by Leah Fleming
‘Give me their address and I’ll drop them a note. It’s awful unfair for these weans not tae know where you are.’ Fancy thought sadly of his own childhood.
‘Send it to Widdup then, Manny Widdup, my old dad, Quarry Huts . . . that’s all I can recall.’
‘Widdup? Billy Widdup? Are you Billy’s dad? He said you were a tunnel tiger. Good God!’
‘That I am and Martha and little Tizzy. He knows ’em. Fetch him a pint of the best.’
‘I know no Martha but little Billy is one of my nippers, a grand chap. It was him that saved my skin. Ironfist. I ken that name once at the tunnel huts, it struck me then as I knew the handle.’
‘Aye, that’s me, and where’s me laddo then?’
‘He tramped with his sister to find you. They dock at Paradise not three miles from this very spot. A bright spark is Billy. Wait till he knows you’re here.’
‘Have another drink, fancy me own kids docked on me doorstep under me nose and me not knowing. I owes you for that. Wait till I gets across there. At Paradise, you say? To whom do I owe this bit of a turn?’
‘Just call me Fancy, no more on that matter. You never saw me. I canna stop. I must tramp on. The little question of the law on my tail. If they ask tell them you saw me heading west.’
Ironfist put his finger in the rough direction of his lips and smiled. ‘Our eyes are blind, our ears deaf and our gobs is shut, mate. Yer a gent for a Jock and if we see anyone sniffing too close we’ll head them off in the direction of the nearest blind shaft where they’ll soon be acquainted with the vicinity of its bottom.’ They all shook his hand and crushed his fingers with such bone-cracking strength it made his arms ache.
Fancy jerked back his head again, feeling a jab of pain behind his eyes. He had nodded off again among empty benches and tankards. It was all a silly dream. He picked up his knapsack. Nothing was missing, no letters to post either. He felt in his pocket for the poesy book. His pocket was flat. That bit had been true at least. Ellie would know he had not deserted her.
They were at Ingleton Station, lurking in the shadows, watching the passengers who entered the platform, waiting for a sighting of a tall red-haired Scot. By courtesy of the new telegraph poles installed along the line, news of the murder was relayed across the West Riding. It took three of them to hold him down, pin him to the floor and handcuff him. He was dragged to the lock-up behind the courthouse and left to sober up. Next morning Lachlan MacLachlan, alias Fancy Mac, was charged with the unlawful killing of Sunter Lawson Lund on the night of the fourth of November 1871 by the magistrate at Ingleton and ordered to be detained until he appeared at Sedburgh Assizes. Fancy was returned to his cell, his protestations of innocence bouncing off the stone walls. He asked for paper and they laughed that a navvy could read and write. He was told to make his last will and testament. He begged for a visit from the missionary but was told he was needed elsewhere. In desperation Fancy scribbled a note to the Reverend Ralph Hardy, shepherd of the Scarsbeck flock, asking him to rescue this sheep lost between a rock and a hard place.
Rumours were rife in the camp about the disappearance and arrest of Fancy Mac for the murder of Sunter Lund. It had taken hundreds of policemen to surround him and he fought like a Highland chieftain. He would be executed without trial even before the coroner’s inquest to be held in the schoolroom at Scarsbeck.
Tizzy hugged the events of Mischief Night to herself. She was glad she had driven him out of the camp giving him hours to escape but was puzzled that he had been captured so easily.
Billy Two Hats had taken over the gang but he was not strong and fair like Fancy and their work rate had gone down already.
Mally said Fancy would get a fair trial if they could find anyone to witness that he was nowhere near the green at the time of the murder. Their gang could testify that no one was on the green. Tizzy had seen only shadows and that proved nothing. Her meeting with Fancy was her own secret; she ran to the beck to a secret hidey-hole and pulled out his poetry book, fingering his verses reverently. He would understand that she was the guardian of his book, not Mercy’s big sister. Tizzy did not want Mercy poring over the pages and laughing at his spelling mistakes.
How could he expect her to run to the crossroads in the dead of night with a murderer on the loose? His poetry book would be safe with her. The less people knew that Fancy was abroad that night the better. She was his faithful sheepdog, protecting him from harm and his strange verses from curious eyes. Ellen Birkett could jump off Scarsbeck Foss for all she cared. The Birketts had caused enough trouble already and Sunter Lund was Mercy’s cousin.
Whatever those two had planned together for Mischief Night was finished with. Miss Birkett probably now thought Fancy false to his promises. Tizzy was glad about that. Now Fancy would have to wait for her to marry him, wait for her to put skirts back on and grow a bosom.
Chapter Thirty
The wind blew from the north-west at Martinmas, a chill moist wind, harbinger of a severe winter to come. Zillah was glad of her trunk full of clothes which she layered one on top of the other to keep out the draughts. The house was in mourning, black drapes over mirrors and ornaments; a huge wreath of evergreens interwoven with purple ribbon hung at the oak door and everyone went tiptoeing around the farmhouse in black weeds. Visitors came and went quietly offering condolences and biscuits, tokens which were passed up to High Butts where Blaize Lund hid from her friends and neighbours, shamed and grief-stricken.
Ellen tried to make funeral biscuits but her mind was never on the task and the biscuits were shrivelled and black. Mercy for once was silenced by the solemnity of mourning and hardly uttered a word on their walks down to Scarsbeck school. She seemed to relish all the fuss bestowed on her in the school yard by the other scholars.
How quickly Sunter Lund was translated from sinner to saint! No one could speak ill of the dead and especially one that had been brutally murdered. Thinking about the football match and the fact that he scored an own goal, Zillah remembered many shouts of murderous intent from the touchline on that occasion.
A murder in the village was a once in a lifetime event, every gory detail to be savoured and relished, burnished and embellished for a more dramatic effect. At every turn in the street groups of village women gathered and clacked to each other about any new turn of events, pausing briefly to stare at her as she passed. Zillah’s very presence at Middle Butts, her championing of the navvy cause, made her worthy of a second viewing as if in some way she was an accomplice to the dreadful act itself. She scurried past the spot where the bloodstains were still evident on the limestone wall.
Someone had placed branches of rowan tree criss-crossed around the site as if to cleanse the green of this evil. To hear the grocer, draper, seamstress and apothecary going on about the poor boy, it was hard to recognise this was Sunter Lund who was now bedecked with glowing virtues never seen in his lifetime, by all previous accounts. ‘Still, they’ve got the blighter what did it so praise be! We can all rest easy in our beds.’
The schoolroom had been packed for the coroner’s inquest. All the details were taken and a verdict of unlawful killing was recorded. A post-mortem by the police surgeon had revealed that one blow had crushed a weak point in his skull; a blow delivered with little force by a blunt heavy object was all it had taken to send the poor man to his day of judgement.
Poor Blaize had been carried out in a faint at this point and Ellen and Zillah rushed out to comfort her. The children from the camp who found the body were summoned and questioned. Zillah had felt it was important to attend to give them support. Mr Paisley represented the company but there was a hiss of protest when some of the parents from Paradise tried to get in as well. There were boos and hisses from the villagers and they were removed from the room. Zillah watched Billy Widdup tremble as he gave his evidence in a soft girlish voice no one could hear. When he got to the sighting of what they thought was the Guy Fawkes there was an uproar of protest that these ruffians had torched their bon
fire and the coroner once more had to threaten the court.
As Zillah looked around the tall classroom, the grim disclosures seemed so in contrast with the innocent setting. Miss Bulstrode sat white-faced throughout the proceedings, hanging limply on to her brother’s arm. Both gave evidence as to being called from their fireside to summon help but had seen nothing untoward on the evening in question.
Mr Walter Stackhouse, licensee publican of the Fleece, gave evidence that he had seen Lund leave his premises at half past eight and that the lad had not banged his head on the door lintel, indicating him to be sober at the time.
As news spread up the dale, by virtue of reports in the weekly Scarsdale Chronicle and Gazette published for the benefit of farmers and tradesfolk in the wider area, a stream of visitors were spotted like migrating birds descending for a brief stopover, walking around the green, pausing at the grim place of death to savour the wickedness of folk.
Wally Stackhouse, not one to miss an opportunity, placed an extra bench and table outside the ale house where visitors could chat to local residents about this terrible tragedy and sup a pint or two in the process.
Suddenly Scarsbeck was invaded by sensation-seekers, peering in windows, poking about the village, trampling over newly dug front gardens, strolling up to the viaduct construction to ogle the navvies at work, purchasing mementoes from the marble works and patronising any shops willing to supply extra information on the event.
As the news spread far afield reporters from the Lancaster Guardian, Leeds Mercury, Police News and Daily News travelled up to the shantytown and through Batty Green to interview anyone who would give comment on this sad case.
Eventually Sunter’s body was released for burial and the family plot was dug out by the sexton who cursed the hard frozen ground and jiggered his back. A new headstone of shiny Dent marble was erected in his memory, his name etched in gold lettering. This too became a magnet for the morbid on account of the words, especially composed by the Lunds, being widely quoted by the newspapers.
Here lies our dear son, Sunter Lawson Lund
Snatched from the bosom of his family on
November 4th 1871
When I was in the prime of life,
A fatal blow cost me my life,
No man in this world can boast of his might
When alive of a morning, dead at night.
In all of this Zillah could not fault the Reverend Hardy who much to her surprise made frequent visits to High Butts to console the mother in her sad loss. He seemed to time his visits with a second call to Middle Butts farmhouse when the kettle was on the boil for afternoon tea with oatcakes and cheese and a slice of boiled fruitcake, the recipe for which was one of the family’s secrets for five generations and kept under lock and key. Along with a bowl of fruit pie and cream and a plate of ham sandwiches, she began to wonder if this little detour had something to do with not having to prepare himself an evening meal.
The kitchen was usually full of women and she herself was often back from school trying to lend a hand now that Ellen was fully occupied on the farm. Zillah was worried at the strain of the past weeks on the girl, who had lost all her sparkle; her eyes were dull and sad, her hair unkempt and her tongue brutish and scolding to Mercy. It was as if Sunter’s death had hit her harder than anyone, quite out of proportion to her general indifference to her cousin.
Zillah was slightly unnerved to be sitting in the company of the vicar and not arguing with him. He sat in the visitor’s seat, not in the parlour which was chill and stiff but slouched by the fireside, his long legs stretching out to warm his boots, his eyes deep in thought. Here was a man carrying the worries of the world on his shoulders with a furrow over his brow which tightened his features, a strained puzzled expression on his face as if a clammed-up question were on the tip of his tongue.
‘More tea, vicar?’ Annie Birkett jumped into the silence. Zillah felt him wince and draw back. She could wait no longer in suspense.
‘What troubles you, Mr Hardy? You look like Atlas carrying the world.’ He looked towards her warmly.
‘I fear a miscarriage of justice, Miss Herbert. I have cause to visit a certain prisoner in jail who is accused of a terrible act but who proclaims his innocence with every ounce of his breath and I am inclined to believe him,’ said the vicar, looking around the room at anything and nothing.
‘Does he, indeed?’ sniffed Annie, sensing the direction of his drift. ‘And would I be right in thinking this villain lived not a mile from where I’m standing?’
‘Yes, I’m afraid you are, Mistress Birkett,’ answered Ralph tentatively.
‘How could you even dare to sit at my fireside and not think that such a man is nothing but a liar and a cheat as well as a murderer? Were you not there after the meeting yon first night when he bashed our Sunter to the floor? You saw for yourself.’
‘Yes, I admit I was present as you recall but there was provocation and the killing of a child’s dog to avenge, as there was the night of the fire when the deceased accused the man of setting the fields ablaze. Don’t count the fight at the football match, that was just high spirits . . . as on other countless occasions in this village when lads drink and fight. It strikes me as just too convenient to lay the blame on him alone. Mr MacLachlan is a fair man—’
‘Don’t you even mention his name in this house. He has brought shame on us by his pestering of Ellie. Now she’s brought low with sadness on two accounts. I want no more talk of this matter. The sooner they pack up Paradise camp and send them on their way the better. There can be no more doings with them after this.’
‘Not all workmen can be branded murderers and thieves. I have seen many civil and courteous craftsmen at work on the site. There’s still much to be completed, years of work ahead of them in this dale.’
‘You’ve changed your tune, Mr Hardy. Time was when you couldn’t abide any of them.’ Annie Birkett stood firm.
‘But I can’t stand by and watch a man hang for a crime he may not have committed. I see I’m distressing you but there are facts to be accounted for. What does Miss Herbert have to say, sitting so quietly?’ Ralph Hardy was looking to Zillah for support, his grave grey eyes blinking nervously.
‘I can have no view on any of this as a guest in this house. I’ve seen the sorrow all this has brought to this family. I would not wish to offend. But I have to say that there is much distress in the camp. Children are stoned on their way to school and spat on by the other scholars. They are afraid to come down into Scarsbeck and my classes have halved, putting the future of the Mission effort into jeopardy. Miss Bulstrode will not condone any navvy children in the playground and wants them out of sight. How can I teach children under those conditions?
‘I’m torn in two by loyalty to both village and camp. Perhaps it would be better to remove the pupils back to the reading room at Paradise and teach them there. The children have a right to be taught whatever their circumstances. How can I take sides in all of this? My best pupil was about to take an important examination. I have to confess that my dealings with the Scotsman have been civil and courteous and law-abiding so I’ve no reason to speak ill of him. He’s young with a fiery spirit to match his hair. Surely you don’t hang a man for that? He was well-matched by young Mr Lund who was by all accounts rough-natured, hard on his animals and uncouth at times.
‘What I do notice is that suddenly he’s been canonised by his murder as if his true character has to be bleached by death.’
‘Oh, Miss Herbert, that’s unkind and unfair! How could you?’ snapped the older woman, sinking back into her chair.
‘Because I’m not family . . . you’re all so close to this tragedy, you see it only as a mother and aunt. I see only what I observed in the past. I’ve no reason to blanch away stains of character as if they never existed. As for you, Mr Hardy, you must do as your conscience dictates. Never disobey an impulse of the heart, my nanny once said. The truth will out. If the truth we hear is false then we must make sure
that justice is done for all and the real villain is punished. If there is anything I can do to further the campaign for truth then please, both of you, make it known.’ Zillah found she was weeping and fumbled for her lace hanky in embarrassment.
‘We agree at last, Miss Herbert.’ There was no sarcasm in his voice and she looked up in surprise at his gentleness. Their eyes locked for a second and Zillah dropped her glance quickly, heated by the intensity of their meeting of minds, anxious that Mrs Birkett should not be excluded from their new alliance.
‘You must do as you think fit, vicar. Far be it from me to stop you tending to yer flock, black sheep and all. I only know that Paradise will get no more milk, eggs, cream or cheese from me or mine in this dale. They’ll have to look for provisions to Burgoine and Cock’s delivery cart. We may only be plain country folk but when we make a stand we can turn stubborn as donkeys when it suits us. We never asked for a railway up our backside, pardon my bluntness, but that’s what we feel. Bethany Wildman knew a thing or two when she cursed the meeting. She saw trouble in the wind and no mistake. What a canny old bird, every word of hers coming true. There’s been more burials in a six-month than in two hundred years round these dales. She’s best out of all this trouble, bless her, and laughing at our foolishness, no doubt.’ Annie folded her arms on her chest waiting for a reply.
‘I’m sorry to bring hard words and little comfort but I do need to talk with Ellen. She may clarify the situation slightly,’ said Ralph as he stood up to take his leave.
‘What’s she got to do with any of this?’ Annie was on the defensive again.
‘Just a few questions to further my enquiries.’
‘You sound more like a constable than a minister. Please yourself, she’ll be milking in the shed. I can’t think she can add legs to yer snake . . . so if you’ll excuse me I have stock to see to and pigs to fatten for the kill.’
