04 | Things That Go Bump in the Night

—

What with one thing and another, Mason's inquiry into the death of Benedict Alban had turned into a mere niggle on Thornton's mind; his promise to help gather information all but forgotten during the day when running the mill kept him busy, but popping up in the quiet of the night, when he was trying to put his thoughts at rest prior of falling asleep.

He had never cared to find out if the body had been claimed by some London relatives or if he might, in fact, have ended up in a pauper's grave. After all, it wouldn't have made any difference had he known.

The whole affair came to the fore again early in September, when Thornton encountered Inspector Mason just as he was heading for the station to take a train to Liverpool, where he meant to place substantial orders in raw cotton that would see him well into the new year. He was determined not to travel starting from October.

Seeing the man rush towards him, he called out, "Mason! How are you?"

"Are you still interested in the Benedict Alban case, sir?" the policeman inquired instead of a greeting.

"I'm honestly no longer certain that we've got a case here." A couple of days after the dinner party he had told Mason what little information he had gleaned, and that had—basically—been all he could supply, especially as rumours of jealous husbands and furious fathers had persistently failed to materialise. Fanny hadn't joined the Milton Ladies Charity, after all.

"Listen to me, sir," Mason said. "Two days ago I returned from London. Another matter took me there, and I took the opportunity to follow a lead I had come across some weeks before, but without any means to check on it. While in Milton Alban had been residing at The White Hart—" The White Hart was a reputable, but by no means the best, address in Milton. "—and he was seen there for the last time a good three days before his body was found. He didn't check out of the hotel, so his departure wasn't premeditated; but, on the second day after his disappearance, the hotel received payment for his bill by banker's order from London, along with the request to forward his baggage to the short-term storage at Euston station."

"He was in London a day or two before he was found dead?—and got back to Milton with an untreated dog bite? Wasn't the surgeon at the morgue quite sure that the bite was a few days old?"

"See, Mr Thornton, that's why I went to check some things in London the other day," Mason explained, "and this is what I've found out: Firstly, the money for the banker's order wasn't taken out of an account but paid for in cash, and not by a regular customer of said London bank; and secondly, the luggage was never claimed from Euston station."

"But... short-term storage? Wouldn't it have been removed long since?"

"Well, in a way; but whoever sent it there may not have been aware that it goes into lost-property storage for another three months before finally getting donated to charity, respectively being put up for auction." Looking smugly pleased he added, "In my capacity as a policeman, I claimed it."

"Have you found anything of interest inside?" He really should be on his way to the station by then, but Thornton found himself too intrigued by this new development to let it rest.

"Apart from the usual clothes and toiletries, there was an address tag inside..."

"Carlyle Square?"

"... for an address in Chelsea; sixteen Carlyle Square," Mason confirmed. "But when I went there they told me that he had moved out late in April with only The White Hart as forwarding address. The other thing I found was a handwritten note hidden in the lining of the suitcase and, truth be told, I'm unable to make head nor tail of it. But perhaps you might, sir."

"I'm afraid I can't stop for any longer now, Mason," Thornton said, checking his pocket watch, "But why don't you come round to my office on Friday at half past five?—I'll be back by then and make some time for you."

"Thank you, Mr Thornton. I'll be there—"

First thing upon arrival in Liverpool, Thornton went to see his broker, a man called Kingsley who, although not as well connected as Barlow had formerly been, was young and eager to make a name for himself. Despite not quite being an incumbent at the Cotton Exchange yet, he showed both initiative and success in procuring up-to-date information on shipments, both incoming and already arrived ones. In the eighteen months they had been making business, Thornton had found little fault with Kingsley. So, to Kings Dock Lane he went to find the man.

Once it was determined what qualities Thornton needed and at what quantities, Kingsley went out to make arrangements for them to visit some warehouses on the morrow, so that Thornton could determine that quality was up to specification before Kingsley was to bid for it. Thus left to his own devices Thornton decided to go to the Cotton Exchange to see what the ongoing auctions had on offer.

He soon found out that present transactions only featured short-fibred qualities such as he didn't use in production, but that batches of Gizah and Sea Island cotton would be coming up for auction on Friday morning. Deciding that there was no point in hanging around for the present, and as the day was quite warm and he was getting thirsty, he made his way to The Bolt and Bale, the traders' inn opposite the stock exchange.

He hesitated just for a moment to brace himself before he entered the dim taproom. Ever since he had been the prime suspect in the assault on Barlow two years before, he had gained a certain notoriety amongst the Liverpool cotton traders; therefore it happened that people would recognise him, even when he couldn't put a name to them.

Sure enough; he was barely sitting down at a table by the window and taking a first sip of his pint of ale, when an elderly man in a sombre dark suit, who had been standing by the bar when he entered and ordered his drink, came up to him, pint glass in hand.

"Thornton, isn't it? Mind if I sit?"

"Feel free," Thornton evenly replied. The man's face didn't ring a bell.

"Name's Everston, of Everston and Abercrombie Brokers," he introduced himself. "You're early this year, Thornton; not all the new harvest has yet arrived. Needing new supplies ahead of time? Wouldn't be surprised; business has generally been picking up nicely this last year over at Milton—" It wasn't a question; if business in cotton production was slow, the people trading in supplies would be among the first to know. "Also, I've heard that you've been specialising into producing with long-fibred varieties only."

Thornton made an indistinct noise that could be taken for assent.

"Shame you never approached us after Barlow dropped out of business—"

"I just happened to come across Kingsley at the time; I like to give a young man a leg-up if I possibly can, and thus far it has served both of us well."

"Fair enough," Everston mused, "fair enough. However, experience and connections go a long way in the business; so, you may want to reconsider—"

Thornton suppressed a wry smile; he knew when he was being baited. When he remained stolid and persistently mute on the subject, Everston eventually ran out of steam in his attempt at drumming up a new customer. What he didn't run out of, however, was curiosity.

"Anyway, what's been going on with yon Miltonians just lately?—I hear that Slickson's struggling all of a sudden."

This was, of course putting it mildly; in the wake of the housing rent scandal, his workers had walked out on him for a fortnight, which he in turn had used as a chance to convert yet more of his production into room-and-power facilities, designed to be let to self-employed weavers running themselves ragged on small margins and uncertain contracts. Thornton's lips thinned as he contemplated how this new development was going diametrically against all of the efforts he had made in the past few years to improve the workers' situation.

"There were a few sabotage acts and, more particularly, one case of arson which fortunately could be contained to a single storage shed," Thornton supplied; all this was common knowledge anyway.

"So, Slickson's not a popular man in Milton at the moment—" Yet another observation by Everston not worthy of a reply. "—but Harkness has been doing rather well for himself these last ten years, hasn't he?"

This made Thornton sit up and ask, "Did you know him?—before he came to Milton, I mean."

"Oh, aye; though my partner Abercrombie knew him better. They were working together for quite a while; first as clerks at Barlow's, then as junior brokers at the Virginia Trading Company... Harkness had a reputation back in the day, both as a firebrand and as an entrepreneur. But from what I've heard he's running things strictly by the book these days in Milton."

"By the book, yes—" Thornton remarked, suppressing a sneer. Harkness was known as a ruthless master who saw his relationship with his hands as 'being in a war', and he delighted in the strife. "So, what were his entrepreneurial activities at the time? Nothing out of turn, I should hope?"

"Well..." Everston suddenly appeared a lot less chatty. "You know how it is... rumours... He was occasionally mentioned in connection with a gambling den—or was it a betting shop? Not that I ever saw anything of it, mind!" He rose. "Anyway, people talk all day long, and often just to spite... I'd better be on my way now. Just remember that, if you ever have need of another broker, we'll be happy to do business. A good day to you, Mr Thornton."

Now, what was that? he wondered.

In the course of the following two days Thornton made discreet inquiries about Harkness's former extracurricular activities in Liverpool—or as discreet an inquiry as could be made when the actual question was whether or not someone had been involved in betting and gambling. Perhaps his questions were too carefully worded because the answers amounted to exactly nothing at all.

The moment he entered the hall at his home, Thornton felt that something wasn't quite as it should be. None of the servants came forward to relieve him of his baggage; and Charlotte, who generally could be relied on to take a nap at this time of day, was wailing somewhere upstairs.

Dropping his bag and coat by the hallstand, he rushed up the stairs and, after a brief detour into his dressing room to rinse the grime of the train journey off his hands, he went to the nursery. Margaret was sitting by the cot talking softly, but the hassled look on her face told him that she had been at it already for quite some time. Charlotte was standing up in her cot, fists tightly clasped around the railing, and bawling at the top of her voice.

"It's way past her nap time," Margaret said dejectedly in between the wails, "but I just can't calm her sufficiently to make her lie down and sleep."

Charlotte noticed him in the door and raised her arms for him to pick her up, all the while her crying continued.

Once she was in his arms her sobs didn't quite abate, but gradually became interspersed by small disconsolate hiccups as she brushed her hot tearstained face against his lapel, all the while he was walking up and down, talking in a low murmur, "That bad, is it?... Hush now, my darling girl; it'll all be well... See? Nothing to cry about..." Still carrying his daughter in his arms, he motioned for Margaret to follow him downstairs. "Let's have some tea in the drawing room," he mouthed.

When they reached the drawing room, Charlotte was already half asleep; and by the time the tea tray arrived, she was lying against his chest, sleeping soundly.

"Isn't this rather uncomfortable for you?" Margaret asked. "Would you like to take her back to her cot?"

"Better leave her with me and just hand me a thin blanket," he replied. "If I lay her down right now, she might yet wake up again. We'll have more peace and quiet this way... So, tell me, what's the matter? Has she been taken unwell?"

"Nothing of the kind," Margaret hastened to reassure him. "There has been quite a commotion in the house earlier today, and she's still upset about it. You know how she hates changes in her routine. Add to that your being away for the last few days—"

"What was the commotion about?—Anything out of the ordinary, or just a burnt cake?"

"Someone dumped the cadaver of a dog over the wall into our kitchen garden—" There was a quiet alley, publicly accessible, on the other side of the high brick wall. "—and the scullery maid found it this morning; of course, she shrieked the whole house down."

"It couldn't have been a stray, sneaking in and dying there?"

"No, it was already dead for a couple of days, from what the footman said; and it definitely wasn't there yesterday evening."

"A nasty prank, alas," Thornton sighed.

"Probably," Margaret agreed, downcast. "But why now, do you think? We haven't done anything to provoke this, have we? The workers had a pay rise only this spring; and with the school scheme coming up, I thought that they were quite content—"

"I don't believe that it was any of our workers; it might, in fact, have been just about anyone... and most likely it was some drunkards' idea of a joke." He reached out a hand to take Margaret's in reassurance. "I'll tell the night watchman to include the alley into his rounds, just to make sure."

"I'm happy that you're back." Margaret gave him a brittle smile.

"Anyway, where is it now?—or has anyone called the renderer yet?"

"In the coal shed, wrapped in an old piece of tarpaulin... In case you might want to have a look." She shuddered.

"I will—a little later... Now, let's have tea and forget about this unpleasantness. Would you mind passing me my cup?"

The animal was a bull-and-terrier, a long-legged creature with the ugly head of a bulldog; used in dog fights and to be set loose in an enclosed premises as a night watchdog. He had seem such dogs on various occasions, chained up or in their kennels, when he went to visit his fellow mill masters. And, yes, Havers the footman had been right; it was pretty much on the mangy side. He'd better send the errand boy with a note to the renderer straightaway.

Back in the main mill office Thornton wrote a missive to that effect and then checked the mail that had accumulated over the previous three days. He opened the letters one after another and, after a cursory glance, sorted them into their respective entry trays. He was thus occupied for a good twenty minutes when he picked up a plain envelope marked 'Mr J. Thornton' and 'confidential'. Inside was a single sheet once folded, and it said...

"Stop snooping, dog! Or else..."

The handwriting was spidery and quite possibly disguised. There was, of course, no sender, but the message was clear enough—

Just as the clock struck the half-hour, Mason knocked at the office door, where Thornton was pacing back and forth deep in thought. At the sound of it, he whipped around; he had forgotten about his appointment with the policeman, or else he would have cancelled it. Drat the man! His face turned grave in sudden determination. He knew what he had to do, hadn't he?

Undeterred by the scowl on his former employer's face, Mason entered and, at Thornton's prompt, took a seat on the visitor chair by the desk.

The mill master sat down opposite him and, for a moment, remained silently brooding, before saying, "As of this moment I shall stop gathering information on your behalf, Mason," he said at last. "I've received a threat..."

"What threat?"

"... and, while I have little qualms about my personal safety," Thornton continued without heeding Mason's sharp question, "I have my family to consider. I won't risk their wellbeing for something that, thus far, appears to be little else than a wild-goose chase."

"I beg to differ, sir. Your receiving threats—and I'd very much like to know what kind of threats were made against you—proves beyond a doubt that there is every cause for an investigation!"

"As I said: I must not be a known part in any investigation and I won't make any more inquiries regarding your so-called case." He leant forward and banged the desk top with the flat of his hand.

Mason was not a man to be easily intimidated. He gave his counterpart a calculating look, remarking, "But since I'm already here in your office, sir, and as there are witnesses to my coming here, won't they assume that we're comparing notes anyway?—therefore you might as well pass me any information you have gathered to date... And I would really appreciate if you looked at that note I retrieved from Alban's luggage."

Thornton sighed heavily. "Fine... even if it is against my better judgment. But this must be the last time." He picked up the note with the written threat from his desk and handed it to the police inspector.

After reading it Mason looked rather more confused that concerned. "Well, as threats go that one's rather vague—"

Thornton told him about the dead dog.

"Holy Christ," the policeman swore under his breath. A little louder, he added, " Is the cadaver still on the premises, so that I might have a look?"

"No!" Thornton exclaimed. "That is, the dog's still here—but I won't have you be seen looking at it. It's bad enough that you are here now in my office. But as long as the police are not visibly involved, people might still think that I consider it just a prank—"

"The person who threatens you won't!"

"Fair enough. But on the off-chance that this someone is currently watching the back of the house and the kitchen garden, they may not have seen you come in by the front gate; and therefore I won't have you wander all over the place."

"Very well, sir. But will you at least tell me whatever you know—or deduct—from that incident?"

Thornton did, ending with, "There are, in fact, no clues that will get us any closer to the originator of the threat."

"I do wonder about the timing, though," Mason said. "You haven't really been asking around that much about Alban lately, have you?"

Thornton confirmed.

"Could the threat have been caused by anything else?—anything more recent?" He gave his former employer a shrewd look. "Or perhaps anything to do with unresolved business in connection with your arrest in Liverpool two years ago? After all, you have been to Liverpool those last few days, haven't you?"

Remembering his encounter with Everston, Thornton said, "While being there I came across some rumours; and so it happened that I inquired into someone's Liverpool activities prior to moving to Milton. Apparently, he had a reputation for being involved in some... well, in some not quite straightforward business at the time; but when I tried to verify those rumours, I got nowhere. After so many years it's probably just water under the bridge, or so I've assumed."

"Or, on the contrary, someone snitched on you—"

"What do you mean?"

"The person you've inquired into wasn't perchance Mr Harkness, owner of Riverdale Mill?" When Thornton exclaimed in surprise, Mason said, "Remember that Liverpool magistrate, who wouldn't release you on bail? As you know, I received confidential information at the time that someone had him in their pocket. What if that magistrate wasn't the only one in Liverpool who owed someone a favour?—and what if that 'someone' holding the whip hand was Harkness?"

"I've had my own suspicions about Harkness for some time, and although I never had any proof, I came to believe that it was Harkness who saw his chances when I was arrested," Thornton admitted. "That's why I inquired about his former dodgy business in the first place... But why would he draw attention to his time in Liverpool by threatening me? This would basically prove that there were illegal activities at one point!"

"Unless he means to reactivate them..."

Thornton interrupted him. "...because he needs the money to compensate his losses from a failed investment deal!" he exclaimed. He quickly brought Mason up to date about the failed scheme and his suspicion—as had arisen in his conversation with Henry Lennox—that more of the Milton manufacturers had lost in the investment than had hitherto come to light.

Given this new assumption, the situation regarding the threat would be quite different. If it was indeed Harkness, there was something he might do about it.

"Mason, would you be willing to do a private investigation on my behalf?" Thornton asked reluctantly, all the while wondering if he was making a grave mistake. "You'll get compensated for your time and expenses, of course."

"In order to get that threat off your back, you mean?—by building a case against Mr Harkness? Do you intent to bring him to court for it?"

"If we can make a criminal charge stick—yes, I'd gladly do that! And if not, I want to have a bargaining chip so that I can, if necessary, warn him off. But my name must never come up in connection with your present inquiries into his activities. Are we quite clear on that account?"

Mason nodded soberly.

Applying this kind of leverage would be a desperate and very risky measure, and Thornton decided that he would keep it as a last resort. But to keep on living with a barely veiled threat hanging over his head forever; moreover, a threat by a man he could put a name to? Not if he could help it!

Of course, he might yet have no other choice but live with it if nothing of use came from Mason's investigation; and if this were to be the case, the name of Thornton must never be linked to Mason's sleuthing. Starting with the fact that he would have to keep this strictly off the books.

"The week after next I could take some leave of absence to see into Mr Harkness's Liverpool business affairs," Mason suggested.

"Then I will fund you, as I said." Thornton held out his hand, "Do we have a deal?"

"Deal," Mason agreed, shaking hands. "As for the actual reason why I came here today—"

He took out his pocket book and unfolded a single sheet of hotel stationary featuring the emblem of The White Hart. Thornton took it from him to have a closer look; while it looked like a list of sorts, the depicted symbols or letters were not in any language known to him. And yet they seemed vaguely familiar.

"It looks a little like Arabic script," he mused, "but I don't think it is because Arabic is written from right to left. This one here is definitely starting on the left. I have a hunch that this may be the Pitman phonographic script, but I'm not sure—and I certainly can't read it."

"Then who could verify it for me?"

"It's not very common, but I think some journalists use it—"

"So, I could get it translated at The Milton Post?"

"Goodness, no! If there is anything of significance in this list, you'd as soon tell the town crier than have a journalist take a look at it."

"Good thinking, sir. What do you recommend I might do instead?"

"Get a chart of the Pitman system from one of the journalists and then do your own translation—just as long as you don't charge me with the expenditure of time. After all, these are two separate investigations, and I'm only paying you to look into Harkness."

"I'll bear that in mind sir," Mason said. "By-the-by, do you wish to be informed about the contents, if I'll manage to decipher them?"

"Thank you, but I think I'd rather not. As of today I refrain from anything concerning Mr Alban. If you find out anything that'll shed a new light on the man's death, take it to your superiors or to the local magistrate. It's their job to deal with it."