Eppie (63 page)

‘She abhors the sight of you!’ Gabriel cried.

‘What would she want you for? You can hardly call yourself a
man. Overwhelmed by feelings of inferiority, you wish only for a wife to care
for you as though you are a child.’

‘It is true that I lack a high
opinion of myself. That hardly disqualifies me from being a loving husband. But
you, my narcissist cousin, are driven by evil, with no more love in you for
others than a speck of dust.’ Wild with despair, he made to strike Thurstan. ‘I
say you shall not marry Rowan!’

Mr Grimley hurriedly let himself into the office by the yard
door. ‘Something earlier.’

Eppie had remained in the office, waiting for Gabriel’s
news. She wondered at the mill manager’s grave expression.

‘Something Thurstan mentioned to his lordship. He has found
out that Wakelin Dunham is going to lead an attack on the mill.  Did you know
about this?’

‘Forgive me for not disclosing it to you. I had hoped that I
could reason with my father, so that the wreckers would not attack the mill. Now
I’ve failed, I was going to tell you. You must be careful, Mr Grimley.’

‘It is not my safety that I am concerned about. Thurstan
said he was sending one of his men to the knacker’s yard to arrest Wakelin. It
does not sound good.’

‘I must go to Wakelin and warn
him, although I may already be too late.’

Dextrously, Thurstan ducked and parried blows, laughing
coldly at Gabriel’s flaccidity.  ‘Batting out like this, you are weaker than a
brew of milky tea.’  A brutal look upon his face, he forced Gabriel towards the
thunderous strapping.

His skull slammed against the smooth sharpness of metal
beside the engine’s drive wheel, Gabriel cried out in pain, gripped by a horror
that his brain would be spilt. Fighting for his life, he lashed out wildly.

‘I am going to kill you,’ Thurstan rasped, ‘you and that vociferous
sister of yours.’

Realising the danger to his son’s life, du Quesne blundered
in, the engine room shaken by his fury. ‘Leave my boy!’

Gabriel’s hatred of Thurstan instantly paled into terror, comprehending
his cousin’s web of cunning.

Spinning round on his heels, Thurstan caught his uncle off
balance with the ferocity of his onslaught. Momentarily, arms beat above
Gabriel’s head.

As though the engine were some gargantuan troll, intent on
making du Quesne suffer for the evils he had inflicted upon the mill workers,
it swooped, striking with its stony club. Seized by the strap, du Quesne was
conveyed upwards with lightning speed, his wail of terror accompanying the
unearthly screeching whine of machinery.

Though his father’s cry broke off abruptly, the sound of his
agony reverberated in Gabriel’s ears.

The engine creaked to a halt. 

An ominous silence saturated the mill.

All the while, Wilbert had been watching the fight, pouring
more oil on the floor than into the engine.

Thurstan thrust Gabriel into Wilbert’s arms. ‘He did it!’

Women surged in behind Eppie and Mr Grimley, some shrieking
in revulsion at the sight of du Quesne’s twisted body, others rollicking at the
man’s misfortune. Children raced in, many grinning from ear to ear, clamouring
to peer at the mutilated mill owner.

‘I want these caterwauling fools out of here!’ Thurstan
ordered Crumpton.

Martha was reluctant to leave, but knew better than to argue
with the overseer.

Beneath du Quesne’s lacerated body a dark rivulet of blood
spilled.

Without fear, Eppie knelt beside him and gazed into his
stricken face. Something was different about the way he looked into her eyes;
the hardness replaced by softness, the boy in her father throwing off his years
of emotional pain, casting away his protective cloak of resistance to reach
something that had remained suppressed within him. Something profound: love.

Wincing with the searing pain, he spoke huskily. ‘Tell me.’ 

It was some moments before she found her voice.  ‘You must
remain still.’

‘I need to know.’

Sharp grief surged in her heart at the loss of her father. ‘It
is true. I am your daughter, Genevieve.’    

Sad repentance clouded his eyes. ‘I am glad. I should have
recognised in you my own stubborn, independent spirit.’  Blood trickled from
his mouth. ‘You must turn these qualities to better use than I ever did.’

‘You will not die, Father.  You must not!’

‘I have lived a withered life. Why will death be any
different? Where is my son? Where is Gabriel?’

Though he yearned to go to his father’s side, his strength
sapped after the ordeal, Gabriel was unable to free himself from Wilbert’s
clutches.

‘For mercy’s sake,’ Mr Grimley pleaded, ‘why do you not let
the man go to his dying father?’ It dawned upon him that Thurstan meant to
accuse Gabriel of the murder of his father. ‘Gabriel would never have
instigated this atrocity. Tell us, your lordship! You must tell us, quickly,
who did this to you?’

‘Thank the Good Lord,’ Thurstan cried in mock astonishment,
hastening to du Quesne’s side. ‘My uncle lives still, and might recover.’

Wild with desperation, knowing Thurstan’s sly ways, Eppie
rained blows upon her cousin, fighting to keep him away. Wrenching du Quesne’s
head, he snapped the tenuous thread that held him to life. His elegant clothing
sullied by his uncle’s blood a look of abhorrence swept Thurstan’s face. He
rubbed his palm down the front of the dead man’s coat. ‘Tell them, Hix.’ He
stepped back from the corpse. ‘Tell them that you saw Gabriel lunge at his father
and push him into the engine.’

‘Tis as true as I stand ‘ere,’ Wilbert replied loudly, a
little too hastily. ‘His lordship was bellowing at Master Gabriel, saying ‘e
wun’t allow him ta wed the Grimley girl. Master Gabriel were that riled he told
his pa he oughta watch out else he’d give him a rabbit punch.’

Thurstan
winced. ‘All right, Hix, save the evidence for the trial.’

Fast
and bitter the tears streamed down Gabriel’s face. ‘Every word of it is a lie,
Mr Grimley! Thurstan tried to kill me. Father fought him, to save my life. Thurstan
overpowered him.’

Thurstan
smiled thinly. ‘Hearken to the ranting of the miscreant.’ Finding Eppie’s hard
gaze upon him, probing for evidence of guilt in his face, he turned his eyes
from her.  

‘You do not need to convince me, Gabriel,’ Mr Grimley said. ‘Ever
since you were a boy I have known you to be a gentle, considerate person,
incapable of such wickedness.’

‘Tempora mutantur nos et mutamur in illis. Times change and
we change with them, Grim. For many years my cousin has lived away from these
parts. Experiences have hardened him. I know it to be a fact that my uncle
never offered him an allowance for his living expenses whilst in London.
Gabriel was sorely grieved and desired revenge.’

‘That’s a shaggy dog tale, no mistake!’ Eppie cried, leaping
to her feet. ‘Rowan told me he refused the allowance.’

Thurstan ignored her outburst. ‘Only last night did I hear Gabriel
bickering with his father over the matter. Indeed, whilst we were dining, my
little cousin went so far as to threaten to take my uncle’s life. What you see
before you is the result of his bitter hostility. I fear he must suffer for his
sins.’ 

All possible industry at a
standstill, the workers streamed through the gates, some in stunned silence,
others chattering at fever pitch.  

Eppie skidded down the passageway that led into the knacker’s
yard, past an official notice written in Wakelin’s best handwriting,
proclaimed: ‘
All Meet Handled comes frum Locul People alredy Dead or Killed
on the Premises
.’
 

A pock-faced man gutted a cow. Its stomach slumped onto his
boots with a sickening slop. ‘What you be wantin’?’

‘I need Wakelin.’

‘Dunham? The master’ll be after ‘im. He don’t hold with folk
forsaking ‘em’s work.’

‘He’s gone? Did he say where?’

‘This man come fer ‘im.’

‘What man?’

‘How’d I know?’

Seeing her traipse away, her head lowered in despondency, he
added, helpfully, ‘’e had a limping way o’ walkin’, n’ a scar down his cheek.’ 

Already feeling that her life had been thrown into serious
disarray, Eppie was staggered further by this sinister revelation. ‘Jaggery!
He’s Thurstan’s man.’

Malstowe jail rife with a fresh
outbreak of sickness, only through sheer persistence was Mr Grimley able to gain
permission to visit Gabriel.

The outer wall of the jail, with its row upon row of
iron-lattice windows, cast a shadow into a lane. It was here the mill manager
left his gig. On the opposite side were tumbledown houses, washing dangling on
poles projecting from uppermost windows.  

Warily, Eppie and Rowan followed Mr Grimley. Behind them the
turnkey rammed home the bolts of the nail-studded door, their echo mingling
with the wails of the dying and the shrieks of fighting rats.

A guard, clutching a flaming torch, led the way past a
cloister of chambers where wretched-looking men, women and children were thrown
together. Some had lost limbs, others their minds.

Thrusting her arm through bars, a woman pleaded for food. In
her other arm, she clutched her new-born. 

Eppie’s heart went out to her. ‘What is your name?’

‘Emily Standfield, miss,’ the woman replied,
frightened-eyed.

‘How do you come to find yourself in this terrible place?’

‘I were caught up in the farmers’ riot about the drainage
pipe tax. Soldiers rode down on us with horsewhips and pistols. Them they
didn’t kill, or what run away, got thrown into jail. I been found not guilty.’

‘Why do you languish here?’

‘I ain’t the let-loose money, miss.’

Eppie might not be able to aid all of the innocence
prisoners, but she could at least help one of them. ‘Have no fear; I will see
you out of here.’ 

‘God protect ‘ee, miss,’ Emily cried, tears glistening in
her eyes.

Eppie placed in the woman’s hands one of the cobs that she had
brought for Gabriel.  Children swept upon the bread like shabby, squabbling
starlings, tearing it into pieces and stuffing it into their mouths as though
they had not eaten for days. Perhaps they had not.

Ascending a flight of steps, Eppie followed Mr Grimley and Rowan,
who were making their way along a railed gallery. Having enquired of a gaoler
the price of the discharge fee for Emily, she handed over the four shillings. ‘You
will request that the governor ensures her immediate release?’

Squinting slyly, the man pocketed the coins. ‘Surely as I
breathe.’

Boyle approached, pushing a two-wheeled
plank-like barrow used to cart the dead from the cells. ‘Jeremiah, you oughtn’t
to be here, not with your young ladies.’
He looked haggard, thinner than Eppie recalled, his gums almost
toothless, and the inky smudged skin beneath his eyes bulging like saddlebags.

‘We’ve come hoping to speak with Gabriel du
Quesne,’ Mr Grimley replied.

‘Sorry business. I remember him as a lad.’

‘At Shivering Falls?’ Eppie asked.

Boyle looked hard at her, drawing upon his
memory. ‘You’re the lass. I remember Jaggery throwing your dog in the water.’

He led the way through the crypt-like cell,
cautioning, ‘Mind where you step, ladies.’

The governor
kept an alehouse for inmates
who could afford liquor. He was clearly raking in a profit; empty bottles lay
strewn about. In a ruinous state, the cell had no ventilation or drainage and
was mucked out like a stable though,
judging by the smell,
none too frequently. The floor seethed with cockroaches. Eppie’s skin crawled
at sickening cracks and squelches as she inadvertently trod upon the milling
insects.

Stripped to filthy blue and yellow striped
breeches, Gabriel sat with his back to a wall, sweating in the intense heat. His
hair hung loose about his shoulders. On his lips were specks of dried blood. Though
the sight of Talia was a breath of fresh air in this hell, never had Eppie seen
her sister look so mournful.

Long days in this ghastly place had taken
their toll on Gabriel. With no mats for bedding it was impossible to sleep
soundly.

Rowan touched him upon the knee.

Wearily he opened his eyes.

‘Why are you in this state?’ Mr Grimley
asked. ‘Didn’t you receive the food I sent for you?’

‘How could I eat when those around me have
little to sustain themselves?  I shared what I had.’

‘I knew you would,’ Mr Grimley said
resignedly.     

‘Cheeseman’s dead.’ The quack wiped his
hands down his befouled apron. At his feet lay a prisoner, his face black-blue.
‘It’s stifling in here; I’m off to the warden’s for a jug of ale.’

Unimpressed by the remedies of the cheap charlatan,
Boyle confided to Mr Grimley, ‘After the sickness has hooked them, most of the
prisoners are gone within two days. With one mouthful of Doc’s arsenic potion,
though, they’re outta this world quicker than you can swat one o’ these flies.’
He indicated to a bucket of stale urine, its rim black with buzzing flies
attracted by the stench like rancid raw beef.

‘Gabriel du Quesne, Benjamin Fuller,’ a
guard yelled. ‘You’re on trial next.’ 

Mr Grimley was taken aback. ‘Trial?  Now?  This
is outrageous.’

 
Rowan clung to Gabriel’s arm as he rose,
tired and despairing.  

‘Fuller knocked off a squire’s hat,’ Boyle
said.  ‘He’ll hang for sure, and all.’

Mr Grimley spoke hurriedly to the guard. ‘I
left strict orders with the governor that I was to be informed well in advance
of Gabriel’s trial. I must speak with Judge Baulke and get him to delay the
hearing.’