hatted driver in an urgent whisper.

  As he settled back into the seat, before going through the wallet to satisfy himself of its contents, Caleb Crowther gave a sigh of relief. On discovering earlier that his wallet was missing, he had half persuaded himself that the urchin might somehow have picked his pocket, though he could not see how she would have had the opportunity. But one thing was certain, if the little wretch had been guilty of stealing his wallet, it would have been the worst act of thieving she had ever committed. It would have been her last! He had been fearful that the wallet might have been ransacked before he could recover it, and with his name on those cards for anybody’s eyes to see, he had spent more than a few frantic moments being anxious of the consequences, for they did not bear thinking about.

  Agnes Crowther watched from her bedroom window, a tall and solitary figure with a regal head and unbending neck, her two hands joined together in that posture of prayer which was her particular trait. With staring, unfriendly eyes, she followed the carriage as it turned into the drive. Instinctively, she knew that it would not come right up to the house, but would halt some distance away, in order for her husband to disembark and make a quiet return from his nightly exploits. The pattern was always the same: on the days when he was not travelling the circuit as Justice, he would go to the Wharf Mill, for the purpose of satisfying himself that the recently appointed manager was carrying out his instructions to the very letter. Afterwards, he would make his way into Manchester for a long and detailed discussion with his accountant.

  Then, usually between the hours of five and six in the evening, he would return to Breckleton House and sit throughout dinner with a surly face and make no conversation. The moment he had swallowed his last gulp of wine he would fold his napkin in a most meticulous fashion (which had become infuriating to the watching Agnes), and with a curt nod of his balding head and a moment to run his fingers through the profusion of hair on his face, he would stand up and take a last lingering look at his empty plate, before going quickly from the room, leaving his long-suffering wife feeling desperately frustrated at the lack of civilised exchange of a few words. In the time it took to spruce himself up and don his outdoor garments, he was gone from the house, and it was always the early hours before he returned.

  As the carriage was taken round the back and she heard her husband’s footsteps coming up the path, Agnes Crowther stepped back from the window, fearful that he might see her. Always when she enacted this particular scene, it gave her a strange sensation of excitement. This was a cat-and-mouse game, when she had both the patience and the cunning to wait for the right moment to pounce. ‘I’ll have you in my clutches yet, Caleb Crowther,’ she muttered, climbing into her bed. It was a long, lonely time before she could get to sleep, because the thoughts racing through her mind would not let her rest. Agnes Crowther had only recently suspected her husband of bedding other women and the suspicion had festered inside her, until she could think of nothing else. Four weeks ago he had moved his things out of her bedroom on the pretext that, ‘I don’t want to disturb you on the occasions when I must be late home.’ Agnes Crowther was acutely aware of the unkind speculation that was rife amongst the servants, and it was a hateful experience. She had become a more spiteful and bitter person because of it. Yet she found every excuse not to believe what she suspected because, in spite of his hostile nature of late and his lack of affection towards her, she still loved him. It was that sorry fact, and her stiff pride, which prevented her from taking the steps which her instincts urged. The very idea of a private investigator was most distasteful.

  If Agnes Crowther had spent a restless night, it did not show when she breezed into the dining-room the following morning.

  ‘Good morning, Caleb,’ she said in as amiable a voice as she could muster, smiling sweetly as she poured out her tea and met her husband’s eyes across the table.

  ‘Good morning, my dear,’ he replied, at once looking away to fix his eyes on the folded newspaper before him. He obviously had no intention of addressing her further. But then he raised his eyes and looked at his wife with a quizzical expression, which both surprised her and caused her to ask, ‘Yes? What is it?’

  Without laying down his knife and fork which he held like a threat over the liver and bacon on his plate, and without even straightening his neck which was bent forward ready to devour the contents of his plate, he said in a quiet and thoughtful voice, ‘We know Emma Grady was pregnant, and that the child was born . . . presumably dead, or so we were informed?’

  Agnes Crowther was astonished. It was her husband himself who had forbidden the mention of Emma Grady’s name in this house. There had been times when her own conscience had made her think deeply about the girl. Times when she thought her brother Thadius might haunt them for their callous treatment of Emma. Yet now she was intrigued. ‘Yes,’ she agreed, ‘Emma was pregnant . . . and the child stillborn, as you say.’ At this she quickly looked away with guilt written in her downcast eyes. ‘It was a great pity that the child did not receive a Christian burial . . . being abandoned in such a way.’ She would have gone on at great length about how the officer responsible should have been severely reprimanded, but she knew from past experience that her words would fall on deaf ears.

  ‘The child.’ Caleb Crowther was speaking again, but still he had not moved another muscle. ‘Is it likely, do you think, that her husband, Gregory Denton, was not the father?’

  Agnes Crowther was shocked. ‘Not the father?’ She picked up her napkin from the table, dabbed it furtively at her mouth, then put it down again. She could not face another mouthful. ‘Heaven forbid that a niece of mine should go outside her marriage in that way.’ She was quite overcome. ‘And if her husband were not the father, then who was?’ Of a sudden, she could almost read his mind as he kept his eyes fixed on her. ‘Marlow Tanner!’ The name sprang to her lips, and as though it had burned her, she put her hand across her mouth, and stared at her husband with unbelieving eyes. ‘You think he was the father of Emma’s child?’ she asked through her fingers.

  For a moment, Caleb Crowther gave no answer, and seemed to grow more cautious in what he might be suggesting. Lowering his knife and fork, he sliced into the liver, pierced it with his fork and poked it deep into the mass of iron-grey hair around his mouth. When he spoke again, minute segments of the chewed liver shot out in a fine spray across the table. ‘It was just a thought,’ he grunted, ‘We never did find out what caused the terrible row that led to her husband’s death, and if you remember, Marlow Tanner had left the area shortly before. It was just a thought, that’s all.’ He was anxious to assure her, ‘Just a thought. Don’t worry your head about it.’

  But Agnes Crowther did worry her head. Of course it was possible that Marlow Tanner pursued Emma even after her marriage, because it was no secret that he loved her. And Emma woul
d never have married Gregory Denton if it hadn’t been for Caleb threatening to have Marlow Tanner transported. Emma loved him so much that she sacrificed herself to save him from her guardian’s animosity. That was what it all amounted to. Now, as she was reminded of such distasteful events, Agnes Crowther faced her husband with steely eyes, saying, ‘As Emma is a world away and her child no more, I can’t see that any of it matters now. Even if Emma were to come back to England, you have been clever enough to secure the mill in your own name . . . so she represents no threat.’ She watched him nod his bowed head. But he did not raise it, being so intent on wolfing down his breakfast. Again she spoke, in a quieter, more intimate voice. This time, he raised his head and met her gaze with stiff, angry eyes when she told him, ‘I saw you arriving home in the early hours. What manner of . . . business . . . kept you out so late?’

  ‘Whatever manner of “business” . . . it is certainly none of yours.’ His knife and fork clattered to the plate while he stretched his neck towards her and spat out the words in a furious voice, ‘If you’re wise, my dear . . . you’ll refrain from questioning my activities. I shall depart this house . . . my house . . . whenever I please. And I intend to return at whatever hour I choose. What I do not intend to do is be accountable to you, or to anybody else. Is that perfectly understood?’

  ‘Perfectly.’ Agnes Crowther forced herself to smile sweetly, being more convinced than ever that it was not only the likes of Emma Grady who had gone outside of marriage. It was her own husband also. The guilt was plainly stamped on his face, and she loathed him for it.