Down Weaver's Lane (22 page)

At first she screeched and tried to fight back, but in a very short time she stopped doing anything but try to protect herself. Power filled Marcus. He felt strong and masculine. You didn’t need to be tall to prove you were a man. You just needed to show women who was the master.

As she fell and lay moaning feebly, he abandoned the riding crop to kick and beat her till she stopped making any noise at all. He continued even after she lay motionless.

Eventually the rage died down and he stepped back, panting as he wiped one arm across his forehead. It was a while before he realised how still the whore was. There was no sound but the chill wind whining softly across the moors and lifting his hair off his forehead-and no sign of movement at all from her. His horse was some distance away now, blowing uneasily through its nostrils.

He yelled, ‘Away with you, you old hag!’ That should have made her at least crawl away from him. What was she trying to do now, pretend he’d really hurt her? Well, she wasn’t going to get any money out of him.

As he bent to roll her over on to her back he saw in shock that her eyes were open, staring blindly up at the grey sky. Her chest was still. She wasn’t breathing. She was dead! ‘No,’ he whispered. ‘No, she’s faking. She must be.’ So he shook her. But her body flopped around like a broken doll and in a sudden fit of disgust he hurled her away from him, watching her head bounce on the ground.

He backed away, horrified. ‘No! Damn you, get up!’

But she didn’t move.

At first he thought only of getting away, but even before he’d caught his horse, he realised that would not be wise. What if someone found out he’d done it?

Shuddering, he looked down at himself but there was no sign of blood, no sign that he had just beaten and kicked a woman to death.

He looked around, trying to work out whether there was anything to give him away. And of course he saw the hoof marks and footprints in the muddy ground around her body.

Muttering in annoyance, he led the horse on to stony ground quite a bit further up the track, tethering it to a gatepost and keeping a careful eye out for whatever farmer the land belonged to. But there was no one in sight. ‘Thank God!’ he muttered.

As he made his way back he tried to keep to rocky ground and leave no distinguishable footprints. After staring at the still figure, he stripped off his cloak and frock coat, even sacrificing his new waistcoat. He didn’t want to touch
her
again. Couldn’t. But he used the waistcoat to wipe the ground around her clear of hoofprints and footprints, walking backwards and smoothing the muddy patches as he went. It took him a long time and it was bloody hard work.

It was all her fault for accosting him like that. They shouldn’t allow whores out in daylight.

When he got back to his horse it was fretting but he dressed again and re-mounted. He looked down at the muddy waistcoat, slung across the pommel now. It would have to be got rid of or the servants would ask why it was in such a state. He reined in and stared round, then remembered the old abandoned quarry and turned off along the stony rutted track towards it. He didn’t even need to dismount to toss the waistcoat over the edge and laughed as it vanished from sight. By the time anyone found it, if they ever did, it’d be weathered beyond recognition.

As he rode slowly home, he smiled to think of what he had done. No one messed around with Marcus Armistead. He was a man to be reckoned with, a man who knew how to treat women. He felt good, happier than he had for a long time.

But he had better be careful next time the rage rose in him. If he could.

When he got home, he claimed a fall from his horse, something which had happened to him once or twice before.

His father was loudly scornful of his horsemanship at dinner that night, but when Marcus said he’d been coming back from calling on Jane Rishmore, the old fool shut up about the fall and wanted to know about that instead.

‘I think we had a pleasant visit,’ Marcus said. It had been purgatory. She’d barely said a word to help the conversation along and she’d looked worse than usual, great ugly lump that she was.

‘Good, good. You’d better propose soon. I’ll speak to Rishmore and see when he wants the wedding to take place. Easter might be a good time. What do you think, my dear?’

Eleanor nodded. ‘A very good idea. A young man needs some responsibility to keep him out of mischief.’

What the hell did she mean by that? Marcus wondered. He avoided her eyes and concentrated on his food. He was hungry tonight and the lamb was particularly juicy.

His parents continued to discuss the coming marriage for the rest of the meal until Marcus could have screamed at them to shut up. But he didn’t dare because his bloody father still held the purse strings.

As he was getting into bed he again remembered the woman he’d killed, and smiled. One day her daughter too would find out that it did not pay to cross him. He would look forward to that.

Mrs Bradley came into the kitchen looking very grave. ‘There you are, Emmy. Could I have a word with you, please?’

Exchanging worried glances with Cass, Emmy wiped her hands on her apron and followed her mistress along the corridor to the small sitting room in which parish business was conducted. Her heart was thumping and her hands felt clammy. What had happened now?

‘Sit down, child.’

It didn’t sound as if she was in trouble, but she was so terrified she was going to be turned off, Emmy remained where she was and burst out with, ‘If I’ve done something wrong, Mrs Bradley, I didn’t mean to and I’ll never do it again, if you’ll only tell me what it is.’

‘Dear me, it’s not that. This is about your mother, I’m afraid.’ Again she gestured to the chair beside her.

‘Oh.’ Emmy’s heart sank still further as she took the chair. Surely her mother wasn’t causing more trouble for her? It’d be a long time before she forgave her for taking George’s side, that was for sure. If she ever did. ‘I don’t want to have anything else to do with her, ma’am, and I’m really sorry if she’s bothered you.’

‘It’s not that. Look, there isn’t an easy way to tell you but I’m afraid your mother’s dead, Emmy. She was found on the moors just outside town, lying by the side of the road. And, well - it seems someone had murdered her, beaten her to death.’

Emmy clasped the edge of her mistress’s rosewood desk as the room wavered around her. ‘
Dead?
My mother’s dead?’

‘Yes. I’m so sorry. The constable wants to have a word with you later, to ask if you’ve any idea who might have done this.’

Emmy could only think of one person. ‘It must be George Duckworth. Who else could it be?’

‘That was what Constable Makepeace thought, but it’s not possible. Mr Duckworth turned your mother out yesterday and sprained his ankle soon after she left. He was sitting in the bar for the rest of the day with his foot up, in full view of his customers, and then,’ she flushed, ‘he, um, spent the night with one of his - women.’

Emmy wasn’t convinced. ‘But who else would ...’ She broke off as she realised that only one other person wished her ill and might have tried to get at her through her mother. But surely Marcus Armistead could not have done such a thing? He was a gentleman, and would he even know someone as old and shop-soiled as Madge Carter? And he wasn’t a very big man either. Her mother could have fought him off as Emmy had. Only - he’d hurt Emmy, had enjoyed doing it too. Maybe he’d planned the attack, taken her mother by surprise? Thoughts were whirling round her brain, but she kept seeing her poor mother - dying alone and in agony somewhere on the moors. And then remembering that Madge hadn’t even looked at her when George had carried her out of the inn.

For all her faults, her mother hadn’t deserved to be murdered. No one deserved that.

Mrs Bradley allowed the young maid a moment or two, then asked quietly, ‘Is there something you know that might help, dear?’

She looked at her mistress. ‘It was only a thought, ma’am. Nothing definite. I’d better not say. It concerns the gentleman who ...’ She could not finish the sentence, could only swallow hard and stare down at her tightly clasped hands.

‘Hmm.’ Prudence looked at her thoughtfully. ‘I think you should tell Constable Makepeace everything you know and let him decide for himself whether it’s important or not. I’ll send you word when he arrives. If you wish to go to your bedroom until then, you may.’

‘Thank you, ma’am, but I’d rather get on with my work. It’s better to keep busy.’

Emmy walked slowly back to the kitchen and told Cook and Cass what had happened. ‘Why am I not crying?’ she asked in bewilderment. ‘My mother’s dead. Shouldn’t I be crying?’

‘Shock,’ Cook said. ‘It’ll hit you sudden, then you’ll bawl your eyes out.’ Having offered that comfort, and being a woman of few words, she went back to her work.

When Cass passed she gave Emmy’s back a friendly pat and smiled at her. It was comforting. In fact, Emmy found just being in that big warm kitchen comforting. If only she could stay here at the Parsonage! But she knew she couldn’t. It was even more important for her to leave Northby now that someone had killed her mother.

She’d lost her dear mistress, then her mother, and now she was going to lose her only friend. You could not be much more alone in the world than she was. Once Mrs Bradley found her a job, she would probably never see Jack again. Life was cruel.

 

Eli Makepeace came to the Parsonage that afternoon and spoke gently to Emmy, with such kindness in his weatherbeaten face she decided to do as her mistress had suggested and tell him everything. When she told him the name of the gentleman who had paid George to kidnap her, he whistled softly through his teeth.

‘Have you told anyone else about that, girl?’

‘Only Mr and Mrs Bradley - oh, and Jack.’

‘Would that be Jack Staley?’

‘Yes, sir. I bumped into him when I was escaping from the cottage. He brought me here and agreed with me that it was better not to mention the man’s name to anyone else.’

‘Well, lass, he was right, more’s the pity. He’s got his head screwed on, has young Staley. You were right to tell me about it, but it doesn’t do to set up the backs of the gentry unless you’ve proof. It’s not fair, but it’s how things are in this world.’

Eli chewed the corner of his lip thoughtfully as he studied her. He’d seen Emmy Carter about town with old Mrs Oswald and knew her to be a decent lass. Surprising, that, with a drunken whore of a mother but he liked to take folk as he found ‘em, not let others tell him what to think. ‘I can’t see any reason why Marcus Armistead should have killed your mother, though, even if he is angry with you, so it’s no use bringing him into it unless I find cause. I won’t forget what you’ve told me, though, and I’ll keep my eyes open.’ It was surprising what you could piece together bit by bit sometimes.

She nodded, accepting what he had said. Her life had given her no reason to believe in the fairness of things, either. All you could do was look after yourself to the best of your ability. And sometimes even that wasn’t enough to keep you safe.

When the constable had gone she sat on for a few minutes in her mistress’s comfortable little sitting room, thinking about her mother. Emmy still couldn’t take it in that she was really dead.

Mrs Bradley returned. ‘Are you all right, dear?’

Emmy stood up hastily. ‘Yes, ma’am.’

‘My husband says they want to bury your mother the day after tomorrow. He’ll hold a short service but it’ll be a pauper’s grave, I’m afraid.’

Emmy nodded. She had expected nothing else. And who but she would care that Madge Carter was dead?

‘I’ll find you some dark clothes to wear. You need some warmer things anyway.’

As she went back to her work, Emmy could not help thinking about her future. Some maids stayed with families all their lives, Cook said, and she should know because she’d been with the Bradleys for nearly twenty years. ‘You put your heart into your work, my lass,’ she’d advised, ‘and you’ll make a good life for yourself in service.’

Emmy intended to do that. But first they had to bury her mother - and bury the past with her, she hoped.

 

It was Martin Graslow who told his friend that his sister had been murdered, and how.

Isaac looked at him in shock and could not speak for a minute or two, then he swallowed hard. ‘I must go to the funeral. I can’t let them bury her without me. She was such a pretty little lass, our Madge was. My father used to think the world of her. I - I can’t rightly take it in that she’s dead.’

He went to see his employer as soon as he was feeling more himself. Time to make a clean breast of things. ‘Madge Carter, the woman who was killed - she was my sister, sir.’

Samuel Rishmore stared at him in amazement. ‘You never said a word about that when the woman came to work in Northby!’

‘Well, it’s not something I’m proud of. My father never spoke her name aloud from the day she ran away to the day he died. The reason I’m telling you now, sir, is that I should like to attend the funeral. I shall only need an hour off and I’ll make the time up.’