Alley Urchin (17 page)

Then, usually between the hours of five and six in the evening, he would return to Breckleton House and sit throughout dinner with a surly face and make no conversation. The moment he had swallowed his last gulp of wine he would fold his napkin in a most meticulous fashion (which had become infuriating to the watching Agnes), and with a curt nod of his balding head and a moment to run his fingers through the profusion of hair on his face, he would stand up and take a last lingering look at his empty plate, before going quickly from the room, leaving his long-suffering wife feeling desperately frustrated at the lack of civilised exchange of a few words. In the time it took to spruce himself up and don his outdoor garments, he was gone from the house, and it was always the early hours before he returned.

As the carriage was taken round the back and she heard her husband’s footsteps coming up the path, Agnes Crowther stepped back from the window, fearful that he might see her. Always when she enacted this particular scene, it gave her a strange sensation of excitement. This was a cat-and-mouse game, when she had both the patience and the cunning to wait for the right moment to pounce. ‘I’ll have you in my clutches yet, Caleb Crowther,’ she muttered, climbing into her bed. It was a long, lonely time before she could get to sleep, because the thoughts racing through her mind would not let her rest. Agnes Crowther had only recently suspected her husband of bedding other women and the suspicion had festered inside her, until she could think of nothing else. Four weeks ago he had moved his things out of her bedroom on the pretext that, ‘I don’t want to disturb you on the occasions when I must be late home.’ Agnes Crowther was acutely aware of the unkind speculation that was rife amongst the servants, and it was a hateful experience. She had become a more spiteful and bitter person because of it. Yet she found every excuse not to believe what she suspected because, in spite of his hostile nature of late and his lack of affection towards her, she still loved him. It was that sorry fact, and her stiff pride, which prevented her from taking the steps which her instincts urged. The very idea of a private investigator was most distasteful.

If Agnes Crowther had spent a restless night, it did not show when she breezed into the dining-room the following morning.

‘Good morning, Caleb,’ she said in as amiable a voice as she could muster, smiling sweetly as she poured out her tea and met her husband’s eyes across the table.

‘Good morning, my dear,’ he replied, at once looking away to fix his eyes on the folded newspaper before him. He obviously had no intention of addressing her further. But then he raised his eyes and looked at his wife with a quizzical expression, which both surprised her and caused her to ask, ‘Yes? What is it?’

Without laying down his knife and fork which he held like a threat over the liver and bacon on his plate, and without even straightening his neck which was bent forward ready to devour the contents of his plate, he said in a quiet and thoughtful voice, ‘We know Emma Grady was pregnant, and that the child was born . . . presumably dead, or so we were informed?’

Agnes Crowther was astonished. It was her husband himself who had forbidden the mention of Emma Grady’s name in this house. There had been times when her own conscience had made her think deeply about the girl. Times when she thought her brother Thadius might haunt them for their callous treatment of Emma. Yet now she was intrigued. ‘Yes,’ she agreed, ‘Emma
was
pregnant . . . and the child stillborn, as you say.’ At this she quickly looked away with guilt written in her downcast eyes. ‘It was a great pity that the child did not receive a Christian burial . . . being abandoned in such a way.’ She would have gone on at great length about how the officer responsible should have been severely reprimanded, but she knew from past experience that her words would fall on deaf ears.

‘The child.’ Caleb Crowther was speaking again, but still he had not moved another muscle. ‘Is it likely, do you think, that her husband, Gregory Denton, was not the father?’

Agnes Crowther was shocked.
‘Not
the father?’ She picked up her napkin from the table, dabbed it furtively at her mouth, then put it down again. She could not face another mouthful. ‘Heaven forbid that a niece of mine should go outside her marriage in that way.’ She was quite overcome. ‘And if her husband were not the father, then who was?’ Of a sudden, she could almost read his mind as he kept his eyes fixed on her.
‘Marlow Tanner!’
The name sprang to her lips, and as though it had burned her, she put her hand across her mouth, and stared at her husband with unbelieving eyes. ‘You think he was the father of Emma’s child?’ she asked through her fingers.

For a moment, Caleb Crowther gave no answer, and seemed to grow more cautious in what he might be suggesting. Lowering his knife and fork, he sliced into the liver, pierced it with his fork and poked it deep into the mass of iron-grey hair around his mouth. When he spoke again, minute segments of the chewed liver shot out in a fine spray across the table. ‘It was just a thought,’ he grunted, ‘We never did find out what caused the terrible row that led to her husband’s death, and if you remember, Marlow Tanner had left the area shortly before. It was just a thought, that’s all.’ He was anxious to assure her, ‘Just a thought. Don’t worry your head about it.’

But Agnes Crowther did worry her head. Of course it was possible that Marlow Tanner pursued Emma even after her marriage, because it was no secret that he loved her. And Emma would never have married Gregory Denton if it hadn’t been for Caleb threatening to have Marlow Tanner transported. Emma loved him so much that she sacrificed herself to save him from her guardian’s animosity. That was what it all amounted to. Now, as she was reminded of such distasteful events, Agnes Crowther faced her husband with steely eyes, saying, ‘As Emma is a world away and her child no more, I can’t see that any of it matters now. Even if Emma were to come back to England, you have been clever enough to secure the mill in your own name . . . so she represents no threat.’ She watched him nod his bowed head. But he did not raise it, being so intent on wolfing down his breakfast. Again she spoke, in a quieter, more intimate voice. This time, he raised his head and met her gaze with stiff, angry eyes when she told him, ‘I saw you arriving home in the early hours. What manner of . . . business . . . kept you out so late?’

‘Whatever manner of “business” . . . it is certainly none of yours.’ His knife and fork clattered to the plate while he stretched his neck towards her and spat out the words in a furious voice, ‘If you’re wise, my dear . . . you’ll refrain from questioning my activities. I shall depart this house . . .
my
house . . . whenever I please. And I intend to return at whatever hour I choose. What I do not intend to do is be accountable to you, or to anybody else. Is that perfectly understood?’

‘Perfectly.’ Agnes Crowther forced herself to smile sweetly, being more convinced than ever that it was not only the likes of Emma Grady who had gone outside of marriage. It was her own husband also. The guilt was plainly stamped on his face, and she loathed him for it.

Caleb Crowther thrust his chair back from the table and rounded on the little maid Amy, who, at that moment, had entered the room and was checking the big silver tureens on the sideboard. ‘You!’ As she turned round, he shook a fist at her. ‘Inform the cook that if she serves such pig-swill up again, she’ll find herself finished in this house . . . without references!’ When she hurriedly made a slight, nervous curtsy and scurried from the room, Caleb Crowther looked down scathingly on his wife, who deliberately kept her eyes averted. ‘Be careful not to question me or my movements again,’ he warned, ‘or it won’t just be the cook who finds herself out of the door.’ Then he left the room, slamming the door shut behind him.

‘Hmh,’ snorted Agnes Crowther, ‘you think so, do you?’ She laughed softly. ‘Well . . . be careful yourself, because I may not be quite the fool you take me for.’

‘He said
what
?’ Cook’s big round face went a painful crimson colour, and Amy feared it might explode. Why should she always be the one made to deliver such messages, she thought with alarm. She would have explained to Cook how the master was already in a terrible bad mood and perhaps didn’t really mean it, but Cook didn’t give her a chance. ‘Pigs
will!
. . . I’ve never heard the like in all my born days.’ The shock was so much that Amy had to fetch her a drop of port wine from the pantry.

‘I’m sure it wasn’t your breakfast that upset him,’ Amy assured Cook. ‘I’m sure it was the mistress. They’d been having an awful row . . . some’at about the mistress shouldn’t ever question him again.’ Oh dear, Amy never did like upsets. There were enough of them when poor Miss Emma was here, and there were always upsets when Miss Martha came to stay. That Justice Crowther seemed to be at the root of any upset. He was a misery. A real misery.

Before Cook had sipped the last of her port, she received another shock, which caught her unawares yet left her in a better mood. It was the sight of Agnes Crowther sweeping down into the kitchen, coming to tell the tearful woman, ‘Mr Crowther spoke too hastily, and you are not to take it to heart. As usual, your cooking was exemplary.’ After the mistress had gone, Amy declared how good it was of her ‘to come downstairs like that’. She also made mention of how the mistress had changed over the years ‘since poor Miss Emma were sent to Australia, for murderin’ her husband’.

Cook wasn’t having that. ‘Emma Grady did no such thing!’ she retorted, her own dilemma paling by comparison. ‘That lass didn’t have it in her, to “murder” anybody.’

‘No . . .
she
didn’t actually murder him, did she? It were that Mrs Manfred.’ Amy’s brown eyes swelled as she suddenly remembered. ‘Ooh! Just think, Cook . . . she were livin’ right under this roof as housekeeper. Ooh! . . . We might‘a been murdered in our beds.’ The thought was so frightful that she clapped both her outstretched hands up to either side of her face, her wide-open mouth and eyes giving her the look of a fish out of water.

‘They were neither of them murderers!’ exclaimed Cook, losing her patience. ‘Get away and clear the dining-room, you little fool,’ she told her. Amy knew Cook’s unpredictable moods well enough to make a hurried exit.

That night, in the safety and privacy of her own quarters, Cook took an envelope from its hiding place, this being the silk lining in the lid of her portmanteau. ‘Murderers indeed!’ she muttered, carefully opening the envelope and unfolding the letter from inside. She had read its contents many times before and she knew them word for word. Yet even now it struck her heart cold to read the letter again. It had been delivered by hand only minutes after Mrs Manfred was hanged. It was in her handwriting, though unusually sprawling and hurried. Cook had tried to appreciate how terrified the poor woman must have been with the gallows waiting. But it was beyond her comprehension, and she prayed it always would be. The letter read:

Dear Friend,

There isn’t much time left before I meet my maker. I don’t know if I am guilty of pushing Emma’s husband down the stairs, but I do know I am guilty of having the intention in my heart. My poor darling Emma is innocent of all, except for loving a man other than her husband, and being foolish enough to bear his child.

If there is a victim in all of this nightmare, it is Emma alone, and my heart goes out to her.

You may wonder why I am writing to you, instead of to my only relative. The reasons are these. Firstly, my sister has chosen to believe that I am guilty and has disowned me. Secondly, and for Emma’s sake, I feel I must confide in you on very delicate matters regarding Caleb Crowther. Please understand that nothing of what I am about to tell you can be substantiated, or would hold up in a court of law. But I must rid myself of the awful burden which I carry, and I trust that sometime in the future when, God willing, Emma is a free woman, what I am about to reveal might put into her hands an opportunity to question Caleb Crowther, and somehow, to expose the truth which would incriminate him.

I have reason to believe that Caleb Crowther is a murderer!

As I say, I cannot prove anything, and for that reason I have kept silent. Also, God forgive me, I have been cowardly enough to consider my own fate, were I to openly accuse him. I would do it
now
. But I believe my accusations would not only be received with ridicule by those in authority, but would warn Caleb Crowther enough to cover up his tracks.

When I first came to look after Emma, which was very soon after her mama’s killing, I was greatly alarmed by snippets of gossip in the area which suggested that Emma’s mama had been indiscreet with her affections, and had been unfaithful to Thadius Grady on more than one occasion. Mr Grady himself confided this to me, in a moment of deep despair. Also, I came across the burned remains of clothing in a secluded corner of the garden. It was only later that it occurred to me that the dark iron-like stains on the garments, which I disposed of, might have been
blood
stains. Of course, I instantly dismissed what, I convinced myself, were foolish and dangerous notions. But the discovery of such a fire, and in such a secluded part of the garden so soon after the brutal murder of Mary Grady, left me with many disturbing suspicions. These same suspicions were stirred up by the furtive comings and goings of Caleb Crowther to the house. Also, these visits, when he and Mr Grady would retire to the drawing-room in deep and whispered conversation, always left Emma’s papa in a most distressed state of mind.

I have no doubt that, if the two of them were involved in some dreadful secret, then it was brought about more by Caleb Crowther’s hand, than by the gentle Mr Grady’s. My only concern at the time was for little Emma.

There is something else also. On the day when Thadius Grady died, I was in the linen cupboard. I heard the bedroom door being locked and, on looking out, I saw the ashen, still face of Emma’s papa with all life gone from it. And I saw Caleb Crowther, with as guilty a countenance as I have ever witnessed, hurriedly replacing the pillow beneath poor Mr Grady’s head. I was surprised and filled with doubt when the doctor saw nothing untoward.