Down Weaver's Lane (37 page)

As Mrs Bradley looked at her, Emmy could feel herself blushing. She was relieved when no one said any more about that. It could not be. Money would not wipe out the shame. Nothing would.

But when she went to bed that night she wept bitterly, trying to muffle her sobs in her pillow, not only for herself but for dear Mrs Tibby whom she still missed dreadfully.

She was not surprised when Mr Bradley told her the following afternoon that it could not have been Marcus Armistead who had attacked her since he had gone on from the funeral to dine with the Rishmores. As if he’d do the deed himself!

Well, he wasn’t going to get his hands on her again.

 

The following morning was Sunday. After the service Jack came up to Emmy openly in the churchyard. ‘How are you keeping? You look strained. I know you’ll be missing Mrs Oswald, but is something else wrong?’

‘It’s been a difficult time.’ Did he know about the attack or the money?

‘We need to talk, don’t we?’ he asked, smiling down at her.

That smile always made her feel as if her bones had turned to wax and were melting inside her. Her heart began to thump and she could only stare at him. How fine and upright he was! How different from Marcus Armistead with his sneering face, plump body and cruel mouth! She glanced sideways to see Mrs Bradley nodding and smiling encouragement at her.

‘Can we go and sit in the churchyard?’ Jack asked. ‘That will be quite respectable, I’m sure.’

His soft voice robbed the words of any offence and she could not help smiling at him. ‘What about your Sunday classes?’

‘Parson has found someone else to take them today. He had a word with me before the service - about you.’

‘Oh.’

Jack offered her his arm and led her through the churchyard to the wall at the side where there was a bench. There they were in full view of anyone walking past, yet had the privacy to speak without being overheard. He brushed some dirt off the bench and waited until she was seated to take his place beside her.

‘I’ve been thinking all through the service. Parson told me about the money you’ve inherited, you see, and hinted at what it could mean for us. He’s right.’ Jack gave her a wry smile. ‘Though that makes me sound as if I only care about you because of the money, and it’s not so. Say you believe that, Emmy. Say you understand how difficult it is for me, with my mother and the children to look after.’ He took her hand.

She stared down at their joined hands as she said, ‘I know it’s not so, Jack.’

His sigh of relief was so loud she looked up and smiled.

He had meant to talk sensibly, lead up to his question gradually, but the words he had dreamed so often of saying came pouring out: ‘You will marry me now, won’t you, my little love?’

For a minute she nearly said yes. But she had gone over all this in bed the previous night. The money had changed the situation in only one way. Her own past and the shame of being the bastard-born daughter of a whore would not be wiped out by an annuity. And added to all that was the threat of Marcus Armistead.

No, to marry Jack would be to put him in danger. She loved him far too much to do that.

‘I can’t.’ She had to swallow hard after she had said the words because Jack’s face showed both disappointment and surprise.

‘You must, Emmy!’ His voice broke on the words. ‘I can’t bear it if you don’t. I’ve been a good son for years, but surely I’ve a right to some happiness of my own now?’

‘At the expense of your mother’s,’ she pointed out, her voice sounding thin and unlike her usual tones even in her own ears.

‘My mother will grow used to it. Once she comes to know you, she’ll realise how good and kind you are. Emmy, we can’t let other people keep us apart - not when there’s no need.’

She shook her head, trying to keep her voice level even though her throat had thickened with tears. ‘You and your family would suffer if you married me.’

‘We’ll move away from Northby, then. Somewhere no one will know about your past.’

‘If that were all, perhaps we could do it - if your mother agreed.’ She felt a tear trickle down her cheek. ‘Will she?’

He bent his head and a sigh escaped. ‘I doubt it.’

‘And then there’s Marcus Armistead. Even if we were married, you couldn’t guard me all day every day, Jack. I think the man’s mad. He’s been whispering threats to me from his carriage for a while now, or just sitting in it smiling at me. And he’ll succeed one day if I stay in Northby. I’ve lived in the slums of Manchester, Jack, where life is cheap, and I know what people will do for money.’ Jack had lived all his life in a small, quiet town. He’d never understand how little value a human life could have.

‘If he touched you I’d kill him.’

‘And then they’d hang you. Your father was shot dead for machine breaking. Your brother was transported. They’d say violence runs in your family and blame you, not him, because he’s a
gentleman.
’ She paused for a moment, waiting to let her words sink in, seeing the moment when Jack understood exactly what they’d be facing if they married.

He looked at her, misery in his eyes.

‘Don’t say anything. Just walk back with me to Parson’s house and then go home to your family. Be glad you have them.’ Because she had no one and never could have.

At the Parsonage gate he stopped and took both her hands in his. ‘If you’re ever in trouble, you’ll come to me, won’t you?’

She nodded, not daring to try to speak.

‘And if I think of a way round this, I’ll come to you.’

She shook her head. There was no hope for them.

‘One kiss?’ His voice was rough with longing.

Again she could only nod.

So he bent his head and took her in his arms, brushing her lips with his, then deepening the kiss until it felt as if they had touched one another’s soul.

As they pulled apart the tears spilled out of her eyes and with an inarticulate murmur she ran inside.

He didn’t even try to brush away his own tears as he walked home. Hadn’t his whole life shown him that the rich could do as they pleased? That he could not have what he wanted most without hurting those he loved? But not even his father’s death and his brother’s transportation had been as painful as losing Emmy.

 

One evening George went up to check why Peggy had not come down with the other girls who were waiting for clients of The Golden Swan, his newest business venture with Marcus Armistead and a much bigger place than the first one. He found her room empty and, although she was normally the tidiest of girls, her possessions strewn all over the place as if someone had ransacked it.

Worried, he checked all the other attic bedrooms quickly but found nothing, then glanced at the stairs that led to the upper attic. No, Peggy couldn’t be up there! Still, it wouldn’t hurt to check. They’d had an intruder once.

He found Peggy’s battered body lying on a blood-spattered bed in the ‘quiet room’ at the top of the house, the one they used for men with strange tastes. She was tied to the bed and the ropes had bitten deep into her wrists, as if she’d struggled desperately to escape. Why had no one heard her? When he looked into her mouth he found bits of lint and realised she must have been gagged.

It took him a few minutes to pull himself together because he’d had a fondness for poor Peggy who’d reminded him of Madge Carter. Then he started thinking. And worrying. Marcus Armistead had been the last one to see her. Surely he hadn’t done this?

Not wanting to upset the other girls just as customers would be starting to turn up, George went downstairs and said he could find no sign of Peggy. ‘I’ll give her what for when I see her.’

His partner came in later and George took him into the office to say baldly, ‘Peggy’s dead, been murdered.’

‘What? How can she be? I visited her myself earlier today.’ Marcus smiled reminiscently. ‘She’s a most obliging young woman.’

‘Was, not is,’ George corrected.

‘How did she die? Who killed her?’

‘Some bastard tied her up then beat her to death - broke her neck, it looks like.’

‘Did she not cry out? Surely someone must have heard something?’

‘She was only a little woman. He had her tied up and gagged, poor little bitch. I can’t believe such a thing could have happened inside my house.’ Just when they were doing well, when he was so proud of running a clean and orderly business that served only gentlemen.

Marcus began tapping his fingers on the arm of his chair. ‘Some villain must have sneaked in. We’d better get a guard for the back door as well as the front. What are we going to do about this?’

George stared at him in surprise. ‘What do you mean? Report it to the authorities, of course. This is murder.’

Marcus raised one eyebrow. ‘George, my friend, do we really want them involved? They might close us down.’

‘Not with a gentleman like you involved.’

‘But the last thing I want is to be publicly associated with The Golden Swan, you know that. It’ll stop me bringing my friends here. And they spend freely.’

George stood scowling at the floor, seeing his fine new business destroyed. It didn’t take much to get a place a bad reputation - and its owner with it. He made an exasperated noise in his throat. ‘We’d better get rid of the body quietly, then.’

Marcus nodded. ‘I think you’re right. You’ll have to do it, though. I don’t know this area and,’ he grimaced down at himself, ‘I’m not exactly the strongest of men.’ With hardly a pause he went on, ‘Now, about Saturday, I’m bringing . . .’

It was only as George was wrapping up the body that it occurred to him that Madge had died in almost exactly the same way, beaten to death, and he stopped what he was doing to frown at poor Peggy’s battered face. Surely it couldn’t have been the same person who killed them? No, of course it couldn’t. What was he thinking of? Madge had died on the moors near Northby. That was miles away from here.

Then the thought came unbidden: Marcus visited Northby sometimes and he had been here earlier today. George shook his head. No, Marcus was an undersized fellow. Any woman could fight him off for long enough to scream. It had to have been someone bigger, someone who’d taken Peggy by surprise. Besides, why would Marcus damage his own business? No, it didn’t make any sense at all.

George disposed of the body by leaving it on some waste ground in the small hours of the morning. He couldn’t hide the fact from the other women that Peggy had vanished suddenly, or that he had gone into the girl’s sleeping quarters in the lower attics and packed up her things himself. ‘Found herself a protector, the lucky bitch,’ he told them.

But although they did not question this openly, they did a lot of muttering to one another and stopped talking when he went near them for the next few days.

The youngest of his girls, another rather small woman, ran away a few days later.

None of the others would say why.

Still sure the girls knew something, he took one of them aside and offered her ten guineas to tell him.

‘Ten guineas and a coach ticket to London,’ she insisted. ‘And not a word of this to Mr Armistead. What’s more, you’re to put me safely on the coach yourself.’

He hated to lose her. But he also hated not knowing what had happened and worrying that it might happen again. He
needed
to know. ‘All right.’

He didn’t believe what she told him at first. But the more he thought about it, the more the pieces fell together.

When he was putting her on the coach, she turned and kissed his cheek. ‘You’re all right, George, but that other fellow is poison. Get rid of him. He’ll bring you down.’

But he couldn’t get rid of Marcus Armistead who had sunk a great deal of money into this enterprise. And if he challenged him, who knew what Marcus might do? The rich could get away with all sorts of things.

Did nothing in the world ever go sodding right?

He’d have to bide his time and see what else he could find out, but he wasn’t going to put up with any more murders, by hell he wasn’t! George didn’t like anyone upsetting his girls - anyone at all.

And if it really was Marcus doing it, well, rich men could go missing as well as poor little whores. But before he did anything he had to find some proof.

Jack went home burning with resentment and despair. Of course his mother saw something was wrong and sent the others to bed early.

‘What’s wrong, son?’ she asked, laying one hand on his shoulder.

Only as she spoke did he look up and realise they were alone. ‘Is it bed time already?’

As he started to get up, Netta pushed him down again and sat beside him on the wooden settle his father had made for them. She kept hold of his hand, clasping it tightly in hers and looking earnestly into his eyes, not saying anything.

From the front room he could hear Meg murmuring to her little daughter. From upstairs the creaking of beds showed that the children were not yet asleep. He sighed as he studied his mother’s face. She was looking older recently and her hair was fully grey now with none of the rich brown colour left. Why had he not noticed that change? He could remember her hair shining in the sunshine once and his mother smiling at the world with her hand linked in his father’s arm. Not only his younger brothers and sisters, but memories like that, together with the pity he now felt for her, were what tied him to her, even though Meg said he was a fool to give up his own life.