The Mistress of Windfell Manor

by Diane Allen

  ‘It must be a lookalike. I’m a wealthy mill owner, not a murderer.’ Joseph sat back and flashed his gold pocket watch to prove his wealth.

  ‘The Peeler said that, and all. But that doesn’t stop you from being a murderer. Looking for a ship to make good your escape, are you? Give us your pocket watch and I’ll have a word with my brother – he’s sailing out of port this evening.’ The barmaid’s eyes glinted at the fine watch in the hands of an obviously desperate man.

  ‘Sailing where?’

  ‘I don’t know. He never says usually. He’s been to America, or sometimes only to France; it depends what his cargo is. Where do you want to go? If I can arrange such a journey, of course.’ She smiled.

  ‘Tell him America, and the pocket watch is yours here and now. I’ll pay him handsomely if he gives me safe passage.’ Joseph waited as the young girl weighed up whether she could convince her brother to undertake such a journey.

  ‘Meet him on Victoria Quay at nine tonight. I’ll tell him you are coming, but show us your money first and give me your watch.’

  The girl held her hand out. Joseph unhooked his pocket watch and quickly, without anyone noticing, passed it to her. As she hid the watch down between her breasts, he showed her the wodge of money he carried within his pocket.

  ‘Nine o’clock tonight, look for the brig, the Marie Rose, and ask for Frank – he’s the captain.’

  Joseph watched as the barmaid smiled at her next customer and flirted with the sailors as they felt her breasts. He had to get out of Liverpool, for the Peelers were onto him. That meant they knew he had killed Betsy and he would surely hang, if caught. What was the loss of a watch, if it was a way of not losing your neck?

  The moon was starting to rise over the rooftops of the red-bricked building of the docks as Joseph made his way down along the quayside. All his worldly goods were in his backpack, and a wodge of fifty pounds was in his inside pocket.

  ‘Looking for tricks, darling?’ A tight-laced prostitute made her way out of the shadows and stroked Joseph’s face.

  ‘Piss off! Go and find someone else to give the clap to.’ He pushed her hand away from him and strode out down the quayside.

  ‘Suit yourself. I know your sort – perhaps you fancy a young fag instead,’ the prostitute shouted after him.

  He was deaf to all insults shouted in his direction, his mind set on finding the Marie Rose and Frank, the captain. Then there she was, an older-looking vessel than he had expected, but still, what did it matter, if it was his way of escaping the gallows with no questions asked? Joseph walked down the gangplank and was about to yell into the cabin, when a hand grabbed him.

  ‘Who are you?’ The gruff, rough-looking sailor turned Joseph around quickly.

  ‘I’m looking for Frank. His sister sent me; she said this ship’s sailing tonight.’

  ‘So you are the one our Mol’s set me up with. Show us your cash, and then I’ll show you your bunk.’ The sailor lit a cigarette, by the light of which he watched Joseph reach for the money from his inside pocket.

  ‘Eight pounds for a safe trip to America? No questions asked.’ Joseph held his money out to the sailor and waited for a reply.

  ‘Call it ten and you’ll be out of here in the next hour. The brig’s ready, the crew are just waiting for the tide to come in fully, and then we’ll hoist sail and be on our way.’ Without arguing, Joseph passed over the extra cash. The gold tooth that the sailor prided himself on shone in the moonlight as he smiled. ‘That’ll see you out of these waters and on your way. Here, I’ll show you to your bunk. Mind your head, we only have cramped quarters.’

  Frank led Joseph down into the bowels of the boat, into a small cabin with just a hammock swinging by hooks from the boat’s skeleton, a chair and a roughly made desk.

  ‘I know it’s not much, but we aren’t used to visitors. We are a trading ship – we haven’t the space for niceties.’ Frank sensed the look of horror on Joseph’s face, as he lit an extra candle in a brass candlestick on the desk.

  ‘It’ll be fine, I’ll get used to it.’ Joseph sighed.

  ‘Been to sea before, have you? Got good sea legs, I hope. You’ll need them on this voyage.’ Frank grinned.

  ‘Never been to sea before, so we’ll soon find out.’ He sat down in the chair.

  ‘Aye, we’ll soon see. Right, I’m going up on deck to make ready the sails. It’s best you stay here until we are out at sea. The less anybody sees of you, the better.’ Frank turned and made his way through the darkness and back up onto the deck, where Joseph could hear him shouting at the rest of the crew. He listened as the ropes and rigging were hauled, in readiness for making sail.

  He looked out of the small porthole into the darkness of the dock and felt the boat take the swell as it was unleashed from its moorings. He was leaving his worries behind him and starting a new life. Forget Windfell Manor, Charlotte and her baby, and his selfish sister Dora; he’d make a new name for himself in war-torn America, where nobody would ever find him. After making several attempts at climbing into the swinging hammock, he lay thinking of how to make his fortune, scheming and plotting his future until he felt his eyes drooping, in need of sleep. At last he could enjoy the first decent sleep he’d had since fleeing Langcliffe. He listened to the ship cutting its way out of the docks and into the open sea and closed his eyes.

  *

  The wind filled the sails and the sea lapped as the brig cut through waves, making its way out into the Irish Sea.

  Joseph awoke, startled and in pain. ‘Get off me, what are you doing?’ He struggled as two burly sea dogs pinned him down, dragging him out of his hammock and holding his arms behind his back, as one punched him hard in the stomach, winding him and making him retch onto the sailor’s foot. ‘Do you know who I am, you bastards? I’ll see you hang for this!’ he gasped.

  ‘I don’t think you will, my friend. You are on the run, and nobody gives a damn about you.’ Frank hit him hard and laughed as Joseph brushed his mouth and wiped away the remains of a broken tooth. ‘I’m going to smash your bloody head in, you swanky bastard. So you’d better say your prayers now.’

  Kicking and screaming, Joseph was hauled up onto the rough decking. His fingernails dug into the rough boards of the ship, in a vain attempt to save his life. Then, with ferocious cruelty, Frank stamped on his back, at the same time bringing down the full weight of a cudgel, battering again and again Joseph’s dark-haired head and turning it into smashed blood and brains.

  Two miles out into the Irish Sea, the crew of the Marie Rose quickly pilfered the battered and dead body of their not-so-wealthy passenger, before disposing of it over the edge of their brig.

  ‘Nobody will miss him, lads. I know that look of desperation – he was running for his life. It’s far better if we take care of his money and save him from a life of forever looking over his shoulder.’ The captain shared the ill-gotten gains that had belonged to Joseph between his crew. ‘God bless you, sir, and all who sail in you,’ yelled Frank, as the body disappeared below the waves.

  The crew roared with laughter and hid their stash about their bodies. In these hard times anyone could be a winner, especially as life was cheap. No one should be trusted, especially when a wad of cash had been waved under the nose of the most untrustworthy captain in the port of Liverpool.

  ‘Right, lads, make sail for Dublin – or should I say America!’

  28

  Months had passed since Inspector Proctor’s hunt for Joseph, and the storms of late autumn and winter of 1861 had set in. The rain had been persistent and had made the mood at Ferndale Mill heavy and oppressive. Christmas would soon be around the corner, and no soul – neither owner nor workers – had money to spare for frivolities.

  ‘We aren’t doing so badly, Bert. Other mills are being hit worse than us.’ Charlotte looked up at the man who had helped her keep the mill afloat so far.

  ‘Aye, at least we are holding our own.’ Bert sat down.

  ‘I’ve been t
alking to Lorenzo Christie. He’s thinking of using something called “Surat cotton”, which they grow in India apparently. Do you know anything about it, and would it be worth us looking at using it?’ Charlotte leaned back into her office chair and watched Bert scratch his head.

  ‘Aye, I know it, but you’ll struggle using that on our machinery; it’s better hand-woven. The fibres are short and break easily. Your young ’uns will be run off their feet mending breakages, and your weavers will not like it because the looms will have to be adjusted to a smaller throughput. It also likes the air humid, which is not what we exactly have here at the moment. This bloody rain, I’m sick of it. My missus is as well; the children are always around her feet, so I go back to her nagging tongue every night. As if I don’t get enough earache here at the mill.’

  ‘Perhaps we’ll not go there then, Bert. I’ve told Mr Christie I’m willing to join forces with the other mill owners and run the blockade again, this coming spring. We should be alright until then. To think that when my husband took the mill on, he was full of hope and dreams, and now everything has turned to dust.’ She sighed.

  ‘Aye, well, if you don’t mind me saying, ma’am, Mr Dawson was never a right good man for the job, more of a playboy than a worker. Full of bluff and puff. I never did like him.’ Bert didn’t hold back with his thoughts, making Charlotte like him even more. At least she knew where she stood with her second-incommand.

  ‘What are you doing for Christmas, Bert? I know I’ve got baby Isabelle, but it’ll be a year since I lost my father, and I don’t feel like celebrating.’

  ‘Nay, it’ll be a quiet one for us too. No doubt the missus will ask some of our neighbours around. The Spencers, at number five, lost their son last month when a runaway horse dragged him to his death, so it’ll be a hard Christmas for them. Then we always have the missus’s mother; she comes up from Settle and makes everyone’s life hell by her constant moaning. I’ll probably be glad to be back at work, the day after.’

  ‘Make it the day after Boxing Day. I’m giving everybody both Christmas Day and Boxing Day off, with full pay, this year. I can barely afford it, but everybody has stood by me and I want to show my appreciation. Mr Dawson was a bit mean in the past, not giving everyone Boxing Day off. Besides, we aren’t exactly run off our feet or overloaded with cotton at the moment.’ She smiled as Bert’s face brightened.

  ‘Aye, ma’am, that’ll lighten everybody’s spirits. It’s just what they need. God bless you, ma’am. When you first walked around the mill with me, that day when Mr Dawson was away, I thought then, aye; I even wished it was you who ran the mill. Now I know I was right to wish that – you’ll get us through these dark days, I know you will.’ Bert looked at the young woman with the weight of the world on her shoulders.

  ‘I hope to, Bert. If I can get through this year, I can get through any year. Perhaps 1862 will be kinder to us.’ Charlotte looked up suddenly as she heard somebody knocking on her office door.

  ‘I’ll get it, ma’am. You sit down.’ Bert rose from his seat and opened the office door, revealing a bedraggled Inspector Proctor.

  ‘Sorry to bother you, Mrs Dawson, but I’ve two pieces of news I think you might want to hear.’ The inspector took his rain cape from around his shoulders and shook it, before placing it in a heap on the office floor. He sat down in the chair that Bert had vacated.

  ‘I’ll leave you, ma’am. You know where I am, if you need me.’ Bert quietly closed the door behind him and shook his head. The Peeler’s face had bad news written all over it.

  ‘What is it, Inspector? It must be urgent, if you have come out in weather like this.’ Charlotte waited, silently praying that Joseph had not returned to the district.

  ‘I’m sorry. I carry bad news, I’m afraid. May Pilling hanged herself in her room last week; she was found by one of her nurses.’ Inspector Proctor looked at Charlotte and watched as she quickly brushed a solitary tear away.

  ‘I’m sorry to hear that. Although I never knew her, I’m glad her soul may finally be at rest. My husband has a lot to answer for, Inspector, because he might as well have held a gun to her head and pulled the trigger, rather than put her through the mind-games that he obviously played with her. God rest her soul.’ Charlotte blew her nose on her handkerchief and lifted her head up high. ‘And the second piece of news? Have you found my husband – the one who has caused all this heartache?’

  ‘We believe we have, ma’am.’ Percy hesitated.

  ‘Well, where is he? Locked up, I hope.’ Charlotte waited.

  ‘There’s not much of him left to lock up, ma’am. That’s why I say I think we have found him, for the clothes that you described Mr Dawson leaving in and what was left of his hair make us believe it was him. The Lancashire Constabulary asked me over there, when a body was washed up on the beach near Southport. It matched your description of Mr Dawson and what he was wearing – it looks like he drowned himself.’ Percy hesitated. ‘It seems a long way to go to drown yourself, but I do believe it is him. Perhaps there was more to it than meets the eye. He was making his way to America, I assume. Knowing your husband, he was taking a way out. I am quite satisfied to say that your husband is dead. What’s left of him in the morgue matches your description of him.’

  Charlotte couldn’t quite take it in. Joseph was dead, and she was free of him! She felt like celebrating the drowning of the man she had loved, just over a year ago. How her views, and her love, had changed in a matter of twelve months. The hurt and pain she had carried over recent months had made her feel hard towards the man she had once loved. However, she also felt a wave of grief wash over her, as her body started to shake and tears filled her eyes. It was over – Joseph was dead. No one would ever know of his past life, his dead wife and the fact that their marriage had been a sham. There was a closure to the hell she had endured, and perhaps a glimmer of hope for the future. She sobbed into her handkerchief and then composed herself, before pressing the embarrassed inspector’s arm, holding it tight as if to squeeze the truth out of it.

  ‘You are sure it’s him – you are not mistaken?’ Charlotte leaned forward and looked hard at Percy.

  ‘As sure as we can be. I’m closing the case anyway, that’s how confident I am that it is him.’ He watched Charlotte, as she didn’t quite know what to do with herself.

  ‘Where is his body?’ she asked.

  ‘In the mortuary in Southport, awaiting my instructions.’

  ‘Instructions? What do you mean?’

  ‘Do you want to claim the body, or will he be staying there? If it’s the latter, he’ll be buried in a pauper’s grave, unless you wish to pay for a grander affair.’ Percy waited for an answer.

  ‘Inspector, I hope he’s burning in hell! A pauper’s unmarked grave is just where he belongs.’ She would never be able to forgive herself for wasting so much of her life on such a worthless man. She was not going to shed any more tears over someone who, she now knew, had never loved her.

  ‘A wise decision, ma’am. It would only bring heartache to the young lad, Betsy’s brother down at Langcliffe Locks, and upset your workers. I’ll tell the mortuary to dispose of the body as soon as they can.’ Percy looked around him. ‘You look as if you were made for this office, ma’am, and there’s a good atmosphere when you walk through the mill, if you don’t mind me saying.’

  ‘I’m learning fast. I just wish times were better. Joseph couldn’t have walked out at a worse time. But cometh the hour, cometh the woman.’ Charlotte smiled and wiped away a lingering tear.

  ‘You’ll do it, Mrs Dawson. You are a determined soul, and you have your workers behind you.’ Percy shook his cloak and wrapped it back around himself. ‘I wish you a happy Christmas, if that doesn’t sound uncaring, after just telling you of your husband’s death.’

  ‘Not at all. This time last year I would have been heartbroken. That was when I didn’t know the real man I had married. Now I can go forward, forget the past, concentrate on my mill and farm, and just smoth
er my Isabelle with love.’ She opened the door for Percy.

  ‘Good luck, and God be with you, Mrs Dawson.’ He tipped his bowler and walked away from the woman who had been stronger in character than Joseph Dawson would ever be. Percy had listened to the local gossip: how the woman at the big house was working all the hours God gave; how she was making up – and more besides – for her bastard of a husband. The locals were behind her. After all, she was one of them: a farmer’s lass who wanted to better herself. There was nowt wrong with that, he thought, as he walked out into the rain. He turned and looked at the tall, dark mill building, hearing the sound of the looms echoing around the valley. ‘Good luck again, Mrs Dawson, because if anyone deserves it, you do,’ he whispered, before turning his back on a closed crime scene.

  Charlotte leaned back in her chair and wept openly. It was over; she could go forward with her life now, her own and Isabelle’s.

  Watching the inspector’s departure, Bert knocked on the office door as soon as he saw that Charlotte was by herself, concerned by the sobs coming from within. Charlotte sobbed and shook as she informed Bert of her news. He’d been lurking outside the office as the inspector had told her his news, and had feared the worst when he’d heard Charlotte break down.

  ‘It’s over, Bert. They’ve found Joseph drowned, washed up on a beach in Southport. He’s dead.’ The words echoed around the office. ‘He’ll not be coming back, thank the Lord.’

  ‘Thank the Lord indeed, ma’am. I don’t think he’d have dared show his face in these parts. He’d have been lynched, for what he did to you and Betsy. Best end to him, ma’am. I hope he’s stoking the fires of hell.’ Bert looked at his boss, her face red and pained. ‘Don’t you shed another tear for that bastard. You can run this mill better than any fella, and everyone’s behind you. It’s time to go forward, ma’am.’ He stood awkwardly in front of his employer.

  ‘Thank you, Bert. And yes, you are right, it’s time to look forward.’ Charlotte sniffed and composed herself. ‘If I can manage this year, I can manage anything.’