‘And where might we find him?’
‘Search me. He doesn’t live in the town these days. He’s got a big estate in the country. I see him from time to time in his coach, pulled by four white thoroughbreds, bloody show-off. He has a lot of business interests abroad, and down south. He’s here, there and everywhere.’
‘What does he look like?’
‘Big fat fucker in a powdered wig. I mean, who wears wigs these days?’
We thanked the man and made to leave.
‘Listen,’ he said, in an even lower voice than before, ‘don’t you ever mention my name alongside the name of Jonas Bold or Mr Earnshaw. Is that clear?’
I nodded. We made our way back to the other side of town.
‘Well, that’s something,’ I said.
‘Something’s better than nothing, that’s what my dad used to say, except when it’s trouble. Then nothing’s better than something.’
I thought about this Jonas Bold. What hold did he have on this town for men like Lancaster to be so circumspect? And what business had he with Mr Earnshaw that had to be kept so silent?
It was still light and there were plenty of people about town.
‘Let’s have a wander,’ Emily said. ‘My father always had a walk before and after supper. He said the walk before was to work up an appetite, and the walk after was to walk the meal off. I never understood that. You’d think working the roads all day would give you an appetite.’
‘Maybe he just liked walking.’
‘He preferred drinking and carding. And whoring.’
We strolled past St James’s church, where the stones were carved with grotesque gargoyles and where there were men congregated, talking away, children running around and people sitting on the doorstep. There was a quarry close to the church between Parliament Street and Duke Street from which stone was obtained, I presumed, for the public buildings that were all around us. There were faced blocks piled high at one end, but the workers had finished and their tools had been tidied away. I thought about our own quarry, Cathy, near Penistone Crag, where Joseph and I had spent many a day breaking stone while you were convalescing at the Lintons’, growing accustomed to all the trappings of wealth. I broke stone until my hands throbbed and I couldn’t make a fist. All the time wishing that I could break the heads of Hindley and Edgar. A task I would never tire of. As you were softening with privilege and pamper, I was turning blisters into burrs. I wondered what you were doing now. Were you with him drinking wine? Were you in his arms? Perhaps by now you were married. Maybe even fecund with his child. I shuddered at the thought of such a grotesque spectacle.
Opposite the quarry was an artificial hill called St James’s Mount. There was a sizeable garden and a walk called Mount Zion, where the wealthiest residents promenaded.
‘Let’s sit down for a minute,’ Emily said.
We sat and watched the display. Emily smirked at the sight of these fops. There were old men wearing elaborate embroidered frock coats, decorated silk fabrics, lilac with silver and diamond-stitched patterns, buttons of silver, green and white spangles. The young men wore coats cut at the back to resemble a swallow’s tail. Pink, light blue, lavender suits, ruffles of lace, spots, stripes and chevrons, braided seams.
‘Look at this one,’ Emily said, nudging me.
Walking towards us was a man in his early twenties wearing a coat and vest imitating the stripes of a zebra.
‘He looks a cunt,’ Emily said.
There was another, about the same age, with a coat decorated with the spots of a leopard. We sat and watched as they paraded along the garden walk. Short waistcoats and tight-fitting breeches. Round hats with wide uncocked brims. Gold-banded and tasselled. Shoes with decorative chains, hung with enamel plaques and cameos, so that they jangled as they walked. Two watch chains either side of their waists, curls plastered to their foreheads.
The women were just as preposterously attired. The older wore boned stays and hooped petticoats. The younger, softer-lined bustles, making them resemble downy pigeons. Robings and petticoats covered in flowers. Puffed pleats. Chintz and printed cotton. Neckerchiefs fluffed up so high that their noses were scarce visible and their nosegays like large shrubs. Their hairstyles were just as ridiculous, so high on their heads that they exceeded the length of the face, covered with feathers of all colours, or else a frizz of curls and loose ringlets. Enormous hats covered with ribbons, tulle and roses. Was this how ridiculous you had become, Cathy, in your new vain world?
Emily and I watched with some amusement. She pointed and sniggered at such vanity and pomp. I pictured you, Cathy, all trussed up in these latest fashions. I could just see you and Edgar arm in arm, looking like a peacock and a puffed-up pigeon, wandering around the garden. But in truth, this ostentatious display eclipsed even Edgar’s pomposity. I envied the rich their wealth and power, but not their diversions, which seemed beyond frivolous to me. I vowed that no matter how rich I became, I would not succumb to such narcissism and self-regard.
‘Why do they want to look like cunts?’ Emily said.
As we sat there watching these primped-up prats, I thought over my plans. I was resolved to stay in Liverpool town till I discovered something of Mr Earnshaw’s business. No matter how long it took. I was determined to learn what I could of my origins. Whether my mother was alive or dead. I had to know the truth.
‘My dad liked his clobber but he didn’t overdo it. He said there was a fine line between looking stylish and looking like a cunt. This lot remind me of some of the people we robbed. You don’t feel so bad about it when they look like that,’ she said, pointing to a woman dressed in a gown with silver buttons, her hair stuck on top of her head like a loaf of bread, red ribbons dangling down.
‘They sort of deserve it, really. They are asking for a bullet dressed in that garb. My dad said that when folk have more money than sense, it’s for those with more sense than money. Called it the fair distribution of wealth and wick.’
Pierce Hardwar
For the next week or so I spent the days working on the docks with Enoch Cotton lugging and slogging. With my ears still ringing with his yacking, I spent my evenings following up leads. I had names and I went looking for their faces. I wandered each street and lurked in every alley. I went from tavern to inn and every social gathering. I passed tenements teeming with sailors and victuallers. Thirsty men looking for drink to guzzle and a hole to poke. Dockers singing shanties and rigging for a cruise. The streets swarmed with strumpets pursued by wanton privateers. I saw men stripped to the waist fighting in the streets for a farthing. I watched games of ring-taw and able-whacket, barley-break and hot cockle. But away from the mirth and the merriment, the docks at night were an eerie place. There were fogle-filchers and cutpurses on every corner. Their faces looked ghostly in the light of the street lamps and their voices echoed over the muted waves. The sound of water lapping at the dockside took on a sinister insistence without the screaming of the gulls and the cacophony of industry. Everywhere the streets were filled with shadows, dark corners and unfriendly whispers.
One night we were sitting by the South Dock after another lead that had sounded promising had turned out to be a dead end, when Emily said, ‘So what are you going to do now, William Lee? You can’t just hang around here all the time, hoping that something will come good. It won’t.’
‘I’ve made a decision,’ I said.
‘What?’
‘Despite my better judgement, I’m going to approach Mr Hardwar.’
‘He won’t listen to you. He won’t even give you the time of day.’
‘Well, maybe not. But I’ve got to give it a try, Emily.’
‘I don’t like him.’
‘Who does?’
‘He gives me the creeps. You know what he said to me the other day? He said he’d give me a shilling if I stopped behind one night when everyone had gone and come up to his office.’
‘What for?’
‘What do you think?’
<
br /> ‘Dirty bastard. What did you say?’
‘I said I wasn’t that type of girl.’
‘What did he say?’
‘He offered me two shilling.’
This only confirmed my feelings. I had already heard rumours from Enoch and from other dockworkers that Hardwar had an unhealthy interest in young girls. I had kept a close eye on him.
‘Look, despite what we both feel about him, he could be useful. He knows things and I’ve got nothing to lose.’
So I bided my time, waiting for the right opportunity to come along. Then one evening in the third week of employment, I found myself working late, with everyone else, barring Mr Hardwar, having gone home.
I told Emily to meet me back at the Gallows. I waited until my work was finished and the old dock was entirely deserted, then I climbed the wooden stairs and approached Pierce Hardwar’s office. His door was open. He was at his desk, quill in hand, scribbling away in a red ledger. He didn’t see me so I knocked on the open door to get his attention.
‘Excuse me, sir, sorry to bother you at this late hour.’
‘What is it?’ he said without looking up.
‘I’ve finished my work, sir. I’m done for the day.’
‘Very well. Off you go then.’
‘Have you much work yourself, sir? You seem to keep such long hours.’
‘Work’s the only salvation. Keeps you on the straight and narrow. God made the world in six days. Deadlines are lifelines.’
‘I’m told he rested on the seventh, sir.’
‘Who told you that?’
‘It’s written in the scripture, is it not?’
‘Don’t believe everything you read.’
‘Have you been here a long time?’ I asked.
He looked up from his work and glared at me.
‘That’s none of your business. Who do you think you are, coming up here, poking your nose in?’
‘Sorry, sir, I was just interested.’
‘Well, don’t be. Now go and close the door behind you.’
‘Very well, sir. It’s just, I’ve got something that might interest you.’
‘I doubt that.’
‘Please, hear me out, sir. I promise you I won’t waste your time.’
He dipped the quill in the ink pot and wrote something in one of the columns, then he put the quill down.
‘This’d better be good.’
‘My sister, sir. If you were interested to have some private time with her, I could arrange it.’
He peered over his glasses at me and raised his eyebrows.
‘How much?’
‘Nothing. Well, not money in any case.’
He narrowed his eyes and puckered his lips. He regarded me with suspicion.
‘Then what?’
‘Answers. To questions. I’d like five minutes of your time for half an hour of my sister’s company. That’s all.’
He scowled and twiddled with his sideburns, but then he nodded and relaxed his glower.
‘Very well.’
He picked up a sandglass that was by an ink pot.
‘When this is through, so are you.’
He turned it over so that the grains of sand began to fall like water.
‘You’ve got five minutes, starting from now.’
‘How long have you worked here?’
‘Eighteen years. Give or take.’
‘Are you a native of this town then?’
‘Yes, born just a mile from this very spot. I’ve got Liverpool in my bones, you might say.’
‘I’ve roots here myself, I’m told.’
‘Your accent’s a Yorkshire one, is it not? One of the wapentakes of the West Ridings, I’d wager.’
‘It is, sir, but my father had business here. Perhaps you knew him.’
‘Perhaps. I’ve known many a tyke and tinker.’
‘His name was Mr Earnshaw.’
He leaned across the ledger, his eyes reaching into mine as though into a darkened room. He lowered his glasses and twiddled with one of his sideburns once more. He gave me a crooked smile.
‘Nope. No one I know.’
‘He was an associate of Jonas Bold. Have you heard of him?’
‘Of course. He owns half this town. Everyone knows Jonas. I don’t have anything to do with him personally. I’ve no time for the frivolity of society.’
The sand was almost through. More like one minute than five, I thought. I’d been short-changed.
‘I’m very eager, sir, to learn of my origins. It’s every man’s right to know his roots.’
‘Nonsense. A man has no more rights than is accorded to him by his station.’
‘But even a tree knows where it’s planted, sir.’
‘I’ll tell you what your origins are, same as any man’s. You’re the son of Adam. Even you are one of God’s children.’
‘But, sir. A little knowledge is all I ask.’
The sand had ceased to flow. The grains were spent. My minute was over. Mr Hardwar eyed the glass. He picked up his quill again and dipped it in the pot of ink by the side of the ledger.
‘Time’s up. Good day to you,’ he said and commenced scribbling in the book once more.
‘But, sir, perhaps if I described in detail this Mr Earnshaw. Some nine years past now he was here.’
He looked up briefly. ‘Seek not wisdom when it brings no profit. I’ll talk to you later about our arrangement.’
A drop of ink dripped onto the page of the ledger.
‘Now look what you’ve made me do.’
He dabbed at it with a blotter.
‘But—’
‘No buts. Send me your sister. If she pleases me, we will see if I can stir a memory or two.’
Defeated, I went back to my room in the Gallows. Emily had already bathed and changed for supper.
‘What kept you?’
I explained my meeting.
‘You did what?!’
‘Don’t worry, I’ve no intention of keeping my side of the bargain.’
‘That doesn’t matter to men like Hardwar, you fool – a deal is a deal.’
She tried to stifle a cough. But the more she did the more the coughing built, until she was hacking away violently. I waited for her to stop.
‘Look, I’ll make sure he doesn’t touch you.’
‘And how will you do that? You’ve offered me. To bargain with that freak. And for what? He didn’t give you anything. How many people have you approached now?’
I tried to tot up the tally in my head but I’d lost count.
‘How could you, William? How could you? After . . .’
Her words dried up and she stared down at the floor.
How could I, Cathy? After what had happened. After what I’d promised. That I would keep her safe. But I meant it. I wouldn’t let that man anywhere near her.
‘I’m really sorry, Emily. But I promise you, under no circumstances will I allow anything bad to happen to you.’
She shook her head. ‘This isn’t working, William. And now you spring this on me. Well, you can stuff it. I’m not going back there after what you’ve done.’
‘Well, we can’t work the graves. You put an end to that, you pillock.’
‘So this is my fault? Don’t think so. Using me like that. I’m not a bloody brood pullet.’
‘Look, I’m sorry. I had to use something. I’ll get you out of it.’
‘How? He’s a powerful man.’
‘Listen, here’s the deal. I’ll tell him you’re laid up with a fever, all right? I’ve still got three or four leads to follow up. It won’t take me more than a day or two. Give me to the end of the week and whether I’m any further on or not, we’ll quit there and then, move to the next town and go back to the burial grounds. How does that sound?’
‘Do you promise?’
‘I promise you, Emily. On my life. I won’t let anything happen to you.’
I made the sign of the cross.
Emily was quiet over sup
per. I tried to engage her in conversation. What was the soup like? Was the chicken cooked sufficiently? Were the carrots tender enough? Did she want afters? But she didn’t respond. I knew inside that I’d let her down. I’d gone too far. I’d crossed the line, but I was determined to rectify my error. I watched her push her food around the plate. I ordered treacle pudding but even this didn’t bring her out of her mood. Did she want custard with it? I ordered custard in any case. She left the bowl alone. The custard cooled and a thick skin formed.
I felt deflated too, not just with Emily’s mood, but also with my lack of progress. I couldn’t flog a dead horse for ever. All I had now was Jonas Bold and he was proving to be very elusive. Everyone knew him but no one seemed to want to talk about him. The rich man who got richer, then disappeared. Some use money to pursue fame, others to buy their anonymity.
The next day I went to Hardwar’s office and told him about Emily. He didn’t believe me but I assured him she’d be up on her feet in a few days, and that she would keep to our side of the bargain. He put down the book he was reading and folded his arms.
‘She’d better do,’ he said. ‘And near on the port quarter. What sort of ailment is it?’
‘Fever, sir.’
‘Best thing to break a fever is hard graft. Does she say her prayers?’
‘She’s burning up, can’t get out of bed. This day or two.’
‘Feed her good broth morn, noon and aft. Make her pray dawn and dusk.’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘As soon as she’s on her feet, tell her to report to me. With interest.’
‘Interest? How do you mean?’
‘My time is valuable. You waste my time, it costs you. I’ll want the full hour when next I see her. And listen to me, sooty. No funny business. If I get wind of anything, if you’re not being straight with me—’
Ill Will Page 18
