08 |

Two days later Patrick Makinson arrived at Marlborough Mills. One look at him and Margaret had serious doubts about the soundness of their decision to make him temporary manager of Marlborough Mills. He looked painfully young, as he stood there waiting by the entrance of the porter's lodge...

"How young was John when he became master of Marlborough Mills," Margaret asked Hannah out of the corner of her mouth as they both crossed the yard and headed towards him.

"Young. But not that young! And he had been junior partner at Aniston's mill for two years before making his own start—"

"Aniston's?"

"Bought up by Hamper long since."

... and his juvenile looks were heightened by the fact that he was accompanied by a wizened little man in his late seventies...

"Mr Makinson!" Hannah exclaimed, "You came all this way to lend us a hand?"

"Can't stand by while my grandson makes a hash of things, can I?" came the old man's gruff reply. And then, with a cackling laugh, he stepped forward and took both of Hannah's hands. "So good to see you again, Hannah Thornton." His gaze moved on to Margaret and he squinted at her. "And this is your daughter-in-law?—Step closer, girl. My eyesight's not what it used to be."

"Not quite a daughter-in-law yet... My name is Margaret Hale. I am engaged to Mr Thornton, and at present I am the owner of this mill." Makinson's eyes widened in surprise. Turning towards the younger man, she held out her hand saying, "Thank you for joining us, Mr Makinson,", before she addressed his grandfather again, "and we shall welcome your expertise in our venture."

Goodness, the flotsam and jetsam! Margaret thought half an hour later when all those in temporary charge of the mill henceforth were assembled at the main office. Herself and Mrs Thornton, young Makinson and his grandfather, and in addition Williams and Higgins—both of the latter known to take constant issue with each other at ordinary times. John tended to encourage their opposition because more often than not it led to innovative solutions... Well, times were anything but ordinary, and so, for once, there was a truce between them.

What a team! We shall be the laughing stock of Milton. But every so often the underdog might find its chance regardless, if only from being underestimated by anyone else. They would have to hope for the best... Besides, they would only have to make it until Epiphany and to the next quarter sessions. At which point John would take back control—

Over the following weeks the mill made a rumbling start; new orders were trickling in and the hiring of workers commenced... Makinson, privately advised by his grandfather, who kept in the background so as not to undermine the former's tenuous authority, was dealing with the customers; Williams, by his superior connections with the Liverpool suppliers, saw to the purchase of raw cotton, all the while sharing the task of running production with Higgins.

That it needed all those men to deal with the tasks generally performed by John Thornton alone, proved that the position of mill master was some rather large shoes to fill.

Financially, it was no success, as Henry Lennox, during one of his twice-monthly visits to Milton, pointed out. They were making no profit; they were barely breaking even.

"That's beside the point, Henry," Margaret said impatiently. "Less than two months from now, and John will be back to oversee matters himself."

And what if he won't be back? was at the tip of Henry's tongue. But he swallowed his remark. It was the end of November now, and he didn't like the look of Margaret. It was plain that she was burning the candle at both ends. Her eyes were puffy and exhaustion seemed to have become a permanent feature with her.

"Anyway, shouldn't you better see into John's case?" She sounded peevish, and she knew it.

He replied, more patiently than he actually felt, since they had been through it all before, "We've seen into all possible lines of inquiry—Mr Thornton agrees with me in this—and we have reached an impasse. It all stands and falls with James Ealing's reply, and with the nature of his reply... and it may be several weeks yet before it arrives. It may be well into December—" What he didn't add was that it may be later, or too late—or that there may be no reply at all.

"On the bright side, the new visitors permit has been granted... Will you be able to go to Kirkdale by yourself next week?—you and Mrs Thornton? I shall be detained in London on the day, unfortunately."

"We'll manage," was Margaret's curt reply.

John had asked for this visit. Which was remarkable in itself. Over the weeks he had made very few demands on them; he had asked for books and writing materials, and there had been the occasional letter from him, arriving by mail and held in the most commonplace words, and invariably coming with a pencilled remark of 'read & approved' on the outside. It took a great deal of reading between the lines and guesswork to deduct his frame of mind from such communications... Hardly better than a reading of tealeaves, in fact.

However, he had expressly wished for their present visit, and Margaret looked at their upcoming meeting with disquiet. She felt that John had been making up his mind about something—

This time they talked; at first it was all three of them who stood in one of the makeshift cubicles, with the bars between them. John told them about his—mediocre—successes in coming to terms with Aristotle's philosophy without the help of a tutor, and then he confessed that he was currently writing his own treatise about his 'experiments' at Marlborough Mills, and in what kind of further developments they might result.

Eventually he said, "I should like to speak some words in private with Margaret, mother. Would you mind waiting over there?" and he watched his mother until she had retreated to the far wall. Then he turned back to Margaret.

His eyes were tender as he said, "You have been making me very happy, Margaret. You know that, don't you? Even if I had not nearly enough of a chance to tell you so... I love you, and I shall always love you." He paused, searching her face. "I am well aware of the odds against me in the upcoming trial—possibly better aware than most, for having been a magistrate—and if Ealing fails to come forward with a statement in support of my innocence, or if his report is inconclusive, I will remain in prison. For three years, or possibly five... Prison changes people, and the man I'll be some years hence will have little to do with who I am now." He swallowed, his eyes still arresting hers. "Therefore, if I get convicted, I want you to move on, Margaret. Sell Marlborough Mills, leave this place behind, and don't ever look back! It will give me comfort to imagine that—somewhere—you will resume a life. Give my share of the assets of Marlborough Mills to my mother for her upkeep... I presume, she will move in with Fanny—"

Margaret's first impulse had been to scream—to rage at him for daring to suggest such a thing. But she saw the pain in his face, and she acknowledged his attempt to do right by her by whatever feeble means were in his power. And yet, for her there was no choice.

"There will be no life for me without you, John. I've made a vow, and I've given myself to you. Unconditionally... For as long as both of us shall live, we belong together. For better or worse—"

He nodded, averting his eyes at long last. "Just bear in mind that I have set you free... If you feel, some time from now, that you can't bear to continue, in spite of what you say right now, remember that you can walk away from me—and that I won't love you any the less for doing so." He turned away. "Goodbye, Margaret," he murmured, not looking back at her.

Margaret made it to the outer gate with her head held high by sheer power of will, but, hardly under the arch, she stumbled as if to faint and would have fallen if it wasn't for Hannah who, with considerable presence of mind, grabbed her and led her outside. Out there, Margaret barely made it behind a bush before she lost the entire contents of her stomach, thereby soiling the hem of her skirt.

For a while she sat on a stile, hunched over and weak, and possibly looking like an imbecile for all the chance passers-by, until at long last Hannah managed to hail a hackney to take them back to Liverpool station. There, in the ladies waiting room, she supplied Margaret with weak sugary tea, while she cleaned the worst of the mess off the girl's skirt with a damp cloth she had acquired from the charwoman at the ladies' necessities.

They made it back to Marlborough Mills and up to Margaret's bedroom somehow. Hannah helped Margaret undress and put on her robe, and then she tucked her into bed.

She softly touched the girl's shoulder. "Would you like me to call a doctor?"

Margaret lay curled up on her bed, turned away from the woman sitting on the edge of it. "I don't need a doctor to tell me what's the matter with me—or a midwife," she said, her voice low but distinct.

"So, it is true, then. I suspected as much."

Abruptly, Margaret turned around. "Will you make me leave now?—for bringing shame to your house."

"For carrying my son's child?—Certainly not!"

A look of surprise crossed Margaret's face. "You know, some part of me expected you to accuse me of having ensnared your son and coaxed him into marrying me quickly because I was pregnant with another man's child—someone I could not marry."

"Until a couple of months ago I might have accused you of just such a thing, Margaret Hale. But I know you better by now. Like me, you don't love easily, or often... And you would not give yourself to a man without love." She gave the younger woman a sad smile. "But when you love, you love recklessly."

"You know that you can get married to someone in prison, don't you?" Hannah cautiously suggested a few days later.

"I am aware of this," Margaret said, her face withdrawn.

"So, will you tell John?—about the child."

"No, not before the trial; and I'm asking you to keep quiet about it, too. Because... just imagine how this knowledge would appal him, in his situation! Besides, I don't want him to feel under compulsion right now to adhere to propriety. I wouldn't want to marry him in prison—not unless there was no other way left to give his name to his child. But he will be free long before that... and I will marry him proudly, at our local parish church."

"Yo'r figure's changed, miss. Th' fit o' that corset's become really bad," Sarah said with a frown while lacing Margaret's stays in the morning. "Yo' may need another one."

Margaret drew a deep breath—or as deep as the corset allowed—before she said, "The fit will remain bad, or rather—in a few weeks from now—ordinary corsets won't fit me any longer." Noticing Sarah looking at her agape, she added, "You must have suspected for some time now."

"Well, miss... I noticed that yo' nevah 'ad yo'r curses fo' as long as yo've been stayin' 'ere. But then, some ladies are a bit irregular—"

"I need this to be our secret, Sarah. From everyone. Just until the trial... Can you do this for me?"

The maid nodded. "Yes, miss. I swear."

"After the trial it will not remain a secret for very much longer."

"But... yo'll be showin' long afore that, miss!"

"A good thing that it is winter, and that I shall be wearing a cloak most of the time," Margaret said wryly.

"But not in th' 'ouse—"

"You are right, Sarah. For the time being, will you help me alter the bodice of one or two of my winter dresses?—before I burst the seams."

There are merits in being a social pariah, Margaret mused as she stood in front of the full-length mirror in her bedroom. Hardly any visitors came to the house these days, there were no invitations, and neither she nor Mrs Thornton were expected to go to concerts or social events. Badly fitting dresses might go unnoticed for some time yet.

The fit of this dress was indeed awful, she had to admit as she critically regarded her mirror image. It seemed as if her figure had changed overnight, and the dress was uncomfortably tight at the bust and showed some ugly creases at the waist. It wouldn't do for very much longer. Besides, she cringed whenever the corset was pulled tight over the small swelling of her abdomen, constraining the growing life within. Altering the bodice would only get her so far; she would need new clothes by the turn of the year.

It was the night before the trial. 5th January. Margaret had retired long since, and Hannah Thornton restlessly wandered the house. She had tried to distract herself by doing some mending, then she had read in the bible for a while, and when all this had failed, she had taken to wandering the house. She had gone from room to room, looking at each as of them if she had never seen it before. They were handsome rooms, and they represented what they were—what they didn't represent was who they were. There was neither true comfort nor relief to be found here.

Henry Lennox had been in Liverpool for the previous two days, and he had sent them word that a statement from Ealing, in the form of an affidavit, had arrived in the meantime. It had been sent directly to the police inspector in charge of the original investigation which—all things considered—had been good thinking by Ealing. Lennox hadn't seen the document yet because its authenticity was currently under review. It needed to be verified that the affiant as well as the American notary public who had endorsed the affidavit were who they claimed to be. Not an easy feat at a distance of several thousand miles. But so far all seemed to be above board. Which left the question of the document's actual content.

Eventually, in order to get herself some tea, Hannah had gone down to the basement, startling cook and the scullery maids by her sudden appearance so late at night. Then, tray in hand, she went upstairs to Margaret's room. She doubted that the girl was asleep, and some tea—and company—would do them both good.

Margaret wasn't in her room. Her bed was untouched. She must have changed into her nightshirt and robe, though, because the dress she had worn earlier for dinner hung discarded on a hook next to her wardrobe.

When, after a few minutes, Margaret still hadn't returned, Hannah went in search of her. She found her in the master bedroom, curled up on John's bed, and with the counterpane half drawn over her for warmth. She lay with her back to the door, and she didn't even stir when Hannah entered.

Margaret's hand slowly stroked her belly. "It has quickened today," she said in a constricted voice. Then she abruptly turned her head to Hannah. Her face was tearstained. "There is a real little person inside of me now, Hannah—and John still doesn't have a clue that we are going to have a child. What if he doesn't get acquitted?" Her whole body shook with her convulsive sobs. "I am so afraid of tomorrow—"

Hannah sat down on the edge of the bed and took the girl firmly into her arms, murmuring endearments, sweet and inconsequential. She hadn't thought she still had it in her—not since Fanny had outgrown such ministrations.

The next morning, when Margaret came down the stairs to set out on their journey to attend John's trial at the Kirkdale County Sessions House, she wore a maternity gown for the first time and, with her head held high in defiance, she walked past the line of gawking servants to retrieve her cloak.

Margaret and Hannah arrived at the courthouse in good time and, as they waited outside the courtroom to be admitted, there was a moment for them to exchange words with Henry Lennox, already in robe and wig, about the latest developments. Henry reassured them that his particular witness for the defence was present and that Ealing's statement had been permitted as evidence in the case and, moreover, appeared to be in support of Mr Thornton's claim of innocence, even though he had not been given a chance to study it beforehand. Things were looking up, Henry reassured them as he ushered them towards some seats in the auditorium—and about time, too, as the room was quickly filling up.

Both Hannah, who had been an occasional spectator at the Milton quarter sessions ever since her son had started to attend as a magistrate, and Henry Lennox had previously described a typical courtroom and the procedures to Margaret in an attempt to prepare her for John's trial. So, upon looking around the utilitarian courtroom at the County Sessions House, high white walls above dark wainscoting, Margaret had a vague idea which partitioned-off section of the court would hold which partaker in the drama. There was the bench covered by a canopy—the high desk for the judge; or recorder, as he was termed—two rows of benches for the jury, twelve strong, with more seats on the opposite side for such witnesses as were bound over to appear at the trials, desks for the prosecutor, the defence lawyer, and the clerk of the peace, and finally, in the middle, the dock—the low enclosure where the accused was to stand for trial.

Henry had also warned her that John would not be the only person to be tried that day and that, for the sake of high drama, his case was likely to be the last in line, for being the most high-profile one. But, as there were no schedules, there was no telling at what point his case would eventually come up.

Despite having been warned beforehand, Margaret was appalled by the bustle and the rush, and by the constant comings and goings of witnesses and bystanders. She quailed at the sight of sentences being pronounced within minutes of the shocked accused arriving at the dock—and sentences of considerable severity at times. And more often than not the defendant wasn't given the benefit of either lawyer or witnesses in his support. Most of the cases that were tried in these first few hours dealt with theft, fraud, and disputed property, and hardly any of them occupied the court for more than fifteen minutes. The jury didn't even leave the room to debate their findings, but just huddled together for a moment, and then their speaker pronounced the verdict.

At one o'clock, after what felt like at least a dozen cases, the session was adjourned for an hour.

After three hours of sitting on a narrow wooden bench Margaret felt her discomfort keenly. Public conveniences, hot tea to fight the chill, and food—in that order, even if the thought of the latter nauseated her under the circumstances. But the demands of her body had become more fierce as the weeks progressed and could only be ignored at a cost... and to faint in the overcrowded courtroom during John's trial didn't bear contemplating. So, off they went, Margaret and Hannah, to see to their needs during the hiatus.

They had hardly returned to their seats when the jurors, clerk, and prosecutor filed in, followed—with everyone rising from their seats—by the judge. In the hubbub and shuffling of people resuming their seats, Margaret hadn't realised that the next prisoner was brought in and, upon looking up, her heart seemed to miss a beat as she suddenly perceived John standing in the dock. She only saw his back, as he was facing the judge, but he was unmistakable—and if further confirmation had been needed, Hannah's hand convulsively grabbing hers would have been proof enough. His tall frame towered above the people seated around him, and he stood erect. Composed, by all appearances.

The clerk of the peace rose, to verify the prisoner's identity and to have him formally charged. "The here accused stands charged with committing grievous bodily harm—with intent—to the person of Arthur Barlow, of Mersey Close, Liverpool, on Tuesday, 14th September 1852, between the hours of twelve and twelve-thirty, according to section four of the Offences against the Person Act of 1837. In addition, the accused is charged with committing theft on the premises in an attempt to obscure the initial crime. Prisoner, how do you plead?"

"Not guilty—on both accounts," John's measured voice rang out. And then the trial commenced...

The prosecutor ponderously got up—unfolded from his chair, more accurately—and piercingly stared at the defendant while he cleared his throat. With his black robe, scrawny neck, and beaky nose, topped by tiny steel-rimmed glasses, he looked nothing so much like a vulture. Strange how, at times, the clichés fit, Margaret thought abstractedly as she watched the man shuffle his papers. Out of the corner of her eyes she saw Henry Lennox take his seat at the defence lawyer's desk.

There was nothing unforeseen in the way the prosecutor presented the case against the defendant, and yet, to hear the accusations against the man she loved read out in stark certitude, felt like a slap in Margaret's face. The prosecution presented the findings of the police inquiry, both with regard to the temporal sequence of events and the evidence in support of the charge. John stood impassive through it; but being used to the setup and the procedure would help him keep his nerve and his wits about him. It was a small consolation.

Then the first witness for the prosecution was called to the box and put under oath. It was the physician at the infirmary Mr Barlow had been taken to for treatment after the assault on him, and where he had been recovering for several weeks...

"... a laceration at the back of the skull. No actual broken bones, but it is to be presumed that a subdural haematoma formed which affected the brain and caused prolonged unconsciousness."

"How is the victim's condition four months after the incident?" the prosecutor asked.

"Stable. He is privately cared for. Partial paralysis in the right side of the body hasn't quite abated yet. Also, his speech and his general perception are still considerably affected."

"Will he fully recover and remember the incident?"

"Unlikely."

"So, Mr Barlow will be permanently impaired, and severely so, by the injuries he received?"

"Yes."

"No further questions." The prosecutor indicated towards Lennox. "Your witness—"

"Dr Fielding," Henry Lennox said, rising from his seat, "I've been given to understand that you are an authority on injuries of the brain here in England. You have seen many such cases, I presume?"

"Indeed, I have," the physician confirmed, drawing himself up.

"Tell me. In your experience, would it be conceivable that the victim remained conscious for some time after the damage had been inflicted?"

"What length of time are we talking about?"

"A couple of minutes, perhaps?"

"If the blood seeped but slowly into the surrounding tissue... yes, it is possible. In any case, it wasn't one of the major blood vessels—or the patient wouldn't live today."

"Thank you, Dr Fielding. No further questions."

Tom Smith, the head clerk at Barlow's, was the next witness to give testimony. He told at some length how, upon his return from an errand, he had entered the inner office and found his employer lying on the floor...

"... didn't see him at first, and that puzzled me because the door was unlocked, and he always locks the door when he's not in... but then I saw his shoes poking out from behind his desk, and I went to have a look. There he lay, wedged in between desk and sideboard! Took us a bit to get him out from behind, after the doctor came in and said he needed to go to hospital at once."

"Who had been with Mr Barlow in his office that morning prior to your finding him?"

"Apart from us clerks? Mr Thornton, who had an appointment, came at eleven-thirty and he stayed for about twenty minutes. He left just as Mrs Barlow came in, and James Ealing—he'd been a clerk at the firm until the week before—arrived a couple of minutes later. He had come without appointment, and as the master didn't want to see him, I told him—Ealing—not to bother, but he wanted to wait anyway."

"Did Mr Barlow mention anything about the visit after Mr Thornton had left?"

"Well, yes... He was in high dudgeon; shouted, 'Damn Thornton! The cheek of him... Was that a threat or what?' or something of that kind. See, we lost money before, dealing with Thornton—"

"Talking about money... How much money was missing when you found Mr Barlow?"

"About forty pounds; for a couple of payments due that afternoon, and in addition there should have been some petty cash."

"And no-one else could have taken it?—The doctor, or your fellow employees?"

"I had ascertained myself that there was no money lying about by the time any of the others entered the inner office... So, it must have been taken before then."

"Did you find anything out of the ordinary, such as documents belonging to Mr Thornton, left lying around in Mr Barlow's office?"

The clerk creased his brows. "No," he finally declared, "There was nothing at all that deemed me as not belonging there."

"One final question, Mr Smith. Can you tell us something about this particular piece of evidence?" The prosecutor took a document from the clerk of the peace's desk and handed it over to Smith who, after one good look, raised his eyebrows in surprise.

"This is the draft of a contract Mr Barlow asked me to set up, for a new agreement with Mr Harkness, of Milton. It concerns broker's fees and rights of first refusal."

"Are these conditions similar to those Mr Thornton had arranged with Mr Barlow in the past?"

"Goodness, no! Mr Harkness has been a trusted customer of this firm for many years, and is justly entitled to preferential terms."

"So, this document was considered confidential?"

"Indeed it was! None of our other customers can claim similar conditions."

"This document was found in Mr Thornton's possession upon his arrest," the prosecutor stated pointedly. "Your witness, defence counsel—"

Henry Lennox got up and addressed the clerk. "Do I understand correctly, Mr Smith, that you were on an errand and away from the office at Mersey Close for about half an hour, and that you neither personally saw Mrs Barlow leave the inner office, nor Mr Ealing leave the building, nor—I may add—saw Mr Thornton come and go the second time he called that morning?"

"Well... yes?"

"So, you can in fact not give testimony as an eyewitness to the comings and goings at the office during the crucial time?"

"Well... If you put it like that...No. But the other clerks told me what happened."

"Then I shall question them if they appear in the witness box... You may be able to answer me this question, however: Was the window in the inner office open or closed when you found Mr Barlow—There is only the one window, isn't there? Just as there is only the one door?"

"Objection!" the prosecutor interjected. "This is of no relevance to the case!"

"What is the intention of this question, Mr Lennox?" the judge said.

"To establish a full picture of the crime scene, your honour."

"Right. Proceed—Witness, answer the question."

"The office, right... One door, one window overlooking a small alley running the length of the house. The sash was down, but it wasn't fastened. I saw that when I locked up for the night, as Mrs Barlow had asked me to."

"And the office is on the ground floor, and only some four steps raised above street level. So, in theory, there would have been another access to the room?—through the window?"

"Erm... Yes."

"Who has a key to the inner office?"

"Just Mr Barlow himself. It was at his key ring."

"Is there a bolt on the inside of the door?"

"Yes, there is. Quite a sturdy one."

"Thank you, Mr Smith," Lennox said thus dismissing him. There was a shuffling of feet while the witness returned to the bench and the next one was called up, and whispers and coughing grew louder in the auditorium...

"Do you think his strategy will work?" Margaret asked apprehensively.

"What do you mean?" Hannah replied in a low voice.

"This raising doubt about the witnesses' credibility, and pointing out alternative explanations?"

"He's doing well enough so far, I think," Hannah said. "Let's just hope that, when they call his bluff, he's got something to show for it—"

... the next witness was to be Mrs Barlow. She was indeed a diminutive woman with birdlike features, but she had a kind of nervous energy about her person that made it hard to overlook her.

"Tell us about your conversation with your husband when you came to see him in your office," the prosecutor began.

"Oh, he was in a right huff when that man—" She glared at John Thornton who impassively looked back at her. "—had left. I came for some household money—we were to have guests that night—and he just shouted at me."

"Did he mention Mr Thornton?"

"N-no. Not as such... He said, 'After one bloodsucker's left, here's the next one!'—What a mean thing to say about me! But he was in such a state—" And she started to weep.

"Mrs Barlow, calm yourself. Did he say he felt threatened by Thornton?"

"Objection! That's an insinuation," Henry called out.

"Objection overruled. The use of the word 'bloodsucker' by Mr Barlow himself may imply an enforced demand. Go ahead, Mrs Barlow, answer the question," the judge ruled.

"He didn't say he felt threatened—But who would threaten him, anyway?—He's a big man... He was a big man—" The sobbing slightly rose in volume. The prosecutor indicated that it was Henry's turn next.

"Mrs Barlow, is your husband cared for at home?" Lennox asked.

"No. He's at a private institution."

"This is bound to be very hard for you... and a strain on your income. I understand that Mr Smith continues business in your husband's name at present."

"He does. But it's just not the same—"

"Do you visit your husband?"

"No. I can't bear the sight of him—in his condition." She dabbed at her eyes.

"Hypocrite!" Margaret hissed, not quite under her breath. Hannah shushed her.

"My condolences. It must be very painful for you... considering that the last time you saw your husband you were losing your temper with him—"

"Well, yes. Yes... What?" She stammered, awareness setting in, at the same moment as the prosecutor called, "Objection!"

"No further questions," Henry said, forestalling the judge. When he resumed his seat there was a hint of smugness on his face.

Over the next piece of evidence, the statement James Ealing had originally given in front of the local magistrate and which the clerk of the peace was supposed to read out, Henry Lennox had a short but heated dispute with the judge, and earned himself a reprimand. John gave him a cautioning look. However, Henry had made his point by questioning the legitimacy of a written statement when by rights the witness should have been bound over by the magistrate to appear in court, considering that, at the time, the case might have turned into a charge of manslaughter or murder. And besides, weren't magistrates supposed not to take statements from witnesses?

In the end the statement was read out. According to it the door to the inner office was opened just once in all the time Ealing had been waiting in the corridor, when Mrs Barlow had left the room; at which point he had caught a glimpse of Barlow standing at his desk—moreover, his former employer had been shouting at him through the doorway that he would not see him now or ever—and eventually, after the junior clerks had asked him to vacate the premises, he had left by the alleyway running the length of the building. So far, so little.

Some shuffling was going on at the back of the witness benches as a latecomer squeezed in. The prosecutor looked up and straight at the newly arrived man. Margaret followed his gaze, and she gasped. She nudged Hannah and pointed out the man.

"That nasty little weasel!" Hannah Thornton seethed. "I wonder who set him up to besmirch John's character."

A/N:

So, that's one secret out in the open!—although many of you guessed at it already in your comments. As for the trial; things are going rather so-so at present. Will Henry be able to turn the case?... or is the surprise witness going to mess things up for Mr Thornton? Next chapter coming up at the weekend.

As always, thank you, everyone, for your lovely reviews on previous chapters!

—

To my shame I must admit to a case of slovenly research that I only became aware of some time after writing this chapter...

The setup of the court is not historically correct; by rights there should have been a bench of justices consisting of two or three justices of the peace / magistrates. The presence of a jury under these circumstances is correct, however (only the petty sessions did without). And, actually, there was such a thing as a single judge (recorder) at trials, but exclusively at quarter sessions held at county boroughs. But, unfortunately, county boroughs didn't exist before 1889 (at which time Liverpool became one).

... but as I couldn't be bothered to edit this chapter, and as it wouldn't significantly add to the story to have a bench of justices rather than a single judge, I thought I'd just give you the facts in a footnote and be done with it.