Poor Law (The James Blakiston Series Book 2)

by R J Lynch

  ‘Oh, my dear fellow. If only you had heard some of the things that I have heard. The man who objected when he saw that the dowry he had hoped a young woman would bring him was to go to another. It was the money he wanted and not the woman. The sweet-faced, seemingly innocent young maid who became a screaming harridan when she heard that the rogue whose child she carried had betrothed himself to another. The man whose banns we had already published twice and were to do so for the third and final Sunday when two women I had never seen before, with five children between them, took their seats at the very back of the church before the service began. I knew something was afoot for they were veiled and they took care that neither their own faces nor those of their children could be seen but I had no idea what they intended. We went all the way through the service and then when I said, “If any of you know cause or just impediment why these two persons should not be joined together in holy matrimony, ye are to declare it”, these two stood as one, doffed their veils and in unison announced, “The just impediment is that he is already married”. Then, in turn, they pointed a finger at themselves and said, “To me!”

  ‘Good Heavens! What happened?’

  ‘It became clear that the would-be groom was in the habit of marrying women of substance – they were both widows, James, as was the putative bride from our own parish – and absconding with their dowries. He was arrested but on the way to Durham Jail he disappeared. I am sure he gave money to the Captain of Dragoons but there was no way to prove it. In any case, we never saw him again. But that is the maid tapping on the door to tell us dinner is ready. Shall we go in?’

  Chapter 15

  At six next morning, Jeffrey Drabble and William Snowball began the work of preparing the harvested fields for gleaning. By nine, the lane beyond the hedges had already been filled for two hours by jostling parishioners and their children anxious to gather up every scrap of usable grain that the reapers had left. The two men opened the gate to let the crowd in and walked back to New Hope Farm for breakfast. Dick Jackson, who had been at Gaskell Lodge carrying out the same work for Job King, joined them.

  Drabble was glad that Dick was here, for the unease he always felt in Snowball’s presence had not abated. Susannah Ward moved round the table, pouring small beer for all three men and setting out butter, ham, cheese and a loaf of bread. Dick was hacking off a slice of the cheese to put on the bread he had already cut for himself when the maid came back with a flat black frying pan in which sizzled a wide and thick yellow confection. ‘What’s this?’ he demanded.

  ‘It’s eggs, you stupid old man,’ said Susannah. ‘What do you think it is?’

  ‘There’s no need to speak to me like that, woman. You should treat your elders with more respect.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Drabble. ‘Dick knew your mother before you were born.’ He put his hand to his chin. ‘Now there’s a thought. How old are you, Susannah Ward?’

  Dick laughed but Susannah looked furious. ‘Dick Jackson is no father of mine and if you talk about my mother like that I’ll break your head with this skillet.’

  ‘Be that as it may,’ said Drabble, ‘the dish surprised us.’

  ‘We have a lot of eggs,’ said Susannah, ‘and no one is taking them to market. Better to eat them, I thought, than let them go to waste. I’ll think differently next time.’

  William Snowball had carved himself a big chunk of the cooked eggs and was tucking in with evident pleasure. ‘Don’t do that, pet. This is lovely.’

  ‘Rosina at the rectory told me how to make it. It’s French. She called it an amlet. And don’t you call me pet,’ said Susannah.

  ‘French?’ said Dick, putting down his knife.

  ‘If you don’t want it you don’t have to eat it.’

  When she had flounced out, Snowball said, ‘Did they not offer you breakfast at Gaskell Lodge, Dick Jackson?’

  ‘They did. But there is no more work for me there until Thursday and so I came back here for the pleasure of making Susannah Ward cross. Don’t eat the whole of that egg thing, William Snowball; leave some for me and Jeffrey Drabble.’

  ‘You’re going to eat it then? Even though it’s French? I wonder what American breakfasts are eaten at Gaskell Lodge?’

  ‘Job King feeds his men on the same things that we eat here.’

  Drabble had been aware for some time of Snowball’s watery eyes on him. He cut himself a slice of amlet and stared at the other man. ‘I think you have something you want to say.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Snowball.

  Drabble waited but it seemed that Snowball was having difficulty in going further. ‘Out with it then.’

  ‘I think you have the ear of Mister Blakiston. I believe he listens to what you say.’

  So that was it, Drabble thought. He wants employment and he imagines that I, who have no position and am hired by the day just as he is, can help him get it. Well, let him ask. I’ll not speak the words for him. He turned to Dick Jackson. ‘You should eat this. I know how you feel about the French after you were there in the wars but this is good. Try a bit.’

  ‘Well, I will,’ said Dick. ‘I’d best be quick or yon greedy bugger will have had the lot.’ He picked up his knife and removed the remaining omelette from the pan.

  ‘Well, will you or won’t you?’ said Snowball.

  Drabble turn to look at him. ‘Will I what? You have not asked me to do anything.’

  Snowball mopped what was left of his egg with a piece of bread. ‘Help me with Blakiston,’ he said. ‘What were we talking about?’

  ‘I am a day labourer. The same as you. Do you not think I would help myself, and Dick Jackson here, before you?’

  ‘You are old men,’ said Snowball. ‘And you have no families. No children to feed. No wife to nag you when you have no money.’ He leaned across the table. ‘Look, Jeffrey Drabble, I know what it is that troubles you. But now you have seen me here at the harvest and, whatever else you may think, you know I am a hard worker. Do you not?’

  ‘Aye,’ said Drabble. ‘I will not deny you that. You have worked as hard as any man I have known.’

  ‘And as well,’ said Snowball.

  Drabble nodded. ‘As hard and as well. It is true.’

  ‘So?’

  Drabble cut himself more bread and cheese to eat with his omelette. ‘We should be nicer to yon maid. There are few who cook this well and even fewer who will do so for the likes of us. Jemmy Rayne will be a lucky man when he weds her.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Snowball, ‘you are right, she treats us well considering what an ill-tempered wench she is and we would do well to treat her the same. But we were speaking of me.’

  Drabble slammed down his knife. ‘No. You were speaking of you. I was trying to avoid it. Yes, it is true, you are a hard worker. It is also true that you are known as a man who cannot tell the difference between what is his and what belongs to others. You were the first person to find Margaret Laws dead in this place and if you told us the truth about that, which as we all know is something you find difficult to do, you would not say that you were worried about a farmer’s wife. You were here because you hoped to find something that was not yours that you could use or sell.’

  He picked up his knife and angrily speared a piece of cheese. He was aware of three pairs of eyes on him. Dick Jackson was smiling calmly in that way he had as he observed the world around him. Susannah Ward stood in the doorway watching Drabble and drinking in every word. And William Snowball had turned white and was clutching his knife in a tense fist. ‘You had better put that knife down,’ said Drabble, ‘for I promise you, you are watched with interest. Do you deny what I have said?’

  Snowball did not answer. Instead, he forced as much food into his mouth as it was possible for one mouth to hold, raised himself from his bench, broke wind loudly and marched out of the kitchen, slamming the door behind him.

  Dick Jackson held up his pot. ‘Susannah Ward, your beer is as good as your amlet. Do you have more of either?’

  The
maid stepped forward and served beer from her jug. ‘The amlet is all done. I am happy you enjoyed it. If no one comes to take the eggs to market, I will cook another tomorrow.’

  Jackson sipped at his beer. ‘You have made yourself an enemy, Jeffrey.’

  ‘I would rather have William Snowball as an enemy than as a friend. You have never told me – not really told me – what it was like in France.’

  Dick’s smile faded. ‘This is a strange conversation. We were talking about Snowball and suddenly you speak of France.’

  ‘Ever since you returned it seems that you find the world an amusing place. Whatever bad things happen, they do not trouble you as they trouble others. What happened to you there, to make everything now a reason to smile?’

  ‘You are right. I do not speak of it. And if I did, you would not thank me. Susannah Ward, that was the best breakfast I have eaten in a long time. If Jemmy Rayne finds another, you may apply to me with every confidence of acceptance as my wife.’

  ‘Hah! I would as soon be chained to a Musselman as to an old goat like you.’

  ‘She is right,’ said Drabble. ‘I do not think, at our age, we could hope to keep so hearty a maid happy for long.’

  ‘That is no business of either of you,’ said the maid. ‘And now, find somewhere else to be for I have work to do in this kitchen.’

  While the labouring men had been readying the harvested fields for gleaning and then taking breakfast, Blakiston had been on his way to the Durham County Gaol. He was aware that the only suspect he had for the murder of Margaret Laws was Margaret’s husband, Joseph. While Blakiston had serious doubts about Joseph’s guilt, there were questions the man must answer before he could go free.

  He did not see the gaol as a safe place for Obsidian and therefore gave the ostler at The Turk’s Head three pence to stable the horse before walking to Saddler Street. There an obstacle presented itself when the gaoler demanded that Blakiston hand over his pistols before entering. ‘You are mad,’ said Blakiston. ‘Or you believe I am. You expect me to walk into this home of thieves and villainous cutpurses without the means to defend myself?’

  ‘That is the rule I am given,’ said the gaoler. ‘No one may visit a prisoner armed. I should have prevented it the first time you were here. I could lose my position.’

  ‘You could lose your life if you attempted to enforce such a foolish regulation.’ Blakiston handed him two pence. ‘Find a room where I can sit without being overcome by filth and damp, difficult though that may be in such a hovel. Then bring the prisoner to me and fetch him a cup of small beer. You may spend what is left on a drink for yourself. And let us hear no more about the giving up of pistols.’

  The money was clearly enough to settle the man’s conscience and soon Blakiston and Joseph Laws were sat together in a room that was at least dry, though cleanliness was beyond the gaoler’s ability to provide. ‘Laws,’ said Blakiston, ‘it is time for you to tell the truth. You say you did not kill your wife and I am inclined to believe you for there has been another killing of a very similar nature which you could not have performed because you were locked up here at the time. Nevertheless, you are the first and only suspect for Margaret’s murder and unless you talk to me in a way that makes me understand your actions you will swing for it after the next assize. Do you understand what I am saying to you?’

  Joseph Laws licked his lips and nodded.

  ‘Your wife’s body bore signs of beating. And more than once. I believe that it was you who assaulted her. Do you deny that?’

  Laws shook his head.

  ‘Why did you beat her?’

  Laws looked at his feet. ‘Mr Blakiston, let me congratulate you on your engagement to Kate Greener for I never had the chance to do so when your banns were called. You have chosen well. That is something I could not do for I wanted to be sure of Home Farm and I took the only bride available to me. I paid a heavy price for that farm.’

  He fell silent and eventually Blakiston realised that he would have to point out that what he had heard was not enough. ‘A heavy price?’

  ‘My wife was born to be a whore. No normal marriage and no normal man could ever have been enough for her.’

  ‘You discharged your serving man, Emmett Batey.’

  ‘I came from the fields and found him with Margaret, doing what they should not have been doing. If I had not driven him immediately from the farm I would have killed him. But he was not the only one.’

  A melancholy entered Blakiston’s heart. He knew that Laws was right when he said that he, Blakiston, had chosen his bride well and it saddened him to know that unhappiness such as Laws had known could exist between man and woman. ‘There is no need to go on. I do not need to hear the full list. And I have pity for you. But you must see that this does not help your position. If your wife manoeuvred to get you out of the house and, indeed, out of the county on the night that your maid was also from home in order to satisfy her lust with some other man, your anger on returning home would be ample reason for murder. I imagine her behaviour would see a sentence of hanging commuted but you would still be a likely candidate for transportation to the colonies.’

  ‘I don’t know that it was Margaret who sent that letter. I don’t know that she saw a man while I was away.’

  ‘That is not what happened? You did not return home to find a man with her?’

  Laws shook his head. ‘What happened is what I told you happened. I came home and she was already dead.’

  ‘And you saw no-one.’

  ‘No-one.’

  ‘Well, it is unhelpful. For when there is a victim the law will require an antagonist and there is no-one but you.’

  Laws shivered. ‘I feel the hemp on my neck already. But you said there had been another killing. Who?’

  When Blakiston had told him the story of Ezra Hindmarsh, Laws shook his head. ‘My wife. Someone else’s child. There is no pattern to this, Mister Blakiston. There is a madman loose, who kills without reason wherever he sees the chance.’

  There was no more to be done here, and Blakiston called the gaoler to take Laws back to his cell. The relief of once more breathing the untainted air of the Durham streets was tempered by two thoughts: that Joseph Laws might hang for a murder someone else had committed; and that, if Laws were correct and the murders had been carried out without pattern or motive, there was no knowing how many more would die unless he found the killer. And how was he to find someone who killed for no reason?

  Then a third thought nagged at him and he turned back and tugged on the rope beside the gaol door. Door and walls were thick, but he could hear the bell tolling inside and he kept ringing until the gaoler’s bad-tempered face appeared in the doorway. ‘What visitors has Joseph Laws had besides me?’

  ‘Him? He has had none.’ The gaoler moved to close the door and Blakiston used his foot to prevent it. ‘He congratulated me on my engaging to marry. But he was already in here when the banns were first rung. Who told him of it?’

  Contempt played across the gaoler’s face. ‘There are people in and out of here all the time, overseer. If someone thought your affairs worth speaking of, someone else will have heard and talked of it. And now I’ll thank you to remove your boot from my door and let me be about my business.’

  The life of Lord Ravenshead’s agent was a busy one and Blakiston had five farms to visit that Monday. Coming from Durham City meant that he entered His Lordship’s domain from the side furthest from Chopwell Garth and Home Farm and he began his inspection at the farm nearest to hand. It was three in the afternoon when he reached Home Farm. Jeffrey Drabble was at work in the yard repairing damage suffered by one of the carts used in the harvest. Dick Jackson was helping him. Of William Snowball there was no sign.

  Blakiston tied Obsidian to a post close enough to the drinking trough to let the horse quench his thirst. ‘You had trouble with the cart?’

  ‘They are not so sturdy as waggons,’ said Jackson.

  ‘Perhaps not,’ said Blakis
ton, ‘but they make the work quicker and easier. Do they not, Dick Jackson?’

  Challenged in this way, Dick could only acknowledge that what the overseer said was true. A man was more content if things remained as they had been in his father’s and his grandfather’s day but life was not like that. You had only to look at the way the coal pits were growing, and the villages for the men that worked them, and the manufactories in towns like Newcastle and Darlington that were so much bigger than anything that had existed when he was a boy. Not that he went to Newcastle or Darlington any more. In any case, whatever he might think, carts were replacing wagons and they had better get on with repairing this one.

  ‘Where is William Snowball?’ asked Blakiston.

  ‘Gone off in a tiff,’ said Drabble. ‘Though he will know that you are here and as he wishes to speak to you doubt not that he will return.’

  And he was right, for at that very moment Snowball entered the yard. His face still bore signs of the rage in which he had departed.

  ‘Jeffrey Drabble tells me you are in a tiff, William Snowball. About what? He also says you wish to speak to me and I ask again: about what?’

  Snowball could not be unaware that there was nothing welcoming about Blakiston’s questions and the agent watched his face grew redder. ‘Mr Blakiston, it is not easy for a working man to raise a family when he does not know from one day to the next whether he will be employed. I asked Jeffrey Drabble to speak to you on my behalf but he would not and so I must ask you myself. I have shown in this harvest how hard and how well I can work. Can you offer me a permanent place?’

  ‘We have not yet decided what to do about Home Farm. It may remain as it is with a new farmer or I may join it with Chopwell Garth. The farmer of course will not be you and as for labourers, Emmett Batey has first call here.’

  ‘But he left!’ said Snowball.

  ‘And he is to return,’ said Blakiston. ‘That is my decision to make and I have made it. Dick Jackson, is it your impression that Job King has room for another labourer?’