‘But how can there be?’ she said. ‘It isn’t possible. The count was all correct last night. Where could it have gone in the space of a day?’
Mr B was running his hand through his thinning hair and suddenly looked so much older than he had only minutes before.
‘Oh, my word,’ he breathed out raggedly, his hand on his forehead. ‘Did I leave the office unlocked when I went to town?’
‘No, you didn’t,’ said Anny. ‘When I came back from the house, it was locked. I distinctly remember taking the key from my pocket and unlocking it. And the office was locked this morning too, when I arrived.’
‘Oh, thank heavens,’ said Mr B and slumped onto the corner of his wife’s empty desk. He was thinking now; frowning. Then he looked up at her.
‘When I returned from town, you were here alone, Anny. Did you leave the office for a moment during that time? Did you leave it unlocked? I’m sorry, my dear, but I have to ask.’
‘No, I did not, sir. I assure you of that. I did not leave this office for a moment after I returned from the library. I came in. Master Cyril followed me from the house and saw me enter. Then I sat at my desk and worked until you came back. I was here the whole time.’
‘Are you sure?’
‘I am absolutely certain of it. I was here alone the whole time. And the door was locked when I came back from the house. No question about it.’
Mr B’s eyes darkened, then he stood and went to the door, saying, ‘There’s nothing else for it. I have to inform Mr King.’
And out he went. She listened to his footsteps receding towards the house. Her mind was racing. How could this be? Where could the money be? She knew neither of them were to blame, but someone would have to be held responsible. Surely it could not be her, as Mr B was her senior. He was in the position of responsibility. She felt bad about wishing that on him, but if it came to it, better him than her. His years working for the Kings might stand him in good stead, whereas she was convinced that they would dismiss her in an instant if it was deemed to be her fault. There was that period of time when she was alone in the office. Would they hold her responsible, because of that? And what of the strange requests that morning, for both of them to leave the office? A creeping fear began to squeeze her lungs. There was something rotten hidden here and it was beginning to stink.
Footsteps approached. Mr King appeared first, stepping rather awkwardly into the office he had probably not set foot in for years. Mr B hovered behind him, wringing his hands like the very definition of anxiety. Then the door darkened again and in came Cyril. What was he doing there? Anny’s chest tightened and she stood up and made a quick bob of a curtsey to Mr King.
‘Your name again?’ spoke Mr King, haughtily.
‘Anny Woodvine, sir.’
‘You comprehend the seriousness of this situation?’
‘I do, sir.’
‘Money has been found to have gone missing from this office. Mr Brotherton informs me that the office was not left unlocked at any time. Do you concur with this, Woodvine?’
‘I do, sir.’
‘Are you certain of it?’
‘I am, sir. The office was locked last night when we left, it was locked this morning when I arrived. When I came back from the house, it was locked. It was not left open and unoccupied at any time.’
‘From the house, you say? What do you mean, from the house?’
Anny looked at Mr B, expecting him to take over the explanation. But he said nothing.
‘I was called to the house this morning, sir, to wait upon you, in the library. I mean to say, to wait for you in the library.’
‘Me?’ said Mr King, observing her incredulously. ‘You were called to wait for me?’
Anny looked at Mr B, who would not meet her eye. But he did at last speak up. ‘Yes, it is the case that the stable boy came with a message, that Miss Woodvine should go to the house to wait for you in the library. That is the case.’
‘What on earth could the boy be thinking?’ scoffed Mr King.
‘The boy is an imbecile,’ interjected Cyril, staring at Anny yet speaking to his father. ‘Or else easily led.’
‘What do you mean by that, my boy?’
‘Nothing. Just stating the facts as I see them.’
‘But why would this stable boy say such a thing, when it was patently not true?’
Mr B cleared his throat, then said, ‘May I just add that I did not actually hear him give the message to Miss Woodvine. I heard only the door open and Anny speaking with him. Then she popped her head into my room and told me what the boy had said. I did not hear it with my own ears.’
Anny turned to stare at him, but he avoided returning her gaze. Was he covering his own back and shoving the blame onto her? She couldn’t believe he’d do such a thing. She expected more loyalty from Mr B.
Mr King frowned and looked back at Anny. ‘Mr Brotherton tells me that he went to town to fetch some ink for my mother. And that when he returned, you were here in the office, alone. Is that the case?’
‘Yes,’ said Anny, her voice small. She did not like the way this conversation was proceeding. She did not like it at all. She knew she had done nothing wrong. But there were hints and suggestions buzzing in the thick air of that room and she feared them.
‘How long were you alone in the office?’ asked Mr King. A slight movement from Cyril, a leaning in, listening.
‘A matter of . . . less than an hour?’
‘As much as that?’ said Cyril.
Mr King sighed and placed his hands into his pockets. Mr B was staring ahead, intensely. Anny did not know what Cyril’s expression was, as she would not look at him.
‘Woodvine, you were the only person alone in this office on a day that money has gone missing from the safe. You will have to be searched. Your person and your belongings.’
At last, Mr B spoke up, quietly. ‘This girl is a very good worker, Mr King. I cannot see that she would have any shadow upon her in this case. Is this really necessary?’
Then, Cyril’s voice: ‘The girl knows how to open the safe. Brotherton told me himself.’
‘Is this true?’ Mr King asked Mr B, who looked exasperated but had to reply, ‘Yes it is, but . . .’
‘Then the girl must be searched. Stand here, girl. Do you have a bag? A cloak?’
Anny came out from beside her desk, where she had been standing, using it as a kind of protection.
‘Brotherton, do it.’
Mr B came forward reluctantly and could not meet her eye. She raised her arms and stared straight ahead, inspecting the grain of the wood panelling on the office wall, every knot, every blemish. Mr B patted her hips, then withdrew again, his hands shaking. ‘I can feel nothing untoward, sir.’
‘Girl, pull out any pockets you have in your apparel.’
‘I have none, sir.’
Cyril had fetched her cloak and held it up to the light. ‘Nothing here, Father.’
‘You have a bag, then?’
‘I do, in the bottom drawer.’
She went to step towards the desk, but Mr King said, ‘No, Brotherton will do it.’
Mr B approached and took the bag out. Anny thought, What of it? They will find nothing and then they will leave me be.
‘On the desk,’ said Mr King. ‘Remove all of its contents.’
Mr B took everything out and placed Anny’s things gingerly beside the bag.
‘Too slowly, man,’ said King impatiently. ‘Here, hand it over.’
He took the empty bag and ferreted around inside it. Then, he stopped. He fiddled with something. Anny stared at him. He looked up at her, the first time Mr King had looked clearly at her and registered her as a human being. He looked inside the bag.
‘A button,’ he said. ‘A pocket. Something is inside it.’
‘There is nothing inside it,’ said Anny. ‘I keep nothing in there.’
But there was a rustling sound and Mr King withdrew his hand and in his fist were banknotes.
<
br /> Mr B gasped. ‘Oh, Anny,’ he muttered.
‘The rat is in the trap,’ said King.
‘I didn’t do this!’ cried Anny.
‘Be quiet, girl,’ said Mr King.
‘I did not do this,’ replied Anny, her voice lower, stronger and more powerful than she had ever heard herself speak before.
‘Silence! How dare you deny the evidence before our very eyes! You have been caught in the act of robbery. Brotherton, go and fetch the constable from Ironbridge to secure this offender and take her into custody. If one is not available, we may need to send to Jackfield or Broseley and if so, we shall secure her here.’
Mr B did not even glance at Anny, but left quickly.
‘But Mr King,’ she began again. ‘I had no reason to steal this money. I have always served you well. I have always valued this post. Why would I steal from my employer? Why would I bite the hand that feeds me?’
Cyril piped up, ‘I know why she stole the money, Father. She is seeing that artist fellow, Ashford. Secret meetings. Kissing on the towpath. Everybody is talking of it. I’ve seen them. She is planning to run away with him. She stole the money to pay for their elopement.’
Oh, the tommy rotter! Such lies he had brewed up, but stirred in with a few facts to give the flavour of truth to it.
‘Is this true?’
Anny hesitated. ‘No, I mean, yes, it is about Jake . . . Mr Ashford . . . but not what you are saying or the way you are . . .’
Mr King interrupted. ‘There is the motive, here is the evidence. You have been caught out in your crime. I shall immediately take this evidence to my friend, Mr Cribb, the magistrate. I have no doubt he will make the charge of theft and you will be committed to Shrewsbury Prison to await trial.’
‘But Mr King!’ cried Anny. ‘Please listen to me!’
‘How dare you speak to me thus! Do not make things worse for yourself. I will not listen to one more word from your dishonest mouth. And to think, we gave you a chance in life, a step up from the gutter. And this is how you repay us. Look on, my boy, look on at the result of kindness to the lower classes. This is how the scum answers it. With felony. With theft. With treachery.’
Anny looked now at Cyril, who was glaring at her and grinning in triumph. But his face was sliding away, melting and running into his neck, the walls tilting sideways at crazy angles, the room turning topsy-turvy and she was falling, falling. Her whole world was capsizing and she reached out for something to grab hold of, seeing her hands looming huge before her eyes. Then came darkness.
Chapter 13
John Woodvine was on his break, swilling beer, when he saw Brotherton coming down the path to the furnace. His first thought was trouble. It was always trouble when management came. But he did not think it was trouble for himself. He had done nothing to concern himself about, other than work like an ox, as usual. He turned away to put down his tankard and turned back to see Brotherton looking straight at him, his face wearing an expression that could only be described as shameful.
‘What’s this now?’ he heard Pritchard say, who walked past him towards Brotherton.
Brotherton nodded at John and said something inaudible to Pritchard, who gestured for John to come. They walked away from the furnace to a quieter spot along the path, John’s mind whirling like falling sycamore seeds. What had he done? What new trouble was this?
Brotherton cleared his throat and spoke to a spot on John’s chest, just below his shoulder. He could not look him in the eye.
‘Your daughter has been arrested for theft.’
John did not respond. The words made no sense to him. He stared at Brotherton, his mind like an old man considering the great effort of standing up from a chair. He was waiting for the words to mean something.
‘What? Anny?’ said Pritchard, similarly incredulous.
‘Money was missing from the safe at the end of the day and it was found in her bag.’
‘This is daft,’ said Pritchard, shaking his head. John still could not speak. Why was the man speaking these lies, as stupid as saying the sky were green?
‘I want you to know that I don’t believe she could have done it,’ Brotherton said.
‘Of course she bloody didn’t,’ replied Pritchard.
But John only wanted to know one thing.
‘Where is she?’
‘She has been taken to the lock-up in town by the constable.’
With that John turned to Pritchard to tell him he was off to the lock-up. He was already walking away before Pritchard could respond.
When he got there, he banged on the door and the constable came out, a younger man he knew a little from the village, called Finch.
‘Move along. No visitors.’
He heard a desperate sound from within.
‘Father!’ It was Anny.
He shouted back to her, ‘I am here!’
‘I said, move along.’
John eyed the man. He’d known his father, died of strong drink. He’d never liked this one. A sneak, everyone said. Nobody was surprised when he joined the law.
‘Finch, it’s me. You know me. It’s John Woodvine. I knew your father.’
‘I have my instructions,’ said Finch and crossed his arms over his narrow chest.
‘You know my Anny. You know she’s a good’un. It’s all rot this business. Let me in to see her.’
But Finch planted his feet firmly astride the doorway and stiffened his lip.
John stared at Finch’s weaselly little face. He leant closer to it and was struck by the stink of bad breath. He spoke, low and slow. ‘Let me in, Finch.’
‘You threatening me, Woodvine? Is that what you’re about?’
‘I’m not threatenin’, I’m tellin’. You dunna step aside, I shall make you, mon.’
Finch’s eyes widened, but still he would not budge. It seemed the weasel was made of iron.
‘Dunna hit him, Father!’ shouted Anny.
John stared at Finch.
‘It’ll make things worse for me a hundredfold if you do,’ she added. She was right. Always the clever one. John unclenched his fists and took a step backwards.
Finch cleared his throat and said, ‘The magistrate has already been seen at his home to peruse the evidence and he immediately charged the felon with theft. The felon will thus be taken to Shrewsbury Prison on the morrow. And I’ll do you the kindness of informing you that visiting day’s the day after, on Saturday. Not that you deserve such kindness, with your idle threats.’
‘Come see me on Saturday, then, Father,’ called Anny. Her voice was clear and strong, but he knew her so well; only he could discern the quavering note in it. When she was a little one, she had the same tone after she’d fall and scrape a knee, hopping right up, brushing herself off, trying to be brave. Any fuss would set her off weeping. He knew now that she was about to cry and he didn’t want to upset her further.
‘I will be there.’
‘All right, Father!’
‘Dunna you worry, Anny. We’ll get this sorted out.’
‘I know you will, Father.’
He glared again at Finch. He had called Anny a ‘felon’. The word had sickened him. How he wanted to douse him in the chops. Instead, he kicked the wall of the lock-up. Finch leant in and sneered at John, adding, ‘Like fadder, like darter,’ and shut the door in his face.
He could have beaten it down with his bare hands. But it would not have helped her. The vision of her in there, friendless and afraid, tore at his heart as he stared at the walls that stood between them. He marched off, not giving the door the satisfaction of seeing him loiter there, impotent.
On the walk home from the lock-up, he knew he should rush to give his wife the news, but instead his legs felt like lead. He dreaded telling Rachel. She never took bad news well. She worked so hard without tiring, but a hint of bad luck could send her into a swoon. She was sensitive that way, and superstitious, always fearing the worst. He was generally the cheerful one, willing to s
ee the goodness in the world. And the world had treated him quite well, thus far. But how quickly a man’s life can turn. He had been at work that afternoon, struggling on against exhaustion, thinking his biggest problem was how to get enough sleep before his next shift. Work had filled his life for more years than he cared to remember. It had seemed to have a purpose, to support his parents’ family, then to provide for his own, to give his wife and daughter a home, food on the table and a future for Anny. All that work, all that sweat, all the noise and the heat and the danger. What was it all for? A man works himself nearly to death and then, out of the blue, comes this, landing in his path with no way past it, no way round it or over it or through it. He did not often have poetic thoughts, but he thought then, You walk through your life and the way is long, the way is hard. But you keep on going. Then summat happens and the land slips down upon you – all the rubble and the trees and the rocks and the earth – all slides down and buries you. You couldna see it coming and you couldna run in time.
Rachel called him her rock. Well, now he had to prove it. He had to protect Anny from this, he had to protect Rachel from this. He had to solve it. Brotherton said the money had been found in her bag. Then, someone must have put it there. Who would put it there? Why? It made no sense. He knew in his bones that Anny would never steal, would never lie, would never cheat. She did not have it in her. She had no secrets from him or from Rachel, he was sure of that. And if it was money she needed, she would have known to just come to them, tell them. They’d help her, whatever it was. And anyway, she was earning it herself, earning it very well and she was saving. She had cash in a box under the floorboards in her room. She’d been saving it for months, to set her up when she got to Shrewsbury. They’d discussed it all. Why would she need to steal? Questions, questions and no answers.
He’d have to talk to someone educated, someone in the know, who would tell him what he could do. Would he have to hire counsel? They’d have no money to pay it. He could use Anny’s savings. But that was her money, for her new life. Well, she’d have no life if she was found guilty of this crime, so her savings it would be. How would he find reliable counsel? He knew no one in Shrewsbury, knew nothing of the city at all. He’d lived his whole life in Ironbridge and never travelled further up than Oakengates, further down than Bridgnorth. He’d had no need to. His father had worked for the ironmasters and so had he. Their world was work and home. There was no need of anything further afield. His trips away had been family events, nothing more: weddings and funerals, the bookends of life. Some people did a good deal of toing and froing about the place and what was it all for? People were the same everywhere, he was sure of that. It might be interesting to some to see other places. But the woodland and the river running through it around his home was all he needed, all he wanted. The walk to Shrewsbury would be the furthest he’d ever been from home. And it was for the most terrible reason he could imagine, other than the death of a loved one; yes, that was the only thing that would be worse than this, if Anny was gravely ill or gone forever.
The Daughters of Ironbridge Page 14
