Liza

by Irene Carr

  ‘But not like this.’ He grinned at her, and she saw his point. Then he said, ‘I don’t want you going anywhere without me.’

  He took her home, sitting beside him in the Vauxhall.

  25

  SUNDAY AND MONDAY, 17 AND 18 FEBRUARY 1907, SUNDERLAND

  The body lay on the drive under a white sheet. William steered the Vauxhall round it and Liza asked, ‘Is he dead?’ William nodded, and she swallowed. She had thought Vince had been killed but to have it confirmed upset her. She felt no affection for him now — that had died when he betrayed her — and she owed him nothing: even at the end he had tried to extort money from her. But she felt sorry for him. Liza knew she need not explain to William, but she would. She regretted her young foolishness but had done nothing of which she was ashamed. ‘He was the father of my child. He treated me badly but he didn’t deserve this.’ She would tell him more, but later. Now he was handing her down from the Vauxhall.

  ‘Glory be to God! My puir lass! What have they done to you?’ Elspeth stood at the front door and wailed at the sight of Liza climbing the steps. She clutched William’s coat over her torn clothes and peered through a black mask of coal dust. Just the same Elspeth put her arms about her.

  Liza smiled at her, white teeth in a pink mouth. ‘I’m fine, Mrs Taggart, really.’

  ‘I told you to call me Elspeth,’ she said, and looked from Liza to William, then kissed them both.

  He laughed. ‘What was that for?’

  ‘Never mind. Look at the state of you, an’ all. Now, I’ve sent Gibson for the police. Before they get here, the pair of you need a scrub so up you go. Martha!’

  ‘Aye, Mrs Taggart.’ The young maid stepped forward eagerly. ‘Come upstairs, Miss, and I’ll run your bath.’ They went off but Elspeth drew William aside. ‘That Flora’s been telling me a few things about Doreen.’

  In her bedroom, Liza found the bed made and no sign of William’s occupation: the housekeeper had seen to that. Martha, excited, ran the bath and helped her undress. Liza said hesitantly, ‘Do you know that I’m not Miss Spencer?’ She did not know how much Elspeth had told the rest of the staff, but guessed she had reasoned that they would all find out eventually. Liza knew this from her own experience in big houses: the employers would talk of their private affairs and forget the servants were present, as if they were furniture. It would save a lot of trouble to tell them straight away.

  Sure enough, Martha said shyly, ‘Mrs Taggart told us. She said you only pretended and it was Miss Spencer’s idea.’

  That was true, if far from the whole truth. ‘That’s right.’

  ‘She said you were a lady’s maid, and you did it for a lark.’

  That was not the truth, but Elspeth had bent it for Liza’s sake. ‘Yes.’

  She lay in the bath — twice: it had to be emptied and refilled. The body she had given to William was bruised from head to foot, but nothing that would not mend.

  As she dressed, Martha asked anxiously, ‘Begging your pardon, Miss, but can I ask, did I give satisfaction? I mean, you being a lady’s maid, I suppose you noticed all kinds of things I was doing wrong.’

  Tongue in cheek, Liza reassured her: ‘No, I didn’t. You did very well.’

  Martha’s face lit up with relief. ‘Thank you, Miss. So can I still be your maid, please?’

  Liza saw that the girl had missed the point. ‘I’m not Miss Spencer, remember? I won’t be having a maid, won’t even be here.’

  ‘We thought you would be—’ The girl stopped. ‘Beg your pardon, Miss.’

  Liza wondered again how much Martha and the others knew about William and herself. She sidestepped the issue: ‘I’m starving.’ She had eaten no breakfast, but where should she take it? She was no longer Cecily, only Liza, who should eat in the kitchen.

  There was a rap on the door. ‘Liza? Are you coming down to breakfast?’ William called.

  ‘Yes.’ She took a deep breath and went out to him.

  As they descended the stairs he said grimly, ‘We have a job to do first.’ A police sergeant stood in the hall, helmet tucked under his arm, bald head shining. ‘Good morning, Sergeant,’ William greeted him. ‘You’ll be wanting to know what’s been going on here.’

  ‘That’s right, sir. If I could ask some questions?’

  ‘Of course. In here.’ William took Liza’s arm and led the way into the drawing room, sat her at his side on the chesterfield and waved the sergeant to a chair. ‘Briefly, this young lady, Liza Thornton, was persuaded by Miss Cecily Spencer to impersonate her. It was a harmless prank that went badly wrong because Jasper Barbour escaped from gaol. Miss Spencer had given evidence against him years ago that got him sent down. He came here seeking revenge and abducted Liza, believing her to be Cecily. He intended to bury her alive under the coal being loaded aboard the Wear Trader, the ship lying at Wearmouth staiths now, but he stood under a load as it fell out of the chute and was buried himself. They’ll be digging out his body now.’

  The sergeant had been sitting poker-faced and writing in his notebook. Now he looked up: ‘And the gentleman outside, sir?’

  ‘Murdered by Jasper Barbour.’

  ‘His name is Vincent Bailey,’ Liza broke in. ‘He abandoned me years ago. Yesterday he saw I was pretending to be Miss Spencer and demanded money. He came for it this morning but Jasper was taking me away and must have thought Vince was trying to stop him. Jasper hit him with a club of some sort.’

  They waited until the sergeant finished writing. Then he looked up. ‘The doctor said death must have been instantaneous. We’ve taken the body away now, sir.’

  ‘Thank you.’ Briefly William enlarged on the parts played by Flora and Doreen — as told to him by Elspeth.

  When he was done, Liza asked, ‘May I say something, please?’

  ‘0’ course, Miss.’ The sergeant waited, pencil poised.

  ‘I don’t want any action taken against them. Doreen is just a silly girl, but I think she may be wiser in the future. Flora was an accomplice of Jasper but she changed her mind at the last minute and may have saved my life. She told Captain Morgan what Jasper had said and that’s how he found me. Besides, too many people have been hurt already.’

  ‘Very generous of you, Miss.’ He wrote again, carefully, in his notebook. ‘It’s not up to me but I’m sure it will be taken into account.’

  William stood up. ‘If that is enough for now, Miss Thornton has had a harrowing experience and needs to take her mind off it. Suppose we come to the station tomorrow at nine and make formal statements?’

  ‘Yes, sir. Thank you.’ The sergeant put away his notebook and pencil and departed.

  William and Liza breakfasted, then drove down to the sea and walked along the shore as they had before. Liza did most of the talking. She told him everything about Vince and her daughter, and how she had agreed to impersonate Cecily for ten pounds because of her mother and Susan. She watched for the hostile look to return — but it did not.

  He took her arm. ‘That’s in the past. We’ve other things to talk about now. When I met Flora in the drive and she told me Jasper had taken you, I thought I’d lost you. I don’t want that feeling again.’

  They returned home late for lunch.

  ‘Did you enjoy your walk?’ Elspeth asked.

  ‘Yes, thank you.’ Liza smiled. ‘Will you ask Martha to come and see me? I have some news for her.’

  * * *

  They all met on Monday morning. As William had said, ‘We should see Arkenstall. I think he deserves to know.’ Liza thought the solicitor was entitled to an apology from her but she could face anything now. They made their statements at the police station then went on, but it had proved a slow business and it was nearer to eleven than ten when they reached Arkenstall’s office. They were just in time to find Cecily and Mark Calvert stepping into the street. Liza thought Cecily looked happy: ‘blooming’ was the word that came to mind. Liza made the introductions — and the explanations as to why and how she was there.


  Cecily listened with increasing incredulity. ‘You’ve earned the fee I promised you.’ Then she explained to William, ‘It was all my idea. I more or less forced her into it.’ And to Liza, ‘I just thank God you couldn’t have foreseen what lay ahead. If you had, you would never have taken on the part. I would have had to come here and Mark would not have got his job back.’ She dipped into her purse and gave Liza five sovereigns, then looked from her to William and back again. She added drily, ‘Though I think you owe me something.’ She nodded as Liza blushed.

  Mark had been shifting restlessly. Now he murmured his excuses and hurried off to find a cab. ‘We’re trying to catch the train at midday,’ Cecily explained. ‘He’s awfully busy, in fact we both are, because the place has gone to rack and ruin while Mark’s been away.’ Then she grinned wryly at Liza. ‘My inheritance turned out to be rather small. It seems Daddy made some bad investments just before he was killed and I owe a great deal to Uncle Edward, who supported me until now. He deserves my thanks and apologies. I’m sorry I’m too late, but I will remember him.’ She glanced at William. ‘I was pretty awful when we met in Hampshire. Will you forgive me? I wouldn’t like Mark to know.’

  ‘There’s no reason why he should,’ William assured her.

  ‘I’m sorry about your inheritance,’ Liza said.

  ‘Oh, we’ll manage,’ Cecily replied cheerfully. ‘Mark has quite a good salary. And the fact that I have no inheritance makes things easier. He never liked the idea of living off my money and I think he was relieved when he heard this morning that I hadn’t got any. I was able to help Mr Arkenstall, though. He wanted to know who Liza Thornton was and I told him. You should have seen his face!’ She giggled.

  Mark returned with a cab then, and he and Cecily drove off. She leaned out of the window to call, ‘You must come to see us!’

  William and Liza looked at each other. ‘That chap has wrought a change in Cecily,’ he said.

  Liza laughed. ‘Hasn’t he just!’

  Arkenstall met them at the door of his office, with a smile —and a slightly bewildered look for Liza. ‘I understand that you are, in fact, Miss Liza Thornton? Miss Spencer was telling me all about it.’

  Liza thought Cecily did not know the half of it — she knew nothing of the shocks and frights Liza had endured when she’d thought again and again that she had been found out, nor the fear of death at Jasper’s hands. ‘I’m sorry, but I — we — didn’t mean any harm.’ She and William told Arkenstall how Jasper had sought revenge and how Vince had suffered at his hands.

  The solicitor shook his head and muttered, ‘God bless my soul,’ several times. Then he conceded, ‘There doesn’t seem to be any need for charges.’

  ‘There won’t be any,’ William said firmly.

  Arkenstall took up a thick sheet of paper from his desk. ‘This mentions Miss Liza Thornton, and states that Miss Cecily Spencer would tell me where to find her. It is the will of Mrs Iris Cruikshank, witnessed by a Mrs Milian and a Mrs Robson, neighbours of hers, on Thursday. It’s simple and quite in order. I’ve acted for her for twenty years now and she brought it up here to my office on Thursday, just before closing, and gave it to my clerk. I’d already left to spend the weekend on business in Liverpool, so it had to await my return.’

  He paused to smile at Liza. ‘She left all her estate to you, in thanks for your kindness. It is just over ten thousand pounds.’ Liza gaped at him. ‘She made a comfortable income from that shop of hers, lived frugally and invested wisely.’

  Liza could picture Iris now, seated before the fire in her armchair, her cap set square on her head. Tears came to her eyes. Stunned, she murmured, ‘But why me?’

  ‘Your kindness,’ Arkenstall repeated, ‘and ...’ he glanced at the will to refresh his memory ‘... “She brought me peace of mind in my last days.”’

  Ten thousand pounds! But Liza knew what she wanted. That day she returned home to her mother and Susan, but came again to Spencer Hall in the spring, as its mistress.

  If you enjoyed reading Liza you might be interested in Katy’s Men by Irene Carr, also published by Endeavour Press.

  Extract from Katy’s Men by Irene Carr

  Chapter One

  WALLSEND-ON-TYNE. DECEMBER 1890.

  ‘Not another lass?’ Barney Merrick was the first man in Katy’s life. He glowered down at his newborn daughter, her pink face contorted and squalling under a little cap of black hair. His own voice came out strangled, in mingled disbelief and rage, from his face suffused with blood. He was a man on whom glowering fitted naturally. Barney had crinkly hair lying close to his bullet head. He was not tall nor broad but his chin always stuck out pugnaciously. His fists were clenched now as if ready to strike.

  ‘Hell’s flames! There’s no bloody justice! That’s three lasses now!’ His red-veined, pale blue eyes shot furious glances around the room. There was little to see. It was on the ground floor of a two down, two up house in a long terrace of fifty or more, one end of it almost in the dirty waters of the Tyne. Another family lived in the two rooms above. There was a bed, a chest of drawers and a chair, and underfoot was cracked, old and cold linoleum. A fire burned in the grate, a rare luxury, only lit because of the confinement of the woman in the bed. Ethel Merrick lay exhausted, the first delight at the birth now gone. In truth there had already been four girls, not two, but one had died at birth and another after only a few weeks of life. Ethel’s heart had been broken more than once. She was a thin, dark-eyed, gentle woman. She smiled pleadingly at her husband as his enraged gaze rested on her and it won her some small clemency.

  He turned that glower accusingly on Betty, the midwife, who cradled the child in her arms. ‘Another lass!’ But this time the rage was tinged with resentment. He turned away from mother and child, stamped out of the bedroom and through the kitchen where a little group of women — neighbours, in dresses from neck to ankles and beshawled — sat around the fire. His two older daughters, Ursula and Lotte, aged four and three, slept on a couch as they always did. The neighbours avoided his eye and he passed them without acknowledgment. They listened to the tramp of his boots as he strode down the uncarpeted passage, then the slam of the front door that reverberated through the house. Only when the echoes of that had faded away did they relax and grin wryly at each other.

  One jabbed the poker into the fire to prod the smouldering coals into flame, and said, ‘It sounds like he’s got another lass.’

  Another answered, ‘And he’s not pleased.’

  They were able to chuckle because Barney was not their husband.

  Next door, in the bedroom at the front of the house, his wife could only smile. The child lay in her arms now and was quiet, while Betty was tidying up. Winnie Teasdale, plump and red-cheeked and Ethel’s friend from school days, sat on the edge of the bed and leaned forward to peep in at the little girl’s fat and crumpled face. Winnie tried to cheer Ethel: ‘Don’t worry, pet, Barney will come round.’

  ‘Oh, aye,’ Ethel agreed, but neither believed it. She said reluctantly, ‘You’ll have to be getting home.’ Because Winnie lived a mile away. ‘It’s after nine o’clock and pitch dark out there.’

  ‘Fred knows where I am.’ Fred was Winnie’s husband. But she went on, ‘Still, I’d better be getting back home. Mind, I’m glad I’ve seen her.’ She bent to plant a light kiss on the child’s brow and then another on Ethel’s cheek. ‘She’s a bonny little lass. What are you going to call her?’

  Ethel answered, ‘Katy.’

  *

  Barney strode down the street towards the Tyne. The shipyard cranes standing storklike by the river seemed to hang over the houses. The slate roofs glistened black from the recent rain and the sky above was a thick ceiling of low cloud and hanging smoke. Every little terraced house had its chimneys and from most of them the coal smoke trailed acridly. Barney did not notice it, was used to the smell of it as he was to the salt tang that came in on the wind from the sea. That bitterly cold, winter wind was now br
inging in a fine drizzle on the heels of the rain but Barney was used to that as well.

  He turned into the Geordie Lad, the public house at the end of the street, with its brass-handled front door. Inside there was more smoke drifting around the yellow gaslights. One jet burned a naked flame so men could light their pipes and cigarettes. This time the smoke was only partly from the fire glowing in the hearth and most from the tobacco in the pipes of the thin line of men standing at the bar. Barney shoved through them and banged a fist down on the scrubbed but beer-stained surface: ‘Give me a pint.’ The barmaid was neat in high-collared white blouse and a white apron over her skirt that brushed on the sawdust covering the floor. She pulled the pint, set it before Barney and he thrust the coppers at her in payment.

  The girl was a neighbour and now asked, ‘How’s Mrs Merrick?’

  Barney answered curtly, ‘All right.’ And then told her what she really wanted to know: ‘A little lass.’

  ‘She’s had a little lass!’ The girl beamed. She called to the publican at the other end of the bar, ‘Barney’s wife has had a little lass!’

  The man standing next to Barney, a neighbour living a few doors away, said, ‘Another one? So, that’s three!’

  Barney’s hard little blue eyes swivelled around towards him. ‘What about it?’

  The neighbour picked up his glass and moved further down the bar but he revealed another man, a stranger and taller, broader who grinned down, amused, at Barney. ‘You’ve got three lasses. No lads?’

  The publican came hurrying, scenting trouble. ‘Now then, lads, I want no bother.’

  Barney demanded, ‘Who’s this?’ He cocked a thumb at the big man, who was still grinning mockingly.

  The publican replied, ‘Joe Feeny. He’s from over the river.’ He meant from the south side of the Tyne. Barney said, ‘He wants to mind his own business.’ ‘Now Barney —’