Alley Urchin (23 page)

When Thomas had gently lifted the boy into the carriage, Agnes Crowther kept her promise to Molly. ‘I don’t know whether you’ve played a guilty or an innocent part in this business,’ she said sternly, at the same time handing over the guinea, ‘but you kept your word to me . . . and I shall keep mine to you.’ Then, before Molly turned and took to her heels, she was given a warning: ‘Stay out of Justice Crowther’s way. I have no doubt that he would insist on knowing more than you have told me.’

‘Goodbye, my Sal.’ Molly was on her knees in the churchyard, her small grubby hands lovingly arranging the flowers over the mound of earth. ‘I’ll miss you . . . and I’ll never forget you, not as long as I live.’ Her face ran wet with tears, and her sad dark eyes betrayed the pain which racked her heart.

When, reluctantly, she left the churchyard, Molly was glad at least that she had been able to keep her promise to Sal, because how could she rest, knowing that Sal, her one and only friend in this world, was not lying in properly consecrated ground? Now the priest had said the right words over Sal, there had even been a hymn sung in church for her, and Molly’s heart was once more at peace as she wended her way home on that wind-blown Tuesday evening.

As she rounded the canal bank and made towards the hut, Molly thought briefly about the boy, Edward Trent. There was talk on the wharf of how some ruffians had kidnapped him, then held him to ransom, only setting him free when a great sum of money was paid. It was also rumoured that Justice Crowther had vowed to hunt down the ‘villains responsible’, to bring them to justice and to punish them with the severest penalty that the law would allow. According to the gossips there was a bad rift between the Justice and his wife, Agnes, because of the whole sordid business; the boy himself, though greatly improved, was still under medical supervision and therefore protected from being more closely questioned on the matter. As for his mother, Martha Trent, she was as determined that the ‘kidnappers’ be apprehended and made to pay, as was her father. Silas Trent, Martha’s husband, was away on the high seas, and knew nothing yet of the narrow escape his son had had. As for the lad in the fancy togs, nobody ever found out who he was or where he belonged, because never a soul came forward to claim him, and it wasn’t surprising, they said, in view of all the fuss he’d caused, as well as the puzzling fact that he had been found wearing togs that were the property of none other than Justice Crowther’s grandson.

Molly had heard all of these rumours, but had paid them little heed. It was a known fact that folks did love to exaggerate.

By the time Molly had brewed herself a pot of tea and finished off the last crust of bread, together with a wedge of cheese, it was already twilight. Later, when she had strip-washed at the bowl and pulled on the well-worn cream-coloured shift which Sal had brought home one day as a surprise, Molly slipped the bolt on the door and knelt by the makeshift bed, her hands together, eyes closed tight and her young heart flooded with memories of Sal. ‘Take care of her, please, Lord,’ she murmured. ‘I know she did bad things sometimes, but she weren’t really bad, and she always took good care of me. Sal always said I shouldn’t ask for too much in my prayers, Lord . . . but I’d be very grateful if you could please help me to find my own mam and dad. I don’t know where to start, because all I’ve got is this little timepiece.’ Here she withdrew the tiny watch from round her neck and gazed at it fondly. ‘I don’t know what the words say, and I don’t know where it came from, but I
must
have a mammy somewhere, Lord,’ she went on, ‘and I would dearly love to find her.’

It suddenly struck Molly that even if she did have a mammy somewhere and the Lord only knew how it would gladden Molly’s heart to see her, there was always the chance that her mammy didn’t want her, because hadn’t Sal described how she had found the bundle in the street. ‘An’ it were you . . . left by the little people.’ If she
had
been left in the street, Molly knew it wasn’t by no ‘little people’, but by somebody else. And if that somebody else was her own mammy, then it followed that she didn’t want her own child, and, if she didn’t want it
then
, when it was a tiny helpless newborn, then it was certain that she wouldn’t want it now.

The more Molly thought about it, the more desolate she became until, feeling suddenly exhausted and more lonely than ever, she climbed into bed. Life was a funny old thing, she told herself, deliberately shutting out the world and drifting thankfully into sleep. Until this very minute, Molly had not realised just how tired she was. ‘Tomorrow,’ she promised herself, ‘I’ll go down to the wharf and see if I can get a regular job.’ The thought cheered her no end.

When Molly awoke, it was amidst a barrage of noise and confusion. She knew at once that it wasn’t yet morning, because the inside of the hut was dark, except for an arrow of moonlight coming in through the tiny window. ‘Who’s that?’ she shouted, her heart pounding as she swung her legs out of bed and began frantically searching for her boots. There was somebody out there. She could hear all manner of noises, like rats scrabbling to get in, or maybe it was ruffians who knew she was here on her own! In a minute, she had found her boots, and was hurriedly pulling the first one on. ‘I’ve got a shot gun!’ she yelled, hoping that might send them scurrying away. ‘If you come near me, I’ll blow your bloody head off!’ Oh, how she wished Sal were here.

Suddenly, two things happened, and Molly was lost. The hut was filled with light directed in through the window and, before Molly could think what to do, the door burst open and in rushed several large figures, at least two of them carrying huge lamps whose halo of light swung eerily from wall to wall. ‘Get out of here!’ yelled Molly, her hand raised threateningly, and the boot she held aimed at the figure who stealthily approached her, while the others remained both still and silent. She could not see his face, but the tall and grotesque silhouette he made struck fear into her heart. He lifted his arm and made a sign with his hand, a beckoning gesture to call the others on. In a minute, Molly was surrounded, the lights all seeking out her face, and the silhouette taking on the shape of a man, a man who was unusually large, with a profusion of iron-grey hair covering the lower half of his features, and blue eyes that were both piercing and hateful. When Molly looked up, she instantly recognised the man, and she was in mortal terror. It was the same man who had talked with Gabe Drury before that poor soul was found floating in the canal; the same man whose wallet she had stolen, and was made to return when Sal discovered its awful identity. Molly would never forget how fearful Sal had been on that night: ‘Justice Crowther would search far and wide to find you,’ Sal had warned her and, instinctively, Molly also had been fearful of him.

Boots or no boots, Molly decided the only thing to do now was to make a run for it. With a cry of ‘You ain’t taking
me
!’ she flung her boot at one of the lamps, and made a frantic dash towards the door. Her swift reflex appeared to have caught the intruders off guard. ‘Stop her, you fools!’ yelled Caleb Crowther, himself swinging out an arm to catch her as she ducked and dived out of his reach.

Being thin and wiry, Molly was also quick on her feet and she might have made it to freedom, were it not for the constable outside. As she rushed out of the door, he blocked her path and caught her by the shoulders, afterwards holding her aloft by the scruff of her neck with her feet kicking furiously in the air. ‘Let me be!’ she screeched, lashing out at him with her two fists; ‘I ain’t done nothing wrong! . . . I
ain’t
, I tell you!’ She was cruelly silenced by a spiteful blow to the side of her head, as her pursuer stepped from the hut.

‘Know when to keep your mouth shut, urchin.’ Caleb Crowther took a lamp from the constable nearby, and holding it up high, he looked deep and long into Molly’s tearful face. ‘Robbery, violence . . . abducting my grandson? . . . You call this “nothing”?’ His voice was soft and smooth as velvet, but at the same time intense and terrifying. ‘Rogues have
hanged
for less,’ he told her, ‘but we’ve got you and, no doubt, we’ll soon have your accomplices.’

‘I didn’t do
any
of those things,’ Molly protested, angry that she should be accused. ‘He would have drowned if it weren’t for me. I found him in time . . . and he already had a gash on his head. Whoever it was that attacked him . . . it weren’t
me
!’ She was lashing out with her legs and arms. ‘I only fetched him back ’cause I needed Sal’s burial money. If I hadn’t fetched him back, he would have run away . . . he told me! But I can’t blame him . . . wanting to run away from
you
. I should have let the poor little bugger go!’ Of a sudden, Molly realised she had gone too far and let her tongue run away with her. Sal was right when she always used to warn that ’yer too quick-tempered by ‘arf! That tongue o’ yourn’ll get yer in trouble one o’ these fine days, my gal!’ She gave up her efforts at struggling, and hung in the constable’s fists like a rag-doll. ‘I did save him from drowning,’ she finished lamely.

‘Bind her well,’ instructed Caleb Crowther, his face a study in rage. ‘Let her escape, man . . . and you won’t see daylight for years.’

While the constables set about securing Molly’s flailing figure, Caleb Crowther went back inside the hut, his mind working feverishly and his determination to be rid of that dark-eyed urchin made stronger by what he had just seen. His earlier suspicions had been undeniably confirmed, and he was deeply bothered by it. Just now, when he had lifted the lamp, its light had picked out a glistening object on the urchin’s neck; he was convinced that the object was the very same watch that had belonged to Emma Grady’s mother, Mary. Mary, whom he had loved beyond the grave, whom he still craved for in his sleeping hours, and who had suffered the ultimate penalty for deceiving him with another man.

He recalled having seen that same urchin before, on the very night he had talked to Gabe Drury and, even more disturbing, he now suspected that she might have seen his face; although of course he had kept well hidden, and there was no proof whatsoever of his having seen Gabe Drury.
Who
would listen to a street urchin, already implicated in all manner of the worst possible crimes? No, he was safe enough, he was sure. But that wasn’t all, because he strongly suspected that this girl, who bore the same dark features as the bargee, Marlow Tanner, was the child of that man . . . and borne by the woman whom everyone believed to be his niece, Emma Grady! The sight of that watch, which had been Emma’s mother’s and was still in Emma’s possession at the time of her arrest, left him with only one conclusion. The brat was Emma’s offspring, and as such represented a threat in the long-term. A threat which was every bit as irritating as Emma Grady herself, and one which he did not intend to tolerate under any circumstances. Here he smiled to himself, as he drew out a small tin of matches from his waistcoat pocket. Fortune was sometimes a wonderful ally, especially when it offered the perfect opportunities to be rid of one’s enemies, he mused.

Striking the match alive, Caleb Crowther waited awhile, until the bright yellow flame was rearing and spitting. Then, with the smile deepening his features, he dropped the lighted match on to the mattress, afterwards going to the door and watching while the mattress gave up a fierce and rosy glow.

Before they dragged her round the corner and away from her beloved canal bank, Molly glanced back, towards the hut which had been her and Sal’s home. When she saw the flames and smoke reaching to the night sky, she was filled with shock and horror. In that moment, she saw the look of satisfaction on Caleb Crowther’s face, and for the first time in her young life, she felt real hatred in her heart. When, in a moment, they were bundling her into the waiting waggon and her sobbing was pitiful to hear, Molly knew that she would never forget this night. Nor would she ever forget, or forgive, the man they called the Justice.

Caleb Crowther kept a close eye as Molly was ushered into the jail-cart along with other miscreants who had been dragged from their beds this night. He had not forgotten the delicate watch around her neck, or his intention to take it discreetly from her at the first opportunity. But he must not be seen in the act of securing it from her, or that might well arouse too much interest.

‘What did the buggers get
you
for, eh?’ Molly felt herself being nudged by the person thrust in next to her, and when she turned to see who it was that was so interested in her, she was pleasantly surprised to be faced with a pair of smiling eyes and as handsome a fellow as she’d ever seen. Besides which, he appeared to be not much older than Molly himself, about fourteen she reckoned.

‘They’ve accused me of robbery, and of abducting Justice Crowther’s grandson,’ she replied, always being one to tell the truth when it mattered. Though, if Molly thought the fellow might be shocked at the charges against her, she was not wrong.

‘What?
Robbery and abduction . . . and the grandson of the Justice, no less!’ Of a sudden, he was rocking with laughter, and so were the other two captives in the waggon. ‘Yer having me on, ain’t yer?’ he chuckled. ‘Why! There ain’t two-pennorth of yer, and that’s a fact!’

Molly would have been amused too, if it weren’t for the fact that it was she who was in this terrible predicament, and not him. ‘It’s all right you laughing,’ she said, ‘but
I
don’t think it’s so funny!’

‘Aw . . . it ain’t so bad, you’ll see.’ He had lowered his voice, so the two accompanying constables might not hear. ‘In a few minutes we’ll be crossing Mill Hill bridge at the top of Parkinson Street. The horses don’t like it, on account of it being narrow and having a sharpish turn. They’ll slow right down, you mark my words . . .
that’s
when we’ll make a run fer it.’

‘Stop that whispering!’ thundered the constable seated at the front, and for a moment everything was quiet.

‘Are yer game?’ insisted the fellow, nudging Molly again and whispering close to her ear.