05 | Out of his Skull Sprang Athena
—
For the following week or two Thornton was on edge. But when, after a full fortnight, no follow-up threat had arrived, he allowed himself to breathe more freely.
He had been very careful to cover up the single encounter he had with Mason since their conversation in his office; it had, in fact, been no more than a quick conspiratorial meeting in a dark alley, where he handed over an adequate amount of ready money, that would set up Mason for his investigation. It had all been very cloak-and-dagger, and was basically done in passing.
Afterwards he did his best to keep the affair out of his mind. He had other things to worry about...
"Dr Donaldson came to see me this afternoon," Margaret mentioned when they were retiring for the night. She was sitting at her dressing table and speaking over her shoulder, doing her best to appear casual. However, she had never been adapt at feigning. There was clearly something on her mind; Thornton could tell by the way she abstractedly fiddled with her brushes and flacons.
Eventually she turned around and got up to face his scrutiny. "It was one of his routine visits. He wanted to check on me," she said with a tense smile. "He told me that the baby's breech." When she saw his uncomprehending look, she explained. "He said that the baby might still turn the right way round, but chances are getting slimmer the further the pregnancy advances; in another two or three weeks it will probably be too late."
He recognised the disquiet in her eyes that she so carefully tried to disguise in her words. "This is not good, is it?" he hoarsely asked around the lump in his throat.
"The doctor said that breech presentations are not uncommon, and that there is no reason why this shouldn't be a fairly normal birthing process. However, there is... an added risk for both of us—but mostly for our child."
"Oh my God, Margaret." He wrapped her tightly in his arms, burrowing his face in her hair. It was an primeval instinct to protect; yet he knew full well that there was nothing he could do to protect her in this matter—no way to avert the risk; even very little to assuage her fears. And fear she must—who wouldn't? He did; he felt himself go cold and numb with sudden dread.
"Would it help to bring in an obstetrician for a second opinion?" he asked at last, releasing her to better gauge her expression.
"I don't know if there can be two opinions about it at this point," Margaret softly said, imbuing her words with a rationality he both loved her for and resented.
She shouldn't feel obliged to spare me!—not at a time like this! he thought dejectedly. Yet, taking his pointers from her, he asked in—what he hoped—an equally rational voice, "For the birth, then?"
Margaret's expression, at his suggestion, was alternating between doubt and distaste.
"What is it?" he anxiously asked.
For a moment she stared at him mutely, wringing her hands. "I don't want another doctor!" she blurted out at last, adding hastily to forestall his protests, "Dr Donaldson himself suggested for me to consult with a midwife, a Mrs Frith, who is well known to him as an experienced practitioner, and with many more breech births under her belt than he himself."
"It was Dr Donaldson's idea to call in a midwife?"
"It was; and speaking with your mother after the doctor had left, she told me that, according to talk in the neighbourhood, Mrs Frith has a good reputation and clean habits—and not just in the moral sense."
As a modern man Thornton believed in science; and, for him, science was represented by doctors as opposed to the positively mediaeval image he associated with midwives. But then, he was a man, and by definition knew next to nothing about childbirth—except for its known risks, as testified by the occasional obituary in the papers.
"Whatever you think best, Margaret," he reluctantly agreed. Yet he hoped that the last word may, perhaps, not be spoken on that matter.
'Out of his skull sprang Athena, fully grown and in a full set of armour.'
Not for the first time Thornton despaired of the fact that the classics had precious little to say about the facts of life. If he were given to irony—which he wasn't under the circumstances—he would have remarked that, as had been the case with Zeus, a birth could indeed give a father a headache.
And while he was perfectly aware about the limits of mythology when it came to modern medicine, so he was about his own. Living the life of a middle-class man and, outside work, associating mostly with men of his class, births were not directly experienced by any of them in terms of actually being present and, if spoken of at all, were described as strange goings-on taking place in a distant part of the house. Anxious respectively tedious, hours of waiting, depending on who spoke of it, had been mentioned, along with listening to an—apparently appalling—amount of moaning and screaming.
So, a couple of days later, he went to talk with his mother who, although clearly not easy at the thought of a breech birth, gave him to understand that there was no reason for undue alarm, with Margaret's quick and easy birth with Charlotte—remarkably so, considering that it had been a first child—as a case in point.
"Rather than call in an obstetrician, she wants to consult with some midwife," he said in the hope that his mother would help him carry his point with Margaret.
"Margaret already told me about Mrs Frith; Dr Donaldson suggested her, and I, for one, think that it might be a sensible idea to consult with her under the circumstances."
"I don't like it! This whole idea makes me uneasy—and I frankly don't understand what Dr Donaldson has been thinking! Haven't we moved away from midwives because it's safer that a doctor handles matters?" He raked his fingers through his hair in frustration. "However, it seems that, for now, I have a united front against me," he sighed at last.
"First of all, there's still time... and then, oughtn't you better discuss these things directly with your wife?"
It was only then that Thornton noted his mother's heightened complexion and came to realise that it was stemming from outraged sensibilities. Yet he suspected that it was less a matter of indelicacy than Hannah Thornton's marked unwillingness to be made arbiter between her son and daughter-in-law. She wouldn't have had any qualms to take his side in the past; but it was an unexpected boon of Thornton's months in custody that Margaret and his mother had formed a staunch alliance during that time.
Therefore, he excused himself and quickly left to follow her advice.
"I wished you wouldn't worry so much, John," Margaret said, taking both his hands. "Mrs Frith came to see me today; she said that, subject to your approval, she would try to turn the baby the week after next—" Seeing his look of utter bewilderment, she told him how it was done. He breathed a careful sigh of relief. "It shouldn't be done any sooner because there is a slight risk that this may start premature labour."
"And if she can't turn the baby?"
"Then I'll have him feet first," Margaret stated bluntly, "and, before you try to argue your point again, I want Mrs Frith to deliver him." She raised a hand to forestall his objections. "At a breech birth the baby can't be delivered by forceps; therefore there is very little the doctor, or even a renowned obstetrician, can do. I'll rather have Mrs Frith with me in this case, along with her ample experience."
"I wished there was something—anything!—I could do to help."
"But you can't, you lovely, silly man!" Margaret exclaimed with a sweet smile and raised a hand to smooth away his frown. "This is the one thing in our lives where you must leave matters entirely in my hands. You can't take this burden from me; and I wouldn't want it any other way."
"I'd like to name our new school after my father," Margaret said one afternoon, after the tea tray had been cleared away and Charlotte taken upstairs for her bath. "What do you think of it?"
She and Thornton had moved to the dining room, and presently were contemplating the array of drawings spread out across the table. The architect had sent the design plans of the school building for approval of the final amendments. Hannah Thornton, who had her own views about her daughter-in-law's school project, but wisely kept them to herself, had remained in the drawing room and had retreated to the window with her mending to make the most of the quickly fading daylight.
The original idea had been straightforward enough: Reduce the actual working hours of the nine to thirteen year-olds to five hours and give them two hours of schooling instead, in addition to a one hour lunch break. There would be a morning shift with work followed by a break and lessons, and an afternoon shift with lessons and break preceding work. This way the working times of the children would be aligned with those of youths and women.
But, as so often, the devil had been in the detail. At first the workers had been little enthused about the fact that a few pence would be deducted from their children's weekly pay for working fewer hours. However, a general pay rise for the adults had seen to that in spring. Next the question arose as to where the school room might best be situated. Not too close to the steam engine and the production sheds because of the noise, but close enough to the necessary and the canteen; and then, it mustn't be in the way of future factory extensions. And if all that hadn't been enough requirements to meet, Margaret had insisted on a patch of green next to it so that, in good weather, the children could sit outside for their lessons and, perhaps, learn some rudimentary botany.
"It will just be the one classroom," Thornton pointed out. "Does it really merit a name?"
"It is a start; and a sign that things are moving in the right direction," Margaret reminded him. "So, how about Richard Hale School?"
"I like the thought of commemorating your father, Margaret, and I'd be pleased to have a place in token of him, as my friend and tutor, right here on the premises; and yet I'm afraid that our modest effort wouldn't meet with his standards of learning."
"He'd understand the need for compromise—until technology and society will have changed sufficiently to make child labour superfluous. He always admired the spirit of the North, even at a time when I did not."
"How about Richard Hale Factory School, then? It seems the right label for the time being," Thornton suggested. "And who knows, maybe one day it will become the Richard Hale Institute?" Though probably not in my lifetime, he added in the privacy of his own head.
Thornton eventually met with Mason at one of the warehouses next to Outwood Station, where the Marlborough Mills finished goods were stowed ahead of shipping. It was part of his routine to go there, although generally not so much after dark on a Sunday evening. As it was, the alleys criss-crossing the warehouse district lay deserted.
When he arrived outside the backdoor, Mason was already lurking in the deep shadow of a recess in a nearby wall. Stepping forward he gave Thornton a start. In reflex Thornton clenched the hand that was holding the key into a tight fist before he relaxed again a moment later. Drat the man! It was becoming his standard exclamation in connection with Ben Mason.
Once they were inside the warehouse, he made sure to lock the door and then lit an oil lantern he found by the desk next to it, careful to turn the wick to low. What little light spilled into the room was unlikely to be noticed from outside the building; the few unglazed window openings were high above, barred from the outside and shuttered within.
"Well, what's the news from Liverpool?" He turned to face the policeman.
"You know how you said that Alban's death and Harkness's machinations in Liverpool would be two different cases?" Mason exclaimed in an uncommon show of excitement. "Turns out they are connected, after all!"
"How so?" Thornton asked, taken aback.
"Remember that list I showed you?—it was indeed written in the Pitman phonography. Took me ages to decipher; it's like bad handwriting in a foreign lingo. But when I found out what it said, I thought you must know immediately, sir!" He presented a slip of paper.
- Henderson extramarital affair Miss P Smith 26 Preston St
- Slickson slum property owner Tanners Lane rents out to workers
- Brown raises illegitimate child of wifes sister Daphne
- Harkness runs betting shop dog fights Liverpool Herculaneum Dock
- Hamper ?
"See what it says about Harkness? That's exactly what I found out in Liverpool! He ran an illegal betting operation in the past; it had no fixed venue because dog-fighting is, of course, outlawed since 1835, but they were generally taking place at night, somewhere in the Herculaneum Dock area."
"And Benedict Alban knew about it."
"Precisely! So, how's that for motive?"
"Motive for what, exactly?"
"For abducting and detaining Alban, and eventually getting rid of him by pushing him from the bridge?"
"Yes, well... But at present this is simply a conjecture."
"But the dog bite!"
"See, Mason, I can't help thinking that there are altogether too many dogs in this for my liking—"
"What do you mean?"
"First the bite on the dead man's leg, then the dog cadaver hurled over the wall into my kitchen garden followed by the threat also mentioning dogs, and now a dog-fighting link to Liverpool; all pointing towards Harkness. It's all rather too convenient for my liking."
"You think he's being used as a scapegoat, sir?"
"As a former magistrate I think this is turning into a case for the police, Inspector Mason. It might be time to bring in Harkness for questioning. After all, with the dog-fighting angle, the man is clearly guilty of something."
"What about the others on the list? If what's on there is true—and we have no reason to believe that it isn't—then all of them might be suspects... I wonder how Alban came by his information—"
"My best guess would be the Milton Ladies Charity. Women like to talk," Thornton said wryly, remembering Mrs Hamper's remark about father-confessors. "Though it is a puzzle how he came by the information about Harkness; or Slickson, for that matter."
"With Harkness he may simply have followed the rumours and asked around in Liverpool, much as I did. And as for Slickson... the middleman who was collecting the rent, perhaps?"
"So, what do you think was the purpose of amassing those secrets?"
"Blackmail, probably... Might be worth it taking a look at Mr Alban's personal finance."
"Do you think you can keep Alban's list off the record for the time being while questioning Harkness?—at least as long as you don't have positive proof that the others are involved? Innocents might get hurt if this became public knowledge." Thornton was thinking of Mrs Henderson; and of a pretty and genteel girl soon to be out on her first season because 'Daphne' was not the name of the sister-in-law, but of Brown's only daughter amongst three elder brothers.
"I was planning to do so anyway; no point in spilling the beans unless I can make a charge of abduction, or perhaps even manslaughter, stick."
"Best of luck, Mason," Thornton said, unlocking the door and glancing outside. The alleyway was still deserted. "You'd better leave first. I'll be another five minutes."
On his lonely walk back home Thornton mused over the list...
He briefly wondered about the poor woman Henderson had hooked up with, a man neither graced with charms nor looks. He spent more time thinking about the Browns' family situation... So, the Browns are bringing up an illegitimate child as their own daughter. He knew that an unmarried sister of Mrs Brown's was living with the family—probably the mother of the girl—and, all things considered, it was the best solution all round under such circumstances when a marriage had been out of the question at the time. It just happened, in particular after Thomas Brown's fairly recent elevation to knighthood, that the situation wasn't honourable.
Thornton jeered softly at the thought.
Regarding Hamper, Alban obviously hadn't found anything that might add up to a reason for blackmail. Well, that's a relief, Thornton thought. After all, he and Hamper were business partners.
... and just as he entered the Marlborough Mills yard, it struck him that, rather than concentrate on what was on the list, it might be expedient to consider what wasn't—or, rather, who wasn't.
Namely Foster and Latimer; the remaining two families whose female members were affiliated with the Milton Ladies Charity.
For a couple of weeks nothing much happened. Then, suddenly, in the later part of October, Milton tittle-tattle spread the tale that Harkness had been asked by the police to help them with their inquiries. A few days later, the invitation had been less kindly worded, and Harkness had been taken into custody, where he remained for three days until released on bail at the discretion of the local magistrate, Watson. By that time word of Harkness's illegal activities already made the round.
Not only had Harkness been involved in illicit activities in the past, it also became apparent that—if not actually keeping at them throughout—he had at least been in the process of reactivating them, as Mason had rightly assumed several weeks before; and the reason for it was—debts! Furthermore, said debts seemed indeed to be linked to an investment that had failed in summer.
Several arrests were made in Liverpool, mostly docklands thugs running the business end of the betting enterprise, such as the kennels where the dogs were bred and raised for the pit, or as enforcers collecting gambling debts. Along with it, the name of a certain Liverpool magistrate, who was promptly resigning from his office, came up. The case against Harkness looked done and dusted, and ready to be brought up at the next Liverpool quarter sessions at the beginning of the new year.
However, as yet there was neither word about a connection with the late Benedict Alban nor about the other people on the dead gentleman's list.
Finally, the new dyeing works were up for an extended term of test operations. Not only did they have to try out patterns and designs, provided by a graduate of the local college of applied arts—and finding out in the process that some were more suited to the printing process than others—; there were also tests how much the new chemical dyes they were using would run in the wash. For that purpose they set up various washing cycles with different treatments. Such designs and samples that passed muster were then presented to a small committee of female members of the Thornton and Hamper households in order to decide which ones were to be included in the sample book for the summer season.
All this proved to be quite time-consuming, but eventually the masters were confident that the sample books could be sent out by mid-November.
For that purpose Thornton met with Hamper and Makinson at the office of the dyeing works for final approvals and in order to complete the list of addressees.
After an hour of intense discussion, Hamper leant back in his chair, sighing contentedly and obviously ready to call it a day. The atmosphere in the room was filled with the sense of a job well done.
"We should toast on it," Hamper remarked, "though I don't suppose that there's any brandy stowed away in this office, is there?"
At the mere thought of hidden bottles of spirits, Makinson gave the older man a scandalised look.
"Oh, well... Anyway, what think you about Harkness? He's always liked to play it tough, but I haven't seen that one coming! He'll stand trial in January, and chances are slim that he'll get acquitted, from what I've heard. I guess he'll have to sell up eventually—if there's anything left to sell after he'll be released some years hence."
"Who'll be running the mill in the meantime?" Makinson asked.
"Don't think about it, laddy!" Hamper warned, only half in jest. "Taking over that mill would be a poisoned chalice... Anyway, it's already decided that one of his wife's cousins will be coming in for the job."
"At least he won't bear the name 'Harkness', then."
"And much good it will do him, with the name 'Riverdale Mill' emblazoned all over the newspapers in relation with the trial."
"After Slickson's this will be the second mill heading for trouble is as many months," Thornton said. "I've already had plenty of workers coming over from Ashley, asking for a job at Marlborough Mills. Being fully staffed I had to turn most of them down, although I sent some, who had previous experience at dyeing works, over here. Were they any good for hiring, Makinson?"
"Some of them were, so I thank you, sir."
"It's 'Thornton'; you're one of the masters now," his former boss quietly reminded him.
"Plenty came asking me, as well," Hamper said. "With production heading downwards at Slickson's, and probably soon at Harkness's, too, prices for finished goods are certain to rise. Now might be a good time to invest and expand."
"Are you planning to?"
"The verdict's still open on that... though I've got first refusal on a piece of land owned by Slickson that's adjoining my mill to the north." He looked smugly pleased with himself.
It was the prudent thing to do, and Thornton had, in fact, his eye on a convenient piece of land presently owned by Harkness, for which he was planning to place an offer as soon as the option arose. He fleetingly thought that this made him one of the scavengers, but then he remembered how the vultures had gathered when he had been down on his luck. It was simply good business sense to strike while the iron was hot.
"I wonder if either of them will find an investor eventually," Makinson mused.
"Good luck with that!" Hamper exclaimed. "Not having a clean slate is one thing, but—as is the case with Slickson already—failing to meet contracts is quite another, and rather more unforgivable."
Thornton nodded pensively. Wasn't that the truth?—as he had learnt at a cost when he had been trying—and failing—to attract investors in London after the strike in 1851.
Thornton was still keeping up the practice of clandestine meetings with Mason, just in case the threat against him had not been issued by Harkness after all, but by someone else in connection with Benedict Alban's presumed blackmail of half the Milton manufacturers.
This time they met inside the otherwise empty second class compartment of a southbound train. It was a late local service, and they would have no more than twenty minutes before Thornton was to alight at the next stop and catch a northbound train back to Outwood Station; Mason would continue south and, after changing to a faster service, would go all the way to London.
"... and so, after thinking about it long and hard, my superiors finally came round to reopen investigations into the Alban case. I believe a bit of horse-trading took place in the background to keep the public from learning that both Magistrate Watson and the coroner had failed in their duties by initially treating Alban's death so lightly at the inquest."
"Did you have to show them the list?"
"I had to forward the information, considering that it's the only evidence to link Alban with Slickson and Harkness. Talking of which... it turned out that both had a fairly sold alibi for both the day of Alban's abduction and the night before he was found by the weir."
Thornton was sober about the chances of keeping Daphne Brown and Mrs Henderson out of a scandal, once their secret would be known to so many; he softly swore under his breath. However, Mason's next words proved him wrong.
"But, for the purpose of getting permission to resume the investigation, I thought it sufficient to pass on only that part of the list that has become public knowledge by now, namely the information about Slickson and Harkness's dark secrets."
"Good thinking, Mason."
"It was enough to issue a warrant to look into Mr Alban's London bank account; and for that purpose I'm now on my way south."
"As we are no closer to knowing what Alban actually gained by his presumed blackmail, this might indeed be of interest. Large amounts of money, recently deposited in his account, would be a fair indication that his blackmail had been successful—well, at least until he met his, possibly violent, death."
"Although it would be too much to hope that the money had actually been transferred from an account with a name to it." Mason said with a dry chuckle. "Paying hush money by bank order! Now, that would really be too good to be true."
"One can but hope," Thornton agreed, smiling wryly. "Have you given some thought to what I said about the missing names?"
"Latimer and Foster? Indeed I have, sir... and the only thing I could come up with was that they all have an, although superficial, London connection—"
"Not so superficial at all, Mason. Latimer has been spending some considerable time there in the last year, and his wife is from London; and as for the Fosters—by all means they've practically moved there." He speculatively looked at the policeman. "You may want to look into this Kensington charity... Now, what was it called? Oh, yes, the Kensington Women's Charitable Committee."
"Already on my list—"
"And while you're at it, you might try to find out how Mr Foster is spending his time in London. An acquaintance of mine mentioned 'finance'."
"I'll see about it, although it may be a tall order because as yet there's nothing to suggest that he's involved in any of this."
"Just remember that 'Foster' wasn't on Alban's list, not even with a question mark."
"And neither were the Latimers," Mason said amongst the screeching of brakes as they were coming to their first stop. "I'll try to look into both of them."
For two days after Mrs Frith had attempted—and failed—to turn the baby, Margaret had been resting in bed. When, after that time, there had been no sign that she would go into labour, she had been allowed to get up and resume her day-to-day life. Dr Donaldson's visits became few and far in between; in his stead Mrs Frith was a regular caller.
Late at night, after one such a consultation, husband and wife were still lying awake in bed. Margaret's back was resting against the curve of his long body, and his hand lightly caressed her hip. By that time she was past the point in her pregnancy when she had given birth to Charlotte, and she was huge.
"You know why husbands are not supposed to attend a birth?" she asked into the quiet of the room.
"Tell me."
"Because seeing their wives like this may put them off forever. They may never find them desirable again, or even just pretty."
He remained silent for a moment. "I don't think I ever considered you pretty," he murmured at last.
"You didn't?" She sounded stunned. She was trying to twist to look at him, but failed. "Well, I'm not surprised that you don't consider me pretty now that I'm like a whale... B-but never? Thank you all the same for telling me so," she said, indignant.
He sat up, so that he could see her face, and she his. "When I first met you, I thought that you looked as regal as a queen, and I found you rather intimidating. I couldn't make up my mind if I were to worship at your feet or resent you for making me feel inadequate." He lightly followed the lines of her cheek and jaw with his forefinger. "These days I simply think of you as beautiful; and attesting you mere prettiness would be an insult." He bent to brush his lips across hers, and he felt her starting to smile under his attentions. "I will always think you beautiful—and desirable." His meaning was unmistakable.
"You know what Mrs Frith has to say about this," she softly reminded him.
"I do," he sighed in mock despair, falling back into his pillow and kissing the nape of her neck. "For now I shall be grudgingly resigned just to hold you, my love."