The Silk Factory (20 page)

Fowler stood in the factory with the parish constable, Mr Boddington, a big-boned man in his middle age, whose dark eyebrows were drawn together in a constant frown of concentration. They held their lanterns above the piles of broken timber. From outside, the sound of marching feet and barked orders reached them, as a group of men were detailed to scour the fields and others to go post-haste to the houses of those weavers whose addresses were known and bring them out for questioning.

‘You say these are all new machines; the older items were left untouched?’ Boddington asked, as if committing to memory all the salient facts.

Fowler didn’t answer, but put his boot beneath a piece of shattered wood and toed it away as if to see if anything under it was salvageable. Still unable to take in the absolute destruction before his eyes, he picked up the end of one of the chains of cards, barely hanging together for the gashes across its width: the thread of its strange language cut, its neat rows of punched messages torn in jagged pieces. He let it drop.

Boddington tried again. ‘This scourge of frame breaking is becoming so widespread I’ll warrant there’s organisation behind it. ’Tis prudent to involve the military; for all we know it could be the start of a wider uprising. Come daylight, we should comb over the remains in search of clues to their identities.’

‘No need for that. I know who’s behind this,’ Fowler said through clenched teeth. ‘’Tis Jervis.’

‘That’s as may be, and he will be questioned, as will they all, but we shall still need proof.’ Boddington moved along the wreckage, poking it with his nightstick and pushing pieces aside.

Fowler said, ‘Give me Jervis to myself for an hour and I shall get it out of him.’

Boddington looked up sharply. ‘All shall be done through due process of law, Mr Fowler,’ he said with iron in his voice.

Fowler strode to the window and put his fists against the frame and his head against the glass. Hundreds of pounds! Hundreds of pounds’ worth of machinery reduced to nothing more than kindling. By God, he would make them pay! He watched foot soldiers move off in twos and threes, funnelling away down the side streets and alleyways of the village, whilst pairs of cavalrymen set off along each of the four main streets leading from the crossroads beside the High House. One set clattered over the cobbles beneath him along New Street and out to the Farthingstone Road.

Behind him, he heard Boddington draw in his breath and turned to see him bending to pick up something white from the floor. Before Boddington could inspect it further, Fowler had taken it from him and was unfolding the paper. A small vein pulsed beside his eye and his scowl deepened as he read:

Wee Hear in Form you that wee will not stand for the new Mee Sheens as they will put the gratest part of us Out of Work and into Starvashun. Bee Fore Almyty God wee sware wee will pull down any new Mee Sheens, you Dammd Villannus Roag.

Fowler crumpled the note in his fist and then dashed it to the floor, muttering profanities under his breath. Boddington picked it up, smoothed it out and read it for himself. ‘Do you recognise this hand?’ he asked.

Fowler shook his head. ‘Most cannot write.’

‘Then that is good and we shall find out those that can,’ Boddington said with satisfaction.

Tobias couldn’t risk making his way directly through the village to the west side where the track to Newnham lay. As he had slipped along the alley at the back of the orchard that led down behind Mrs Oliphant’s, he’d heard the sound of horses and the shouts of men massing in the street outside the factory. The village would be crawling with soldiers and more would fan out around it to search the fields, like red ants on a green cloth. He would have to outrun them by giving the village a wide berth, skirting it in a loop. He thought quickly. If he could cut across the fields to the south, he could reach Castle Dykes and the woods of Everdon Stubbs and travel west under their cover to reach the road to Newnham and home. A favourite poaching spot, he knew every badger path and bolthole in the undergrowth and could move silent as a shadow between the trees. They would not find him there.

He stole into the field that bordered the Farthingstone road leading south out of the village. In the dawning light, cows grazed peacefully around a grassy tumulus built by ancient hands for worship or burial, its purpose long forgotten. The beasts’ breath steamed as they pulled at the dew-laden grass. Crouching low and holding his arm folded across his chest to staunch the bleeding of his wound, Tobias left the safer shadows of the hedgerow and crept across the open ground towards the far side of the mound, where he would be out of view of the road and could make better progress. He cursed under his breath as the cows raised their heads to stare at him curiously and he hurried on, though the faster he went, the weaker he felt, his legs refusing to go where he intended so that he staggered a little like a drunken man. Just as he regained the hedge at the far side of the pasture, he heard the creak of the field gate.

He pushed quickly through the hedgerow and out of sight. Beyond the upward slope of the field in front of him, the road swept round in a great westerly curve along a ridge; he must get across it in front of the soldiers and cut through the valley on the far side to reach the cover of the Stubbs. He squatted and peered back through a gap in the twisted branches. A soldier was riding slowly along the margin of the field looking into the hedge and ditch bottom, stopping every now and then to scan the field. He held the reins in one hand; the other rested on his pistol. Shivering, Tobias stayed motionless until the soldier moved on. Then he worked his way up the incline, bent double behind the hedge. His breath came heavily, the extra effort of the climb slowing him down further. He half ran, half stumbled until he reached the road.

From the vantage point of the ridge he looked back towards the village and, in the growing light, saw another splash of red quartering the field on the other side of the road. So, two men working methodically to check every ditch and hiding place on either side of the road. He looked out over the valley on the other side of the ridge and the dark line of the woods at its westerly end. There were five fields lying between him and escape. He would need to creep along two sides of the square of each field, whereas they were checking all four, but then they were mounted … Could he outpace them? He would have to carry on, working his way in the lee of the hedges, taking a zigzag route towards the Stubbs and always keeping a field in front. But oh, how heavy every muscle felt and how his arm throbbed and his pulse beat in his ears! And soon the sun would be fully up. He stumbled on.

Jack paused for a moment as he reached the top of the ridge and surveyed the scene. The sun had cleared the curve of the earth and its pale disc shone upon the land and glinted on the sails of a distant windmill. Long shadows streamed across the fields from ash, elm and elder rising from the ancient hedgerows. Jack narrowed his eyes. If he were a fugitive, he would use those shadows. And if he had to hide, he would crawl deep into the hedge itself. In places the beech and blackthorn hedges grew six feet thick, a tangled mass of interlacing branches smothered in ivy, rooted in sandy banks. Yes, he would squeeze in between those roots, where the growth was thickest, like a rabbit gone to ground. He stared into the shadows, trying to accustom his eyes to the gloom, but all seemed still. Behind him, down in the cow pasture, he heard the sound of girlish voices, Clay’s voice joining them, laughter. The milkmaids were come into the field with their buckets and stools, no doubt, and Clay had stopped to dally with them. Jack let out an irritated sigh. He would have to have words with him yet again, but for now he would press ahead and cover the land between ridge and woods, hoping to cut off any miscreants from reaching them. If they made the trees he’d have lost them.

Tobias reached the foot of the valley and began to climb the other side but his legs felt like lead. He knew the soldier was gaining on him. Dropping to his hands and knees, he crawled a little way but he could feel a warm trickle down the inside of his arm and knew he couldn’t go much further. He glanced back. The soldier was unhitching the chain at the gate; he must hide now while he still had the chance. Ahead, an elm growing in the beech hedge cast black shade. He reached its sprawling roots and, just beyond it, found a badger run. Forcing himself through the narrow gap and into the centre of the hedge, he pulled branches down over the hole as best he could, curled himself up into a ball and silently prayed.

Jack almost missed the broken branches beside the old elm. He lost concentration for a moment, when the cawing of crows rising from the wood in a clatter of wings rung out over the valley. He walked Maisie on, watching the birds circling and wondering if a human interloper had disturbed them. As they settled again in the trees he realised that his thoughts had been distracted and he turned Maisie around to retrace his steps.

Tobias, shivering uncontrollably, his arms clutched around his knees, stared at the litter of dead beech leaves at his feet. Wisps of sheep’s wool were caught on the lichen-covered twigs around him and they shook in the easterly breeze. He had heard the soldier pass. He could smell his own blood and thought that if the soldiers had used dogs he wouldn’t have stood a chance. As he let his breath go, he heard the jangle of the horse’s bit and knew that the rider had stopped. Terror prickled his skin and turned over his stomach. The soldier was coming back. A sob rose in his throat and he held it there.

Jack slowly approached to look more closely at a place where a branch was broken – recently broken, by the pale colour of the wood. He drew his pistol. He leant from the saddle, parted the branches of the hedge and found himself looking down upon the slight figure of a boy, dressed in dun-coloured clothing that melted into the colours of woody trunk and old leaves. The boy’s face looked up at him: a startlingly pale face streaked with black marks, the eyes dark with fear. With a shock of recognition, Jack realised that he knew that face. He had seen him in the lane at Effie’s. The boy cowered back as if expecting a blow.

Jack said, ‘Tobias? Tobias Fiddement?’

Tobias nodded, speechless with fear.

Jack glanced around quickly to see if they were observed. A flash of red further back along the ridge told him that Clay had regained the road. He spoke urgently. ‘You must wait. Wait here until I send my sergeant out of the way. As soon as it’s safe, and my back is towards you, make for the woods. We’ll be searching no further than the fields.’ He glanced towards the road again, quickly sat straight in the saddle and turned Maisie to walk on up the hill once more. Without looking back, he said, ‘Tell Effie I sent you home,’ and resumed his even pace along the hedge.

As he went, he had the strong sensation that Clay’s eyes were on his back. Sure enough, as he turned the corner so that his path ran parallel with the road, Clay’s mounted figure was silhouetted darkly against the sky, waiting. Jack forced himself not to rush though he longed to spur Maisie into a trot. He chose a point to pause again and appear to inspect the ground and then carried on along the far edge of the field and back to the road, where Clay came to meet him and get further orders.

‘Any sign?’ Jack said.

‘Not a footprint, sir. Yourself?’

‘Nothing.’ Jack’s nerves made him brusque.

A strange expression flickered across Clay’s face. ‘But you found something to give you pause?’

‘Nothing of import: an old sack in one place and a cast horseshoe in another,’ Jack said quickly. He pointed to the far side of the road. ‘You continue down that side and we’ll meet at the edge of the woods. And if you happen upon any other maids from the village, no philandering along the way,’ he said over his shoulder as he rode away, nodding a curt dismissal.

Clay curled his lip but did as he was bid. He trotted his horse along to the gate on the village side and rode through. This field, full of sheep, had the new hawthorn hedges of enclosure, low and dense, and he worked his way around it and the next quickly. Instead of carrying on, he returned to the road and shaded his eyes to see where Jack had got to. Then he turned tail and trotted back to where they had spoken. He rode straight down to the tall elm on the left-hand side where he had marked Stamford turn back and stand so long. When he reached the spot he frowned. Branches were broken on both sides as though something large had pushed through. He slid from his horse and squatted beside the hole. In the middle of the hedge, leaves were squashed into the mud as if someone had been there for some time. He peered at them, reached in and picked up a handful of copper beech leaves. He smiled as he held them in his palm; their faded russet gold was spotted with a reddish brown that was still wet under his thumb as he passed it across.

He looked up quickly and scanned the fields. Nothing moved save for a few crows and a dot of red up towards the woods: Stamford quartering the last field. Clay looked thoughtfully at the handful of leaves and put them in his pocket.

When at length they met again on the ridge, Clay asked Jack if they were to attempt a search of the woods.

‘Insufficient manpower,’ Jack said. ‘We’d have no chance of success with only two men. I’ve ridden there before and the whole place is a tangle of fallen trees, briar and bracken, fit to hide an army. We’d be on a fool’s errand.’

‘As you wish, sir.’ Clay gave an unpleasant smile.

In the distance, from the direction of the village, a shot rang out. Clay turned his mount smartly towards it. ‘’Tis no matter. Once we have one we shall have all,’ he said grimly.

Effie and Beulah had woken to find Tobias gone.

‘Off rabbiting again with Saul Culley, I’ll be bound,’ Effie said crossly. Although his catch had often made the difference between dinner and a wakeful night with an empty belly, she had spoken to Tobias repeatedly about the dangers of poaching and forbidden him to go. There were gins and snares in the woods, designed to trap a man, keepers who would shoot first and ask questions later and justices who would string a man up for taking no more than a brace of pheasant.

Beulah, who would normally moan about her brother making her late, said nothing. She dragged her feet over getting dressed and appeared so quiet and peaky-looking that Effie asked her if anything was wrong. She shook her head. ‘Then you’d better eat up and set off without Tobias,’ Effie said.

Beulah glanced anxiously out of the window. Where was he? He was supposed to have been back before morning so that if there were a pursuit he, and all of them, would be found at their homes, abed as normal. He was supposed to be back so that they could walk to work together as they always did and arrive clear of suspicion. Something bad must have happened. She wanted to tell Effie but they had made her promise to tell no one. Jim Baggott had taken her aside only yesterday to glare into her face and tell her she must be silent as the grave. She returned to trailing her spoon through her porridge, making runnels of thin blue milk between lumpy greyish islands. ‘I don’t want to go without Tobias,’ she said in a small voice.

Effie, on her knees riddling the grate ready to re-lay the fire, said, ‘Best make a start, dearest. I’ll make him a piece to eat on the way and then he’ll soon catch you up.’

‘But what if he doesn’t?’

‘If he doesn’t, that’s his own fault. At least you won’t be late and get into trouble.’ She rattled the poker hard in the fire-basket.

Beulah slipped down from her stool at the table, lingered over wrapping her shawl around her and was finally shooed out of the door with a kiss.

An hour later, Effie was mixing soap and lye for the day’s wash when she heard the door latch squeak open. She turned, ready to berate Tobias once more about poaching, only to see him pulling the bar across the door. He tugged at it with one hand, the other arm held awkwardly across a shirt stained with blood.

‘Whatever’s happened?’ She dropped the whole packet of lye into the bowl and hurried over as Tobias leant his back against the door, his face grey and drained. She sat him down at the table and plied him with questions while she removed his jacket and shirt, poured a bowl of water and cut a bandage. The wound was a deep gash from his armpit to the underside of his upper arm, where the glass had sliced into the muscle. She washed it with muslin, padded it with cotton cloth and bound it tight to stop the bleeding, her face growing more and more anxious as he spoke.