Eppie (55 page)

Mr Grimley strode into the office and shot a startled glance
at the truck store manager.

The clerk slithered in after the mill manager, clutching the
red fines book, which he had salvaged earlier.

Agitatedly, the manager waved his wooden hand at the fines
book that Loomp had been scrutinizing. ‘Longbotham! Away with it!’  

A stern look upon his face, du Quesne paced in and seated
himself at his desk.

‘What are you about Mr Loomp?’ the mill manager demanded.

‘I am in need of a fresh grocer’s boy, one what’s less
light-fingered. On more than one occasion I have caught that recalcitrant lad,
Hubert, pilfering confectionery and disposing of the evidence by stuffing it
down his own throat.’

‘Yes, yes,’ Mr Grimley said, flustered.  ‘I will see to it.’

All the while Eppie, standing in the corner, stared wonderingly
at the slowly flicking pages of the book of misdemeanours, watching du Quesne
check the fines calculations for the day. He might not have noticed, but she
had. There were two copies of the book and, from the fearful tone she had
detected in Mr Grimley’s voice, it would appear that he wished the existence of
the second copy to remain concealed from the mill owner.

The three men engrossed, she hesitantly stepped behind Mr
Grimley’s chair. ‘Please, sir.’

Mr Grimley visibly jumped, startled by her voice so close to
his ear. ‘Yes, yes, what is it?’

‘Coline needs to go home.’

‘Home?’

Exasperated at Eppie sneaking around again, du Quesne growled
low in his throat like one of his mastiffs. 

‘The trouble is,’ she said apologetically, ‘we’ve lost it.’ 

Mr Grimley cast a perplexed look into her serious eyes.
‘That is a little remiss. How did you manage that?’

‘Wakelin shredded it for firewood. Last night we slept
beneath your tumble-down house.’ 

‘So it was you! Priscilla and Rowan suspected somebody was
down there. No home? You are in a stew.’

‘Send them to Rotten Yard,’ du Quesne said, without looking
up from the book. ‘Number 61 is empty.’    

Eppie had heard about Rotten Yard from other workers and knew
that du Quesne fixed the rent for these derelict, greedily crammed cottages at
three shillings a week. ‘Now you’ve sacked Wakelin, we won’t be able to afford
the rent. Besides, my mam won’t like it there.’

‘Your mother willingly cut her mark to my indenture, agreeing
to abide by my rules. I say she will occupy Number 61 or go to jail for
breaking the agreement. The choice is hers.’

‘It is nearly the end of the day,’ Mr Grimley said. ‘As
Coline is poorly I will take your family and the O’Ruarc children to Rotten
Yard.’

‘Over my dead body, you will,’ stormed du Quesne. ‘The workers
must make up for lost time. For six weeks, starting as from tomorrow, I am
introducing Brisk Time. The mill hands will start work at three o’clock in the
morning and finish at ten-thirty at night. In order to complete that
outstanding order they shall work through tonight and all tomorrow, without pay.
You and the over-lookers must stay on to supervise.’

Mr Grimley’s mouth opened and closed rapidly in amazement at
what he was hearing. ‘The workers can’t do that. I can’t. It’s physically
impossible. What about their sleep?  What about mine?’

Du Quesne rose and tugged on
his overcoat. ‘I will be at The Wolf. Upon no account must I be disturbed. My
big toe is playing up with this infuriating gout.’

Throughout the bleak, hellish hours family discipline grew
increasingly severe, with beatings to awaken sleepy children. If parents were
drained of energy, unable to watch over their offspring, Crumpton was always
around to drive the children on and to exact punishments. 

Towards two o’clock in the morning Simkin fell asleep on his
feet and, seized by the blower, died of his injuries.

Crumpton was adamant that Jenufer alone was blameworthy for
not having kept a sharper eye on her child.     

Du Quesne did not turn up at the mill that day.

Minds
swimming with exhaustion, Eppie and the others headed to Rotten Yard in a
borrowed cart. It had poured all day and still teemed. Rotten Yard was near Saint
Peter’s church, though they knew not precisely where.

Not wanting to dally,
Wakelin shouted for directions from workers who scurried home. ‘Hop down, Eppie.
See if this is the place.’ Cries of innocence and drunken shrieks filled the
air. ‘Though I hope not; it’s too close to the jail for my comfort.’

About these warrens of
narrow passageways, leading in and out of one another, was something fearful.
At first, she nervously tiptoed, then, bunching up her skirts, pelted down the
passage, noticing a privy with a bucket, but no door.

Entering the courtyard, she
stepped towards Number 61. ‘It’s here!’

The door was constructed of
old boards nailed together. She turned the knob and pushed. It would not budge.
Forcing it with her shoulder the door abruptly fell inward.

‘Good, you’ve found it,’
Martha said. ‘Hasten, Wakelin, we need to get Coline out of the rain.’

Paltry light from candles,
seen through broken windowpanes, staggered in draughts as mill workers fixed
meals or prepared to go to bed. ‘Eppie, go and knock on a door and see if
someone will give us a candle.’           

Returning with the precious
flicker cupped in her palm she stared around the interior, feeling as cheerless
as the shivering shadows. Utterly devoid of furnishing there was only an
ash-heaped hearth to show that folk had once inhabited the dwelling. Scarcely
was there room for six people to stand up, let alone lie down to sleep.

With one stride Wakelin
stepped into the middle of the filthy, ruinous shack. He laid Coline on the
bed, which was covered with a heap of dirty blankets. ‘We can’t stay in this
place, Ma.’

‘It needs sprucing up,’ she
answered. ‘And it looks like we’ll have to patch the roof.’

‘Patch it?’ He kicked a
dead rat. ‘What we gonna do that with? Pig muck an’ straw?  Ain’t you
forgetting summat? Like, we ain’t got no money. Think of the way du Quesne
lives and he expects us to put up with this. I tell ya, we can’t stay here, not
one night.’

‘We have to make the best
of things.’

‘Can’t ya see, Ma? Staying
here, it’d be like du Quesne’s won. In me head I’d hear him laughing cos’ he’s
got me where he’s always wanted me, rotting in some wormhole.’

‘There’s nowhere else.’

‘I’ll sleep on the
streets.’

‘Don’t
be silly, Wakelin. Wakelin! Come back. What about Mr Grimley’s horse and cart?’

Left alone during the day, Coline
had no option other than to look after herself as best she could.

Pig-raisers rented land in
the centre of the court, where hogs rooted in heaps of evil-smelling offal and
rotting vegetables. Now and then they ventured into Number 61. Coline was too
weak to shoo them off.

By the third evening she
had grown weaker. Martha managed to get a fire going and fix a stew from a
pigeon that Fur had netted the previous day. Coline, however, finding it hard
to swallow, could take but little. Mr Grimley had sent along a parcel of food
and a bottle of physic. Martha poured the linctus onto a spoon and gently
raised Coline’s head. Her neck excruciatingly stiff and painful, she fell back
with a cry.

Eppie and Fur returned from
the riverside where they had been gathering firewood.

Martha had set a kettle on
the trivet to boil. Exhausted from her day’s labour, she lethargically stirred
the fire.

Wakelin was slumped in a
corner like a beaten animal. 

Hesitantly, Eppie
approached. 

‘I should leave him be,’
Martha said.

‘Where’s he been sleeping
all week?’

‘No idea.’

‘Is he drunk?’

‘When ain’t he?’

Coline was insensible to
her surroundings and to those around her. Her throat swollen, she could no
longer speak or sip the water that Fur offered her. 

Martha stared at sparks
arching and tumbling into ashes. ‘I’ve not sorted supper.’ 

Careful so as not to
disturb Lottie and Coline, Eppie drew back the blanket and slipped into bed. ‘I
feel too miserable to eat, anyway.’

During
the night, Wakelin’s spates of muttering drew Eppie to wakefulness. She could
not catch the words, but gathered it was something about Tobias. It was on one
of these occasions that she awoke and felt Coline’s stiff, cold limbs.

The vicar, a plump, hunched
man, held a fleeting service over Coline’s grave, and hastily retired for
supper.

Wakelin had found work at
the knacker’s yard. Since he lived apart, Martha had scant opportunity to speak
with him. Swiftly, she followed as he left Coline’s graveside.

By the glow from the
lantern at his feet, Fur noticed the look of curiosity on Eppie’s face as she
gazed at Martha and Wakelin, straining to catch their flow of words. ‘Don’t you
think Reverend Clinch is an odd fellow?’ he asked.

‘Why?’

‘He told me that if I felt
distressed about Coline’s death, I could call at the rectory and he would
comfort me.’

‘I can’t see what’s wrong
with that.’

‘Why
would he want to pay me for going to see him?’ Fur asked.

‘Look at the state of you,’
Martha grumbled at Wakelin. ‘I know it’s your job, but what must Reverend
Clinch have thought to you attending a funeral with blood splattered all over
your clothes? Why won’t you tell me where you’re staying? You can’t have shaved
in weeks. And it wouldn’t have taken much effort to wash your face.’

‘Many a man has died from a
sound scrubbing.’

‘Don’t
be ridiculous. Are you eating? You’ll not last long like this.’ She rubbed the
sores on her lips. ‘Nor will I, come to that, and I’ll probably end up like
poor Jenufer.’

Arriving at the mill that
morning, Ezra had told workers that Jenufer’s body had been dragged from the
canal the previous evening. Some of the mill workers said that Crumpton had pushed
her to take her own life after he accused her of being responsible for her
son’s death, but Ezra was adamant that his wife would never have committed
suicide. 

Eppie had her own
conjecture, especially as Jenufer’s death followed almost directly upon the
discovery of Alicia Strutt’s mortal remains beneath the hearthstone in the
study of The Rogues’ Inn.

After work, Eppie had stopped
off at The Wolf and Child, where Dick Pebbleton worked in the stables. ‘So it’s
as you guessed,’ she said. ‘Thurstan killed Alicia. He hated Hurry Eades.
That’s why he sold The Rogues’ Inn to him. It seemed odd at the time. Now
everything fits.’ Consequent upon the unearthing of the corpse, Thurstan had Eades
hung for Alicia’s murder. ‘We ought to tell Judge Baulke what Thurstan’s
done.’ 

‘I value my life too much
to get involved,’ Dick answered. ‘Even if Thurstan was convicted, Cudbert or
one of Thurstan’s other friends is sure to kill me in retaliation.’

Later,
Eppie spoke with Martha. They had to accept that there was no factual evidence
to incriminate Thurstan for the deaths of the sisters. ‘Besides,’ Martha said,
‘with Septimus Strutt long since in his grave, his evidence that Thurstan
claimed Alicia was a kept woman, living in London, can hardly be brought to
light.’

Fur turned from his
sister’s grave. ‘I’ll walk home on my own.’

Eppie nodded
understandingly.

Patiently,
she waited for Martha. Her feet encased in shoes that had more holes in them
than leather, she scrunched her toes in an effort to warm them.

Provoked by misery, Martha
spoke angrily to Wakelin. ‘The time is nigh. Seeing Eibhlin and Coline’s deaths
must surely bring it home to you?  My mind is made up.  I’m going to tell
her.’ 

‘No!’ he rasped.

‘Do you want Eppie to die
in a mill accident like Coline? Is that it?’

‘Of
course I don’t, but things ain’t that simple.’ 

Eppie
wondered at Wakelin’s unnerving behaviour as he strode back and forth before
Martha in a state of agitation.

‘When I was young I enjoyed
nowt better than the killing,’ Wakelin said, ‘to see dogs ripping the badgers
at the baiting. I’ve had me fill. Do you imagine I like doing this job?  I’m
sick of the sight of death. Every day I have to force myself to kill the beasts.
All right, I know they’re all knackered but, one after the other, I see ‘em
looking into my eyes like they’re pleading for their lives. It reminds me of
when Twiss died. And it’ll be us what’s laid on slabs, our guts trailing over
the floor, if du Quesne finds out about Eppie. Is that what you want, huh?’

‘It won’t be like that.’

‘Maybe, but like as not. I’m
telling ya, Ma, I don’t want to hear another word about it.’

‘Wakelin!’ Martha watched
him trudge off, presumably to his usual haunt, The Leaking Barrel.

Her head lowered, in deep
thought, she trod towards Eppie at a fast pace as though hurrying to work.

Eppie held out a wisp of
hair.  

‘What’s this?’ Martha asked
sharply, too absorbed by Wakelin’s words to concentrate on anything else.