07 |
Friday, 1st October brought two pieces of news.
The first was an announcement in the morning edition of the 'Milton Post' concerning the auction of forty-eight power looms by the local bank and setting the date of auction for Monday 11th, of the same month.
The other came as a message from Liverpool, informing them that Mr John Thornton had been formally charged with committing grievous bodily harm, with intent, against the person of Mr Arthur Barlow and would be transferred from police custody to court prison at Kirkdale gaol within the day.
Henry Lennox came as soon as word reached him in London, and no sooner did he walk into the dining room at Marlborough Mills than he started to outline a course of action.
He would call on Mr Cavendish at his office first thing in the morning, to get a copy of his case file and ask him to formally declare his resignation as Mr Thornton's lawyer of the defence. Then he would take the next train to Liverpool, to inform the authorities and seek permission to see Mr Thornton in order to get approval to act as his new defence counsel. He would also try for bail again; but he had little hope in that respect—someone seemed to have a particular interest in keeping Mr Thornton inside prison walls for the time being. But he would apply for a visitors permit for Margaret and Mrs Thornton.
And then—while at Liverpool—Mr Lennox would follow some lines of inquiry...
"What are you planning to do, Henry?" Margaret asked.
"I'm going to see a doctor—"
"Mr Barlow's physician at the infirmary?"
"I was rather more thinking about seeing Mr Barlow's family doctor—to find out if Mr Barlow has a history of fits or seizures."
Margaret looked at him in surprise, as did Mrs Thornton who sat a little apart but listened in intently. "Do you think it was an accident, after all?—a simple fall?" the latter asked.
"If you rule out the impossible, whatever remains—however improbable—must be the truth... And right now I must do a lot of ruling out," Henry said, giving Margaret a faintly smug look.
Like a bulldog, Margaret thought. She remembered how Nicholas Higgins had once likened John to a bulldog. But here was the true one—someone who, once he had his teeth into a problem, wouldn't let go until he had worried it to the bone. It was one of Henry's less endearing qualities, yet it gave her a world of confidence that they might get to the bottom of the affair in the end. And in time for the next quarter sessions. Starting on 6th January—little more than three months away.
"And what are we to do in the meantime?" Margaret asked.
"Keep your eyes peeled here in Milton. Quite a few people around here profit from the situation, directly or in a roundabout way. Let's try and find out if someone has his—or her—fingers in the pie... By the way, who has been appointed magistrate to replace Mr Thornton?"
"My son-in-law Robert Watson." Mrs Thornton's tone was brusque. "I called him a scavenger when he gave me the news... Now we are not on speaking terms any longer."
"Oh dear," Margaret said quietly. "And Fanny?"
"If she wants my company she sends me word when that husband of hers is not at home."
Slowly, like a convalescent, Margaret returned to the here and now over the next few days. To know that Henry was on the task, and pooling all his expertise and cleverness into John's case, gave her a respite at last. And only as she was leaving behind this state of acute emergency—of pending disaster—she realised how much her mind and her entire perception had been defined by it, to the point if obliterating all else from her life. For more than two weeks she had hardly spared a thought on the Harley Street set, none at all on the little Bouchers and Mary Higgins—not even on Nicholas himself, besides coolly calculating how he could be put to good use in the current situation—and she hadn't seen little Frank Watson at all since the day news of John's arrest had reached her at York Street.
No wonder she hadn't been aware that Fanny's husband Robert had been appointed as the new local magistrate.
Well, Margaret had no desire to run into him now—not after his little coup. Scavenger, indeed!—but she would accompany Hannah Thornton on her next visit to Fanny, if only to follow Henry's advice and keep her eyes and ears open. And who knew what news and gossip could be gleaned from that quarter; more likely than not the young mother would have spent the last fortnight sitting up in her bed in a pretty robe and receiving the calls of a multitude of well-wishers, all of them only too eager to come away with news about the scandalous brother straight from the horse's mouth.
But most of all Margaret longed to see the baby.
Over breakfast the next morning Hannah Thornton informed her that she would call at York Street later in the morning and that Margaret, as it had been her wish to visit, would of course be welcome to accompany her. While she spoke the elder woman's gaze fixed on Margaret's plate.
"You're not eating," she stated.
"No. It seems my appetite hasn't returned yet... I'm just not hungry."
"You need to build up your strength. You still look like a ghost... If John saw you now, he'd blame me for not taking proper care of you—"
All too aware of her pale cheeks and the dark circles underneath her eyes, Margaret replied ruefully, "I'll make up for it at lunch." She took a look out of the window. "With the weather so fine we should walk to York Street. It's a little windy, but it will bring some colour to our cheeks."
After breakfast Margaret went to the guestroom she occupied at the Thornton's home. She was still reluctant to call it 'her' room because, except for the wedding dress displayed in the far corner and some toiletries on the dressing table, she hadn't left much of a mark on it. As impersonal as on the day she had moved in, it was a space to bide her time while she was waiting for her life at Marlborough Mills to begin.
She donned her coat and scarf, and put some leather gloves into the pocket of her coat. On second thoughts she exchanged her hat for a bonnet. Generally she preferred to wear hats, but with the ribbons tied a bonnet wouldn't get blown away by high winds.
Before she left the room again she paused for a moment in front of her bridal gown. Abstractedly, her index finger traced the delicate whorls of the embroidery on the bodice.
I'm sure you'll look beautiful in whatever you choose, John's voice said in her head. Though, for the life of me, I cannot picture you in white when I imagine you on our wedding day—I always see you walk down the aisle in that gorgeous green dress you wore at our dinner party.
"There you are again!" she whispered, smiling at the sound of his voice, even if she heard it only in her memory. Along with so many other things, his voice had fallen silent within her through the worst of the previous days.
When she came down the stairs, Mrs Thornton was already waiting for her in the hall.
They walked at a brisk pace; despite her age Mrs Thornton was a seasoned walker, and as she tackled the slope to the summit of Cemetery Hill—a popular shortcut from Marlborough Mills into town—her breath was hardly coming any faster. To her own dismay Margaret felt quite winded when they reached the top.
"Would you mind if we took a short detour?" Mrs Thornton asked. She led the way along a narrow path next to a crumbling dry-stone wall. It was not a sought-after part of the graveyard. And while, at least, there were headstones rather than just wooden crosses, they were very modest and a far cry from the elaborate memorials found elsewhere. "Did John tell you how his father died?"
So, this was where they were going. Margaret hadn't expected Mrs Thornton to bring it up by her own volition. "Not as such... There was no need for it because my own father was aware of the circumstances surrounding the death of... of John's father—whether by communications with Mr Bell or by John himself I do not know—and he told me."
"You know, when I was a girl those lost souls who took their own lives were still buried at the crossroads. No consecrated earth, no headstone... just ignominy and ghost stories. Not much had changed in people's minds by the time George died. Of course the verdict at the inquest had not been 'suicide' but 'misadventure'—he drowned in the river—or else the Crown would have confiscated everything straightaway. It was his creditors, only a couple of weeks later, who took everything from us, down to the last penny." She walked on for a few yards in silence. "John was not intended to go into trade... He was meant to go to university and study the law—like your Mr Lennox!—but in the end he had to leave school early. He was not yet fifteen when he started to work in order to earn the living for a family of three—"
"Yes, I know... and I'm sorry for John that he never had a chance to follow his inclinations," Margaret said. She felt that, as replies went, this one was a little commonplace—but she had no idea where Mrs Thornton was heading with her tale.
"I can't say I'm altogether sorry about this... Learning to deal with hardship and getting used to self-denial from an early age has made him a better man in the end. However—" Hannah Thornton stopped in front of one of the gravestones. It was in a secluded spot in the shade of a tall yew tree. The stone was weathered and the name on it hardly legible. "—after George's death I thought that happiness was overrated, and that deriving satisfaction from one's professional achievements rather than from capricious relationships was a much safer bet. And for many years John seemed to tag along with this notion willingly enough—until he met you."
She looked straight at Margaret. "I did not approve of my son's attachment to you... I knew something of the attraction of opposites, but I also knew the disappointment and heartache it caused, and off the top of my head I could not imagine a girl more opposed to his way of life than you. About the only thing in your favour was your spirit." She shrugged.
"As parents we try to protect our children, even when they are grown men. And thus I failed to see that he had a right to make his own mistakes—to love badly if he chose to—or to choose wisely, as it now appears... After all, I'm a bitter old woman, and therefore not a good judge of what constitutes another person's happiness." She cleared her throat while she briskly whisked some autumn leaves off the headstone. "Just look at all the moss... I need to bring a sturdy brush one of these days—"
Margaret's hand gently arrested her movements. "Thank you, Mrs Thornton."
The other woman grumbled, "'Mrs Thornton'. This is getting ridiculous! After all, you'll soon be my daughter-in-law... Now, I don't expect you to call me 'Mother' because I wouldn't fit the image of your own genteel mother. But maybe you can call me Hannah..."
"But... that wouldn't be proper!" Margaret exclaimed.
"And since when do you care all that much about what's proper?... Besides, the last person to call me by my given name rests here. I haven't been called 'Hannah' by anyone for eighteen years. You'd do me favour if you were to start using that name again."
"Then I will. Thank you—Hannah."
Fanny had extended her lying-in for all it had been worth, but even with the dramatic events concerning her brother as an excuse, there had been a limit to it. Fifteen days was bordering on the extravagant, anything beyond—without medical cause—would have been indecent. And so, upon entering the Watson's home in York Street, they found Fanny sitting in the drawing room in the company of the maternity nurse. Bottle-feeding was going on, and Margaret had the sneaking suspicion that this little scene was carefully staged to show off the young Mrs Watson's modern attitude towards child-rearing. Margaret found this contraption of rubber tube and glass bottle, in addition to the fact that it was administered by the nurse and not by the baby's mother, rather off-putting.
"You see, Margaret, motherhood is a woman's true vocation," Fanny said complaisantly. "it gives a new distinction to my life, and I feel like a real member of the Watson family now... which may be all for the best, considering John's current situation. After all, I've got to keep my spirits up, for the baby's sake."
"And so you've decided to act as judge and jury on your brother, Fanny?" Hannah said, her voice sarcastic.
"Hush, mamma! Not in front of little Frank... You are going to impress all this negativity on him, poor baby!"
Hannah scoffed, but kept her peace for the moment, and they talked about the weather and who of any importance they had seen on their way from Marlborough Mills to York Street. Eventually the feeding seemed to have come to an end, with the nurse stowing away the bottle and about to pick up the baby.
"May I hold him?" Margaret asked.
"Oh. But you mustn't! He'll spit milk all over your dress, now that he's fed," Fanny exclaimed.
"I'm sure I can manage," Margaret calmly replied. She picked up a cloth and put it over her shoulder and then held out her hands for the baby.
"Make sure to support his head," the nurse cautioned her, as she handed over her charge with noticeable reluctance.
How tiny he was! Margaret had first held her nephew Sholto at five months old, and he had been a sturdy little lad and quite aware of his surroundings. But Baby Frank's insignificant weight nestled against her with all the self-absorbedness of the newborn. A tiny stranger who had come into this world. How utterly compelling! Margaret felt a surge of... envy?... no, of something she didn't quite know how to name rise within her, and she had to turn away to hide the tears in her eyes.
Breathing in his warm baby scent, she softly patted his back, and after a moment he gave a huge burp—which the nurse took as her cue to relieve her of him again. "Time for Master Frank's nap," she announced. She carried him to his mother who fussed over her son for a moment and then waved both nurse and child towards the door.
Fanny sighed. "I am sorry, mamma, but I think I better tell you that I won't be visiting at Marlborough Mills for the time being. Watson will not have it. He says we have a position to maintain, and until John isn't cleared of the allegations we should better not nail our colours to the mast... and as his wife I must obey his wishes."
"It is your brother we are talking about!... The one who brought you up and fed you when no-one else would. Does this count so little with you?" Hannah said icily.
"Neither of us had a choice at the time—and I cannot be eternally grateful for favours bestowed on me so unwillingly... Do you think I never realised that John always considered me a burden?"
"Where is your compassion, Fanny Watson? He was little more than a boy at the time..."
"... and I was a little girl of two years old when our lives changed!—Where was your compassion with me in those first years when it was all about John? Children understand when they are wanted—and I never felt much wanted, not when John was around... And don't you think that I haven't been aware of your relief that I've 'been taken care of' when the mill was doing badly after spring!" She gave her mother a resentful look. "No, I'm well out of it. The reputable Mrs Watson! It is now for Miss Hale to be judged by her betrothed's actions—just as I shall be judged by my husband's conduct. You see, Margaret, once we attach ourselves to a man, we stop to exist as a person in our own right... Well worth thinking about, wouldn't you say so?"
Henry Lennox had been to Liverpool for two days, and by the end of it he came to see Margaret and Mrs Thornton at Marlborough Mills, before he was to return to London on the following day in order to prepare matters—and his brother Maxwell—for the upcoming auction.
Upon entering the dining room, both ladies assailed him with questions. "Any new findings?"—"Have you met with any difficulties over the change in lawyers?"—"Did the doctor have anything to add?"—and, most importantly, "How is John?"
"On edge—and I can't blame him," Henry replied. "From what little I've known of him before, he's not a man given to a passive life, and he very much chafes at his current situation. But being a magistrate himself he knows that the mills of justice grind slowly, and he's well aware of the importance of building a water-tight case for the defence."
"Did he question your appointment as his new lawyer?" Margaret asked apprehensively; a lack of endorsement on either side would make it well-nigh impossible for lawyer and client to work together.
"He told me that I have his every confidence," Henry replied. "We discussed the case in every aspect; and while he seems to have a very good memory and gave me some details about the locale, he unfortunately had very little to add in order to bring light into the affair." He creased his brow. "Thornton remembered, however, from what little he saw of the papers inside the mixed-up folder, that it must have been a contract; and he distinctly remembers reading the name of Harkness, a Milton cotton manufacturer of his acquaintance... Therefore, Mr Thornton assumes—since the papers are considered incriminating—that this may be a contract on exceptionally favourable terms, such as he, Thornton, would never get from Barlow."
"Has he said that he wants for anything?" Hannah Thornton asked with the typical focus of a mother's concern.
"He told me that the comforts of his cell were 'sufficient', but he gave me a list of books—and he wants for some writing materials. He seems determined to embark on a study of Greek philosophy..."
"Still Plato?—or has he decided to move on to Aristotle?" Margaret interrupted with a fond smile.
"Aristotle it is; your Mr Thornton seems bent on battling his way through all eight books of 'Politics'... well, better him than me."
"I shall see to it tomorrow that the books are sent to him," Hannah said.
"And what about the Barlows' physician?" Margaret asked impatiently.
"It appears that our Mr Barlow has been accident-prone for quite some time; cuts, a black eye, and a few months ago a broken arm—and all of it happening while he was at home."
"Under different circumstances I should say that this sounds like domestic violence," Margaret mused, "But—"
"Exactly. 'But'... Barlow's a man, and a big man as to that, and he lives under the same roof only with women; his wife who is diminutive—five foot one, apparently—and two in-house maids... His wife's known to have a foul temper, though. The junior clerks—and I admit I haven't spoken with the head clerk yet—could vouch for that." He consulted his notepad. "I wondered how reliable those clerks were in what they remembered, and asked them some random questions, such as whether or not the window was open or closed... After some discussing back and forth they agreed that, when they found Mr Barlow, the sash was pulled down but possibly not fastened—which, in the light of the fact that there is but one door to the inner office, is quite interesting. The window overlooks an alleyway which doesn't seem to be frequented, and the window is set quite low above street level. It may provide an agile person with a means of access."
"You think that someone could have entered by that window and knocked down Mr Barlow?" Hannah asked.
"Unlikely. Not without Barlow noticing and raising the alarm... And then, there is, of course, the matter of the missing money—Both clerks were adamant that there should at least have been petty cash in the office, and they would have expected there to be quite some more money, as several payments in cash were coming up. But there was none when they found Barlow, and the safe was open... Now, there is a chance that Smith, the head clerk, took it when he came in and found Barlow unconscious on the floor, but according to the others he didn't waste a moment before he called for help. So, unless he's a very quick thinker, there was no money in the office then."
"Anything else?"
"A couple of blanks... The magistrate in the case wouldn't see me, nor would Mrs Barlow speak to me, and Ealing's sister is out of town and due to return by the end of the week. I shall return to Liverpool then... There's something in Ealing's story that strikes me as odd—though I can't put my finger to it yet."
"So, what are you planning to do next?"
"As I said, I shall return to London tomorrow, see to your financial affairs, and brief Maxwell on his role at the auction. I'll return at the weekend but travel straight on to Liverpool. Needless to say that Max will arrive by a different train and stay at an hotel. You are, of course, not to get in touch with him until after the auction!"
"Will you stay for dinner tonight, Mr Lennox?"
"Thank you, Mrs Thornton, but I'm already engaged for tonight—"
"Your Milton social calendar seems to be surprisingly full, Henry. What is it this time?—Port and smokes at the Masters Club?" Margaret made a feeble attempt at teasing.
Henry looked ever so slightly self-conscious. "A concert. Mozart's piano Sonata and Fantasia in c minor... Miss Latimer suggested it to me at their dinner party."
Out of the corner of her eye Margaret saw Hannah raise an eyebrow.
Henry was about to pick up his hat when he suddenly exclaimed, "Forgetting my own head next! ... The prison authorities have granted you permission to visit—both of you—on Tuesday. That's the day after the auction."
I am to see John again! After four long weeks.
"Miss Hale?"
Walking on her own along High Street after shopping for some odds and ends at Green's haberdashery, Margaret stopped in her tracks as someone hailed her from behind. Upon turning she saw that it was Mason, the police man. Police inspector, if she deciphered the markings on his uniform correctly. The man had gone up in the world ever since he had confronted Margaret Hale over a death at Outwood station the year before.
Her smile froze on her face. "Yes?" she replied warily.
"May I accompany you a few yards down the street? There is something I should like to discuss with you." He indicated towards a quiet side street which led to the river embankment.
"Go ahead—"
"It concerns Mr Thornton and his arrest over at Liverpool. I received some information... by a reliable source. This information may be of interest for the defence." He never looked her way while they walked on, and he spoke in a low voice. "However, to pass along this information means—in a way—to betray a confidence; and I wouldn't even contemplate to do so if it wasn't for Mr Thornton, in whose character I trust and who gave me plenty of patronage over the years. But—"
"But?"
"It's trust for trust... I trust you with information given to me in confidence—but only if you will tell me what really happened last year at Outwood station."
Margaret had to bite her tongue so as not to blurt out, Blackmail, is it? He would make her betray a brother's trust in exchange of information that might help the man she loved...
... while he—Mason—would betray a confidence and his honour as a professional for a man he liked and respected. And so he was trying to turn it into a case of 'honour amongst thieves'. Tit for tat... His betrayal for hers!
The taint of association... A crime affected everyone in the end—culprit, victim, bystanders. Everyone was losing a piece of their innocence before it was over. And now it was her turn.
Her face was set when she turned towards him. "Your witness, that butcher's boy, was right; I had been there at Outwood station. I lied to you when you came to question me afterwards. The man who was with me... he was my brother who lives abroad. He has... issues... with the Royal Navy and is a wanted man. That man who died later had known my brother as a boy, and he assaulted him at the station, trying to keep him from entering the train... There was a scuffle, but the man was very drunk, and so he stumbled and fell down the stairs to the underpass. It was an accident—my brother never intended to push him down the stairs! However, I felt bad enough about his fall to check; the man got up and limped away. He didn't seem to be seriously hurt." She gave him a hard stare. "Is this it? ... And before you ask; Mr Thornton didn't know any of this at the time."
"Oh, everything's legit on that account," Mason replied airily. "There was a post mortem examination eventually, and the doctor officially confirmed that there was not enough evidence for a crime—not with the man's medical condition."
"I've upheld my side of the bargain—"
"Yes. Thank you, Miss Hale. This case has been bothering me ever since—I can finally put it to rest now... As for my piece of information. Someone associated with the Liverpool police force told me that there was something 'fishy' about the way the magistrate dealt with the case; procrastinating, not allowing for bail-out, but most particularly by personally interrogating and taking down the witness statement of one James Ealing—which is highly irregular—and then failing to bind him over to appear in court. The man has left for America by now, I was given to understand, and therefore is not available to give evidence in court and under oath."
"You mean to imply that there have been underhand machinations?"
Mason shrugged. "Some people have a hunch that there may be an agenda behind this, and that there is more to Mr Ealing's story than has hitherto been revealed. Possibly a hush-up... But then, this may just be coincidence, or sloppiness... I'd say, 'Follow the money.' ... Good day to you, Miss Hale." He walked away a few paces, then abruptly turned back to her. "By-the-by, the file is closed in the Leonards case—There won't be a report." He touched the rim of his hat and rapidly walked on.
Being cut off from events was an ordeal. Both Margaret and Hannah Thornton felt it acutely as they sat at home all through Monday, anticipating the outcome of the auction along with waiting for Henry Lennox's return from Liverpool. In the light of Inspector Mason's innuendoes he had been itching to seek out Ealing's sister again and gather whatever additional information he possibly could wheedle out of her. Coming from London on Saturday, he had travelled on to Liverpool on the very next morning which was to be the first opportunity to meet with Ealing's sister after her time away from Liverpool. Maxwell Lennox was supposed to arrive on Sunday by the evening train. Yet they had no possibility to ascertain themselves of the fact, let alone know what would occur at the actual auction.
As it happened both brothers met at the doorstep of the Thorntons' home late in the afternoon, and their clamorous entrance spoke all for itself.
"Eureka!" Henry announced with a wide grin as he entered the drawing room. "We got them all back! All forty-eight power looms are in the possession of Marlborough Mills again as of this moment... But let Maxwell have his say!"
"Maxwell! Is it true?—You did it?" Margaret exclaimed.
Captain Lennox gave her a dashing smile. "Hello to you, too, cousin," he said, kissing her on the cheek. Then he turned to Mrs Thornton. "Pleased to meet you, madam—Although I should have vastly preferred our first meeting to take place at a wedding... My heartfelt commiserations for this most unfortunate turn of your son's fortunes."
"Thank you, Captain Lennox," Mrs Thornton replied with a gracious incline of the head. "And now I should greatly appreciate to hear the particulars of today's auction."
"To my shame I must admit that it was almost too easy; I should have expected some shrewd questions, but apparently tweeds—" He indicated his attire. "—a pronounced Scots accent, ye ken, and some careful name dropping—such as 'Paisley' and some wool mill owners of my acquaintance—was all it took to ascertain the audience that some foolish Lowlands Scot was trying to strike an even more foolish bargain. There was not much of an audience to start with, and even less of them entered into the actual bidding, and..."
"... and in the end it was a solid two hundred and forty pounds less than it would have cost to repay the actual loan!" Henry gleefully chimed in.
Mrs Thornton couldn't suppress a quick triumphant smile; but her voice was measured when she said, "Then it's time to start production in earnest... Patrick Makinson has sent word; he's willing to stand in as manager for a few months—to the best of his abilities—provided that his proper training will start once John is back as master of Marlborough Mills."
Margaret took both of Maxwell's hands. "Thank you, cousin, for myself and in the name of Mr Thornton. We are both greatly indebted to you."
"It has been my pleasure entirely," Maxwell Lennox grinned, "to see to it that all those greedy Darkshire tradesmen get their comeuppance." Mrs Thornton's countenance visibly hardened; no sooner had the dashing captain got into her good graces than he had stumbled out of them again—a fop, indeed.
Behind his brother's back Henry rolled his eyes at Margaret and mouthed, "Sorry." Louder he added, "Since you intend to return to London tonight, Maxwell, let me get you a cab and you might just make the southbound train departing at five-thirty."
And with, "Give my regards to Edith and to little Sholto," and a vague promise to consider coming to London for Christmas—unlikely though it actually was to happen—Margaret bid the captain goodbye.
"What news from Liverpool, Henry?" Margaret asked upon his return to the room. It was turning into her standard question.
"I had a most interesting conversation with Ealing's sister who was very forthcoming with her information. It seems that her brother went to see his former master Barlow on the day of the assault because he felt that he was owed a share in the profits. Barlow had made a promise of some kind after Ealing had single-handedly brought about a very favourable deal. But once he had quit his job, because he was to move to America, Barlow wouldn't hear of it any more... Now, the funny thing is that, while we know for sure from the other clerks at Barlow's that Ealing never spoke with the master that day, Ealing's sister seems to believe that her brother actually received his share in the profits that day because he went and booked a somewhat better cabin than he would otherwise have been able to afford for his voyage—"
"'Follow the money'," Margaret said quietly, "Didn't Inspector Mason say so?"
"Y-yes;" Henry said slowly, "Although I'm starting to believe that he implied something else entirely—"
"What do you mean by this, Mr Lennox?" Mrs Thornton said.
"You see, madam, for some time now I've suspected that there are different people—and each of them with an agenda of their own—involved in this case, and while they may not necessarily work together, they nevertheless obscure what really happened... And, in addition, there may be an opportunist at work, someone who saw his chance to damage Thornton and, by means of manipulating the magistrate involved into the case, put as many obstacles in the way as possible—and I assume this is the point Inspector Mason implied. There is reason to believe that such influence originates in Milton; because those with the most to gain by Mr Thornton's long-term imprisonment may be found at the Milton Masters Club." Henry vigorously rubbed his scalp. "However, bribery at such a level would be almost impossible to prove, quite besides the risk of stirring a veritable hornet's nest—"
"So what do you propose, Henry?"
"Between the two visits Thornton paid to Barlow on the day, there were exactly two other people at the office besides the clerks—Barlow's wife and James Ealing." Margaret, clinging to Henry's every word, nodded in silent agreement. "Unfortunately, we have no leverage on Barlow's wife whatsoever. But. With the magistrate failing to bind him over appearing in court—deliberately or not—Ealing has been able to leave English jurisdiction; and whatever he may, or may not, have done, he cannot be put to justice for it any longer. Perhaps he can be convinced to tell the truth—"
"How so?" Mrs Thornton asked.
"Either by offering him a financial incentive—or by an appeal to his heart, or his conscience... or whatever."
"And what do you propose?"
"Oh. The matter has been decided on already," Henry said, offering them a bland smile. "I talked the whole situation through with Mr Thornton this morning, and we agreed that Ealing owning up to the truth should be our best chance to get to the root of the matter... It may, in fact, prove our only chance, as Mr Thornton quite astutely pointed out; and Mr Thornton has claimed the right to write to Ealing for himself. He said that no-one but himself should take the blame if this attempt failed. He is probably writing his letter as we speak, and he'll give it to me to post, with my added directives for Ealing's possible reply, when we'll see him tomorrow." As an afterthought he added, "Thornton expressly said that we were not to offer financial inducement."
Kirkdale Gaol stood alone on an expanse of open land north of Liverpool; it was a massive structure consisting of two crescent-shaped cell blocks, and it was adjoined by the County Sessions House built in the classical style. This was where the trial would take place in January, as Henry Lennox pointed out when their hackney coach approached its destination.
They had to pass through a number of checkpoints with doors opening in front of and locking again behind them, and with Henry repeatedly flashing their visitors permit, until they finally reached a large room bisected by iron bars. Flimsy wooden partitions provided a modicum of privacy. All visitors were sternly warned by the attendants against passing any items through the bars, or even reach through them—and then the prisoners were led into the room.
Margaret had never asked Henry if John would be in shackles, and for a moment she dreaded to see him in irons; but when he came through the door, he looked surprisingly ordinary. A little gaunt, perhaps, and in need of a haircut, but he wore his ordinary clothes, and he was shaved. His eyes quickly scanned the visitors side of the room and, once he found her, his gaze remained fixed on her face while he took his allotted place at one of the booths. He didn't smile; he just regarded her with painful intensity, and for a moment she felt unable to move forward.
Hannah Thornton was the first to reach him at the bars, and for a couple of minutes a rushed conversation passed between the two of them. Then John's gaze moved away from his mother and returned to Margaret. Hannah followed with her eyes, and her hand begged Margaret to come closer as she herself retreated.
There were no words; Margaret's mind was a blank. She stepped very close to the bars and raised her hands. She pressed her palms against her side of the iron grid just as he slowly raised his hands and placed them flat against hers, at an inch away. The warmth of his palms bridged the distance between them, as their eyes clung to one another—familiarising themselves again with their features.
The mustiness of damp stone walls had seeped into his clothes, she could smell it on him even at a distance. It spoke of a hardship she didn't have the means to alleviate... and so she did not ask. There were too many questions, and all questions were void... every word too commonplace, too overused to express the fullness of heart, and its heaviness. And so they stood—until the wardens announced that the time was up, and the prisoners were led away.
A/N:
Thank you, everyone, who have been reading up to this point; and special thanks to those amongst you who have written a comment. Actually, in one of the reviews for the previous chapter a couple of questions were put forward by a guest, as were...
1. Did they have private investigators in those days? According to Wikipedia they did, but the 'industry' only got started in the mid-19th century, so it wouldn't have been common practice to employ a private investigator.
2. Wouldn't Maxwell/Captain Lennox spill the beans by bidding under his own name and thereby reveal his connection with Henry and, ultimately, Margaret? I must admit that I don't know the first thing about auctions other than what I've seen on film/TV. But I simply assumed that, since the auction was advertised in the papers, it would be a public one organised by an auction house on behalf of the bank—or, at the very least, the bank would have hired an auctioneer on the occasion. Also, I assumed that it would be a so-called English auction rather than a sealed first-price auction (yes, I've been reading up on the terminology since). So, the name of the bidder/buyer might not have been revealed to the seller (i.e. Mr Latimer and his bank) until after the whole thing was done...