Sixpenny Stalls

by Beryl Kingston

  He turned to give her his full attention. ‘Do you remember when this was?’

  ‘Oh yes,’ she said. In that odd passionless state of hers she remembered it clearly. ‘It was the last afternoon before the regional meeting. I was in a rush. Edward was helping me and he said,’ (Oh how well she remembered it!) ‘“Top and tail them”.’

  ‘By which he meant …?’ Frederick prompted.

  ‘Look at the top book on the pile and then the bottom one and ignore the rest.’

  ‘Ah!’ Nan said. ‘So that was how it happened.’

  ‘Mr Maycock brought in another pile at the last moment and Edward said he should do the work of ordering them to make amends for being a nuisance.’

  ‘We progress,’ Mr Brougham said, nodding his white head. ‘Did he order them? Can you remember?’

  ‘He must have done.’

  ‘Then we need to interview this man,’ Frederick said to Nan. ‘It might be possible to shift the onus of responsibility upon his shoulders if that is where it belongs.’

  ‘The firm is being taken to court too, is it not?’ Caroline said. ‘I would have to represent the firm.’

  ‘Unless we were able to name the publisher,’ Frederick said. ‘If the Society were in a position to take action against the publisher they might well see their way to dropping one or other of the charges against the company.’

  ‘Then the sooner we see that wretch Maycock, the better,’ Nan said. ‘I’ll send a messenger for him the minute I get back to the Strand. Is there anything else?’

  ‘Not for the present,’ Frederick said, smiling at her. ‘If I hear anything more during the day I will tell you of it at dinner.’

  But there was something else, and it had already arrived in the building. The two women were on their feet and ready to leave, Nan buttoning her gloves and Caroline automatically tying her bonnet, when a clerk shadowed into the room and bent to mutter a message into Frederick’s ear.

  ‘Here’s your Mr Rawson arrived, my dear,’ Frederick said, ‘with information that concerns us all, or so it would appear.’

  So they stayed to see what it was.

  Mr Rawson was rather out of breath and his grizzled hair was standing on end like a badly used brush, but his triumph was obvious and warming. He grinned at them so widely that they could see every single one of his remaining teeth.

  ‘I’ve come hot-foot from t’ Daily Record,’ he said. ‘Your informant is unveiled, Mrs Easter ma’am. He gave no name to t’ reporter but t’ man says he’d remember well enough and he gave me a fair description. But then, when I went down to t’ lobby and made a few inquiries there, one of t’ hall porters knew him by sight. ‘Tis a feller called Jernegan, so he says, and he works at Easter’s in Regent Street.’

  ‘Would the hall porter swear to all this?’ Mr Brougham asked.

  ‘Aye, he would.’

  ‘Then this is splendid news, Mr Rawson. Perfectly splendid. You see what strides we make, Caroline.’

  ‘Mr Jernegan,’ Nan said grimly. ‘Well now, that don’t surprise me at all, for the man’s a wretch. Always has been. You’ve done well, Mr Rawson. We’re beholden to ’ee.’

  ‘Happy to be of service,’ the weaver said, beaming at them.

  ‘Mr Jernegan shall answer to us as well as Mr Maycock,’ Nan said grimly. ‘They shall come here together.’

  So it was arranged. And Mr Rawson was asked to attend too ‘for identification purposes’.

  ‘Now,’ Nan said, ‘perhaps we shall get to the bottom of it.’

  But that was easier said than done.

  * * *

  Mr Maycock was so anxious he spluttered like a candle in a breeze but he was adamant that he couldn’t remember suggesting those particular books to Mrs Henry. Such books were abhorrent to him, he said. He would never have suggested that such books be offered for sale. Never. And having taken a stand right at the very beginning of his interview, he maintained it to the end. He couldn’t remember ordering the books either, although when pressed he admitted that he might have signed an order slip for them, ‘under somebody else’s instructions’. But that was as far as Mr Brougham could push him. He couldn’t remember somebody else giving him such instructions, so naturally he couldn’t name the somebody else, whoever it was. He couldn’t remember visiting the publisher, whoever he was either.

  ‘In short, sir,’ Mr Brougham said, ‘what you are asking me to believe is that you cannot remember anything at all.’

  ‘No sir,’ Mr Maycock said stoutly, ‘my memory serves me very ill indeed.’

  ‘Or very well,’ Nan suggested with heavy sarcasm.

  ‘There is little to be gained by further questioning at this stage,’ Frederick said to Nan,

  Mr Maycock was allowed to cough towards the door. But just when his hand was on the door knob, Mr Brougham spoke again, and this time with theatrical clarity, addressing his words to Nan. ‘Perhaps, Mrs Easter, it would be fairer to Mr Maycock were we to tell him that we know of certain transactions in Holywell Street.’

  ‘I see no reason to divulge any information to Mr Maycock,’ Nan said, acting her part without any theatricality at all. ‘He would only forget it.’

  Mr Maycock seemed glued to the door knob, his neck strained with the effort of listening.

  ‘Even so …’ Mr Brougham said. ‘Mr Maycock, would you spare us a few more moments of your time?’

  ‘Sir,’ Mr Maycock said obediently, turning from the door to face them.

  ‘Were we to be shown certain – shall we say papers – upon which your signature was set, and which indicated that an order for certain books had been made in your name and under your signature, then that would alter your conception of this business somewhat, I daresay? It might even, shall we say, jog your memory?’

  ‘If you have such papers, sir,’ Mr Maycock spluttered, ‘I should see them, sir,’

  ‘There is nothing in law which requires that to be done, Mr Maycock. Should the matter come to court, which it very well may, and you were asked to give evidence, which again you very well could be, then of course, you would see the document in question and be asked to testify whether the signature upon it were yours or no.’

  ‘Meantime it en’t nobody’s business but ours,’ Nan said tartly. ‘You may go, Mr Maycock. We don’t need to detain you.’

  Mr Maycock’s face was visibly torn with indecision, his flabby lips swinging from side to side as he scowled, his mutton-chop whiskers shifting and trembling, his eyes blinking, while Nan and Frederick and Caleb stared at him implacably and Caroline watched as though she were at a play. Finally he gave a gulp like a frog, gathered himself and leapt out through the door, opening it so clumsily that he hit his shins.

  ‘Now,’ Frederick said calmly, ringing for his clerk, ‘we will take coffee. That will refresh us and give our two gentlemen adequate time to stew in their own juice.’

  Caroline was impressed despite her apathy. ‘Why, it’s like a play,’ she said.

  ‘Yes, my dear,’ Frederick agreed. ‘The law and the theatre have a deal in common.’ And as his clerk came into the room, ‘Coffee now, Mr Mellors, if you please. And are the gentlemen together?’

  ‘Yes sir. In the waiting room, sir. How long should they be left?’

  ‘Give them twenty minutes,’ Frederick said. ‘That should be ample for our purposes, I think. Then show Mr Jernegan up, if you please.’

  Mr Jernegan was sullen with apprehension, his long saturnine face brooding darkly and his spine poker-stiff. He sat down without a word, glancing apprehensively at Nan and Caroline.

  Now it was Caleb Rawson’s turn to join the drama, answering Mr Brougham’s opening question with the assurance that, yes, this was the gentleman who had been seen in the offices of the Daily Record.

  ‘And known by name I believe you said, Mr Rawson?’

  ‘Yes indeed, sir. Known by name. No doubt of it.’

  ‘Perhaps you would care to comment?’ Mr Brougham suggested courteously to Mr J
ernegan.

  ‘I was in the newspaper office, yes sir. I admit it,’ that gentleman said. ‘But under orders, sir. Under orders. I would not have undertaken such a mission without orders.’

  ‘From whom, sir?’ Nan said. ‘If you wish us to believe you, you must name the man.’

  ‘It won’t be agreeable to you, Mrs Easter,’ Mr Jernegan said, looking sideways at her with an expression that was both calculating and smug.

  ‘Devil take it, Mr Jernegan, none of this is agreeable to me. Name the man.’

  ‘It was your grandson, Mrs Easter. It was Mr Edward Easter.’

  The news came as no real surprise to Nan Easter. She had suspected it in a vague uncomfortable way for some time, and the certainty had hardened when she’d heard about his precipitate holiday. ‘As I imagined,’ she said. ‘You tell me nothing I don’t know.’

  Her reaction was a disappointment to Mr Jernegan but he persevered. ‘It was his idea that we should show Mrs Henry the books we considered suitable.’

  ‘And you considered these books suitable?’ Mr Brougham asked.

  ‘No sir, I did not. I never laid eyes on them. I know nothing about them.’

  ‘But you knew about the court case that you reported to the Daily Record?’

  ‘I knew something of it, sir.’

  ‘Something?’

  ‘Yes, sir. I knew what Mr Edward told me about it.’

  ‘And what did Mr Edward tell you about it?’

  That was a poser and required thought. ‘He told me that – um – questionable books had been sold and that Mrs Henry had received a letter of complaint about them.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘And he sent me to the paper, sir.’

  ‘So,’ Frederick continued, ‘we are to assume that Mr Edward wanted this story to be printed by the Daily Record?’

  ’I’m sure I couldn’t answer for Mr Edward’s intentions, sir.’

  ‘Could you not?’

  ‘It ain’t for the likes of me to question the purposes of our employers,’ Mr Jernegan said, retreating behind formality. ‘Oh no, sir, that wouldn’t do at all, as I am sure you appreciate. Orders are given, you understand, and we carry them out.’

  ‘As Mr Maycock did when he went to Holywell Street, to the premises of Mr – er,’ searching through the papers on his desk.

  ‘Exactly the same, sir, yes.’

  ‘He was obeying instructions?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Even though he knew this man was a publisher with a reputation for – what was your term? – questionable books?’

  That was another difficult question, requiring another prolonged pause. ‘I’m sure I couldn’t say. You would have to ask Mr Maycock.’

  ‘It did not occur to either of you that what you were doing would bring disrepute to the firm?’

  ‘That was not our intention, sir.’

  ‘Then why do it?’ Nan said.

  Truculent silence.

  ‘Come now, Mr Jernegan, I want an answer.’

  ‘I couldn’t say, ma’am. I couldn’t speak for Mr Maycock. Nor Mr Edward neither.’

  ‘Howsomever,’ Mr Brougham said mildly, ‘we may safely assume that you had reasons for your own actions.’

  ‘I suppose so.’

  ‘Then tell us what they were,’ Nan insisted.

  Mr Jernegan looked her full in the eye without speaking for several long seconds while he tried to judge whether it would be more to his advantage to speak than to keep silent. When he spoke it was with a boldness so harsh that it grated their ears. ‘We did it, Mrs Easter, so that everybody would see that a commercial firm is no place for a young lady.’

  ‘Indeed?’ Nan said icily.

  He realized his mistake and floundered, trying to justify himself. ‘Not meaning any disrespect to you, ma’am. Only about books you see, ma’am. To choose books, ma’am. Books should be chosen by men. Books ain’t a woman’s business.’

  ‘I doubt if the Misses Bronte would agree with you,’ Frederick said dryly, ‘nor Mrs Gaskell.’

  ‘They may write ‘em,’ Mr Jernegan went on, spurred by Nan’s glare. ‘That’s true enough. I mean to say I can’t deny that. But they shouldn’t choose ‘em, now should they? In all conscience they shouldn’t choose ‘em. Being there are books written that no lady ever sees nor ever should see. It don’t make sense to let a lady choose. Well, I mean to say, if these books had been chosen by a man none of this would have happened, now would it?’

  ‘If my memory serves me aright,’ Frederick said, ‘they were chosen by a man. By Mr Edward Easter, is that not so? Or did you choose them? Is that it?’

  ‘No, sir. I did not.’

  ‘Or Mr Maycock, possibly?’

  ‘No sir,’ Mr Jernegan said frantically. ‘It was Mr Edward, sir. You have my word.’

  Nan jumped to her feet as if there were springs under her shoes. ‘Get out! You loathsome object!’ she yelled at him. ‘Get right on out. Take a week’s pay, you and Maycock both, and leave my employ this minute. And if you’ve any sense at all in that hideous head of yours, which I very much doubt, you’ll get as far away from me as you can, for if I ever see hide or hair of you again I won’t be answerable for the consequences.’

  Her rage was so terrible that he ran from the room, eyes bolting, without waiting for Mr Brougham to dismiss him or stopping to close the door behind him.

  ‘Good riddance to bad rubbish!’ Nan said, dusting her hands of him. ‘To plot against you, my dear. I never heard the equal of it.’ Then she remembered that Frederick had been in the middle of an interrogation, and grimaced an apology at him. ‘Oh Frederick, my dear, were there more questions you wanted to ask?’

  ‘No,’ he said mildly. ‘We shall glean no more from that quarter. I doubt whether he knows the name of our publisher, and if he does he won’t divulge it now.’

  ‘Never you mind, my dear,’ Nan said to Caroline, fiercely protective. ‘We’ll find him, never you mind.’

  But Caroline sat stunned by the impact of what she’d just heard. They hate me, she thought, understanding what had been said because she’d been able to receive it with so little emotion. Even my own cousin hates me. It didn’t make sense. What did I ever do to him that he should hate me? They’d never liked one another very much, because he was so spoilt and because he’d always been so superior, especially when she was little, but she’d never hated him. She’d never wanted to shame him in front of everybody, or trick him, or plot against him. Why, it was hideous. Like a nightmare. Family shouldn’t behave like that.

  ‘I think it might be sensible for us all to go home,’ Caleb said quiedy to Nan. He’d been watching Caroline’s pale face all through both interviews, noticing how still she was and how silent, and he was torn with pity for her, pity and paternal concern.

  ‘Yes,’ Nan said, glancing at that pale face herself. ‘Time we were getting back.’

  ‘If you’ll allow me, ma’am,’ Caleb said to Nan, offering his help instinctively, ‘I will find this publisher for you.’

  ‘Could you?’ Nan said.

  ‘I don’t know,’ he had to admit, ‘but I’ll do my darnedest. We have an address if not a name.’

  ‘We have a street,’ Mr Brougham corrected. ‘And a street full of such questionable publishers and other activities that are a great deal worse. It will be a Herculean task.’

  ‘I will do my best,’ Caleb said, smiling at that poor pale face. ‘If Mrs Easter will dress me like a merchant, I’ll see what a merchant can discover.’

  ‘I’ll do better than that, Mr Rawson,’ Nan said warmly. ‘If you are to work for us in this manner, I shall take you onto the Easter payroll.’ And when he opened his mouth to protest, ‘Now come, if I accept your services I shall be depriving you of the time you need to earn a living at your chosen trade, en’t that so? Very well then, since that would prey upon my conscience, you must humour me and accept my wage.’

  So it was agreed, and the weaver was persuaded to accompany th
e two women back to Bedford Square, so that he could be fitted out with suitable clothes.

  ‘My heart alive!’ Nan said, as the carriage trotted northwards along the Tottenham Court Road. ‘This has been a morning and no mistake.’

  ‘If only it would all end here,’ Caroline said sadly. But as all three of them knew, their difficulties had only just begun. ‘You are very kind to help us, Mr Rawson. I am glad Will sent you here.’

  ‘Happy to be of service,’ Caleb said. And he was. For the first time in his life he was working to help an individual rather than a cause, but the reward was the same. Nay better. ‘After all t’ good work your mother did for t’ poor, it’s t’ least I can do.’

  ‘You knew my mother well, did you not, Mr Rawson?’

  ‘Aye. I did.’

  ‘Was she a saint?’

  ‘No,’ he said, surprised by the question, ‘she wasn’t a saint. We’re none of us saints. She was a very good woman.’ And for a brief and uncomfortably vivid moment he remembered her, lying mutely in his arms on that one rushed fearful occasion when he’d made love to her, taking her as carelessly as he’d taken all the other women in those far-off, selfish days, more shame to him. And he regretted it now as he’d regretted it during his convict days. ‘A kind, loving woman.’

  ‘Do you think she would be ashamed of me, Mr Rawson?’

  His answer was so forthright it lifted her spirits. ‘Ashamed of you? Facing all this much wi’ such courage? I should just think not. Why, she’d be proud of thee, lass.’

  This time the familiarity of his speech was comforting. And so was the sight of that rough honest face of his. ‘I have a picture of you at my cousin’s house in Clerkenwell, Mr Rawson,’ she said. ‘My mother drew it as an illustration in a little primer she made to teach Will to read. W is for weaver. One day when all this is over, I will show it to you.’

  ‘I shall be honoured,’ he said.

  But all this was not over.

  * * *

  The next morning the newspapers were dominated by reports that another revolution had broken out in Paris. But in lesser columns below the main story they also gave the date of Easter’s impending court case. And the Daily Record added the information that two of Easter’s managers had been summarily dismissed. ‘On the grounds that there is no smoke without fire,’ the article said, ‘we venture to suggest that many of the rumours currently circulating in London could well be true.’