Down Weaver's Lane (23 page)

‘No need for that. You’ve more than earned an hour off. We’ll be holding an inquest tomorrow afternoon. It’s a clear case of murder, but I can’t see us catching the criminal who did it. He’ll be miles away now. A disgruntled customer, I should think. Makepeace tells me there’s a daughter. Is she a whore too?’

‘I don’t know the girl, because we didn’t associate with my sister, but I’m told the lass is not at all like her mother. She’s working for Parson at the moment as a maid, it seems, but used to work for Mrs Oswald.’

Rishmore nodded. He remembered now seeing her in church and thinking her pretty. Too pretty. ‘Well, you’re her only relative now, so you’d better make sure she’s all right. Let me know if there’s anything I can do to help. We don’t want her turning to the streets like her mother, do we?’

When Isaac went back to the office he sat down heavily behind his desk, forgetting to shut the door. There was something he had to do for his sister before he could bury her and her murky past.

After a few minutes’ deep thought he went to the door and called Jack in. ‘I want you to take the afternoon stage coach to Manchester and deliver a message for me, then wait for an answer. You’ll be late back, I’m afraid, so here’s some money for a meal as well as the fare. Make sure you’re not late for work tomorrow, though.’ He felt guilty about doing this in his own interests, but doubted Mr Rishmore would question the junior clerk’s absence.

Jack was startled at this order, but the thought of going into Manchester excited him for he’d never visited the city. Carefully he memorised his instructions about delivering a message to a lawyer called Reynolds who had offices just off Deansgate, then went to catch the stage coach that passed regularly through Northby on its way to the city.

 

Jack hadn’t believed it when people told him there were over a hundred thousand people living in Manchester, but as the coach creaked and rumbled towards the smoky mass he gazed out of the mud-splattered window in awe. On and on the city went, a great sprawl of buildings: houses of all sizes, terraces of workers’ dwellings, mills with big smoking chimneys, workshops, manufactories, smithies, shops, innumerable public houses, and nearer the centre a few imposing civic buildings. And people everywhere you looked! Rich ones in their carriages, hawkers with trays hanging round their necks, people on foot, and beggars at the corners of the meaner streets. It made his head spin to see it all.

As the coach drove into the city centre it had to slow down to a walking pace because there were so many other vehicles on the roads - fancy carriages, gigs, carts, drays carrying heavy loads, men pushing handcarts, everything you could think of. And the people on foot were bustling to and fro as if their lives depended on them getting somewhere as rapidly as possible.

Jack had heard Mr Butterfields say how important a city Manchester was becoming, and he had read about it in Parson’s newspapers, but it hadn’t seemed real before. Now it was. And he was proud to see such progress, even though he’d not like to live here himself.

Once out of the coach he walked as briskly as he could through the crowds, following the clear directions he had been given by the head clerk. He delivered the letter and had to wait a few minutes for a reply, then was given another letter, its edges stuck down so hastily the sealing wax was smeared everywhere. He didn’t waste time wondering what it might contain. Mr Butterfield did not confide all Rishmore’s business to him and relied on his discretion. He made the most of the chance to see a bit of the city in the two hours before he could set off back on the last coach of the day.

When he got to Northby, it looked very small to him and almost deserted, only a few people to be seen by the light of the lamps the parish council insisted be kept lit until midnight in the centre of the town. He shivered as he walked briskly to Mr Butterfield’s house and knocked on the front door, handing over the reply to what must be a very important message indeed.

Then he made his way home to the much smaller house that felt more like a prison each year. He hesitated outside the front door, listening to the sound of yet another shrill argument between his sister and mother. It had been wonderful to escape, if only for a few hours. He just wished he didn’t have to go back inside again!

 

The day of the funeral was cold but fine, with an icy wind whistling through the streets and sucking the warmth from those who had no choice but to be out in it.

Emmy helped out in the kitchen, then at ten o’clock went up to the chilly attic to change into her new clothes, shivering in the raw air of the unheated rooms. The matching skirt and bodice fitted nicely, though she’d had to take the hem up. And the clothes hardly showed any signs of wear. Imagine people giving away clothes as good as these! She fingered the material, a sturdy dark grey wool that would keep her nice and warm, then swung the lighter grey woollen cloak round her shoulders and picked up the small felt bonnet with the new black ribbons on it.

When she went down Cook stopped work to stare at her and nod approvingly.

Cass came in and said, ‘Eh, them dark colours suit you, Emmy love.’

‘Who will be there to notice? There’s only going to be me at the funeral.’

She walked across to the church with Parson, keeping her eyes cast down, relieved when he didn’t say anything. She still hadn’t wept for her mother and that made her feel so guilty.

The air inside the church seemed no warmer than that outside and Emmy shivered as they walked across the stone-flagged floor at the back towards the aisle. On Sundays they lit braziers in here to try to warm the place up, and usually she’d have been in the crowded back pews with enough people around to kept her warm. Today, with only a pauper’s funeral taking place, the sexton hadn’t bothered lighting any braziers and the empty church seemed larger than usual as their footsteps echoed around them.

Automatically she moved towards a rear pew.

‘You must sit at the front today, my dear,’ Parson said in his kind, plummy voice.

It made everything feel even more unreal to follow him towards the altar. She took the seat he indicated on the right side of the aisle and bent her head. She tried to pray for her mother, she really did, but no words would come.

The coffin was already standing at the front of the church. It looked small and the wood was roughly finished. The thought that her mother’s battered body lay inside it made Emmy shiver again.

Parson, who had vanished to one side, now came out to the front in his vestments. He opened his mouth to speak then closed it again with a look of surprise.

The big door at the rear opened and shut again with a bang that echoed through the church and footsteps paced slowly along the aisle. Emmy didn’t like to turn and stare so waited to see who this was. When a man joined her in the front pew, she glanced quickly sideways and saw in shock that it was the one her mother had said was her brother, Mr Butterfield who worked at the mill. He had always walked straight past them in the street, never showing by so much as the flicker of an eyelid that he recognised them, so she was astonished to see him here today.

He nodded to her, then sat down beside her and bowed his head for a minute in prayer.

The door banged again and another set of footsteps came along the aisle. Emmy could not help turning round to stare this time, even if it was bad manners, but the newcomer was a complete stranger, a man she had never seen before. Who was he? What was he doing here? Had he known her mother too? And if so, how had he found out about the funeral?

He and Mr Butterfield nodded to one another as if they were already acquainted, then he sat down in the front pew on the other side of the aisle.

Parson cleared his throat and began the service. It didn’t take long and little of it registered in Emmy’s mind. When it was over, the two men employed as gravedigger and gardener at the church came and lifted the coffin. She didn’t know what to do next and looked questioningly at Mr Butterfield.

‘We must follow them to the grave,’ he said quietly. He stood up and went to wait at the end of the pew for her to lead the way out of the church, as if she were a lady.

The other man followed them in silence.

It was all so strange Emmy didn’t know what to make of it, had given up trying.

To her surprise they didn’t go to the back of the churchyard, to the spot reserved for paupers, but stopped near a newly dug hole.

‘I could not see my sister laid in a pauper’s grave,’ Mr Butterfield told her. ‘This is where the rest of the Butterfield family are buried, Emmeline.’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘You should call me Uncle Isaac.’

But she couldn’t say that. It just didn’t feel right. And she couldn’t remember the last time anyone had called her Emmeline. Her mother had always said the name had been her father’s choice, to match his own name, Emerick.

The Parson said some more words at the graveside while Emmy watched his surplice bell out in the breeze and wished he’d hurry up. That wind was sharp as knives and even in her new clothes she was finding it hard not to shiver. Besides, what did words matter? They wouldn’t bring her mother back, would they?

‘Emmy!’

She realised Parson was looking at her as if he expected her to do something. Panic filled her. She should have been paying attention. What did they want?

‘You should throw some earth on the coffin,’ the stranger prompted. He bent to pick up a little moist dark soil, so she did the same, and when he gestured, she threw it into the hole. It seemed a pointless thing to do and it dirtied her hand, but both men did the same thing, after which Parson did some more praying.

When that was finished, he looked at the two men. ‘If you need to talk to Emmy, you can be private in my study.’

‘Thank you,’ the stranger said. ‘We do need to talk to her.’

Remembering the last time she had been alone with a stranger, Emmy hung back. ‘I don’t want to go with them, Mr Bradley.’ And then the tears came. Tears for the mother who would never know that her brother had cared enough for her to come to the funeral and pay for a proper burial. Tears for Mrs Tibby, whom Emmy was missing dreadfully. Tears for herself, too, because she was not only alone in the world, but was suddenly very afraid of what these men might want with her.

‘She won’t understand till she’s settled down,’ Parson said. So they took her back to Mrs Bradley, who sat with her till she’d grown calmer then accompanied her into the Parson’s study when she confessed she was afraid to go alone.

‘This gentleman is Mr Reynolds, a lawyer,’ Parson said. ‘He has your mother’s will and has brought some things for you.’

Emmy could only gape at him. She had never expected her mother to make a will. You only did that if you had something to leave people. For the first time she wondered if some of her mother’s tales of better times were true. She had never quite believed them, knowing how Madge always embroidered the truth and saw things as she wanted them to be instead of as they were.

The lawyer placed a cardboard box in front of Emmy. ‘Your mother left you everything she owned - but sadly she’d fallen on hard times so this is all that remains: a locket and some papers she wanted you to have.’

All Emmy could think of to say was, ‘Thank you, sir.’

‘The locket belonged to your father’s grandmother. It’s a pretty piece.’

She didn’t want anything from her father’s family, because if they really were well-off and had sent her and her mother away after her father died, she’d never forgive them for condemning her to a life of shame. But she didn’t dare refuse it. Taking the box, she put it on her knee. The lawyer had a narrow face and kept talking over her head to the other men as if she didn’t exist, occasionally throwing disapproving glances in her direction as if he didn’t like what he saw. She didn’t know why that annoyed her so much, but it did. She sniffed away the tears that were still threatening and tried to listen, but could not seem to concentrate on the words, only stare from one man to another.

Her uncle was looking tight-faced and angry now. Well, she hadn’t asked him to come today, had she?

In the end it was Parson who spoke to her. ‘We’ve been discussing your future, Emmy, while you were - composing yourself.’ He leaned back in his chair, clasping his hands across his plump belly. ‘At seventeen you are very young to go out into the world alone. You have just escaped from serious trouble and we do not want you facing other temptations.’

‘Mrs Bradley said she’d find me a position, sir. Away from Northby. I’m sure I’ll be all right once I have a place. I’m a good worker and I won’t let you down.’

‘It would be better if you had someone to keep an eye on you, a family member, until you are older,’ Mr Butterfield replied.

He didn’t say, So
that you don’t follow the same path as your mother,
but that was what he meant, Emmy thought resentfully. ‘I’ve been on my own for a while now, sir - Uncle, I mean - working for Mrs Oswald. I don’t need anyone to keep an eye on me, I just need a job. I’m not like my mother and I’m never going to be.’

‘Very laudable,’ Parson said. ‘Yes, yes.’ He glanced sideways at the stranger as if expecting him to speak and when he didn’t, asked, ‘Is that all you wish to say, Mr Reynolds?’

‘Yes. Since Mr Butterfield is taking an interest, I feel the less said the better. My family does have some - concerns, but I feel today’s decision will answer the case nicely.’

The long words meant nothing to Emmy. She wished they’d just let her get on with her work. She was determined to prove to Mrs Bradley what a good worker she was, determined to do everything she could to wipe out the past. She realised with a start that they were all looking at her again and glanced uneasily sideways at Mrs Bradley.

‘She’s still a bit upset and finding it hard to concentrate,’ that lady said. ‘Let me explain it to her.’ She took Emmy’s hand in hers. ‘My dear, we don’t feel you should be on your own. Life can deal very harshly with young women like you.’