The Other Cathy (16 page)

When Uncle Randolph came home, in a great hurry because
of a serious breakdown at the mill, he put the key Emma
wanted on the dinner tray which Nelly took up to the girls. After the morning’s excitement it wasn’t surprising that Cathy
fell asleep almost as soon as she finished eating. Emma seized
her chance to slip along the corridor to the narrow attic stairs,
key in hand. Four rooms opened off the small upper landing,
three of which were servants’ bedrooms, and the fourth, once
occupied by Ursly, was used for storage, with hat boxes and
portmanteaux and all manner of discarded household articles
heaped in it, higgledy-piggledy. Emma had dragged out the metal deed box from under the iron bedstead when she came up here yesterday. Now she went straight to it and thrust the
key into the lock.

But the key refused to turn. She jiggled it about but could find no purchase and drew it out again, puzzled. Could Uncle
Randolph have given her the wrong one? Trying once more
she realised that the lid was not properly closed; it swung
wide open on its hinges when she lifted the handle. She
noticed then that the metal round the rim was scratched and dented. Someone had forced the lock. Shocked, Emma won
dered who could have done such a thing. For what reason?
Her thoughts spun in wild confusion, but offered no plausible
explanation.

Among the contents of the deed box was a small packet of
letters tied with blue ribbon, written by her father to her
mother when they were betrothed. There were several pack
ages containing receipted bills, and her mother’s meticulously-kept household account books. But what she was looking for,
and had pinned her hopes on finding, the leather pouch to
which her mother had attached a label,
Various personal
papers of Hugh’s,
was missing. Emma knew it had been
there, remembering distinctly the feeling of compassion that
had overwhelmed her when she opened the deed box the first
time, after her mother’s death. It was in this pouch, she had
hoped, that she might find some clue about her father’s death
which would indicate the truth or falsity of Matthew’s story.

Emma sat back on her heels, trying to consider the matter calmly. It was silent in the attic, cut off as it was from the
rest of the house. A narrow sunbeam striking through the
window was thick with dancing specks of dust which her
movements had disturbed.

She was arrested by a sound on the upper stairs, the creak of a tread. She froze into stillness, unaccountably afraid. But
it proved to be Nelly,

‘Miss Emma! Is tha up there?’

‘Yes, in the boxroom, Nelly.’

A moment later the maid servant was standing in the open doorway, wrinkling her nose in distaste.

‘Ugh! Tha’ll get thyseln all mucked up, miss! I couldn’ think where tha’d got to. I’ve been searching for thee all over
t’house to tell’ee Mr Sutcliffe has just called.’

‘Mr Sutcliffe!’ Emma scrambled hastily to her feet. ‘What
does he want?’

‘He’s come to enquire after Miss Cathy. I thought I’d best
fetch thee, miss.’

‘Yes, thank you, Nelly. I – I’ll be right down.’

She would have preferred to clean up first but didn’t like
to keep him waiting any longer, so she went downstairs just
as she was, somewhat dusty and distrait. Matthew had been
shown into the drawing room, and he turned in surprise at
her hurried entrance.

‘Miss Hardaker – Emma, I trust I have not disturbed you?’

‘Not at all.’

He studied her face judicially. ‘You look upset.’

‘Yes, I am upset,’ she confessed.

‘Would you care to tell me about it? Is there anything I can
do?’

It spilled out of her without hesitation, without thinking
whether it was wise to confide in him. ‘I have just discovered
that my mother’s deed box has been broken open. It must have happened very recently, since yesterday afternoon, because I went to it then and it was locked.’

‘Did it contain valuables?’ asked Matthew, frowning. ‘Do you
suspect one of the servants?’

‘No, there was nothing of any value, just old letters and things. But one of the packets is missing, a lot of personal
papers of my father’s. Of what use could they be to anyone?’

Matthew gave her a searching look, certain there was more
she wanted to tell him, something she was afraid to put into
words.

‘What is it, Emma?’

Her voice was low, indistinct. ‘Yesterday, when I told Uncle
Randolph I wanted to go through the papers in the deed box,
he was against the idea. He said the key to it was in his safe
at the mill, and I couldn’t have it until today.’

‘And you think he —?’

‘No, no, it can’t be so!’ Then pouncing on a new thought
that came to her, she added, ‘Uncle Randolph had the key, so
if for some unknown reason he wanted to look in the box he
wouldn’t need to break it open.’

‘Unless that was the very conclusion he hoped you’d reach.’

Emma shook her head in feeble protest, but she felt cornered.
Who else but Uncle Randolph could it have been?

‘Clearly,’ Matthew argued, ‘there must have been something in that particular package it was important to prevent
you seeing.’

But exactly what, he wondered. Did Randolph,
like himself, suspect that William had been the killer of
their brother Hugh? Had he feared that the stolen package
might contain some clue that could direct Emma’s enquiring
mind to this conclusion? Or was it something unconnected
with Hugh’s death, but discreditable to the Hardakers
either to the family in general, or specifically to Hugh. Yes,
that was possible! Matthew’s voice was steel-hard as he
continued, ‘There could have been some evidence to show that your father falsely took credit for
my
father’s invention.’

‘I still only have your word that that’s what happened,’ she insisted unhappily. ‘There has never been any definite proof.’

‘Not until now, perhaps! Emma, was it in hope of finding
such proof that you suddenly decided to search through your
father’s papers?’

She nodded, colouring, and in a gentler tone Matthew
went on, ‘You explained your reasons to your uncle, I pre
sume?’

‘Well, more or less.’

‘And he found an excuse to delay giving you the key until
today?’ He paused as the thought struck him, ‘When did this conversation take place?’

‘Yesterday, about seven o’clock. I caught Uncle Randolph
in the hall just as he was about to go out for the evening.’

‘What time did he return home?’

‘I don’t know exactly. It must have been late, after we had
all retired.’ Emma bit her lip. ‘He is often out until late.’

Yes, out whoring! It was common gossip in Bythorpe.
‘What did your uncle say when he gave you the key? How did
he behave?’

‘He didn’t actually give it to me in person,’ she explained. ‘He sent it up by the maid. You see, Uncle Randolph was hardly in the house long enough to eat his dinner, because
there was a breakdown at the mill, a seizure in the overhead
driving shaft, I gather. At breakfast time he didn’t get home at all.’

Matthew considered all this. There was something about it
that didn’t quite fit.

‘Emma, I think it would be a mistake to leap to the conclusion that it was your uncle who broke open the deed box. We cannot be certain it was he,’

‘If only I could think who else it might have been.’

‘Yes, who else?’ he echoed. ‘That poses quite a question.’

Emma glanced anxiously over her shoulder at the sound of
footsteps descending the stairs. ‘Here comes Aunt Chloe.
She’s been taking her afternoon nap. What shall I say to her?’

‘Say nothing! Try to act as if this incident had not occurred – with her, and with everyone else. That way we may be able
to learn more.’

‘Then to account for your presence here,’ she suggested, ‘you
had better say that you called to enquire after Cathy,’

‘That is why I called,’ he reminded her dryly.

‘Oh yes, of course! I had forgotten.’

The Railway Hotel was a pretentious title for what was no
more than Bythorpe’s largest beer shop, so named because it
stood just to one side of the station forecourt. In the early
evening, with the woollen mill and local workshops not yet
finished for the day, the dingy taproom was deserted when
Matthew entered, bending his head as he passed through the low doorway. He rapped on the bar and the potman, a short
tubby Irishman with a patch over one eye, shuffled in from the
back.

‘Evenin’, sur. So what is it you’ll be wanting, now?’

Matthew ordered a tankard of ale and asked the man to
join him. They fell to discussing the weather, the poor har
vest prospects, and the flourishing state of the woollen trade.
Though the potman had not been in Bythorpe at the time of
Hugh Hardaker’s death, having only come to England in 1847
after the potato famine, he knew all about Matthew Sutcliffe.
And like most local people his attitude was equivocal ... a
feeling of comradeship towards a man who had bested one of
the master class (even if he
had
done a lagging for it) balanced
by awed respect for his newly acquired wealth. After chatting
for some minutes, Matthew remarked casually, ‘When I was in here earlier on today some of them were talking about Mr
Randolph Hardaker. He’s quite a one for the women, it
seems!’

‘Faith, sur, that he is!’

Matthew chuckled. ‘He had a real night out last night, so
they were saying.’

‘Sure, ’tis a mortal fine time he must have been having, by
God! Off on the eight o’clock train to Wyke yester’eve, and
himself back on the ten-afore-six this morning, in the nick
o’ time to walk up to the mill along o’ the lads.’

‘Where would he go in Wyke?’

The potman’s single eye regarded Matthew knowingly.
‘Well now, sur, there’s two-three nighthouses there for a gent
who’s after picking up something fancy. There’s the Cafe Regal, and Marie’s down by the old Cloth Hall. Sure now, and Frency’s Supper Bar too.’

The door opened and a group of men trudged in, released
from their long day’s toil. Matthew stayed to finish his drink without seeming in a hurry, then left.

* * *

He went first to Marie’s, a subdued establishment with a veneer of respectability. It was early yet, with few customers,
and the ladies of the town sat together chatting desultorily
while they waited. Having no success with his enquiries there,
Matthew decided to kill time until a more appropriate hour.

The town had changed little in the fifteen years since he had seen it last. The same narrow unlit side streets smelling
of overcrowded humanity; the same pale, careworn faces. He paused a moment near a small booth where, in the light of a
tallow flare, steaming hot peas were being ladled into cust
omers’ own basins at a halfpenny a time. As a child, Matthew
remembered with a tug of nostalgia, hot peas had been almost
daily fare for him. He felt a twitch at his sleeve and looked
down to see an urchin, thin and ragged and barefoot, holding
out a cadging hand. Angry with himself, because it was easy
to give, but no real answer, Matthew held out a sixpence; then
hurried on before the children of the entire neighbourhood
could be after him.

Presently he was in a different area, wide streets ablaze with
gaslight, elegant shops offering every imaginable luxury .in
abundance. Money, he reflected, would buy anything. The
thought reminded Matthew of his reason for coming to
Wyke, and after enquiring for directions he soon found him
self at the Cafe Regal. A dozen gasoliers illumined a scene
of expensive garishness; red plush seats and mirrored walls;
gilt chairs and thick pile carpeting. As he went up to the
long mahogany bar Matthew was immediately accosted by a woman. Signing to the barmaid to serve whatever she wanted,
he turned to her and said, ‘I’m looking for someone.’

‘Won’t I do, darling?’ She was thin and shrivelled, and
desperately trying to hide it; her bodice padded, a froth of
lace gathered at her scrawny neck.

‘I don’t know yet,’ he said. ‘The lady I want was with a
friend of mine last night. Mr Randolph Hardaker, from By
thorpe. D’you know him?’

‘Can’t say as I do, love.’

‘A tall, distinguished-looking man. Middle aged. He has
greying hair and thick bushy eyebrows.’

‘Oh, him!’

‘Was he in here last night? Do you know the girl he was with?’

‘Maybe he was, maybe he wasn’t,’ she said, staring at Mat
thew boldly with a hand on her hip. ‘Maybe I do, love, and then again maybe I don’t.’

He dipped into his waistcoat pocket and brought out a
sovereign.