by Joan Smith
"What can it mean?"
He bunched his shoulders. “I've let the lads go on home, as I didn't want them all hanging about. With nothing better to pass the time, they might take to roistering."
"We must move the stuff."
"Tonight?"
"Yes, tonight. I don't like the looks of this.” I did not worry Jem about the special agent, but it was in my own thoughts that there might be a better brain than Crites working against us now.
"The lads are all gone off home."
"Get them back. They'll be paid double for double work. Have them bring it here, to the crypt."
"It'll take hours to round them all up, miss."
"That's all right. I don't want it done at once. If there is anyone snooping around, let him get good and tired and go home. We'll make the move toward dawn, Jem."
"Seems a bit unnecessary, like,” he thought.
"Better safe than sorry.” Jem was not satisfied with this platitude. Of course he was tired after a hard day, poor boy, and wanted to go home to bed. I decided to divulge to him my fears regarding the special investigating agent.
"Gorblimey, it's a good thing you read the papers. We've never heard a word of this. I'll round up the lads and bring the load here."
I felt a pang of pity, to see the poor boy dart from the yard, Lady a shadow at his heels, and to know he had a sleepless night before him. My own was hardly more restful. I had a great deal of thinking to do. The agent had arrived, and was already beginning to become a nuisance. He had discovered somehow that we used the school—Crites of course would have mentioned it. But why had he not arrested the men and taken the cargo on the spot?
This puzzled me for nearly half an hour, till I realized the new agent was more ambitious than Crites had ever been. He did not mean to content himself with my carriers. He was after the chief—he was after me, and had very nearly caught me. Had he followed Jem to the rectory?
The barrels arrived at the crypt door at four-thirty in the morning. I watched from the kitchen window, unseen, terrified that at any moment a shout or a shot would ring out. None did, nor did any subsequent hammering at the door come to signal my arrest. My care had paid off. The agent, if he had been lurking at the school, had given up and gone away, thus missing out on the second move. But he was dangerous. Thank God the men wore masks. Even if they had been seen, they could not be identified.
I blush to consider all the hours I sat puzzling over who the investigator could be, suspecting first the traveling salesman who had been selling brooms and brushes on Monday, the cousin of the Trebars, who stayed from Tuesday to Thursday, even the colonel visiting at Squire Porson's place, trying to remember if I had seen any of them in conversation with Crites.
The answer had been staring me in the face, and I should have been shaken for not seeing it sooner. It was Mr. Williams. He even had the lame leg, from being wounded at Waterloo. He was Colonel Sir Stamford Wicklow, with his military haircut. But how had he got himself into Owens’ store? The government could arrange anything—had worked some deal with the Owenses—a lucrative deal you may be sure. Owens’ business would not be worth a Birmingham farthing when this came out. Not a smuggling family in town (and that was the majority of the families) would go next or nigh them.
All Williams’ courting of the local wenches was similarly explained. He was sniffing around for news, trying to work his way into confidence with the men via the girls, calling at any house that would give him sitting space. I had to get a warning out to my men at once that Williams be told nothing.
I gave up any pretense of sleep, and went downstairs to make myself a pot of tea to help me work out my arrangements. There is nothing like a pot of tea; it is the greatest panacea there ever was. It can wake you up, put you to sleep, settle your nerves or steel them to do your unpleasant duty. It performed all those functions for me that night, in a little different sequence than I have mentioned.
Of prime importance was that Williams not suspect I was on to him, which made it poor policy to tell the men directly. They were a close lot, but if even one let anything slip, the secret would be out. They would be warned that old bogeyman, the government, was taking special steps to trap us, but Wicklow would not be pinpointed. Next item was to find a new hiding place, for the school was now useless, and I had no desire to implicate myself or Andrew by using the crypt.
The cautious, the intelligent thing to do would be to discontinue deliveries for a while, but if we stopped taking shipment, others would soon take up the slack. I had just been at some pains to arrange a good price in London providing we delivered regularly. Interrupting the supply so early in the game was a poor business tactic. It was autumn too, with the winter, the best season, coming on. I might as well confess the whole while I am about it.
On top of all these rational reasons, there was a quite irrational one as well. The game had been becoming almost dull. Crites was too easy to fool. I welcomed taking on a more challenging foe. I would not be brought to a standstill by Colonel Sir Stamford Wicklow, with his greasy grin and double-dealing. I would continue to accept every load I could get my hands on, and devise a way of doing it without his knowledge. I had the advantage of having pierced his disguise early in the game. This might be turned to good account as he seemed intent on flirting with anything that wore a skirt. I would try his own trick, and see what I could discover by making up to the opposite sex.
But first I must make arrangements for storing the next shipment—that was more important. I remembered Jemmie telling me Lord Aiken's place had been used once in an emergency. I must discover whether Crites had ever caught on to this ploy. The weekend was always a good time for making contact with Jem. I led the church choir, and he was one of my singers—a very good tenor voice he had. We had a small musical group comprised of flute, violin and cello all sitting up in the gallery (everyone of them smugglers). Andrew would have liked to rout them out and play the organ instead, but his presence was necessary below. This Sunday there would be the added contact of my handing out the calico as well, in the church porch. Sunday was time enough to talk to Jem, but on Saturday I would go into the drapery shop and give Mr. Williams’ nose a tweak.
After considering my tactics for a while, I decided the best ruse was to pretend to be smitten with him, like all the other girls. Bachelors were in such short supply around Salford that all the girls and even half the ladies were running mad for Mr. Williams. Still, as he was posing as a draper, he could not seriously expect any real romance with me. I must be at some pains to conceal that I possessed a brain, and rather regretted having boasted of my imaginary love of Shakespeare.
It was unlikely my visit would reveal a single fact of any importance; a clever investigator would not let fall his plans, but still I looked forward to it as a game. I was curious to get a sharper look at him, to try to find a flaw in his accent or manners, now that I was on to him. I suppose it was no more than a wish to weigh up the enemy.
Saturday was always a busy day in the shops of Salford. On this Saturday, you had to fight to get a foot into Owens'. Around noon hour the crowd thinned out, and I went in to see what luck Sir Stamford was having with the wenches. Those saucy, ill-bred Turner twins were making faces at him in a disgustingly forward manner. They were his only two customers. One of them held a tiny bag that could not possibly contain more than a yard of ribbon. He looked up when I entered, then excused himself to the twins. This first move confirmed in my mind he was Wicklow. Mr. Owens or anyone of his class would not have automatically excused himself so prettily.
"G'day, Miss Anderson,” he said, with a good imitation of the provincial accent. “A lovely day, isn't it? What can I do for ye?"
"I came to inquire if the calico has been delivered. I expected to see it at the rectory some days ago.” I knew full well it sat on the table in the church porch, but I had directed him to deliver it to myself.
"I had it taken over to the church,” he answered. “I understand that's where it'
s measured up and handed out."
"Yes, it is, but I did particularly ask you to deliver it to the rectory."
"I'll have it sent right over to ye. Why, I'll take it myself, ma'am, as I am about to go for my luncheon."
"That won't be necessary, Mr. Williams, but next time, perhaps you would be kind enough to follow my orders.” I then peeped over his shoulder to the giggling Turner twins. “Mr. Williams is free now, girls,” I told them. “Sorry to have disturbed your little cose,” I apologized to him. “So nice to see you are finding some congenial friends in town.” I hastened out the door before he could think of a retort, but not before a certain pugnacious jut had taken over his jaw.
The delivery boy came to the door of the rectory within ten minutes to hand me the bale of calico. When you are a working lady, the weekend is not long enough to attend to the dozens of little personal chores that accumulate. There are your laces and collars to see laundered and ironed (by your own hand, as these rare treasures are not trusted to just anyone), broken shoelaces to be replaced, sewing and mending, the hair to be cut, coiffed or rearranged, and so on. If you happen to be a teacher, there is a pile of badly written work to be looked over and corrected as well. I had wrung a dispensation out of Andrew to do the schoolwork on Sunday. I consider him quite a Solomon in all religious matters, and as he considers me the judge in anything of a practical nature, we all three—Andrew, God and I—go on quite happily.
On Sunday morning I was in the gallery with my choir boys and musical group. I had arranged for them to come early that we might greet the congregation with music on their way in, and hopefully rid them of the habit of gossiping quite loudly before the service started. I kept a sharp eye below me, particularly on the Owens box, to see if Wicklow planned to attend. When I saw a dozen bonnets turn around, I suspected he had arrived, as he had. He carried no hymnbook, but arose and sang with the others at the appropriate times. Once early on in the service he turned around and looked up to the gallery, and again on his way out he craned his neck quite openly up, staring at us.
We in the gallery sang the congregation out the door as well as in, after which we nipped smartly down the staircase to receive compliments on our performance. I was usually the last to get away, as I had the job of rounding up the music and storing it in the cupboard. As I finished up this chore, I heard a heavy tread on the stairs. I turned to see Wicklow coming toward me, hat in hand, greasy smile in place.
"Good morning, ma'am,” he said, bowing politely. He had switched from the local g'day, using Sunday manners.
"Good morning, Mr. Williams. Did you wish to see me?"
"Aye, I did. That was grand music ye provided. I enjoyed it very much."
"Thank you. It was kind of you to come and tell me so."
"Not at all. A good performance ought to be congratulated."
He deserved congratulations on a pretty good performance himself, but I could not bestow the earned praise. “You must excuse me. I have to go down to the porch. This is calico Sunday,” I reminded him.
"Ah yes, ye got the calico all right?"
"Yes.” Oh, and had forgotten to have it returned to the porch for distribution! I hastened to the stairs as though the place were on fire.
"I was hoping to speak to ye a minute,” he called after me.
"Later,” I said over my shoulder, then caught Billie Marson by the elbow to go and fetch the material back to the porch, lest Mr. Williams should begin to wonder at my having had it removed.
There is a certain etiquette involved in the giving out of calico, which is as follows. Those not receiving stand around to see which of their neighbors are, but do it with all possible finesse, only flickering their eyes to the door as each recipient comes out with her length carried as inconspicuously as possible under her arm, or stuck into a reticule if she has one large enough. Those who are ashamed of receiving aid have a son or daughter stand by their side to dash off home with it, while the mother returns to the yard to chat with the non-receivers, as though she is unaware this is calico Sunday at all. When you see a small handful of women remaining behind long after all the others are gone, you know they are the handful who would want and could well use a length, but are too proud to go on the parish record. They will saunter into the porch, looking over their shoulders, and mention having dropped a glove or left a book behind, if an overseer has been at my shoulder, this is his time to depart.
"Oh, Miss Anderson,” they will say in surprise, “You are here! But it is calico Sunday, of course. It quite slipped my mind. What quality is it?” They come and feel it, and if the woman has the good fortune to be alone with me, she will then proceed. “All this left over? There must be six ells at least. What will be done with it?"
"I haven't a notion, Mrs. Samson,” is my line. “Would you care to take a piece?"
"Oh, I am not on charity!” she will exclaim, offended.
"Seems a shame to waste it. But it may find a use before long."
"If you are looking for something to do with it..."
The scissors are already snipping off a length, soon the hands (Mrs. Samson's) are folding it into a parcel of the smallest possible dimensions and stuffing it into a recticule of the largest possible, carried on purpose on this day. Then Mrs. Samson goes to pick up the glove she carefully forgot behind, while Mrs. Carr comes to comment with surprise that several yards are left over, and what will be done with it?
The process was speeded up today as Mr. Williams, not on to our routine and the privacy desired, stood at the doorway waiting to speak to me. I cut the overlength up and folded it myself to give to the unentitled poor with only a nod and a smile as they went to get their glove. “Left over,” I said, as they each snatched it up eagerly.
"Ye certainly keep yourself busy, Miss Anderson,” Wicklow said as the last woman departed, her calico miraculously disappeared into some fold of her pelisse or pocket. The reticule was not bulging as it ought.
"Be not solitary, be not idle. You follow the first rule, I the second."
"I follow both when I can."
"What is it you wish to see me about?” I had an idea he meant to ask me to walk or drive out with him. It had been discovered during the week that besides a handsome mount, Mr. Williams also possessed a whisky, a one-horse open carriage. I prepared my refusal with an inward smile.
"About the choir,” he surprised me by replying.
"You have already complimented me on the choir."
"Aye, so I have. It's so fine I've a mind to join, if ye'll have me."
I hastily considered this. It would be inconvenient to have him in the gallery, where I often managed a quiet word with Jemmie, as I had done this morning, discovering Crites knew nothing of the one landing at Lord Aiken's place, so that we could use it for the next delivery.
"How is your voice?” I asked, to give myself time to think. There were advantages to his joining. I could not be forever running into the shop like the Turner twins, and if I were to get at his brain at all, this would be an opportunity.
"It's considered fair,” he replied. “Good and loud at least."
"If you like, Mr. Williams, why do you not come to the practice next Wednesday evening, here in the gallery."
"I'll do that, miss."
Let it be understood from henceforth that when I was “miss,” Mr. Williams was smiling and flirting with me; when I was “ma'am,” he was most formal. It will save a deal of repetition. “I hope it will not cut too severely into your socializing,” I said, with a little bit of encouragement.
"It's a sociable town surely. Everyone very friendly. Almost everyone, that is to say,” he added with an arch look.
"You must refer to the men, sir, for I'm sure all the girls have been very friendly indeed."
"Yes, the girls have, but the ladies are not so kind. I hope to sing myself into charity, ye see."
"Let us see how prettily you sing, sir, before we speak of charity."
"Ye are active with the charity work in
town, I see."
"As the rector's sister, many small duties come in my way."
"It's an awkward way the business is arranged, to give the calico so publicly, is it not?"
This was a bone of contention between myself and the Parish Council, but no better way had occurred to me. A visit to the doors of the poor, or they to the rectory at calico time, would be equally well noted.
"If you have a better idea, I would be happy to hear it."
"The best idea is to obviate the need of charity entirely."
That high-flown “obviate” had slipped out unnoticed by him.
"Is there a great deal of poverty in the town?"
"You would not be inclined to think so from the hordes who pass their days in the drapery shop, but there is plenty of poverty."
"I wonder how the poor people keep body and soul together. There is quite a bit of unemployment around, but I suppose here on the coast the men are into a spot of free trading."
"Very likely,” I answered innocently, while my heart beat faster. He was angling for information. I must take care that he learn nothing from me.
"How is it done, do ye know?"
That he was asking me so openly was a relief. He would not do so if he suspected for an instant I was in any way involved. “It comes in on ships, I believe, Mr. Williams,” I answered, feigning surprise at his obtuseness. “Brandy comes from France—it must come in on ships."
"To be sure, but I meant once it is landed, what is done with it?"
"It is sold."
He nodded, and finding me singularly uninformative, changed his tactics once more to dalliance. “Nice day for a drive, miss,” he said leadingly.
"A lovely day. My brother and I plan to drive up to Felixstone to visit friends."
"Do ye usually drive out with your brother?” he asked.
"Why no, I more often drive out with my companion, Miss Halka,” I replied, arising to indicate the meeting was over.
He frowned in open displeasure at the putting off, as he held the door wide for me to exit. There were no less than three groups of common girls still hanging about outside the church, three quarters of an hour after the service was ended. They were waiting for a chance to try their charms with Williams.
