Eppie (61 page)

‘Are you going to do it?’ she asked.  ‘Lead the men?’

Halting in the middle of the cobbled yard, he turned and stared
back at her, his face gashed by the sickly ray cast by a hanging lantern. ‘Feeling
important weren’t summat pa ever made me feel. That’s what I’ve always wanted;
to know I’d done summat good, then me life would’ve been worth living.’

Seeing him standing there, so pitiful, rain streaming down
his face, her heart went out to him.

He pictured men and boys swarming behind as they stormed the
mill, venerating him as their hero. Drained by exhaustion and despair, there
was a terrible lassitude about him. A hero was one thing he knew he would never
be. ‘You know I ain’t got it in me to lead the wreckers.  I know it. I ain’t
got nuffin in me no more.’

Turning, he walked with a slouching gait into the mournful
gloom of the grim town.

Where is Dawkin? Fearful for his
safety, Eppie hurried in search of him.

The door to his lodgings ajar she stepped inside, warily.

Never could she have been prepared for the ghastly sight that
met her eyes.

As she backed, shouts came from the lane, accompanied by the
sound of running footsteps.

It was impossible to leave the way she had entered.
Discovered amongst the carnage would spell her fate; she would be accused of
having had a hand in this most grizzly of deeds. So she slipped out of a back
window, across a yard, and clambered over a wall to safety.

Most condemning of Dawkin was the highwayman’s eye-mask in
the bloodied hand of one of the climbing-boys, a pistol at his feet.

Had the boys alighted upon Dawkin’s secret? Had Dawkin killed
them to conceal his act?

If he had used the weapon to shoot Bulwar and bludgeon the
boys, why did he not have the common sense to rid himself of the incriminating
evidence? 

None of this made sense.

It was beyond belief that
Dawkin would have killed the boys he cared so much about.

Almost a week had passed since Dawkin’s disappearance. This
was the first time that Eppie had been able to visit Rowan since the calamity.

Letting her in at the garden gate, Rowan led her towards metal
chairs which she had placed in the shade of a spindle tree. Dandelion seeds
drifted around them like snow. ‘Eppie, I’m so happy! I’ve been dying to tell
you. On the night of the chimney fire, Mr Grimley told me that he is my grand-uncle.
Jared, his brother, was the husband of the Bulwar’s only daughter, Augusta. They
had a daughter called Arabella. She came to bed of twins out of wedlock: Dawkin
and I.’

Eppie almost collapsed in a swoon at the enlightenment.
‘Dawkin is your
brother
?’

‘Our mother died in childbirth. Squire Bulwar hated our father.
After we were born, he had him thrown into jail. My father was an honourable
man. He and some other prisoners were making a turnpike road when he rescued a
girl from stampeding cattle.’

‘Sam Scattergood!’

‘How could you possibly know his name?’

‘It was because of
me
that Sam died.  I was the
child.’

Seeing Eppie’s torment reflected in her eyes, Rowan reached
out for her hand and comforted her. ‘Do not distress yourself. My father lives
still.

‘When my grand-uncle attended what he thought was my father’s
funeral, he told Uncle Lewis that Sam had children who still lived. He said he had
become a guardian of the poorhouse so that, unbeknown to Squire Bulwar, he
could keep an eye on us - although, of course, both Dawkin and I were sent away
to work and our grand-uncle had to track us down. Lewis confided to my grand-uncle
that my father was hiding out on their remote farm. The coffin contained the
body of a diseased calf. 

‘After Mr Grimley learnt about Squire Bulwar’s death last
week, we paid a visit to my father. We later journeyed to Garn Hall to offer
our condolences to my great-grandmother. I found Mrs Bulwar rather intimidating,
although her heart is in the right place. She said that she never agreed with
her husband sending Dawkin and I to the poorhouse. The perfect thing is that now,
if Gabriel asks me to marry him, I can accept. He won’t be ashamed of me.’

‘Of course!’ Eppie said. ‘This is the most agreeable news!’

‘The only anxiety is about my brother. What do you think can
have become of him?’

‘When he was speaking at the tavern he said how much he hated
Squire Bulwar. I see now that he must have been thinking about the hardships
inflicted on you and him.’

‘Priscilla overheard Dawkin telling you where he was
lodging. That evening, my grand-uncle sent Loafer to request Dawkin to call on
us.’

‘Dawkin was here, on the night of the murder? There’s no way
he can be accused of the crime!’

‘After our grand-uncle told Dawkin we were Squire Bulwar’s
great-grandchildren he was distressed. He dashed away before we had finished
supper.’ 

Eppie was chilled to the bone. ‘Dawkin had time to kill his great-grandfather.
But if he had, why had he allowed himself to be so easily provoked to an
outburst of anger against Squire Bulwar at the tavern?’

‘Uncle wishes he had not told Dawkin and I about the
circumstances of our upbringing when he did, then we wouldn’t have this worry,
wondering if my brother had anything to do with the murders.’

Colonel Cudbert Catesby had investigated the deaths of the climbing-boys.
When Brodie, the remaining climbing-boy was brought before him, his condemning
words were: ‘Dawkin murdered my friends.’

Eppie desperately needed to speak to Brodie. Why had he not
been with the other boys at Dawkin’s lodgings? Had someone, the real murderer,
coerced him to fabricate the events of that fateful night?  Though she had sought
the boy out, he was nowhere to be found.

Thurstan strode into the mill
office. ‘Uncle, I have a pressing matter to set before you.’ 

Panic swept through Mr Grimley. He felt sure that this was
the moment of doom.

Thurstan smiled vindictively at the mill manager, delighted
with the terror he was imparting to the man.

Du Quesne was engrossed in paperwork. ‘Can it not wait? We
are swamped with orders.’

There was a deathly silence as the machines came to a
standstill.

‘What the deuce is wrong with that engine now? Someone go
into town and drag Redgy Dipper from his sickbed. He’ll know how to repair it. That’s
the second time it has broken down this month.’

‘I would imagine it has something to do with the protest that
Dung Heap’s sister is organising,’ Thurstan said.

‘Protest? What protest?’

‘Nihil agendo homines male agree discunt.’

‘Do not annoy me with your supercilious diction.’ 

‘I was reflecting that you do not drive your workers hard
enough. The devil finds mischief for idle hands.’ 

‘I can do without you interfering, telling me what I do or
do not do.’

‘Temper, temper.’

The engine-maker, a short, grey-faced man, bowed
deferentially in the doorway. ‘Sir, I have turned off your power.’

‘That did not fail to come to my attention,’ du Quesne said.
‘Might I be enlightened as to the reason?’

‘I find myself confronted with a serious financial problem.’

‘You may well be, Mr Blower. However, that is no excuse to
meddle with my business.’ Of his nephew, du Quesne demanded, ‘When did you
learn of this protest?’

Thurstan took a sadistic pleasure in rousing his uncle to
fever pitch. He cast him a wry smile. ‘Days, if not years ago.’

‘You might have thought to have informed me earlier.’

‘It slipped my mind.’

Du Quesne glared at Wilbert, who had trailed Mr Blower. ‘Why
are you dithering, man?  Get that engine running.’

‘Before you …’ Thurstan began.

‘What now?’ du Quesne barked.

‘I thought you might like to know that Wakelin Dunham is the
instigator of a plot to wreck your mill.’

‘He’s what!’

‘And there was something else. What was it? Some matter of
slight significance. Ah, yes, he plans to murder you.’

‘Murder me!’

‘I presume you would like me to send one of my men to the knacker’s
yard to deal with him?’

Teeth gritted, du Quesne thumped the desk. ‘Hell and
damnation!’

‘I take that as a yes.’ Thurstan strolled off. ‘Grim, that
matter about the fines. I will speak to my uncle upon my return.’

‘What matter?’ du Quesne asked irascibly.

‘About this money,’ Mr Blower said. ‘What you gave me wasn’t
right, sir. Mr Howard, the banker, has asked that I deal directly with you
about the problem. I’m sure there’s been some mistake, so I suggest we go
somewhere private to talk about it.’

‘You may have time to waste, Mr Blower. I have an uprising
to crush. Good day to you.’ Du Quesne left the office and strode towards the line
of workers.

Tramping steadily past the silent machines, the mill
children carried a banner emblazoned with a red cross, proclaiming Christ as
their leader. Behind them trod sacked men and their working wives.

Seeing the furious expression on du Quesne’s face, Eppie, at
the fore of the crusade, experienced a moment of doubt.

Crumpton raised his cudgel.  ‘I’ll put a stop to this.’

‘Let her speak,’ du Quesne said, knowing he would win any
argument. ‘The animosity between Eppie Dunham and my good self goes back many
years. I find myself intrigued to hear what she has to say on this occasion.’

‘For my part, sir, I feel no enmity toward you,’ Eppie said.
‘What I do feel strongly is the lack of justice you show towards those weaker
than yourself.’

‘Is that so?  Might I enquire what you hope to gain by your
audacious behaviour?’

‘My foremost anxiety is for the children, sir. I request that
safety improvements are made throughout the mill. The machines must be fitted
with guards.’

‘Request denied. The machines constantly break down and need
to be readily accessible to be quickly repaired.’

‘Children should no longer be forced to clean under the
machines whilst they are in motion.’

‘Out of the question. Anything else?’

Realising that she was in for a tough battle with her father,
she turned her attention to the overseer. ‘Mr Crumpton must no longer beat the
children.’ This request was greeted with whoops of jubilation from the girls
and boys. ‘Beating with the strap, trying to drive sleepiness off with blows,
these are no means by which to encourage the young to work.’

She was aware of Mr Grimley, who stood slightly to the rear
of du Quesne, nodding his agreement. 

Du Quesne was unmoved. ‘Dread of punishment is the only way
to force children to work the hours I demand.’

‘Can you not see that the children need to work fewer
hours?  They scarce have time to sleep and eat, none for physical exercise in
the open air or for the pure enjoyment of nature.’    

‘I cannot afford to run my mill only when children feel like
working. There is, moreover, value in hard work.  Hard work is good for young
people.’ 

Thurstan returned.

‘Here is something to amuse you,’ du Quesne said. ‘Though I
can scarcely claim to be enraptured by her discourse, never have I had the
privilege of dealing with such an amusing firebrand. The misguided fool
maintains that life at this mill should be a paradise on earth.’ 

Rowan crept to Mr Grimley’s side.

‘Ah, Miss Grimley,’ Thurstan said, ‘you have arrived at a
timely moment. You will have the opportunity to marvel at Dunham’s
histrionics.’

‘Let me assure you, sir,’ Eppie answered, ‘the motive behind
my action is entirely sincere.’

‘Have you any further faults you wish to air?’ du Quesne
asked. ‘I have much to do today.’

‘Yes, sir, I have. Work at the mill is unmeaning for the
children. It is no field for mental activity. Only through Sunday school can I
encourage the children’s learning, though I am in desperate need of resources.
I have few books and the sand-table is an unsatisfactory means of teaching them
their letters.’

‘As I recall, Parson Lowford exercised your brain at the
vestry school and such activity has only served to enhance your natural ability
as a nauseating troublemaker. Request rejected.’

Though it appeared impossible for her to achieve her
objectives, she fought on. Now was the moment to voice the toughest demand. ‘You
must re-employ the men, and the women must be paid wages upon which they can
live.’

At this, there were shouts of concord from Hedley and the
other sacked workers.

‘That I will never do.  You women and children, back to
work.’

‘Sir, have you considered the implications of casting out the
men?’ Eppie went on rapidly. ‘By your action you drive many of them to
stealing. If they are moral men they and their families may starve. If not,
they may commit suicide. None of these acts are chosen by the poor. They are
pressed upon them by you.’

‘I will have an end to this foolish outcry. I treat my
workers fairly, that is all they must expect. For your insolence and temerity,
young woman, consider your employment in my establishment terminated. Join your
friends on the street. Steal, starve, commit suicide, I care not which.’ 

Now she had nothing to lose. ‘It is utter hogwash to say that
you treat the workers fairly. When have you ever shown fairness and kindness to
us? You think of mill workers simply as wooden limbs to the machines, not as
people, flesh and blood like yourself. You know the fly is injurious to the
workers’ health, yet where are the vents to extract the bad air? By obstinately
refusing to improve working conditions you hasten the poor to early graves.’

‘Hasten?  What are you suggesting?’

‘I suggest nothing. I state the facts. The workers cannot
defend themselves. Eibhlin and Coline O’Ruarc did not suffer natural deaths.
Their lives were cut short by you, for it was as though your sword cut through
their hearts.’