The Judge's Daughter (8 page)

Talk to the judge? Denis struggled to remember a proper conversation with Zachary Spencer, realizing that there had been little true communication since the interview for his
job. He tried to imagine himself asking for his employer’s help in the current situation, and dismissed the idea before it had even taken root. But he shuddered at the thought of what might
happen when the man returned in a few days to find his spinster daughter glowing with make-up and desire. Perhaps she would revert to normal?

‘Denis?’ Agnes was giving him one of her more searching looks.

‘What?’

‘There’s folk in Africa would kill for that boiled egg.’

He finished his breakfast quickly, aware that his wife was troubled, knowing that he had to present himself at Lambert House within the hour, fearing the next move of a woman he now considered
unbalanced. He could not hide from Agnes forever – she could read him like an open book.

‘What’s wrong?’ Agnes asked. ‘You’ve been like a cat on hot bricks since last week. Is the job too much? Could you not take it a bit easier if you’re
off-colour?’

Denis shrugged. ‘I’m tired, love. It must be the heat. I’ll do my best to slow down a bit.’

He left. While dusting, reading, shopping and washing, she was worrying about Denis. It wasn’t just his chest, not this time. He was walking about like a man with the whole world weighing
him down and Agnes was troubled.

‘We’ve always talked about stuff,’ she advised the sink. Marriage was based on three things – love, trust and friendship. Those elements needed to run seamlessly through
daily life, but Denis was holding something back. It wasn’t like him. Any troubles, however small, had always been shared. Denis had got her through the months after Pop’s stroke when
she had worked at the pub. He had agreed happily about the nursing, had offered his support no matter what. If they had to eat less while she studied, that problem would be shared. The slightest
thought was always meted out between the two of them so that a solution might be found before thought became difficulty. There was something wrong with Denis.

Agnes sat down. Pop was bringing in a wage, so things were not as bad as they might have been. Except. What a big word that was. Was it his job? Or was he trying to shield his wife from some
terrible truth about his health? There wasn’t another woman. ‘I’d have known if it was that,’ she whispered. ‘But the lad’s suffering.’ If anything
happened to Denis, she would be unable to continue alive.

She would deal with this tonight, after Pop had gone to bed. Whatever it took, Agnes Makepeace was going to get to the bottom of her husband’s unhappiness.

Someone hammered on the front door and she ran to open it. A very flustered Glenys Timpson burst into tears as soon as she saw Agnes. ‘It wasn’t him,’ she wailed repeatedly.
‘He wouldn’t. He was selling stuff, but . . . but he never did the shop. Oh, Agnes . . .’ Loud wailing drowned the rest of her words.

Agnes produced tea and biscuits, waiting until Glenys had calmed before asking, ‘Who and what? Slow down a bit, Glenys – I don’t know what you’re on about.’

‘They’ve done something called referring him to Crown Court. He was handling stolen goods, but he never did the burglary and he won’t say who did. He thinks he’ll get
beaten up or worse if he tells. There’s some nasty folk about. He could get killed by the Manchester mafia.’

‘This is Harry?’

The visitor nodded. ‘Will you have a word with your Denis?’

‘Eh? What for?’

‘He can have a word with the judge. Even if he’s not the judge on my Harry’s case, he might say something to another judge.’

Agnes processed the odd request. ‘So you want me to have a word with Denis about having a word with the judge about having a word with somebody else?’

‘Summat on them lines, aye. I don’t want Harry going down for years, do I? He’s been in trouble afore, so it’s not a first offence. I could lose him for good.’

‘Were Jack and Bert involved?’ Agnes asked.

‘I don’t know. I’d be lying if I said no and lying if I said yes. But they’re not the ones in trouble. That Judge Spencer might listen to your Denis. You’re the
only chance I’ve got.’

Agnes shook her head. The judge never listened to anyone on the domestic front. ‘It wouldn’t make any difference, honestly. The judge is away at the moment, but he’s not an
approachable man, Glenys. And they’re paid a lot of money so that they can’t be bribed.’

‘I’m not talking about bribery. Just a word in his ear. It won’t do any harm to try.’

‘He has to be impartial, love. You know the saying – justice must be done and must be seen to be done. The court’ll look at it from the jeweller’s point of view –
his shop was wrecked and his stock was stolen.’ She reached out and took the older woman’s hand. ‘I know it’s horrible, love, but maybe your Harry will learn his lesson.
Sometimes, it’s the only way they do learn.’

Glenys closed her eyes and leaned back. ‘He’ll learn, all right. Last time, he learned just about every crime there is and how to break the law in a big way. Borstal near finished
him. Prison’ll only make him a lot worse. I’m frightened to bloody death. If he gets put away, it’ll kill me and that’s the top and tail of it.’

Agnes studied the woman in front of her. Glenys Timpson was near the edge of her chair and almost at the rim of reason. ‘Glenys. Look at me. Go home, wash your hands and face, then come
back. It’s a nice day and we’ll have a leisurely walk. We’ll go up Skirlaugh Rise and see Denis while the judge is away. His daughter’s off work at the moment. She might
listen, but I can’t promise that Judge Spencer will listen to her. It’s worth a try, I suppose.’

Glenys awarded Agnes a weak smile. ‘Thanks, love. Then at least I’ll know I did everything I could. Even if it doesn’t work, I’ll have tried.’ She left the house at
top speed to prepare herself for the outing.

Agnes was not hopeful. The daughter was a pale, lifeless creature, while the judge was about as movable as the Rock of Gibraltar. Still, having made the offer to Glenys, she knew that she had to
carry it through. And it was a lovely day for a walk.

As Fred put it when speaking to his granddaughter, he and Eva Hargreaves got on ‘like tongue and groove’ from the very beginning. With no need for a timetable, they
ran the shop between them, Fred disappearing into his shelter when he felt that Eva was up to scratch. A large woman, she needed frequent rests and was enjoying her business for the first time in
years. She looked forward to Fred’s arrival every morning, was pleased to have his company, was glad that he took to shop work like a duck to water.

‘It’s done me good, has this,’ he told her one afternoon as they sat drinking tea outside the shop doorway. The pavement, covered in buckets, mops, brooms and other
paraphernalia, was not exactly picnic territory, but both were content to bask in the sun during a lull in trade. ‘I remember nearly everything now,’ he said. ‘Thanks, Eva.
You’ve done me a lot of good, giving me this chance. There’s not many that would take me on, the state I was in. I’m happy. You’ve made me happy. I’m
grateful.’

‘You’re welcome.’ She smoothed her apron. ‘I saw your Agnes stepping out with Glenys about ten minutes ago. I wonder where they’ve gone?’

Fred nodded and took another gulp of stewed tea. ‘Never holds a grudge, our Agnes. That battleaxe took to coming round after Sadie died, even made me a few meals. Not a bad cook, either
– does a smashing corned beef hash. Everybody has a good side and Agnes always winkles it out. She’s a grand lass.’

‘She is.’

He studied his enamel mug for a moment. ‘I might be holding them back, you know. Agnes and Denis, I mean. I don’t like feeling as if I’m holding them back.’

‘How come?’

‘Well, they’ve been offered a peppercorn cottage in Skirlaugh Fall, just a stride away from his work. It’s lovely up there – fresh air, good place to rear kiddies, plenty
of places to play. It’s dirty round these parts and Denis could do without breathing all these damned fumes. They stay because they think I can’t manage by myself.’

‘That’s because you can’t manage. When did you last cook a decent dinner, eh?’ She grinned at him. ‘You need them. Agnes feels she should look after you because you
looked after her when her mam died. Just be glad you have a family that cares.’

‘I don’t want to be a burden,’ he answered.

‘It’ll get sorted out.’ Eva went into the shop to serve two newly arrived customers. A seed of an idea had planted itself in her brain, but she needed time to think about it,
time on her own. She doled out paraffin and coal bricks, weighed some tacks, found a spanner for a man who needed to move a bed frame. The solution would arrive, she felt sure.

Fred wandered through the shop on his way to the air raid shelter. His doll’s houses were coming on a treat and word was spreading. If he carried on this way, he would be hiring an
assistant before the year was out. It was time to put an advert in the
Bolton Evening News
. Eva believed he deserved success after the work he had put into the enterprise.

Fred settled in his new workshop, proud eyes surveying shelves and cupboards – a place for everything and everything in its place. Agnes would be pleased when she saw this. Sadie would
have been thrilled to bits. All he needed was a bit of advertising, and Eva had promised to see to that. He took a swig of cold tea before carpeting his tiny bedrooms. For the first time in months,
Fred Grimshaw was a contented man.

It was a long walk and its duration gave Glenys the opportunity to unburden herself. She talked about her dead husband, about Eva Hargreaves, also a widow, with whom she had
shared grief over premature deaths. ‘We both married lads younger than ourselves and both lost them early. Very good to me and my boys, was Eva. Which is why I near flayed our Harry for
breaking into her shop. He were only a kid, but I should have seen it then, Agnes. Three lads and I needed eyes in the back of my head – I still do. They’ve been trouble, but I love
them all to bits. What the hell am I going to say to Miss Spencer if she sees me?’

Agnes didn’t know. She’d come into contact with Helen Spencer in the big library, had even managed a bit of conversation with her once, but the woman seemed too quiet and shy to have
any influence with her dad. ‘You can only do your best – like you said earlier. Harry will have to take his chances, but your conscience will be clear.’

‘Aye, let’s hope so.’

During a quieter spell, Agnes wondered about the level of ferocity displayed by many women when one of their offspring was in trouble. It was clear that Glenys would rather do the time for
Harry. ‘I wonder if I’ll be like you when I have a child?’ she asked eventually.

‘Like me?’

‘Yes. Going to any lengths to help your son.’

‘You will,’ said Glenys with certainty. ‘You’ll be a good mam, Agnes Makepeace.’

‘I hope so.’

They were in Skirlaugh Fall, a small village built in a cleft between moors. Glenys paused for a rest. ‘I’ll bet these places get flooded in heavy rain,’ she pronounced, her
eyes fastened to the big house at the top of Skirlaugh Rise. ‘I mean, water runs downhill, doesn’t it? They’ll need wellies in their back kitchens if a storm comes.’

Agnes smiled. Her companion was trying to take her own mind off the task in hand. ‘Denis has been offered one of the cottages,’ she said. ‘Small, but lovely – and look at
that scenery.’

‘Will you take it?’

‘I would if Pop decided to come, but he’s embedded down yonder.’ She inclined her head in the direction of the town. ‘He thinks Bolton’ll come to bits if he’s
not there to supervise matters. And I’d have to travel to the infirmary every day, so I suppose we’ll be stopping in Noble Street. Till they pull it all down, of course.’

Glenys grabbed Agnes’s arm. ‘This Manchester job were a big one. They’ll need a whipping boy, and my Harry’s been picked. It weren’t him. I’d know. I always
know. He were in on it, but he didn’t blow that shop to bits.’

‘And he knows who did?’

‘Aye, he does, only he’d sooner be alive in prison than join his dad in Tonge Cemetery. His mouth’s shut tighter than a prison door.’

When the two women walked through the gates of Lambert House, they scanned the front for a sign of Denis, but he was nowhere to be seen. ‘Let’s split up,’ Agnes suggested.
‘You look round the back, while I go over yonder.’ She pointed to a nearby cluster of trees. ‘I know Denis said something about thinning out branches, so he could be in the
copse.’

‘What’s that when it’s at home?’

Agnes grinned ruefully. ‘Judge Spencer doesn’t have anything ordinary like a wood or an orchard – he has to have a copse. I think Denis might be working in there, but he could
be round the back, so you go and have a look.’

Glenys decided on a straight swap. ‘I’ll go in the corpse—’

Agnes laughed. ‘Copse.’

‘You know what I mean. I don’t want to be poking about round the back of the house. At least you have Denis as an excuse – let me go to the woods.’

So it came about that Glenys Timpson unwittingly embarked on a course of action that would have repercussions for many years to come. Feeling relatively safe, she opted for the copse. Surely she
would be all right in there? Surely no one would see her? She didn’t mind being spotted by Denis, but the thought of being accused of trespass with a view to house-breaking was frightening.
She was still on Spencer land, but the trees would hide her.

She entered the wooded area and looked for Denis Makepeace. He was a grand lad and he would help her. It occurred to her that she had never before been in a wood, had seldom seen dense foliage.
It was dark and eerily beautiful, all dappled shadow and birdsong. ‘Lovely,’ she breathed softly. ‘Scary, but lovely.’ Birds rattled branches and a ladybird landed on a
leaf. She might have been a thousand miles away from the centre of Bolton, because this place was truly beautiful.

Round the back of Lambert House, Agnes came into contact with Kate Moores, who was taking sheets from a washing line. ‘I’m Denis’s wife,’ she told the red-faced female.
‘Give me those. This weather’s too hot for housework, isn’t it? All I want to do is sleep, and I was hoping the walk up here would do me good. But this heat’s turned me into
a withered lettuce.’