The Other Cathy

by Nancy Buckingham

  Emma said a little desperately, ‘It occurred to me as a possibility – just a faint possibility – that I might learn something about the events that led up to papa’s death.’

  ‘We know what led up to it,’ Randolph said grimly. ‘We know all about that.’

  ‘But can we be sure?’ she persisted. ‘Now that Matthew Sutcliffe has come back after all this time, still claiming his innocence, it seems only right and fair to investigate where we can.’

  ‘Aye, well that’s up to you, lass. But you can’t have the key tonight for it’s locked away in the office safe down at the mill, where I keep all the keys I don’t have cause to use often. You’ll have to wait until tomorrow.’ He took out his gold half-hunter and consulted it. ‘I must be off, I’ve got a train to catch.’

  Emma watched him depart with mixed feelings. Though she was frustrated over the delay in getting the key, at the same time she felt happy that she and Uncle Randolph were back on their usual affectionate terms. Their quarrel over Matthew Sutcliffe had been most distressing, but as things had turned out Emma was glad, now, that he’d taken a firm stand. Otherwise, she would have denied herself the chance of getting to know Matthew.

  She was still standing by the open front door when Chloe emerged from the parlour and demanded in a critical voice, ‘What about Cathy? Have you left her all alone?’

  ‘It’s all right, Aunt Chloe, I’ve only been down here for a few minutes. I just wanted a word with Uncle Randolph before he went out.’

  When Chloe frowned, she frowned with her whole face. ‘It really is vexing of him, going out this evening. He should have remembered that we are invited to supper with Jane and Paget. Now I shall have to go on my own, and make apologies for him.’

  ‘Tell Uncle Paget and Aunt Jane I send them my love.’

  ‘Blanche will be there, too,’ Chloe reminded her, but Emma couldn’t bring herself to send a similar message of affection to her other aunt.

  * * *

  The following morning Cathy received visitors. The Eades were the first to arrive, and after Jane had collapsed thankfully into a chair, she panted, ‘We’ve come to enquire how our brave little invalid is progressing.’

  ‘I feel better this morning, thank you, Aunt Jane.’

  ‘Splendid!’

  Paget followed his wife into the room with the cautious gait of a man unsure of his equilibrium. He grasped one of the brass bedknobs and stood looking down at his niece.

  ‘Bernard has given me a good report on your progress, Cathy dear, and I know I can safely leave you in his capable hands. Ah, what is this ... have you and Emma been playing draughts? Excellent! The finest therapy for any condition is to keep the mind active.’

  ‘We’ve played four games this morning and Emma hasn’t won one of them,’ Cathy boasted gleefully.

  Emma, receiving a little smile of approval from Jane, felt a rush of affection for her aunt. Sitting there in her outdoor things, she made an even quainter figure than usual in a voluminous yellow mantle with wide bell sleeves. The bavolet of her straw bonnet made her look as if she had no neck at all, and altogether she was as plump and round as a dumpling. Emma decided that for all her irritating attempts to prod her into marriage with Bernard, she was a kindly, well-meaning woman. And poor Aunt Jane had a lot to contend with, Uncle Paget being so immoderately fond of alcohol.

  Presently Blanche arrived, bringing Priscilla with her, and it turned into quite a jolly family party. Chloe remained in good temper even when Jane dared, to question her treatment of the aspidistra plant in the parlour, and the two sisters went downstairs to examine it together. Blanche left the room too, remembering a packet of damson drops she had brought for Cathy, which she must have left on the seat of the gig. Paget entertained the three girls with a clumsy display of card tricks which Priscilla watched open-mouthed. Poor Uncle Paget, thought Emma compassionately, he really loves children. How poignant that he should have lost his own little daughter in such tragic circumstances. Eventually the three aunts reappeared and it was almost dinner time before the party broke up.

  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 wondered 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 packages 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 no
thing 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 presume?’

  ‘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.’

  Chapter Ten

  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 harvest 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 customers’ 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 himself 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 Bythorpe. D’you know him?’

  ‘Can’t say as I do, love.’
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br />   ‘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 Matthew 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.

  ‘Would that help you remember?’

  She stared at the gold coin, decided that he was generous, and wheedled, ‘Why don’t you come home with me, love, and forget about her? You won’t regret it, that’s a promise.’

  Matthew felt for another coin, and placed the two side by side on the bar, touching them separately with his forefinger. ‘That one for her name, and that one for telling me where I can find her.’

  Quickly she scooped the coins up before he could change his mind.

  ‘Oh, all right then! It was Maysie Clugg ... over there.’ She jerked her head at a girl sitting by herself only a few feet away from them, and gave Matthew a cheeky grin at having squeezed money out of him so easily. ‘Now that you’ve seen her you can still change your mind, and I’ll knock this two pound off. That’s fair, ain’t it?’

  ‘Sorry, no. But I’m obliged to you for your help.’ He paid for the drinks at the bar, signalled a waiter and chose a small table tucked away in an alcove, half hidden by the arching fronds of a potted palm. ‘The lady dressed in blue,’ he said, indicating her with a nod. ‘Be so good as to say that I’d appreciate the pleasure of her company.’

  She came across at once. She was quite beautiful, he thought. Her low décolletage revealed a smooth supple skin; and her hair, falling in gleaming ringlets at the back of a long slender neck, was the colour of beech leaves in October. Randolph Hardaker’s choice ... young and innocent-looking, a vision of loveliness.

  ‘Bruno said you asked for me.’ Her voice, too, was not yet hard; not yet calculating.