Pauper's Child

by Meg Hutchinson

  ‘And now your mother has her daughter’s gift. Please, my dear, may I see it?’

  Walking beside him to the far comer of the cemetery Callista marvelled at the absence of discomfort. There was none of the dislike she had felt when with Oswin Slade, nor any of the irritation which had filled her when speaking with that stranger while collecting unwanted vegetables that evening in the market place and definitely none of the fear that had filled her when accosted by another in Paget’s Passage.

  ‘You have made this… and it is your first attempt… but this is beautiful!’

  ‘Thank you.’ Callista blushed at the praise. ‘But it is solely due to Mr Roberts it was made at all.’

  ‘A fine craftsman as I said before, but I can see a different hand in this. May I pick it up?’

  Watching him twist and turn the vase in his hands, the clear glaze of it lending a softer mellowed look to the dough coloured body, Callista thought of the words he had used on making her that offer.

  ‘Do what you have set your heart upon and when it is done come back… my home will be waiting.’

  Would that offer of a home still be there? Would she refuse it a second time?

  ‘You show an appreciation of line and movement; as Daniel has probably said already, you have a feeling for the clay.’

  ‘My mother loved the Michelangelo Lamp shown in a book once owned by my father depicting the works of the great artist. I tried to imitate that; the holes in its covered bowl would, I thought, allow for the arranging of flowers though the figures which support it leave a great deal to be desired.’

  ‘Do not underestimate your work, my dear,’ he said, his glance remaining on the vase. ‘You have a skill not given to many. I think Daniel Roberts recognised this or he would have dissuaded you from attempting such a piece.’

  Daniel had not tried to turn her from the project but had positively encouraged the creating of it and when she had questioned the fact of using more clay than her threepence could buy and then the cost of glazing and firing he had waved the queries aside, saying the work she did alongside of him more than compensated any outlay on his part. Then when it was finally finished he had been lavish in his praise. ‘Your fingers be sure and your eye true as was Ad—’ Had he been going to say Adam; had he almost named his son?

  Work such as this would find a place in many a house. Phineas turned the piece in his hands, admiring the curve of the bowl supported on the bent shoulders of two figures, their nude bodies partly swathed with a drape of cloth slung across one shoulder following the line of the back, discreetly complementing the shapely leg. Maybe not the standard of Michelangelo but then the great master still stood alone in the world of art; but given time Callista Sanford’s work could find its own place in that world.

  ‘You say you have been working with Daniel Roberts since last I saw you?’ Phineas said, keeping his thoughts to himself. ‘Will you continue to do so?’

  Watching as he replaced the vase on the patch of earth becoming slowly green as grass established itself in the rich soil, Callista realised with what was almost a shock she had no longer any reason or excuse for staying with the Robertses. What Daniel said about her work at the pottery paying her board and keep was merely a mask worn to hide his kindness; he had managed the work alone for ten years so why now would he need help? Age? Daniel and Abigail were no longer young but both were strong and well enough able to manage their livelihood without her help.

  ‘I had not given much thought to what I will do,’ she answered honestly.

  ‘And the offer I made to you, have you given thought to that?’

  Spread about the small churchyard, sun-tipped stones seemed to wait for her answer, the spire topped church listening for her words. She had thought of this man’s offer, thought of the comfort of a home such as The Limes, filled no doubt with beautiful works of art, of the pleasure they would afford her… but was comfort, the delight of daily being surrounded with all her father had taught her to appreciate and love enough? Should not sharing a man’s home hold more than the love of inanimate objects?

  ‘Your eyes tell me you have given my proposal thought, my dear. Now if you will I would like your answer.’

  *

  Oswin was dead! Callista stared at the uniformed constable, her brain numbed with shock. Oswin Slade murdered on a tram!

  ‘So you see, miss, I ’ad to come what with you knowin’ the victim like, add to that your leavin’ Trowes Court quick as you did…’

  ‘What do ’er leavin’ that house ’ave to do wi’ a murder?’ Abigail’s question was quick and defensive.

  ‘Be still you, woman.’ Daniel lifted a hand, bidding his wife to silence. ‘The man just be doin’ his job so best let ’im get on wi’ it.’

  ‘I mean no offence but like I says, miss, what with you ’aving known the victim… well, procedure ‘as to be followed.’ Taking a notebook from a pocket of his tunic, touching the point of a pencil to his tongue, the police officer cleared his throat with noisy embarrassment. ‘I be sorry about all this, Daniel.’

  ‘No cause for any man to be sorry on account o’ doin’ what he be paid to do so long as it don’t go against the teachin’ o’ the Good Book; an’ if the tekin’ of a chair, a sup o’ tea an’ one o’ Abigail’s scones don’t be against procedure then sit you down for you be frightenin’ the wench standin’ there like the ’erald o’ doom.’

  ‘I’ll tek a cup and thank you for it, Abigail, it be a trek across the heath.’ The constable smiled, settling himself into a chair while Abigail set tea and scones before each of them.

  ‘The time o’ this ’ere murderin’… you must know—’

  ‘Let it be,’ Daniel interrupted his wife. ‘There’ll be time for our questions when his’n ’ave all been answered; and Callista, wench, try not to be feared; Abbie an’ me ’ave knowed John Travers since boyhood and he be no ogre, so you just answer best you can to what be asked and he’ll deal fair with you.’

  ‘Do you ’ave any objection to bein’ questioned, miss, would you prefer to ’ave somebody else present… a lawyer p’raps?’

  It was gently said and the constable smiled but Callista could not repress the shudders which rippled one on another along her spine. She was being interrogated about a killing, the murder of the man who had tried to rape her! Did the police think she had done that terrible thing… that she had killed Oswin Slade in an act of revenge?

  Below bushy eyebrows the constable’s dark eyes held a smile but it did not disguise the keenness of the glance resting on Callista. ‘Be up to you, miss. Do you wish a lawyer?’

  Still dazed by being called from the kiln only to be told by a worried looking Abigail that a constable was asking to see her, Callista stared blankly.

  ‘Her don’t be needin’ no lawyer, John Travers, for her has nothin’ to hide. Now ask your questions so we can see the end o’ this!’ Feeling the tremble of the girl’s thin shoulders beneath her hand, Abigail’s defensive nature spurred the words.

  ‘No offence, Abigail.’ The constable glanced at the irate face. ‘But it be the wench must answer for ’erself.’

  ‘Hmmph!’ The sound more informative about her feelings for ‘procedure’ than ever her words could be, Abigail sat beside Callista, taking her hand between her own in a gesture of comfort.

  ‘Abbie, you always did scare me more’n any man I ever come up against.’ Constable Travers laughed, setting bushy side whiskers jiggling. ‘But afore you frightens me to death let me tell the wench her ’as no need o’ worryin’ why I be callin’. The Inspector took a list o’ names from Edwin Derry, names o’ tenants on which the deceased called to collect rents, and the Inspector bein’ a stickler for things bein’ done proper said each o’ them tenants must be questioned and they ’ave. So you see, miss, you don’t be the only one I’ve called on.’

  Touching the pencil a second time to the tip of his tongue the man went on. ‘Would you tell me your full name?’

  ‘Cal…’ Frigh
t a solid lump in her throat Callista swallowed hard, forcing the words to come. ‘Callista… Callista Sanford.’

  It seemed the questions would never end. Had she lived at Trowes Court… who with… for how long… how well had she known Oswin Slade? With each one her heart had tripped; did this man know what Oswin had tried to do to her? The other people at Trowes Court had been questioned. Had Ada Povey told of that attempted rape? Were all those he was asking now merely a charade, a pretence? The prelude to her being arrested? Callista’s head swam but she knew she must continue to answer.

  ‘An’ you ’ad been here at Leabrook Pottery at the time the crime was committed?’ It sounded more like a statement than a question. Writing her reply in his notebook the constable looked up. ‘Just one more, miss. ’ave you at any time teken the Wolverhampton tram?’

  Brows drawn together in puzzlement, Callista answered. ‘When I was a small child, yes, my father took me to a museum. He was very interested in everything to do with the ancient world.’

  ‘And since you were a small child?’

  The thought ‘where was this leading’ flashed through Callista’s mind but her response was frank and honest, ‘After my father died my mother found it increasingly difficult to find money enough to feed and keep a roof over the head of herself and a daughter, Mr Travers. It was impossible to find the extra a tram ride to Wolverhampton or any place else would take, and following her death my own circumstances remained the same. In fact I think you will already have learned my mother received a pauper’s burial paid for by the Parish; and Edwin Derry will most certainly have informed you I myself was evicted from Trowes Court when I could not pay rent due on his property. In fact were it not for Mr and Mrs Roberts’s kindness in giving me a home and employment I would probably be in the Poorhouse.’

  He had made no answer. She watched him return notebook and pencil to his pocket. She had challenged him and he had given no reply. Was that because he was in possession of that information even before she had spoken?

  ‘I be sorry if I be the cause o’ frightenin’ you, miss. I ’opes you understands it were duty… no more’n that.’

  It was an apology and the man’s eyes reflected the truth of it. Clutching Abigail’s hand Callista rose, the quiver still evident in her voice as she replied. ‘Of… of course.’

  ‘Does what you’ve ’eard be satisfactory?’

  Taking the helmet he had removed before entering the cottage the constable paused. ‘I be truly satisfied, Daniel, and I’m sure the Inspector will be. Miss Sanford ’ad already been spoken highly of by Mr Phineas Westley who said her were entirely trustworthy.’ Glancing again to Callista he smiled. ‘You ’ave some very good friends, wench.’

  18

  Emma was still in a high state of nerves. The threat of Oswin Slade no longer hung over their heads but the police inquiry would be bound to continue, they would not allow a murder to go unsolved… they would find out…

  ‘So I’ll have to go meet with the man. Lord knows how long that will take.’

  Across the dining table lit with crystal drop candelabra, Edwin Derry glanced at a gold hunter watch drawn from the pocket of an elegant amber silk brocaded waistcoat.

  ‘Don’t wait up, no sense in both of us losing sleep.’

  Forcing herself to smile Sabine followed her husband to the hall, watching him don outdoor clothes, breathing a sigh of relief when the door closed behind him. She had to think!

  Going swiftly to her own room she sat at her dressing table staring into the mirror.

  He had seen the wig, the wig which hid her own thin mouse brown hair. How he must have laughed. Resting in her lap Sabine’s fingers twisted together at the thought. Yes, how the hateful creature must have laughed… but he would laugh no more, neither would he ever again be a threat to her.

  But Oswin Slade was not the only threat to Sabine Derry’s wellbeing or even her life. There was another with that same potential: Emma Ramsey!

  ‘The police will find out,’ she had almost screamed with anxiety, ‘they will find out and when they do…’

  After minutes of trying to calm the cries she had slapped the woman hard across both cheeks.

  ‘They will not find out,’ she had told her as the shock of those slaps brought instant silence. ‘There is nothing can link the death of Slade to either of us… all that is needed is for us to remain calm, to say not a word to anyone.’

  ‘I said no word to anybody yet Slade found out about our Thursday meetings! How, tell me how he came to know of those when neither you nor I breathed a word? Is it the same way the police will find out about you killing Slade?’

  There had been a truculence beneath the worry but it was the inherent threat behind the fear had caught at her own nerves. Emma Ramsey would never stand up to police questioning; she would fall like a leaf in the wind.

  ‘…the way the police will find out about you killing Slade.’

  The words struck now as they had struck in Emma’s sitting room.

  ‘…you killing Slade.’

  There was the danger. The woman could not be trusted. Slowly lifting both hands Sabine removed the wig. Meeting the reflection of her own eyes she nodded as if in answer to a question. Emma Ramsey must follow the path of Oswin Slade!

  *

  ‘It be too much for a young wench an’ ’specially so for one not brought up to manual labour; don’t be no more needs sayin’ ’cept once this firin’ be complete then the pottery be closed down complete.’

  ‘But the pottery is your living.’ Callista looked at the man sat with leg bandaged to the knee.

  ‘Not no more it ain’t!’ Half hidden by a wealth of whiskers Daniel’s mouth was set firm but Callista heard the faint tremble in his voice. The making of crockery was all he and Abigail had of the life they once shared with a son and a daughter; let that go and the final link would be broken. She was not alone in her thinking; Abigail’s eyes spoke the same words.

  ‘But you must let me at least try.’

  ‘Oh ar!’ Bright with a moisture he would never admit to being there the man’s blue eyes swung to Callista. ‘Let you try is it… an’ let you cripple y’self in the doin’ o’ it same as ‘appened to me.’

  ‘Accidents can happen to anyone.’

  ‘Ar, wench, they can,’ Daniel nodded, ‘but I ’ave no intention one befall you, least not in my pottery I don’t. It be a good ’eart you ’ave but it teks a strong arm an’ a stronger back to do the work o’ a potter.’

  ‘I am not claiming to be able to do all you do but maybe I can keep the place ticking over until your leg is healed… you say yourself Mrs Roberts knows almost as much about making a dish as you and with her help—’

  ‘You ’ave offered the same and many times,’ Abigail cut in. ‘Given ’elp where you seen it needed, now that ’and be ’eld to you and ’eld with generous feelin’… don’t turn from it lessen you comes to regret it.’

  ‘But—’

  ‘No buts, Daniel Roberts!’ Hands going to her hips, Abigail stared defiance. ‘Refuse the offer the wench ’as med and I’ll be thinkin’ it’s ’cause you’ll find I do know as much of pot mekin’ as yourself!’

  ‘I suppose I could get meself to sit alongside.’

  ‘I would need you there, Mr Roberts, with your and Mrs Roberts’ guidance then I know we can manage.’

  ‘Ar, Callista wench. I’m thinkin’ we can but with one change.’ The blue eyes met hers again but this time they smiled. ‘It ’as always been the way o’ Abigail and me to ’ave friends use our given names when we speaks together and if you stays then that must be the way of it. It be Daniel an’ Abigail… that be our wish.’

  *

  Friends! making her way along Lea Brook Road passing tight-knit houses built about a shared yard so reminiscent of Trowes Court, Callista felt a surge of happiness well in her stomach. After leaving the Poveys and the other neighbours at Trowes Court she had thought never to find really true friends again.

&nb
sp; But hadn’t Phineas Westley proved a friend? Not only had he taken no step to prosecute her over the dropped statue he had made that offer, the offer he had repeated again in that peaceful sun washed churchyard.

  ‘… I would like your answer.’

  He had watched her as he had said it, watched the emotions she had known chased over her face, the uncertainty and hesitation, the indecision and perplexity which had to have shown in her eyes; and she had seen the apprehension in his own, the all searching consideration of that keen glance, change slowly to a smile.

  She had given her answer. Leaving the road, taking the towpath alongside the canal, she walked slowly enjoying the quiet peace of early evening. She had given her answer and Phineas Westley had accepted it.

  ‘Evenin’, miss, be there anythin’ I can do for you?’

  Taken by surprise Callista glanced about her. Lost among her thoughts she had not realised she had reached the canal basin.

  ‘Good evening.’ She returned the pleasantry. ‘Is this the wharf of Mr Michael Farron?’

  ‘It be that, miss, and I be Moses Turley, wharf gaffer for Mr Farron, but I ain’t seen you ’ere afore.’

  ‘No.’ Callista shook her head. ‘This is my first visit.’

  Pretty wench! Moses watched the blue aura the sunlight cast over raven black hair. Nice way of speakin’ to go with her face, but the shabby clothes spoke another story.

  ‘Well, miss,’ he replied, ‘I ’ave to tell you Mr Farron don’t go ’aving no women working on his wharf so if it’s employment you be seekin’ then I be afraid you’ve come to the wrong place.’

  ‘It is not employment I came to enquire after, it is Mr Farron. Could you please tell me where I might find him?’

  This wench were after findin’ Michael Farron! Moses made a play of lifting his flat cap and running his fingers over his hair. But would Michael Farron want to be found by her? Would he want to talk with a wench who it were plain ’adn’t two farthings to rub together? Likely not… anyway, best not tek a chance.