06 |
"Margaret, I hardly know how to begin—" Henry Lennox said.
Once again financial advisor and client were facing each other across the dining room table. Mrs Thornton was in the next room, with the door left ajar for the sake of propriety. John might see fit to let his future wife confer with her lawyer in private, but whilst Mrs Thornton was sole head of the household she would have none of that; she would prevent standards from slipping whenever she was in any position to do so, which, to her chagrin, hadn't been the case the day before. Therefore, this time, the door remained a modest six inches open.
"More evil tidings about John?" Margaret asked in trepidation. She had had a bad night. But then, all nights had been bad since the news of John's arrest had reached her on Wednesday, and a week of broken sleep and quiet despair was telling on her, making her feel faint and slightly nauseous.
"No. Not about Mr Thornton—not directly, anyway. It concerns the mill." He saw Margaret's dismissive gesture and added, "And before you shrug it off, let me remind you that much of your money is tied up in the mill."
"I haven't shrugged because I'm indifferent to Marlborough Mills. The mill is John's life, and I have many friends amongst the workers—all of them in desperate need of returning to work!—so how could I possibly not care?" More calmly she continued, "It's only that I'm getting resigned to the idea that it never rains but it pours... What is it you have to acquaint me with?—nothing good, I gather."
"You may remember that I was invited to dinner at the Latimers' home yesterday. It turned out to be an actual dinner party; and with the news of Mr Thornton's arrest apparently spreading across town like wildfire all through yesterday, it was the talk of the evening—"
"I'm sure it was," Margaret said acerbically.
"For reason's best known to himself, Mr Latimer hadn't introduced me as your lawyer, and so I had a chance to observe the town's reactions to the news. Let me say as much; compassion didn't feature largely, and Mr Thornton's competitors seem determined to seize the opportunity... And, as we know, one prime opportunity will present itself soon." Henry looked grave. "With Mr Thornton in custody and not able to do business, the loan will default by the end of this month, next week on Thursday, more precisely."
"But surely an arrangement can be found?—I have the money at my disposal, I own the mill, and Mr Latimer is my banker, too." She looked at him perplexedly.
"It is not as easy as this, I'm afraid. Mr Thornton has taken out the loan in his own name, and he has sadly omitted to give power of attorney to anyone else. Therefore no-one can act on his behalf in this matter. Mr Thornton, and Mr Thornton alone, has to finalise the repayment of the loan, and do so by the end of this month—and if he fails the bank will claim the machinery and set it up for auction as reimbursement for their expenses."
"Did Mr Latimer tell you this yesterday?"
"No. I was already aware that it may come to pass. But yesterday Latimer gave me a hint that some of these Milton manufacturers would only be too delighted to throw a spanner in the works if you were to bid against them at the auction—just to spite you and make sure that you lost a lot of money, so that Marlborough Mills might not recover."
"And what do you think, Henry?" Margaret asked. She had noticed his speculative look.
"I think that Mr Latimer is also an interested party, and that it could be in his best interests if you were to give up now and sell the mill."
"The mill is not for sale." Margaret's lips compressed into a thin line. Henry knew that look, and he knew that he could not argue with her in this matter.
"Right. But as Mr Thornton so aptly stated last week, without the machinery you have no working mill."
"Then we must buy it back—"
"Margaret, I've just told you that in this case the Milton manufacturers will heavily bid against you, and..."
"The Milton manufacturers are not keen on adding to their machinery at present," Mrs Thornton interrupted them. She was standing in the doorway. "Business was bad for the better part of a year and is only just picking up again... No-one wants the extra expense, unless it serves to edge a competitor out of the way."
"So, what do you propose, Mrs Thornton?" Henry asked, intrigued.
"Find someone to bid for Miss Hale, but not in her name... Someone who seems bent on dismantling the looms, and either ship them abroad or adapt them for weaving linen or wool."
"Is the latter even possible?"
"Perhaps. It has been tried before, and someone may try it again... and if that 'someone' loses money in the trying, all the more power to the Milton masters. They most certainly won't discourage some fop from burning his riches. But they wouldn't bid heavily against him, either."
"A fop?" A slow smile spread across Henry's face. "As it happens I know just the man for it—Maxwell!"
"Your brother?" Margaret exclaimed.
"The very one!—With some careful briefing beforehand, he should be able to see it through."
"Who is this Maxwell?" Mrs Thornton asked with undisguised mistrust. "Not that military captain who was meant to give Margaret away on her wedding day, surely?"
"The very one... and he certainly qualifies as a 'fop'," Henry smirked. "But quite aside from that he's perfectly well suited for the task. Ever since becoming impressed by the machinery he saw at last year's Great Exhibition, he's been investing in the weaving industries—just not hereabouts but in Paisley which is quite close to our uncle's Scottish country estate."
"Oh. He never told me," Margaret said.
"Actually, I think he did... but since it was Paisley and not Milton, and woollens instead of cotton cloth, it may not have registered with you."
"And do you think he would help us?"
"He'd be delighted! I may even induce him to brush up his Scots accent for the occasion. Maxwell adores a good gamble—"
"May I remind you, Mr Lennox, that this is not a game," Mrs Thornton brusquely interjected.
"But I think it is—and we are playing for keeps."
Henry Lennox's excitement went against the grain of both women, more so Mrs Thornton's who showed positive signs of contemptuousness; but even Margaret thought it untimely—considering that in the current situation there was so much more at stake than just a business venture. It came as a reminder that—amongst Henry's many good qualities—there had always been things about him that she didn't care for. Such as a certain lack of empathy at times...
... but maybe this was necessary in order to be a good lawyer, she reconsidered. Maybe a lawyer had to keep his professional detachment at all times in order to see the fault in an argument and turn it to his client's advantage. And, just maybe, it wasn't the man who had chosen the job, but the job had found the best man for it. So, if it took a born cynic to do what needed to be done, then Margaret was prepared to bear with it. The end justifies the means.
Henry left by the midday train to London, after some final words of caution lest the women made too obvious an effort to bring Marlborough Mills back to business and prematurely gave away the game.
Margaret, with a choice of either visit Fanny and the baby—named Frank by now, after his late paternal grandfather—together with Mrs Thornton or take to her room and get some rest, decided on the latter. Mr Cavendish would come in the evening with news from Liverpool and, hopefully, some findings in support of John's innocence. If he was able to unearth anything—
Alone in her bedroom a strange calm came over Margaret; all the more perplexing because the odds against John—and, in extension, against the mill—were piling up. But there it was.
The day before, in John's room, she had looked into the abyss and had faced what might lie ahead in all its horror.
Now, she felt the panic of the previous days slowly condense and solidify into a hard knot in her chest, freezing her heart. For the present, and until John was safe, she could not afford a warm and bleeding heart. And, if she didn't breathe too deeply, she wouldn't feel the hollowness inside; if she didn't think too hard about it, she would be able to go without one...
... and she found that something else was rising within her in its stead. Cold fury—and complete determination.
Sarah the chamber maid came into Margaret's bedroom. "The... th' dress 'as jus' arrived. Th' dressmaker's finished it already," she reluctantly announced. "I'll put it in th' closet, shall I?"
Margaret looked at the closet built into the corner which held her wardrobe—whatever had arrived from London or been sent over from the Watsons' place in the last few days. But there would still be plenty of room left on the rail for hanging a wedding dress.
"Leave it out here... Is there a dress form in the house?" she said to the maid.
The girl gave her an odd look. "Yes, miss, Th' missus 'as one. It's in th' laundry room—"
"Bring it to my room—and put the wedding dress on it."
Sarah gaped at her for a moment, but then she curtseyed and left the room. After a few minutes she returned with a padded form on a wooden stand. She put it in the far corner, away from the sunlight, and then she carefully draped the dress over it.
"Thank you, Sarah," Margaret said. "This will be all for now."
When the door had closed behind the maid, Margaret stepped in front of the displayed gown. She noticed that the dressmaker had made a few alterations to the original design.
It was beautiful.
Made from rich, shimmering ivory dupoini, long-sleeved and with a two-tiered skirt, the upper one cut like a coat with box pleats at the waist and a deep, narrow, collarless neckline showing a good deal of bodice underneath, the latter appliquéd with a piece of vintage pearl embroidery—a gift from Mrs Thornton—as its only embellishment.
A white wedding dress—such a strange thing. And such a luxury, if one came to think about it... because other than at the actual wedding day it was singularly unsuitable to be worn on any other occasion. And yet, such a treasured thing! She knew that her cousin Edith had hers carefully stowed away in the far corner of her wardrobe, neatly encased in a protective cover, and she presumed that somewhere in Fanny Watson's wardrobes there was the same such item. A once-worn wedding dress... It was the ultimate memento.
And a not yet worn one?
There and then Margaret vowed that she would wear this gown; that she would not rest nor falter until she stepped up to John in front of the altar. This gown was not yet a memento, but it was... a reminder.
When Margaret came into the drawing room, Mrs Thornton instantly noticed the change in her. There was something new about the younger woman, a kind of unnatural stillness, showing in her posture and in a certain rigidity of face. Seeing it Hannah Thornton recognised the change as one she had gone through herself almost twenty years before—a hardening of the heart as a protection against the inflictions of life. Finding it now in John's young fiancée made her oddly sad. As if her son had been robbed of yet another cherished possession.
Margret took a seat at the sofa, and together they awaited Mr Cavendish's arrival. There was no conversation between them, and the tentative connection of the day before seemed to have dried up again.
"What news from Liverpool, Mr Cavendish?—Did you see my son?" Mrs Thornton instantly asked when the lawyer followed Agnes into the room shortly afterwards.
"Yes. I saw him on Monday, as the first thing upon my arrival at Liverpool..."
"Is Mr Barlow still alive?" Margaret curtly interrupted him. The lawyer looked at her, faltering.
"Erm... well, yes... Yes, he is! Surprisingly so. And his condition is supposed to be stable at present, from what I was given to understand. But back to Mr Thornton... As I said, I saw him on Monday, and I quizzed him minutely. I'm happy to say that we now have a detailed and conclusive report on what took place on Tuesday, according to Mr Thornton. He gave me names of people he met, descriptions of others who saw him, where he was and the time he was there—and a very precise memory he has, indeed."
"Did you write it down?—And if so, may I have a copy of it?" This time both Mr Cavendish and Mrs Thornton looked at Margaret in quiet disapproval.
"Well, I suppose so... But what do you want with it, may I ask?"
"I want to read it. See if anything strikes me as odd—and I may look at things differently from a trained lawyer."
Mr Cavendish shrugged; obviously he considered her request a girlish fancy. But he promised her a copy of the report.
"Is there anything he wants for? Is he allowed to receive letters now?" Mrs Thornton asked.
"Not yet. Possibly once he is charged and committed to a court prison—though I must warn you. Communications with a prisoner are not private, and letters will be read before they are forwarded. But as soon as he gets transferred, you may apply to visit him."
Margaret looked up sharply. "You make it sound as if it was certain that he will be charged... Will this happen anytime soon?—in time for the quarter sessions at Michaelmas, do you think?"
"Nothing is certain. At present, inquiries are continuing—"
"But he still could be charged and his case admitted for next week's quarter sessions at short notice?"
"Yes..."
"So, time is of the utmost importance... Have you found witnesses for the defence amongst the people at Barlow's?"
"I talked to them and they confirmed Mr Thornton's statement. Other than that they couldn't add anything to elucidate the case."
"Meaning we have, in fact—nothing!" Margaret said, her voice strident.
Mr Cavendish shut up like a clam, the very picture of professional indignation. "Miss Hale, may I remind you that I am not required to answer your questions. It is Mrs Thornton who engaged me as lawyer for her son. I am only accountable to her and to my client. I must ask to be excused now; it has been a long day. Good night, Mrs Thornton... Miss Hale."
"But you'll send me a copy of the report, will you?" Margaret called after him as he was about to leave the room.
"It shall be sent to Mrs Thornton tomorrow... No need to accompany me, Mrs Thornton. I know my way to the door."
"He fritters away time—all the while he should be looking for proof and witnesses!" Margaret exclaimed when the door had closed behind him. "If they charge John in time to admit his case to the quarter sessions next week, all will be lost!"
"They are still investigating, he said—"
"Yes... I wonder why? How long can it possibly take to make a case of this? ... Or are they stalling?—and if so, for what reasons?"
Only after she had retired to her room, Margaret realised that she had never asked Mr Cavendish if John had given him a message to pass on to her.
The first thing to arrive on the following day was not the copy but a letter—coming from Edith.
Margaret was reluctant to open it; her cousin, although agreeing to attend the wedding, had made it clear that she was not enthused about it—and Margaret almost expected a round of I-told-you-so's. Surprisingly, Edith's response sincerely spoke of her dismay at this most dramatic turn of events, and did so with sweet compassion. It reminded Margaret why—despite her frequently shallow nature—she used to love her cousin so dearly...
... but right now her cousin's compassion stirred no softer feelings in her, because compassion alone didn't change a single thing.
As an afterthought to her letter, Edith asked if she wished for Dixon to come and join her in the North. With her young mistress in such predicament, the elderly servant would be certain to accept.
Margaret considered this possibility for a moment. Would she want to have Dixon with her under these circumstances? She imagined how it would feel to be coddled by someone who knew her so intimately—No! She decided. She couldn't bear it at present; not while she was trying to keep everything—and everyone—at bay.
Drafting her reply, Margaret struggled to find the words... and after several starts, soon to be dismissed, she ended up with a short and impersonal missive, telling Edith that Dixon's presence in Milton would not be required for the time being, and that she would give her further information as it presented itself—all the while knowing perfectly well that she was short-changing her cousin.
However, there was not much time to dwell on it because—just as she was sealing her note—Mrs Thornton brought the copy of the report Mr Cavendish had promised them the day before.
"It arrived by messenger a few minutes ago," Mrs Thornton informed her. "I've read it, but there's nothing much in it that strikes me as particularly noteworthy... But see for yourself." She held out two pages, both densely covered in writing.
"What's the second page?"
"Notes from Mr Cavendish's interview with the clerks at Barlow's."
"Now, that's very considerate of him. Obviously he wants to prove to us that he dots the i's and crosses the t's," Margaret said with a hint of sarcasm.
"I'm not sure why you think the man deserves such distrust, Margaret."
"Let's see what he has to say for himself... He may convince me of his worth yet—"
For several minutes, while Margaret was reading the report, nothing could be heard. Mrs Thornton sat on the sofa with her hands in her lap, stoically waiting for Margaret to come to an end.
"I think there's really nothing much in John's part of the story," Margaret eventually said. "It all seems quite straightforward. Three clerks saw him at Barlow's—the head clerk Tom Smith, and two others John didn't know by name but could describe—and upon leaving the first time he saw a lady he vaguely recalled as Mrs Barlow... So, these are the possible witnesses."
John Thornton's report stated that he had been at Barlow's twice within the hour on Tuesday, at around noon. And while their first conversation had not been exactly amiable, but rather a little heated as was often the case with Mr Barlow—and didn't result in a deal—they hadn't departed in actual anger. John had simply announced that he would take his business elsewhere.
About half an hour later John had returned, after he had found that he had mixed up folders and had mistakenly taken one of Mr Barlow's away with him instead of his own. He saw two of the clerks, the junior ones, having a smoke in the far corner of the back yard, and they told him to go inside if he wanted to see master—the front door being open—and go directly through to Mr Barlow's office at the far end of the corridor. The door to the inner office had been closed, however, and no-one had answered to his knocks. He had waited a couple of minutes between knocks because he thought that he had heard faint noises from within, but when at last he had tried the handle, he had found the door locked. He was leaving again when the clerks came back inside. Tom Smith was still nowhere to be seen.
Not wanting to leave the folder, marked 'private and confidential' in red ink on the first inside page, with those youngsters, he had taken it with him once more, intending to try again by the end of the day, after his other appointments. He had left the folder in his lodgings, and by the time he returned in the late afternoon, the police had already been there, searching his room. The folder lay open on his desk; and John had been taken into custody there and then.
"This folder must indeed be the incriminating document. If only we knew what it contained!—and what else they have in evidence against John."
The second page, holding the witness statements of the three clerks, was rather more qualified to give rise to questions.
The clerks—all three of them identified and questioned by Mr Cavendish—had stated that, when Smith the head clerk, upon returning from his errand, went to Mr Barlow's office some ten minutes after Mr Thornton had left after his second visit, he had found the door unlocked and Mr Barlow lying on the floor, unconscious. Smith hadn't noticed his master at first, because the latter had almost completely been obscured by the large desk. The wall-safe had been ajar, and there was no money at all, not even the petty cash which by rights should have been there.
Mrs Barlow had refused to speak with Mr Cavendish—which came as no surprise since she could be counted amongst the injured party.
"Curious," Mrs Thornton said. "John claimed that the door was locked when he was there, but the clerks say it was open ten minutes later... Does the report say anything about another door to the inner office?"
Margaret checked both pages. "No. There's no information as to that... Mr Cavendish will have to ask John—if he didn't get the chance to see the room himself."
"Perhaps there isn't a second door, and therefore John saying that the door to the corridor was locked when it was, in fact, open would seem suspicious; that and having confidential papers belonging to Barlow in his possession."
Pushing aside the papers Margaret said, "Off the top of my head two things strike me as odd in Mr Cavendish's second report. Firstly, why didn't he inquire if John's own folder has been found by them?—and, secondly, he didn't ask if there had been other visitors in the building in general, or with Mr Barlow in particular, in between John's two visits."
"And, thinking about it, I start to wonder about the missing money," Mrs Thornton added.
Both women looked at each other. "Someone will have to interview those clerks again," Margaret said, adding, "but I am asking myself if Mr Cavendish is the right person to gain their confidence—"
"Who else do you have in mind?"
"Isn't Williams required to go to Liverpool, to see to a first shipment of raw cotton? I wonder... Does he know Barlow's clerks?"
"He might. We should ask him—"
As it was, Williams came to see them anyway, and without being summoned, shortly after lunch.
"That customer th' master made a deal with jus' afore 'e left fo' Liverpool th' other week 's inquirin' if we intend t' uphold our side o' th' agreement," he told the women.
Margaret gave Mrs Thornton a questioning look, and when the other woman nodded, she said, "Let him know that, yes, we fully intend to adhere to our part of it. You, Williams, may have to travel to Liverpool tomorrow, to buy the requisite amount of raw materials... And while you are there, we should like you to see into another matter..." She told him what they wanted for him to find out, and she ended with a caution to tread carefully.
Williams pondered the suggestion in his own measured way before he said, "No use talkin' t' Tom Smith—'E's ambitious, practically runs th' shop, an' 'e won't speak up if it goes agains' Barlow's business interests... Th' other clerks, then. I know 'em a little. They're good lads, a bit chatty—"
"—which should be in our best interests right now."
They agreed that Williams should leave on the morrow and stay on until Friday, to give him a chance to meet those clerks after hours. And before he was to travel he would have to make arrangements with Higgins to put out word that the mill was hiring workers again in the following week, albeit on a small scale. Meanwhile, Margaret was to see Mr Latimer to ensure that the mill was in funds for buying supplies.
It was not much of a plan, but it was better than doing nothing at all.
Margaret felt that, for the last ten days, her life had consisted of short bursts of intense anxiety in between long stretches of inactivity. At the moment the pendulum had swung to 'waiting' again... Waiting for Williams to return... Waiting for John to get charged, all the while dreading that he would get charged still in time for the upcoming quarter sessions... waiting for the bank loan to default and the auction to begin.
Waiting, waiting. Waiting. Like a slowly grinding mill it wore down her will.
At least she was sleeping again at night, heavily and dreamlessly. But sleep never refreshed her, and she increasingly woke up on the following morning feeling sapped of energy.
Early on Friday Margaret asked for a hackney coach to be hired for the purpose of taking her to the open country just north of town. She intended to take a long walk—on her own. She didn't brook any opposition and, for once, she didn't encounter any from Mrs Thornton. On the contrary, seeing her pass through the mill yard towards the gate and the coach waiting just outside of it, Mrs Thornton's eyes followed her progress with pitying looks.
It would have been Margaret's wedding day—no wonder the girl wanted to be alone!
As it happened, Mrs Thornton was standing at the same window at midday and saw her return again. She noticed her come across the yard in a straight line, her steps brisk and her face set, while all around her workers scurried out of her way. Good!—Plenty of fighting spirit left in that one, she thought with some satisfaction.
Not an hour later Williams also returned to the mill. He looked ill-at-ease and, upon inquiry, he admitted that he had managed to secure the required batch of raw cotton, but at a cost which made him quite ashamed of his lack of negotiating skills.
"Never mind that for the moment, Williams," Mrs Thornton made short shrift of his apologies. "What did you find out from the clerks?"
"Met 'em at a pub, an' paid fo' a coupla pints, an' after a while they got quite gabby... They tol' me that, in between th' master's visits, Barlow's wife was there—and they 'ad quite a row inside 'is office—all the while James Ealing was waitin' outside th' boss's office t' speak wit' 'im. Ealing was still there waitin' when they quit th' office fo' a smoke in th' back yard at noon. They told 'im to come outside wi' them. Once outside, Ealing didn't 'ang around; 'e left at once by th' footpath next to th' building an' leadin' t' th' main street."
"James Ealing?—are we supposed to know about him?"
"Did no-one tell yo'? 'E was th' fourth clerk, but 'e quit th' week afore, an' they said that Ealing believed Barlow still owed 'im money."
"Did they tell you where Mr Ealing is staying at present?"
"'E wanted t' pack up an' go t' America afore long, they tol' me... but 'e may still be around. 'E's got a sister somewhere in Liverpool. Runs a pub near th' docks."
"You didn't ask for the sister's name, by any chance, or the name of the pub?"
"Can't say I did—" Williams looked crestfallen.
"Don't you worry, Williams. You have unearthed some interesting information—Mr Cavendish can see to the rest from now on," Mrs Thornton said.
Margaret softly scoffed, but refrained from comment until Williams had left the room. "Williams found out more in an hour at a pub than this 'experienced lawyer' did in two days! Do you still think we should trust him with John's defence?"
"Let's give him a chance to follow up these new leads—and depending on his findings we shall decide." But it seemed as if Mrs Thornton's trust in Mr Cavendish was finally starting to crumble.
Mr Cavendish took his time to answer to their request for another meeting. He only came late in the afternoon and, confronted with his omissions in the inquiry, he became very quiet. Eventually he offered Mrs Thornton his profound apologies, all the while trying to explain away his oversights by the uncooperativeness of the witnesses and, quite generally, by his heavy workload. He voiced his hope that they wouldn't question his expertise and promised to put his entire efforts into Mr Thornton's case from Monday.
"Why not from today?" Margaret asked, alienated.
"Because I have other obligations I must not neglect. But from Monday I shall be at liberty to deal exclusively with Mr Thornton's case." He jotted down a few quick notes before he stowed away his pocketbook and then he took his leave. "In the meantime I shall study your suggestions and determine a course of action."
Once he was outside the room, Margaret turned towards Mrs Thornton, "Please!—I beg of you, let me send a dispatch to Mr Lennox and ask him to get involved in John's defence."
But Mrs Thornton obstinately shook her head. "No. I will not have it; not that Mr Lennox of yours—"
"Anyone else, then," Margaret pleaded.
"Even if we were to find another lawyer who is honourable and clever—and willing to take on the case—it would not be before early next week that he could get started." Mrs Thornton shoulders slumped. "I don't know any longer who to trust and what to believe."
"Then pray!" Margaret said, her voice low and hard. "Pray that John's case won't come up at quarter sessions next week... and that you shall be granted another three months to make up your mind to trust me and my judgment in my friends—all the while your son will be in prison!" She turned on her heels and left the room, closing the door behind her with a thud.
For the rest of the day and all through Saturday they never saw each other. Margaret kept mostly to her room, composing a file on what she dubbed 'The Barlow Case', writing down every detail she had heard in addition to the reports she had received from Mr Cavendish, every morsel gleaned by Williams, every possible deduction she could think of and, finally, all the questions that were still unanswered—besides the big question: Who had harmed Mr Barlow?—Who had had a reason and the opportunity?
She didn't add 'besides John'. She wouldn't even let her mind dwell on the possibility.
On Sunday a tentative truce was re-established between both women; any company was better than suffer the crippling uncertainty alone. Their heated exchange of two days before was never referred to again between them, though it was far from forgotten.
Monday followed and likewise passed by with no hard news.
Finally, on Tuesday, when Margaret came down to breakfast, a missive from Mr Cavendish was waiting. Mrs Thornton, having read it already, informed Margaret that the lawyer had taken to sending daily reports of his activities in Liverpool. This one appeared to be the first of them.
The message gave them to understand that things were looking up in one respect at least. With the start of the quarter sessions only another day away, and the indictments drawn up already, it became highly unlikely that John Thornton's case would still be committed to trial at the upcoming sessions even if he was to be charged now. On the downside, Cavendish hadn't found Mr Ealing yet. The clerks had not been able to help. And with no name of his sister, and no address, there was nothing but go from pub to pub and inquire about her—a task, given the size of the Liverpool docklands, that might take some time.
Margaret breathed a sigh of relief; at least the danger of John being put to trial prematurely and without proper defence was waning, although at the cost of another three and a half months in prison. But three more months gave them a chance of finding their witnesses and—perhaps—find a reason behind the assault and the real culprit. It was a silver lining.
Another letter on Wednesday morning brought no other news than announcing the lawyer's visit at Marlborough Mills for the same evening.
Meanwhile, life was going on, albeit a little haphazardly. Hiring workers had started on Monday, and work in the carding room and the spinning shed was in full swing already. To be on the safe side, it had been decided that the power looms to be reclaimed by the bank—a solid four dozen—were to remain dormant, and production of the consignment was to happen exclusively on the older machinery which was not part of the assets that guaranteed the loan.
The one order would keep them busy for the better part of four weeks at the current rate of production; they would need more orders before the end of October, and with only one third of the machinery running as yet, they were losing money as they went along. Margaret knew that she could afford this for some time, but it would be a drain on her wealth—She was wasting money which might be missed in the future when John wanted to invest in expanding the mill or replacing machinery. Add to that the cost of buying back the looms at the auction...
They needed a manager—someone to help them break even, if nothing else.
Margaret asked Mrs Thornton if she had any suggestions for someone—preferably from outside Milton—they could trust as an interim manager.
Trust. It all boiled down to trust, time and again...
Mrs Thornton wrinkled her stern brow, but eventually she came up with a name, "Patrick Makinson... He's the grandson of a very old friend who once owned a mill in Milton. Out of business for almost twenty years now... His grandson was meant to become John's assistant—before things went badly with business, that was—"
"Won't he be in someone else's employ by now?"
"Possibly not. Bit of a difficult family history; young Patrick's half Irish. Catholic, too—and people around here tend to be prejudiced... He's got a good head for figures and some sound business sense—" She hesitated. "—He's very young, though, and quite inexperienced."
"Do we have a choice?" Margaret asked in a voice tinged with irony.
"Probably not—"
"So, what are we waiting for?—Will you write to him?"
When Mr Cavendish came to Marlborough Mills for tea in the evening—having just returned by train from Liverpool—his latest news once again proved to be a 'mixed bag'. On the bright side Mr Barlow would definitely live, he had regained consciousness and seemed to be improving—though slowly—by the day.
On the other hand, while he had found Mr Ealing's last place of abode, he had missed the man himself by a hair's breadth. When he had finally seen his sister at her pub the evening before, she had told Mr Cavendish that her brother James had sailed for America only on Monday.
The sister knew about the incident and about her brother's role as a witness, and so she had been able to tell Mr Cavendish that her brother had been extensively interviewed by the local magistrate, for having been among the last persons to get a glance of Mr Barlow before the assault on him. His statement had been recorded by a clerk.
According to the sister, while waiting outside the inner office, James Ealing had heard a muted argument between Mr Barlow and his wife, and when the wife had stormed out of the door, he had seen Mr Barlow lean over his desk, shouting, 'Get out and leave me alone, all of you!'. But he had to admit that he only saw him for a moment because the wife slammed the door shut behind her. Mr Ealing himself had never walked through the door into the inner office that day—Mr Barlow had never asked him to come inside—and all the other clerks had testified accordingly.
"But surely this doesn't matter any longer," Margaret said. "With Mr Barlow getting better, he will soon be able to give testimony and name his assailant."
"Mr Barlow has indeed regained consciousness, and he even speaks—after a fashion—as I heard from a trustworthy source." Mr Cavendish looked regretful. "But whatever happened in the assault has addled his brain. He is hardly coherent, and likely to remain so—and he certainly has retained no memory of the attack itself... I am very sorry, Mrs Thornton. Miss Hale. But be prepared that there will be no witnesses to confirm Mr Thornton's innocence. The trial will be based on circumstantial evidence—and evidence speaks heavily against Mr Thornton."
"So, what are you planning to do, Mr Cavendish?"
The lawyer raised his hands in a helpless gesture. "As I said, from the information I have gathered up to this point I cannot build a case for the defence. I feel that I have followed every possible lead... I am so very sorry. But even if Mr Thornton was innocent, we..."
"He is innocent!" Margaret fiercely exclaimed.
"... even with Mr Thornton being innocent, we have no means to prove it." He gave them a tight smile. "At least there won't be a risk any longer that his case will be committed to the assizes—"
"And will you live easily with an innocent man serving three, or possibly five, years in prison, Mr Cavendish?—depending on whether or not they charge him 'with intent'?" Mrs Thornton said, her voice imperious. And when she saw his surprised look, she added, "We are aware what is at stake—and rather better than you, it appears. Good day to you... You may send us your invoice."
After Mr Cavendish had left them, Mrs Thornton gave Margaret a speculative look. "Do you think that your lawyer-friend Mr Lennox will accept my apology?"
A/N:
I'm afraid things are remaining dire—and Mr Thornton in prison for the time being. At least Margaret and Mrs Thonton are working together now... How did you like their Sherlock/Watson act? Also, there's a good chance that Henry is getting involved. But does this mean the boot is on the other foot now?
As always, thank you for your comments on the previous chapters. Your feedback is much appreciated!