A/N: This is a sequel to my story 'Before the Dawn', also to be found here. If you don't know it yet, you might want to consider reading it first, because many things in 'A Tissue of Lies' will make a lot more sense once you have...
A Tissue of Lies | A North & South Mystery
01 | Case Closed
—
It took him right back—the chilliness of the thick stone walls and the low vaulted ceilings, the dim lighting; but most of all the foul stench of decay.
John Thornton hadn't been to the morgue at Milton Infirmary in neigh on two years—not since having been held in custody over a suspected grievous bodily harm charge and his consequent removal as a local magistrate—and he had been convinced that he didn't miss holding the office. And he didn't! Not this part of it, anyway.
This was where they brought the victims of presumed and actual crimes, the bodies of those who met their deaths in accidents, and the unclaimed and unnamed corpses found on wasteland or by the river. Here they were; not so much laid out but stored, waiting for the inquest.
"So, tell me, Mason," Thornton said, "why have you asked me to come here?" They were standing by a single shrouded body on a slab, watching the attending surgeon fold back the linen. It was the body of a man, perhaps in his early thirties, though the pallid, waxen complexion and slack features might have been deceiving; he could have been younger. "Who is he?"
"This we don't know yet, sir. He had nothing on him by which to identify him. He was found yesterday morning at the weir south of Mill Lane Bridge—"
Inspector Ben Mason was a bright young man; initially starting out as a clerk at Marlborough Mills, he had been entering the police force at Thornton's recommendation within months, where he was quickly rising through the ranks. Thornton had always liked and trusted Mason for his integrity and keen inquiring intellect—never mind said intellect causing him quite some headache in the past when the man had been investigating his own dear Margaret—and so he had acquiesced to come to the morgue at just a vaguely worded request.
"He drowned?" Thornton asked.
"Ultimately yes," the surgeon replied. "Pressure on the sternum produced a discharge of foam at the nostrils and mouth. Though he may have been already unconscious. There are signs—soft tissue injuries and several fractures—that point towards a fall."
"The doctor thinks that the man may have entered the water from Mill Lane Bridge," Mason supplied.
"A suicide, then," Thornton bit out, going pale; yet there was no way he would let the other men see how this particular piece of information affected him. Mill Lane Bridge was notorious—as well he knew.
"Y-yes, possibly," the surgeon replied. "However—" He uncovered more of the unclad body. "—he's got a dog bite on his thigh... here... fairly recent but already festering quite badly—must've been some dog, telling by the size of these marks!—which would've caused him considerable pain and made it hard for him to walk." He pointed at the man's wrists. "But this is what made me think; abrasive burns. Looks like he was recently bound."
"So, a possible crime? Still, I don't comprehend why you've called me here?" Thornton said, a hint of impatience creeping into his voice. "This is a case for the coroner—and the current local magistrate, for that matter."
"See, sir, that's the problem—" Mason reluctantly replied, fiddling with his pen and notebook. Eventually, he drew a nervous breath and said in a rush, "I went to see Magistrate Watson to inform him that the police were to take up investigations in the suspicious circumstances of the demise of this man—and he virtually burked it. Brushed off the doctor's findings and said that this was plainly a suicide; said to leave things to the coroner. Now, with Magistrate Watson being your brother-in-law..."
"I see," Thornton quietly replied. And he did see; his indolent brother-in-law was once again trying to sneak out of his responsibilities. But with the doctor opposing a pronouncement of 'not enough medical evidence to assume a crime' and bound to testify accordingly at the inquest, Watson was definitely overstepping his powers. "I'll see what I can do... Thank you both for letting me know." Touching the rim of his hat in a quick salutation, he briskly left the room.
Once outside in the open, he drew in a deep lungful of Milton air which, despite the July heat and the ubiquitous smoke, deemed him almost balsamic. "Thanks for nothing, Watson!" he muttered under his breath before turning towards home.
On foot, the shortest way from Milton Infirmary, located in Crampton and therefore not so far away from Margaret's former abode, to Marlborough Mills was via Hillhead Cemetery; and before he knew it, Thornton found himself standing in front of his father's grave in a secluded part of the graveyard next to an old yew. He had been preoccupied ever since leaving the morgue and, apparently, his subconscious mind had guided his steps towards this place. A place he rarely visited.
At least the grave lay in shade, which was welcome as the hazy sun was still high. He saw that the headstone was well-scrubbed and that someone—probably Margaret because neither his mother nor Fanny were in the habit of taking him flowers—had placed a water-filled jar of white roses in front of it. They had not withered yet.
His father's death had been a suicide in all but name—at the time the verdict at the inquest had been 'death by misadventure in a fit of temporary insanity', thus preventing the Crown from seizing the late George Thornton's remaining earthly goods. Alas, it had been a short reprieve for his bereft wife and children because a fortnight later his creditors had taken everything away from them regardless. At fourteen years old, John had been taken out of school, thereby ending any aspirations of eventually going to university; and henceforth he had been earning the living for a family of three as a draper's assistant in a rural place well away from Milton, where his mother Hannah had taken them to escape the taint of association.
It had taken six years for them to return to Milton; and another five, first as a clerk then as an assistant at Aniston's mill, before he had a chance at taking over Marlborough Mills. It had taken longer to repay his father's debts. Why Adam Bell had placed so much trust in a young man with little experience and a dubious past, remained a mystery and a marvel to the latter. However, for some years Marlborough Mills had made a tidy profit under his management; and John Thornton had been given the satisfaction of having made it despite his father's ruin and ignoble death.
For some time he had thought that he had made his peace with his father's death. Then came the year 1851—and things were starting to spiral downward... and hadn't it been for his beloved Margaret, his and his mother's life would once again have become unsettled and precarious. To this day he wondered if he had given in to the temptation to speculate with borrowed money—as his brother-in-law Robert Watson had suggested at the time—if it hadn't been for the dire warning of his father's bad example and fall.
A fall in every sense of the word... because it had been the drop from Mill Lane Bridge, a steel construction spanning a deep narrow gorge, that had ended his life—and to learn of a similar death at the same place today had been like a punch in the gut, never mind the years gone by.
There was a pump and trough for the workhorses in the far corner of the mill yard; and, prior to entering the house, John Thornton went there to thoroughly wash his hands—to wash off the morgue, even though he hadn't touched anything inside—before entering the house and join his family.
He let himself in with his latch key. The door wasn't quite closed yet when an excited little voice cried out, "Papa-papa-papa!" and the patter of small feet approached from the far end of the hall. The tiny person they belonged to made a determined sprint for the man by the door who stooped to catch her just as she flung herself into his arms. He twirled her through the air and she shrieked with glee. At fifteen months old she was fearless.
"Hello, my darling Charlotte," he said and placed a smacking kiss on her cheek, all the while she excitedly patted his face with her plump little hands. Then she squirmed in his arms, demanding to be let down again. Ever since starting to walk—to run, rather—she had become fiercely independent.
Just like her mother, he thought fondly. "Where is Mummy?"he asked which she took as her cue to tuck at the hem of his frockcoat to make him follow her. "In the study, is she?" He beckoned Jane, the nursery maid, to step closer.
"Sorry, sir," the maid said. "She recognises the click as the front door unlatches and then there's no holding her back. She always knows when it's you."
"Please take her to Mrs Thornton. I must change first." And to his daughter, who gave him such a genuine Thornton scowl that he couldn't quite suppress a smile, he said, "Go see if Mummy has tea and biscuits ready for us."
He went upstairs taking two steps at a time as his daughter, with an impatient cry of "Bit-tit!", led Jane to the study door. He chuckled.
Impatient. If there was one word to describe Miss Charlotte Maria Thornton, 'impatient' fit her best. She was lively, exuberant, indignant at times, fearless indeed, but—above all—impatient. So much so that she had arrived three weeks early, just as he had still been held up in Birmingham in order to finalise the last deal before intending to stay in Milton until after the birth.
—
He had arrived home to the news that his wife had given birth to a healthy daughter and, upon running to the master bedroom, had found Margaret sitting up in bed with a neat little bundle in her arms and greeting him with a radiant smile. He had rushed to her side, kissing the hand she had held out towards him and stammering his remorse at having been absent.
"Silly man," she had murmured back. "Don't you know that there is no place for a husband in the birthing chamber?—and this way you have at least been spared the anxiety of hours of waiting."
"Have you suffered much, my love?" he had anxiously asked her.
"It's almost forgotten, now that she's here," Margaret had replied. "Would you like to hold her?" Carefully instructing him on how to support her head, she had handed over their infant daughter.
He had expected her to be asleep, but she was looking about her with large unfocussed eyes, waving a tiny hand that, somehow, had escaped the swaddling. He had stroked her palm with his forefinger and she had grabbed it with surprising strength. She could as well have grabbed his heart.
"Are you much disappointed that our first child isn't a son?" Margaret had tentatively asked.
He had just stared at her, uncomprehending. "No," he had murmured, his voice thick. "No... How could I possibly be? She's perfect."
—
After Charlotte's birth Thornton had taken to having a half-hour break in the afternoon to return to the house and have tea with his family, a custom soon established and religiously adhered to, unless he was out of town on business. In was often the only time in the day when he saw his daughter in daylight and awake. At first just to hold her, see her grow and become more aware of her surroundings with every day; then, remembering the multiple ways he had devised as a boy to amuse his infant sister, to play with her; and to his quiet delight he had found her becoming quite the tomboy. They would often end up on the floor with her crawling all over him, shrieking with laughter.
Sometimes, though rarely, she would simply be happy to curl up in his lap.
This was one of those days. Snuggling against him Charlotte contentedly played with his fob chain, giving her parents time to talk.
"Where's Mother?" Thornton asked.
"Fanny sent the carriage for her about an hour ago," Margaret explained. "Apparently she's concerned about baby Walter who's been suffering from colic these last few days."
"That's the third time this week Fanny has asked her to come over in a hurry," he said with a frown. "This is getting ridiculous!—one should think that, after Frank, Fanny should have some routine with caring for infants... And it's not as if Mother is getting any younger, to be rushing to and fro at all hours of the day!"
"With three young grandchildren and a fourth due—" She placed a hand upon her swollen belly. "—I sometimes wonder if Hannah misses the quiet days when it was just the three of you, and she had to go to the weaving shed to experience some noise and fuss." She smiled mischievously.
He chuckled along with her, knowing full well that his mother had never been as happy as these days, when she was busy and needed, and surrounded by a whole bunch of grandchildren. Looking down he realised that his own little girl had finally managed to dislodge the watch from its pocket. Thornton held it against her ear so that she could listen to the tick, which earned him a cooing sound from Charlotte.
"Anyway, what have you been up to this afternoon?" Margaret inquired. "I happened to see you come in by the gate just before tea."
"Mason had asked to see me... You remember Mason the police inspector, don't you?"
This time it was Margaret who frowned. How could she possibly forget the man? She didn't like Mason, and Thornton knew the reason perfectly well. Not only had she lied to him once to protect her brother, but more recently she also had to enter into a tit-for-tat to gain information possibly crucial to his—Thornton's—trial.
"What did he want from you?" she asked rather curtly.
"Not so much 'want' as 'give'... In this case give me a caution that Robert may be about to make a grave mistake."
"As a magistrate, you mean?" Margaret scoffed. "Your brother-in-law only ever took the position to spite you!... I wonder just how long it took him to realise that he had bitten off more than he could swallow?"
"Not very long at all, I daresay," he wryly agreed. "However, this means that I'll shortly be on my way to York Street to deliver the message... With any luck I may hitch a ride back with Mother—"
"What have you been thinking, Robert?—you are a Justice of the Peace. You might better act accordingly!"
Both men had retreated to Watson's study at the house in York Street; they were trying—yet increasingly failing, in Thornton's case—to keep their voices down. Watson was proving obstinate; not that Thornton had expected much else.
"I really don't know, John—" Robert Watson let the sentence hang in the air as he went to his huge writing desk and flipped open the lid of the humidor placed in its right-hand corner. With provocative slowness he selected a cigar. "—why you're making such a song and dance about it."
"You don't? Robert, I don't understand you... Why stick your neck out in such a way and obstruct an investigation?—especially when the testifying surgeon has serious doubts about a clear case of felo de se."
"What proof does he have, really?" Watson said, gesticulating with his cigar. "The ligature marks on the man's wrists? Or should I say, what the good doctor thinks are ligature marks? Could be abrasions from too tight cuffs; could be a rash from carbolic soap—"
"And what about the dog bite? He would have been seriously incapacitated by it... How did he even get to the bridge?"
"Plenty of coaches in this town—and plenty of large vicious dogs to boot; either a butcher's mutt or one of the dogs guarding the mills and warehouses at night. They're everywhere! Christ, I have them!—and, I gather, so do you."
"I live on the premises and I hate watchdogs—I wouldn't want to accidentally be mauled by one of them upon returning home late at night. No, I employ a night watchman; and while he has a dog with him, that one's at least trained and on a leash—"
"A watchman—fancy that! Rather posh of you, I must say," Watson remarked with a smirk.
Thornton gave him a quelling look, but decided not to be drawn out. "So, you'll stick with curbing the police investigation?" he asked instead.
"Damn right I will! Total waste of police time and resources... Besides, the coroner agrees—"
This was news to Thornton. In other words, he was up against a fait accompli.
"Well, Robert," he said, heaving a sigh as he turned and headed for the door, "by the end of the day it's on your conscience not mine."
"Oh, I won't lose a night's sleep over it, don't you fear," his brother-in-law called after him, lighting a match to ignite his cigar.
Outside in the hall Thornton encountered the footman. "Mrs Thornton is still with Mrs Watson," he was informed by the liveried servant. "If you'll care to follow me, sir."
"Thank you, but no. Tell Mrs Thornton that I'll be waiting in the hall until she's ready to return to Marlborough Mills with me; and give my regards to Mrs Watson." This way his mother would have a reason to disengage herself from Fanny.
He didn't quite know for how long he stood there, abstractedly looking down and with his thoughts miles away, vaguely aware that something was niggling at his mind just under the surface, when a sudden noise made him look up and towards the passage next to the stately staircase.
It struck him then, like a bolt from the blue: He had seen the dead man before, in this very house!
They had not been introduced at the time. He, Thornton, had been on his way out; and he had only noticed the young man for a moment—standing in that corner next to the staircase—because of his foppish attire.
"Robert!" he called as he tore open the study door; however, the room lay deserted. "What the—?"
"May I help you, sir?" Again the footman stood by his elbow.
"Where is your master? I must speak with him at once."
"I'm sorry, sir, but he's just gone out... He left by the back door into the carriage shed a few minutes ago."
"Did he say where to?" Thornton demanded.
"I'm afraid not, sir."
"Damn!"
"Pardon?"
"Never mind."
In the coach, on their way back, Thornton felt rather than saw his mother's scrutiny; he was determinedly looking out of the window.
"Out with it!—what is it, John?" she demanded at last.
He sighed. "If you must know, I got into an argument with Robert... His ideas of what being a magistrate entails are rather singular at times," he said, forcing a smile. "However, it's not worth dwelling on, let alone burden you with it... So, how are preparations for our annual dinner coming along?"
"We received all but two RSVPs," Hannah Thornton said gruffly, "and while they were mostly politely worded, they were also mostly in the negative. As of today we'll likely be entertaining Fanny and Watson, the Hampers—but then, Gerald could hardly refuse, after having just started a new venture with you—the Latimers, and the Lennoxes; Henry and Ann Lennox, that is. Margaret's London cousin is presently touring Scotland. Together with young Makinson and the three of us, it will be just twelve people all-in-all." She looked up at her son and shrugged helplessly. "Both the Fosters and Browns probably won't even grace us with a reply—stuck-up as they are!—but for Margaret's sake I should have hoped that some of the other mill masters would accept, now that it is plain for all to see that Charlotte is really yours—"
In the wake of Charlotte's preterm birth late in April of the previous year, tongues had been wagging most maliciously, spreading the rumour that the bankrupt master of Marlborough Mills had been bribed into marrying the London heiress, because she had been pregnant with another man's child. Margaret had not heard the remorseless tittle-tattle at the time, but the fact that none of the Milton society ladies had come to visit her during her lying-in had spoken volumes. In consequence, the dinner party later in summer had been cancelled, with cases of the agues spreading through Milton as a welcome excuse.
By autumn, however, it had become obvious that Charlotte was a Thornton not just in name; she had her father's colouring along with The Thornton Scowl and stern—though in her case still feathery—brow. And if that wasn't enough, the new father's openly displayed infatuation with his infant daughter was all the added proof anyone could ask for.
"Will you give Margaret the news?" his mother quietly asked.
A grim nod was his only reply.
As of the previous autumn Milton society might have been reconciled with John Thornton—but not with his wife.
Making up for time lost in the afternoon, Thornton had gone straight to the mill office after their return from York Street; and by the time he decided to call it a day several hours later, the house was dark and quiet.
He sneaked into the bedroom, so as not to wake Margaret. In the faint light from the wide open window he saw her lying on top of the sheets in just a gossamer nightdress, curled up and by all appearances soundly asleep. He smiled, wondering why she had bothered to put on a nightdress in the heat; he had left every scrap of clothing in the adjacent dressing room, had sponged off the sweat and grit in the dark with tepid water from a waiting jug, and then had left it just so to dry. For the first time that day he felt comfortable.
He lowered himself onto the bed and gingerly nestled against her back, burrowing his nose into the nape of her neck and inhaling her heady scent. It had subtly changed with her pregnancy, and yet it was quintessentially her own; a delicate mix of sweet almond milk and warm skin. It instantly aroused him.
"Mhm," Margaret whispered, "how considerate!—you're cool... Where have you been hiding these last few hours?—in the root cellar?" There was a smile in her voice as she sleepily snuggled up to him.
"Well, anything to please my lady wife," he murmured, following the line her shoulder with his lips.
"I gather, sir, that you are not intending to keep me cool for long."
"Quite on the contrary." His fingers traced their way along her thigh, edging the hem of her nightdress up across her hips. "Allow me to remove this most incommodious garment—"
With a ripple of laughter she wriggled in his arms to aid him in his task and, once her head emerged from the bunched-up fabric, she rolled on top of him and kissed him deeply.
"Whatever shall I do with you, Mr Thornton?" she asked in mock exasperation.
He lay back, folding his arms behind his head with a lazy grin, as he said, "Whatever you like—"
Later... a long time later—Margaret had gone back to sleep and her breath softly brushed against his shoulder—John Thornton once again marvelled at this most unexpected boon in their married life.
For many year into his adult life he hadn't contemplated taking a wife; he had been too busy, first by raising his family from poverty and then by leaving behind his precarious situation as a manufacturer with no property and few financial resources. He had not quite succeeded with the latter when he first met Margaret Hale; and despite her aloofness—nay!—her blatant class prejudice, it had not taken him long before he understood that such was the wife he aspired to. 'Such a wife' became Margaret—and Margaret alone—when, at the day of the riot, it finally hit him what she had become to him during the months of their acquaintance... only to have his hopes crushed on the morrow.
In the year that followed, matrimony had turned into a pipe dream; and one he had rarely dared visit at the time... and if he ever wondered about the physical aspects of married life in general—and wedding nights in particular—he thought that, with little experience of his own and an innocent bride, it might be awkward at best and downright appalling at worst.
Then Brookford had happened... and any inhibitions and considerations of propriety had been swept away in a rush of their mutual desire. All that had happened that night had been as if it was meant to be; natural, easy, and beautiful. It had always been like this between them ever since; at times gentle, at others passionate, or playful. No matter how dissimilar their lives were during the day, at night and in the privacy of their bedroom they were truly equals.
He stared at the ceiling, wondering not for the first time if there was any way for him to help make them more on a par in their day-to-day lives; with both of them accepted and respected by their peers.
He turned his head and kissed the crown of his wife's head. In the morning he would have to tell her just how far away they still were from achieving that goal, with a sheaf of negative replies to their dinner invitations as a case in point.
A few days on, early at a sunny morning that promised to turn into yet another unpleasantly hot day, Margaret sat in the wide armchair by the window with the top of her robe gaping open and was nursing Charlotte, when John entered their bedroom to fetch a handkerchief before heading out to the mill.
He stood for a moment to regard the idyllic tableau, his heart swelling at the sight of his young family. However, concern for Margaret made him broach a subject that he, as a man, felt ill equipped to discuss.
"You might want to think about weaning her eventually," he suggested, "to keep up your strength."
"Oh, John, you mustn't worry on my account! I can't remember when I last felt as full of energy as I'm doing right now, despite the heat... And, besides, I'm not yet quite prepared to let go of our little girl—this is our one time in the day when I have her entirely to myself—and she's growing so fast."
"You will have to give it up ere long," he cautioned. "You can't possibly nurse them both, can you?"
"Well, I could—" She giggled when she saw his shocked face. "But I won't... I'm just going to tide over until October, when the colder weather makes the risk of foodborne diseases less likely. I wouldn't wish to risk her health at a time of year when milk goes sour in the larder within the day."
"You'll be eight months pregnant then—"
"Exactly, I'll be pregnant not ill!—despite the pretty image of genteel suffering some ladies like to convey."
"I suppose you'll know best," he conceded, but with so much reluctance that Margaret gave him a longsuffering look. "However, I'll be watching you for signs of exhaustion..."
"You'll do no such thing, Mr Thornton! You'll be watching your workers for signs of slacking in their duties, while I—" She stressed the word. "—will be monitored both by your mother and the entire household staff. I'm not even allowed to carry my needlework basket these days!"
"Do they crowd in on you?"
"A little," Margaret admitted with a sigh. "I know they mean well—as do you!—but they're taking all my tasks away from me... Quite frankly, I'm bored!—and once our dinner party is over I'll be out of society until Christmas." Adding under her breath, "Such as it is, anyway."
"I wished there was a way to make things better for you." It wasn't just a token remark; and he hoped that she understood.
"Other than leaving this town, you mean? But running away from our difficulties is something neither of us would do."
"There's that—"
"Then go find their feet of clay," she said with a weary chuckle, "so that they'll stop harping on about mine—"