Midnight is a Place (32 page)

The winding shop was quite a pleasant place to work, for it was open on three sides, not too hot, not too noisy, and there was constant variety in the color of the wool coming through from the spinning-shed. Nevertheless, Lucas was profoundly uneasy, and had some difficulty in keeping his mind on his work.

His anxiety was not allayed by hearing a snatch of talk between two men who walked past him.

"Seems as Bobby Bludward is fixing oop woon o' his little booby traps—"

"Nay, is he, then? Who for, does tha knaw?"

"Soom lass as gave him a bit o' sauce—joost to teach t'oothers to toe t'line—"

"Woon o' these days soomone'll booby trap
him,
an' aboot a hoondred chaps'll toss their caps in t'air for joy—"

They went out of earshot.

I wish Anna-Marie were out of this place, thought Lucas. It's not good, her working here. She's such a hothead; she won't watch her tongue.

One of his bobbins was wound full with bright violet wool. Who could possibly want a carpet of such a color? But perhaps it would be mixed with something else, made into a pattern when it was woven. He pulled the lever which gave a signal to the men in the next room to stop spinning, broke the wool, fastened it off, and hoisted the bobbin off its spindle. This was an operation needing both skill and strength, for the bobbins were six feet in diameter from rim to rim—higher than Lucas as they rolled—and heavy in proportion. His foreman had helped him at first, but there was a knack, as Lucas had soon discovered, of swinging them off the spindle and over on to their rims all in one movement. Now he could do it alone. He checked his other two drums, to make sure they were winding smoothly, and was just starting to roll the violet bobbin along toward the store when he heard Sam Melkinthorpe's voice in his ear—loud, urgent, full of horror: "Lad! Quick! Coom to t'pressing room!"

"What's the matter?" Startled, Lucas had given the bobbin a shove; it rolled on ahead of them as Melkinthorpe grasped his arm and almost dragged him along.

"Yon bloody murderer have fixed it so's the press'll slip—they've owergreased it—woon o' my mates as works on the press telled me, Bludward got them to do it—"

"Why?" panted Lucas, giving his bobbin another shove.

"Why? Acos they've fixed for yon lass to be t'snatcher—that friend o' thine—that's why!"

"
Anna-Marie?
The snatcher? But I thought she was in the combing shed—"

"Not any more!"

They had arrived at the pressing floor. The spreaders were just finishing their operation of smoothing out a great pale-gray and green carpet. The little snatcher was standing ready on the edge of the steps, holding her tong—Lucas saw that it was Anna-Marie with a resolute, intent expression on her face—

And there in the middle of the gray-green carpet, as the men unrolled the last couple of yards, was not one wool clot but two. Two of the other fluff-pickers, higher up the steps, signaled and pointed, each in a different direction.

Anna-Marie hesitated, then sprang out.

"Anna-Marie!" Lucas shouted. "
Stop!
"

But there was too much noise, with the tremendous whine of the press overhead, for her to hear his voice. She snatched up one lump of wool in her tongs—turned toward the other....

With a wild burst of energy, which he would never have believed he commanded, Lucas hurled himself after the violet bobbin, turned it at right angles to its course, and sent it bowling down the shallow steps onto the pressing floor. Not an instant too soon. With a terrific silent downward rush—so fast that the ground seemed rushing up to meet it—the press came down. Anna-Marie looked up and went white; she took one faltering step toward the side. She would never have reached it in time. But the bobbin had rolled into the middle of the floor; the press came down and collided against it—six feet above her head.

Anna-Marie's legs gave way under her and she crouched down on the gray-green carpet like a partridge that sees a hawk fly over.

"Watch oot!" shouted Sam Melkinthorpe. "It's crackin'!"

A sharp, violent sound came from just above them. Lucas bounded slantways down the steps, grabbed Anna-Marie round the waist, and sprang back to safety, just before the two halves of the press, which had been cracked across the middle by its impact with the steel bobbin, tipped slowly down until each end rested on the floor.

"By gum!" said Sam Melkinthorpe, awestruck.

Lucas sat down weakly on the steps by the side of Anna-Marie and put his arm around her.

Men came running from all over the factory—in twos and threes, then in dozens.

"Look at that!" someone said wonderingly. "Snapped like a stick o' toffee!"

People formed a group round Lucas and Anna-Marie.

"Are you all right, lad? Was tha hurt at all, little un?"

"No—no—it is nothing—I thank you," said Anna-Marie scrambling to her feet, among all the helping hands. "It was just—it was so—so sudden."

But when she stood up her knees began to tremble again.

"I'm going to take you home," Lucas said.

"Aye, better," approved Mr. Melkinthorpe. "She's shook oop bad. 'Appen she'd be the better for a nip o' summat."

Lucas began to draw Anna-Marie through the crowd; she went with him docilely. In the middle of the mass of people they met Mr. Gravestone the manager, angrily elbowing his way forward.

"Was it you?" he demanded, laying hold of Lucas's collar. "Were you the boy who broke the press by rolling a wool drum under it? Do you realize what that is going to cost to put right? Thousands upon thousands—you have put half the Mill out of action for at least three weeks. The owners will sue you—you will have to pay for this—"

Lucas burst out laughing. He found something irresistibly comic about Mr. Gravestone's red face and red hair and blue outraged eyes.

"All right," he said. "Send us a bill. Come, Anna-Marie."

But a little farther on, by the swiveler, they walked into a more serious scene.

Bludward was there in his wheelchair. His pale eyes expressionlessly took in the fact of their arrival.

Rose Sproggs was standing in front of him, shaking her fists, and shouting, "I don't care who hears me speak! She were a good lass an' a bright lass, an' it was murder, Bob Bludward: there's no oother word for it. Tha's doon it oonce too often. I'll speak my mind if it's the last thing I do—"

Suddenly she saw Anna-Marie and stopped, struck speechless. After a moment or two she said: "I thowt tha was dead, luv."

"No," said Anna-Marie. "Luc—" She was unable to go on.

Scatcherd had come up behind Rose and was facing Bludward over her shoulder. "I towd thee, Bob Bludward," he said gently, "I towd thee before—remember?—when Fred Tebbutt were found i' the dye vat—I said sooner or later tha'd leave tracks behind and then I'd get thee. Tha's gone too far now."

"Aye, he has!" shouted Rose hysterically. "There's chaps on t'press who'll talk—"

"Ah, howd thy hush, woman," Bludward said impatiently. He seemed quite undisturbed by these accusations. Looking at Scatcherd, he said, "Tha'll fight, then?"

"Fight? Who said owt aboot fighting?"

"Art scared o' fighting wi' a cripple?" Bludward said contemptuously.

"Nay, no man calls me a coward—"

"If tha doosn't fight I'll call thee a soft soomph. Well? Bolt guns an' stackpins?"

"Eh—very well—if tha wants to fight—I'll not say no." Scatcherd seemed to have been shaken from the position he had established for himself. "When—an' where?"

"Three this arternoon—oop by t'lake i' Midnight Park."

"Fighting!" cried Rose furiously. "Isn't that men all over! Fighting! What does
that
get a'body?"

"Luc," said Anna-Marie in a small voice. "Luc, I am very sorry, but I think I may be sick. Can we go home?"

But outside the factory Anna-Marie felt a little better. They were amazed to find that it was a beautiful day—fine, and even a little warm. The sun shone. Birds sang in a startled manner. The snow dripped gently off the trees in dazzling drops.

Near their turning point off Milestone Hill they overtook an elderly man; when they came up with him they saw that it was old Mr. Scatcherd.

"I'm coom to see thy gran," he said. "'Tis a fine day for a ramble. Reckoned 'twas time I labored oop to put matters straight wi' her."

"Mr. Scatcherd," said Lucas, as they went slowly on at his pace, "did you know that your son Davey is going to fight Bob Bludward in the park this afternoon?"

"Nay, is he though?" said the old man with lively approval. "Not before time, either. How? They can hardly fight wi' clogs, seeing Bludward's a cripple."

"No," said Lucas. He had heard about the duels, often to the death, which the men of Blastburn fought, using no weapons but the steel-tipped clogs on their feet—dancing round each other like gamecocks, hands on hips, till one of them had his legs kicked from under him.

"Pity," said the old man, taking his pipe out of his mouth and banging it against a tree. "Davey's lightning-quick on his feet; plays goal for the Blastburn Wanderers. Reckon it'll be bolt guns, then?"

"Yes, that was what they said."

"That Bludward's a dead shot," the old man said, and relapsed into silence until they reached the icehouse.

The fresh air and the walk had restored Anna-Marie to something like herself, and this was as well, for inside the icehouse they found another unexpected guest—the lawyer, Mr. Throgmorton, looking, for once, rather less than his customary neat, trim, gray, proper self.

"I am come in answer to your letter, ma'am," he was saying. "I must confess I was surprised—greatly surprised—to find you installed here. I had believed you dead, firstly! And secondly I doubt if you have any but the barest squatters' rights to take up residence here, in Midnight Park, which as you know, has been sold."

"We'll come to that in a minute," said Lady Murgatroyd equably. "Why, Mr. Scatcherd! The very person of all others that I could have wished to see. Do please sit down—have a stump.... Now, Mr. Throgmorton—you are acquainted with Mr. Oakapple here—and you know
me.
Now, we should be obliged if you would be so good as to inform us for what reason you have been withholding from Lucas Bell here—whom we both confirm to be none other than Lucas Bell—the income he should have inherited at his father's death?"

"Why," began Mr. Throgmorton in a harassed manner, "—if the young man can prove that he is Lucas Bell—and if he can produce his father's will—I do assure you I never had the least intention of withholding anything due to him—er—an income of twenty pounds a year I believe—once a reasonable claim was established of course."

"I am delighted to hear it. Fortunately we have the will here—together with some documents that you may not have been aware you had mislaid, Mr. Throgmorton—some receipts for payments to various persons."

The lawyer's gray complexion paled to a greenish color; his mouth opened in dismay as he saw the papers that Lady Murgatroyd held in her hand.

"Lucas and I will come down to your office and go through his father's accounts with you on Monday, Mr. Throgmorton," said Mr. Oakapple.

"Yes, Mr. Oakapple—that will be quite convenient," stammered the lawyer. "Happy to see you better of your injuries, sir—happy indeed; I had not understood that you had survived the conflagration—"

"I should probably not have survived if this boy, whom you so strangely failed to recognize, had not worked as a sewerman to pay for my treatment," said Mr. Oakapple.

"Now, Mr. Throgmorton," said Lady Murgatroyd gently. "Just one other point. The payments made by Sir Randolph to Scatcherd, Smallside, Towzer, and Garridge. What were they for?"

Old Mr. Scatcherd got up from his stump and hobbled forward. "Maybe 'tis for me to speak now, my lady. Dear knows, it's been a fidgety thing on my conscience for twenty-odd years. But times was hard, and I'd dunnamany mouths to feed, an' no use chooking away good brass. But if I'd properly knowed i' th' first place what it'd lead to, I'd niver, niver ha' doon it. Joost a bit o' fun, we thowt it were, when we said we'd do it."

"What did you say you would do?" Mr. Oakapple's voice was very quiet and sad, as if he could see the answer ahead, like rocks.

"Why, I was to supply a gurt bit o' Clutterby Pie—I was a master baker i' those days—an' Gabriel was to put it in Sir Quincy's bedroom—an' Garridge was to ride woon way through Canby Moorside, dressed like Sir Randolph—an' Smallside, he were to ride back—

"Eh, but if I'd knowed Sir Quincy would die o' the business, an' young Mr. Denzil go off an' get drowned i' furrin parts—an' you, my lady, we heard tell as you was dead too, otherways I'd ha' blown the gaff long ago.

"Garridge an' Towzer an' soom other chaps went on an' did anoother dirty job for Sir Randolph, trying to stop yoong Mr. Denzil sailin' off; woon o' them scuttled the boat so it would sink; but I wouldn't have owt to do wi' that; I'd had enow by then. An' they did theirselves no good; two on 'em got killed. An' Towzer's niver been the same since; his heart's gone from him."

Old Mr. Scatcherd fell silent, staring at the fire, as if he saw a great slice of Clutterby Pie in it.

"So you see, Mr. Throgmorton," said Lady Murgatroyd, "it is probable that the sale of Midnight Park is null and void, since Sir Randolph had obtained the estate by fraudulent means. If you received any commission on the sale, you would be well advised to return it."

Mr. Throgmorton looked really appalled. "I very much doubt if you would be able to get other witnesses—" he began.

"I think we could get old Monsieur Towzer," said Anna-Marie. "I am sure he is very sorry for what he did."

"And Smallside might consent to help if he knew we had the receipts; Garridge, too—" Mr. Oakapple said. "Of course, if it was proved that you knew of the original fraud it might be awkward for you—"

Mr. Throgmorton had had enough. "Well, ma'am, I'll look into it, I'll look into it. I know
nothing.
I can promise nothing. It is a very complicated legal situation—very. I will bid you good day."