Bucket's List

by Gary Blackwood

  Though he took a morning train, by the time he finally reaches Lancaster, it’s nearly dusk. Two more hours are taken up with hiring a gig and navigating the muddy track that leads to Blackwater. A more fitting name for the place would be Backwater. Judging from the buildings, which include a decrepit iron foundry, it must once have been a fairly prosperous village – a hundred years ago or so, when being situated on a fast-flowing river counted for something. But the advent of the coal-fired steam engine had the same effect on industry that it had on transportation – an even greater effect, actually. Horse-drawn wagons still have a place in the world, at least for the time being; water-powered factories are all but obsolete.

  Of course, so are bare-knuckle boxers, but a few of them are still in business, and so it is with water mills. Mr Stubbins is apparently either very conservative or very stubborn; instead of investing in what the Luddites termed ‘the iron monster,’ he’s increased his so-called horsepower by adding on new and larger water wheels, one after another. So far, he has a total of ten, which power sixty spinning mules, not to mention carding machines, drawing frames, and slubbing frames.

  At the moment, most of the machinery is silent. The spinning mules are run only during daylight hours. Though mill owners may be tyrants and money-grubbers, they’re not fools; they know well enough – some of them by experience – how disastrous the combination of cotton fly and gas lighting can be. The only devices operating now are the half-dozen weaving looms that Stubbins installed recently, in an attempt to breathe new life into his ailing enterprise.

  The looms create more than enough noise to cover the sound of Charley’s horse and carriage. Nonetheless he leaves the rig tied up beneath a tree and approaches the place on foot. A dozen yards from the mill itself are two low, shed-like buildings with no ordinary windows, only skylights – dormitories is Charley’s guess, and as usual it’s a good one. From the larger building comes the sound of adult voices, barely audible over the racket from the looms. There’s none of the carousing or singing or laughter you’d expect from workers who have shrugged off the day’s yoke and may do what they please, for a few hours, anyway. The voices sound sad and weary and subdued.

  The second building is completely quiet. So is Charley, as he moves to the door, which is barred from the outside. He lifts the bar, opens the door hardly more than a crack, and slips inside. The shed smells of unwashed bodies and unwashed chamber pots. It’s lit only by the moon, which is nowhere near full; still, Charley can make out three rows of beds, each consisting of an upper and a lower bunk. Each bunk is occupied by two small forms huddled beneath a single blanket so thin and scanty as to be hardly deserving of the name; you’d think a cotton mill, of all places, could at least provide decent blankets. Now that he’s within, the place is not as quiet as it seemed; there’s a continual soughing, almost like that of the wind or of waves, but composed of coughs and sniffles and sighs.

  Charley wishes he’d brought the bull’s-eye lantern. As it as, his only means of locating Audrey is to weave his way among the bunks, calling her name softly. A few pale faces turn toward him, but most of the children pull the blankets over their heads, as though fearing he’s some bogeyman come to claim a victim; if he can’t find poor Audrey, he may decide to settle for them instead. Only one child, a strapping girl with a hoarse voice, is brave enough to speak. ‘Who are you?’

  ‘Inspector Field,’ whispers Charley. ‘From London. I’m looking for Audrey MacKinnon. Do you know her?’

  ‘I know a Audrey; I dunno her last name. She’s in the hole.’

  ‘The hole?’

  ‘The little building behind this ’un. ’Tis where they put them as tries to run off.’

  ‘Thank you. You’re from Lancashire, I’m guessing?’

  The girl nods.

  ‘Are you an orphan?’

  ‘I wasn’t when I left home. ’Twas my mam sent me here. Said she had too many mouths to feed.’

  ‘How long ago was that?’

  ‘I’ve lost track. Four years, maybe.’

  ‘Have you ever tried to escape?’

  She shrugs. ‘If they don’t want me at home, where would I go?’

  Charley wishes he could take this child and all the others with him, this very night. It’s impossible, of course. What he can do, though, is report on the conditions here to the Factory Act inspectors and make sure they pay the place a visit. He can also give an account to Mr Dickens or to Miss Treville, the lady reporter; no doubt her paper would love to print a series of sensational exposés. But first he has to find Audrey.

  The hut known as the hole is about the size of a jail cell, but is even more dismal, for it has no windows at all, not even barred ones. The narrow door is secured with a lock, against the unlikely event that one of the prisoner’s chums should try to set her free. Luckily, Stubbins is either too ignorant or too miserly to invest in a really secure device; the cheap Willenhall yields as readily as a streetwalker.

  The moment he opens the door, a child’s voice says, ‘Could you let me go to the privy, please? I promise I won’t try to run.’

  ‘Sssh, now. It’s me, Charley Field. I’ve come to take you home.’

  There’s a brief silence, as though Audrey can’t make sense of this outrageous claim; she can’t see him, after all. ‘Is this a trick?’ she says at last.

  ‘No, it’s really me, I promise.’

  ‘Prove it.’

  ‘I gave you a doll for Christmas. You named it Charlene.’

  There’s another pause, and then the child propels herself into his arms like one of the baby monkeys at the Regent’s Park Zoo. ‘Oh, Inspector! I’m so glad to see you!’

  ‘Sssh!’ cautions Charley, again. ‘We mustn’t let them hear us.’

  ‘Sorry. Are you going to arrest them?’

  ‘Not just yet. First we have to get you away from here.’

  He tries to set her down, but she clings to him like that monkey baby. Noticing how prickly her hair feels against his chin, he runs a hand over her head. Damn them; they’ve cut off all her lovely wine-colored hair – no doubt as a punishment for trying to escape. To add insult to injury, they’ve likely sold it to a wig-maker.

  Charley locks the door when they leave, to avoid arousing suspicion, then carries Audrey pig-a-back to where the concealed carriage waits. He’s about to lift her into the seat, when she says, ‘Can I do my business in the bushes first?’

  ‘Of course, my dear. Just don’t stray too far, will you?’ As Charley is untying the horse, he hears a rumbling, crunching sound – the wheels of another carriage. Cursing, he draws his own rig deeper into the shadows just as the newcomers hurtle recklessly past, far too quickly considering how dark the night is and how rough the road. They’ve clearly failed to spot him, and for a moment, he congratulates himself. Then, over the clatter of the carriage, he hears a voice – high-pitched yet unmistakably a man’s – shout, ‘Can’t you slow it down, just a little?’

  The driver lets out a raucous laugh that resembles a strangled cough, then says, in a rasping voice, ‘Don’t be such a damned poof, Reggie!’

  ‘The devil take me!’ mutters Charley. Alarmed, he turns to call to Audrey, but she’s already standing next to him.

  ‘It’s him, isn’t it?’ she whispers. ‘The man with the broken neck.’

  ‘I’m afraid so.’ Charley crouches next to her. ‘Is he the one who brought you here?’

  ‘Yes. Only we came on the train. He said I was going to live with a nice family. He said they had a dog, and a boat, and everything.’

  Back when Charley was a copper and came upon Neck setting fire to that boot shop, he knew he could either capture the villain or put out the flames, but not both. He’s in the same sort of fix now, torn between rescuing Audrey and collaring the coves who occupy the two top slots on his most-wanted list. ‘Listen,’ he says quietly, ‘if you want to be an inspector some day, the first thing you have to do is learn to follow instructions; you understand?’


  Audrey nods soberly. ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Good. Here’s what I want you to do: Stay hidden here until I return, even if it takes a while. Can you do that?’

  She nods again, more eagerly. ‘I’ll burrow into the underbrush, like a rabbit.’

  ‘You won’t be frightened?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘You won’t come after me, and you won’t run off?’

  ‘Cross my heart,’ she says, and makes the appropriate motions.

  ‘All right, then. I’m counting on you, Constable Audrey.’

  ‘I won’t let you down, sir.’

  ‘I believe it,’ says Charley. He only hopes that he won’t let her down.

  Keeping to the shadows, he approaches the mill again. The newly arrived carriage sits just outside the low wooden structure that Stubbins has tacked on to the mill to house the looms. The rig matches the general description of the brougham that Neckless was accused of stealing a few days ago, though it’s clearly been repainted and the rightful owner’s coat of arms removed.

  At the moment, there’s only one figure sitting in the dickey box and, judging from the squat shape, it’s Mr Reginald Hoggles himself. There’s no sign or sound of Neck; he must have gone inside. Charley creeps up from the rear; as he carefully circles the carriage, a child’s face appears at the side window – a boy; so, Priestley’s is not the only orphans’ home from which Neck is stealing children. The inspector puts a finger to his lips, and the wide-eyed boy nods to show he understands.

  Placing one foot on the passenger’s step, Charley grabs hold of the side lantern and swings himself upward; the motion sets the spring-suspended carriage swaying. When Hoggles jerks his pumpkin-like head around to see what’s up, Charley plants a fist in the middle of the man’s face. Before he can recover, Charley seizes him by the shirt collar and yanks him sideways; he hits the ground with a thump, like a letter bag thrown from a mail coach.

  As quick as gunpowder, Charley has his borrowed handcuffs out. He clamps one end to Neckless’ thick wrist and the other to a spoke of the wheel. Fishing his bandana from the pocket of his frock coat, he hands it to Hoggles so the man can stanch the blood bubbling from his nostrils. Then he opens the door of the brougham and peers inside.

  Two girls, aged eight or nine, cower on the upholstered bench seat. Perched on the foldaway seat is the boy, who is likely a year or two younger. ‘Don’t be afraid,’ says Charley. ‘I’m a policeman.’ Well, almost. ‘I’ll get you out of here as soon as I can. I just need to catch the other fellow first, right? Stay here and don’t move. That’s an order.’

  He bends over his prisoner and says softly, ‘Now. Where’s your partner got to?’ Hoggles flaps the red-stained kerchief toward the sound of the looms. ‘I hope for your sake you’re telling the truth,’ says Charley. ‘I’m going after him, and I would advise you to keep your bloody mouth shut, or it’s likely to be a lot bloodier, and with a lot less teeth.’

  The inspector scrambles across the open yard and crouches down next to one of the lighted windows. Though the shed could easily hold twenty power looms, Stubbins has apparently decided to start small and work his way up. Lined up at one end of the gallery are six iron-frame Lancashire looms; they rather resemble printing presses, or perhaps pump organs with the woodwork removed. The young women who stand before them wear dresses that are almost scandalously short and close-fitting – not because the girls are trollops but because the less fabric there is the less likely it is to be caught in the belts and gears. For the same reason, their hair is tightly braided or covered by a cap. Next to the weavers are their assistants – girls so small that they have to stand on bricks in order to reach the warp threads and feel for any broken ones.

  At the near end of the room stands Neck, conversing with a portly cove wearing a frock coat, waistcoat, and trousers all of the same gray broadcloth. Though Mr Stubbins’ mill may belong to an earlier age, when it comes to clothing no one can accuse him of being out of fashion. The two men are obliged to shout in each other’s ears in order to be heard over the clattering of the looms. That’s good. With any luck, they won’t hear him coming.

  TWENTY-SEVEN

  He wishes he’d brought his walking stick, or at least a second pair of handcuffs. Neck isn’t going to let himself be taken without a fight. Well, Charley will just have to make do with his fists. He’ll need to be quick about it, though; the last two times he caught up with Neck, the bastard had a revolver.

  He’ll also have to be quick about making his entrance; no dilly-dallying outside the door, gathering his nerve, or his eyes will adjust to the dark again, and the gas lights inside will blind him. Now’s the time, now that Neck is turned with his back to the door. No need to break the thing down; they’d have no reason to lock it. Just turn the handle, fling it open, and plow right in, like a boxer coming out of his corner, getting the jump on his opponent.

  Stubbins sees him first; the man’s jaw drops and he utters something unintelligible, some combination of Who? and What? Unable to turn his head properly, Neck swivels his entire body around. His hand reaches for the bulging pocket of his coat, but he’s too slow; Charley is already upon him, seizing the man’s shirtfront with one hand and, with the other, knocking the revolver from his grasp. The hammer of the Colt’s painfully gouges Charley’s knuckles, but he ignores it. ‘Mr Tufts,’ he hisses, through clenched teeth, ‘I’ve been looking for you.’

  Neck gives a ghastly grin and says, in his coffee-grinder voice, ‘Whatever for?’

  ‘I wouldn’t know where to begin,’ says Charley. He notices Stubbins eyeing the gun, which lies on the floor a few feet away. ‘No, no. You don’t want to do that, believe me.’ Best not to leave it there to tempt him, though. Giving Neck a shove to put him off balance, Charley bends, scoops up the revolver, and shoves it in his pocket; he can keep the prisoner in line well enough without it.

  Or so he thinks. But once again, he’s underestimated the villain. From somewhere on his person, Neck has, magician-like, made a Philadelphia Deringer pistol appear. Unlike the evildoers in those penny bloods, he wastes no time gloating or explaining himself; he just points the thing at Charley’s chest and fires.

  There’s no pain at first, only the sense of being struck by something far more powerful than any bruiser’s fist, probably even that of the Chinese Colossus. Charley doubles over, clutching his ribs, groaning, gasping for breath. And yet somehow he manages to stay on his feet, to force himself almost erect, to take a lurching step forward, then another. Neck flings the useless one-shot at him; Charley bats it aside and advances, halting but relentless, still not bothering to reach for the Colt’s in his pocket. He doesn’t want to shoot the blighter; he wants to close his hands around that stiff, scrawny neck.

  Step by step, his quarry backs away from him and, for the first time that Charley can recall, he looks worried – panicky, almost. He’s clearly thinking the same thing Charley thought as he watched Neck scramble across that snowy rooftop and make his escape: Good god, the man is indestructible.

  Neck doesn’t dare turn to survey the room; it’s such a slow and awkward process for him, Charley is sure to close the gap between them. All he can do is keep on backing up, heading for the only other exit, which lies at the far end of the shed, beyond the looms. The weavers and their assistants, unwilling to flee and risk being consigned to the hole, flatten themselves against the wall, leaving a clear path for Neck to navigate. Well, almost clear. They haven’t bothered to move the bricks on which the girls were standing, and it’s one of those that proves to be Neck’s downfall.

  His heel catches on it; he stumbles, does a quick shuffle step in an effort to regain his balance, and doesn’t quite succeed. Like a man with too many drinks in him, he staggers sideways and knocks one knee into the nearest loom, which brings him even closer to falling. He thrusts out an arm to catch himself but, instead of connecting with the frame or something equally solid, he lands on the fiercely spinning leather belt that transfers power f
rom the drive spindle. Snagging the sleeve of his frock coat, the belt drags his arm into the massive gears and severs it from his body, as effortlessly as a drumstick is yanked from a Christmas goose.

  There’s no point in trying to bandage Neck’s wound; within a very few minutes, he’s bled out. Once again, he defies the conventions of the penny bloods by failing to utter a few final words of remorse at having devoted himself to a life of crime. He dies unrepentant and blessedly unaware. Doesn’t Death have a keen sense of irony, though? After foiling all attempts to dispatch him deliberately, by means of nooses, scalpels and revolvers, the man is done in at last by a stupid accident.

  But what about Charley’s wound? Surely it needs bandaging, perhaps even surgery. Well, the fact is, he hasn’t suffered an actual wound. Oh, he’ll have to put up with aching ribs for the next week or so, but that’s nothing new. How, you may wonder, is that possible? After all, he was shot by a .41 caliber pocket pistol at close range.

  If this were a certain sort of novel, it would turn out that he was carrying a Bible in his coat pocket, and that the lead buried itself in the plethora of pages. But Charley doesn’t even own a Bible. And, though Mrs Gaskell’s book would surely stop a bullet, he left it on the train. He is, however, wearing a Mongol vest made of twenty layers of tightly woven silk, and it has lived up to its reputation; not only can it turn aside a sword or an arrow, it can deflect a ball from a Deringer.

  There’s no point, either, in trying to settle the score with Stubbins just now; the factory inspectors will deal with him. Charley lets him go for the moment, but not before he’s issued a warning: If the man keeps up his practice of enslaving and abusing children, Charley will come back and burn his mill to the ground, preferably with Stubbins in it.

  He transfers the three newly arrived orphans to his rented gig, along with Audrey; true to her word, she never budged from her hidey-hole. He loads Neck’s corpse, swathed in some of Stubbins’ newly-woven fabric, into the brougham, then seats the dead man’s partner in the dickey box, handcuffing him to the wrought-iron side rail. ‘Mr Hoggles, you may lead the way. I’ll be watching your every move, of course.’