The Potter's Niece

by Randall, Rona

  Rage seized him. He would let her know what he thought of women who used men, as she had used him, to write secret letters and arrange meetings without reward; women who lied and cheated.

  The window was slightly ajar. He opened it wider, and stepped over the sill. She jumped up, screaming, then subsided when she saw who it was.

  ‘I tried the front door bell,’ he said, ‘but no one heard. I suppose that maid of yours is abed? That’s where you should be, and where I expected you to be if Acland were here.’

  He noticed her tears then, and thought how unbecoming they were in middle-aged women. First his mother, weeping tears of self-pity; now his aunt, weeping tears of anger. He saw the tight line of her mouth, the venom in her face, and said, ‘So he’s been — and gone?’

  ‘I sent him away, fiend that he is. He was after money, nothing but money. Imagine, after all I had give him … my generosity … my kindness … ! And he said such dreadful things!’

  ‘As you did, I have no doubt.’

  ‘I let him know how I felt, of course. My disgust. My disillusion. My heartbreak. Oh Lionel, dear Lionel, why are men so cruel?’

  ‘Women can be cruel, too. They use men. Lie to them. As you have done to me, my pretty aunt.’

  ‘Never! I have relied on you, counted on you, and you have never let me down.’

  ‘But you have let me down. You have accepted all my help and offered no reward.’

  ‘Reward? Dear boy, how thoughtless of me! I will make it up to you though your services were of no avail — ’

  ‘Since they revealed the truth about him, I’d say they availed you much. You should be grateful. Instead, you lied to me.’

  ‘Lied? Never!’

  He went to her, very slowly, and touched the necklace at her throat.

  ‘You lied to me about that, you bitch.’ When she stood there, mouthing incoherently, searching in her scheming mind for some convincing excuse, he seized the necklace and gave it a vicious tug. ‘You said you didn’t have the rubies. You implied that you’d given them back. You lie without a pang of conscience so long as it fills your purse or adorns your aging body. Much use rubies are to you now! All you can do is sit here alone at night, wearing them, admiring your reflection in that mirror. What a waste! I can put them to better use. I’ll take them as the long-overdue reward.’

  He tightened his grip. She choked, clawing at his hands, and the more desperately she struggled the more relentless he became, but however hard he wrenched, the clasp refused to yield. He reached behind her neck with his free hand, fumbling for it, and as he did so his grip tightened, twisting the necklace until it was like a vice pressing into her throat. Rage engulfed him. He couldn’t hear her choking noises for the loud drumming in his ears. Tighter … tighter he gripped until the eyes in her silly face bulged and her tongue lolled out and the necklace snapped violently, scattering rubies, and she collapsed like a sack to the floor.

  On his hands and knees, he scrabbled amongst the thick carpet, grabbing as many as he could, rolling her inert body over so that he could hunt for more, thrusting her aside like an unwanted pile of rubbish as his fingers probed and thrusted and grabbed and searched again. When he saw loose stones caught in her skirts, he shook her until they were dislodged, and all the time she stared senselessly at the ceiling. Only when he had salvaged as many as he could did he look at her more closely and realise she was dead.

  CHAPTER 22

  Burslem hummed with gossip for a long time. Strange goings-on at Carrion House were legendary, and despite any logical explanations it couldn’t be denied that tragedy haunted the place. It was all very well to attribute the late Joseph Drayton’s death to heart failure or misadventure or whatever other fancy name doctor and coroner chose to use, or his sister’s to robbery with violence, but the fact remained that the place was an unhappy one which no one in their right mind would now go near.

  The news of Phoebe Freeman’s death eclipsed the sudden departure of Caroline Fletcher, followed by Lionel Drayton’s shortly afterward, though he didn’t leave Tremain immediately. He attended his aunt’s funeral with touching respect, holding his mother’s arm with one hand and his grandmother’s with the other. Agatha wept openly, though it was said there had been little love lost between the sisters-in-law, but the old lady’s face was impassive. She seemed more concerned about her grand-daughter, white-faced and stunned, who stood with Ralph Freeman’s kindly arm about her shoulders. And when the service was over and the old gentleman led his wife to their carriage, it was Damian Fletcher who took care of Olivia Freeman.

  After the funeral, gossip began in earnest. Could the criminal really have been a burglar and, if so, why had he choked the poor woman to death? There were signs about her throat indicating strangulation by something stronger than a scarf or even a rope; indentations in the flesh which looked as if they had been caused by metal of some kind, particularly on the front of the neck. It looked as if something had been pressed, or twisted, hard against it, and when one or two scattered rubies, still in their settings, were found in the thick pile of the carpet, it seemed plain that she had been wearing a heavy necklace and that this had been the instrument of death. Heavy gold settings were still fixed to the stones, but links had snapped in between, so strong that it must have taken a deal of effort to sever them.

  Naturally, there were other speculations. Why had a burglar made off with only one item? It was said that the rubies were singularly fine ones, but a common thief would surely have searched for other jewels in so rich a household.

  Relations were questioned, the least co-operative being Agatha Drayton who asked how she could possibly be expected to know what jewels her sister-in-law had possessed. The murdered woman’s husband said he had never given his wife any rubies, but during the years of his absence she might well have acquired some; he knew she had always spent much money on clothes and adornments. Then the old lady, Charlotte Freeman, said very calmly that yes, she had once given her daughter-in-law a ruby necklace and from the look of the two specimens and the settings attached to them they might well have been part of it, and she hoped the matter would now be closed.

  None of this pointed to anything conclusive, though down in the servants’ hall the garrulous Rose reported how she had heard her mistress deny any knowledge of her sister-in-law’s jewels and had received a sharp reprimand when she’d asked — later, in private — if her mistress didn’t remember poor Miss Phoebe borrowing a ruby necklace from her mother-in-law and never giving it back. ‘You were shocked, ma’am, and gave her a piece of your mind for hanging on to it.’ In return for her pains, Rose been told to get back to her duties at once.

  The robbery with violence theory was substantiated when Hannah, who had moved to Carrion House with her mistress, told how she had brought the usual nightcap to her and found her lying there, chairs knocked over and the window agape. ‘It had only been slightly ajar when I left her earlier. I’d taken some supper to her on a tray after a visitor had gone, but she said she had no appetite and wouldn’t look at it … No, she didn’t know who the visitor was. She hadn’t let them in, only heard them talking, so guessed it must be a neighbour who’d dropped by, someone familiar enough to let themselves in. And no, she couldn’t tell from the murmur of voices from behind closed doors whether the visitor was a man or a woman. Anyway, her mistress was alive and wearing the ruby necklace after the visitor had gone.

  That was her story and, true or not, there was no budging her. Hannah was a respectable woman plainly determined not to be involved in any scandal, but she also confirmed that her mistress had been very fond of the ruby necklace, often wearing it in private.

  ‘Only in private?’

  ‘Well, I never saw her wearing it any other time.’

  Odd, that, people said. You’d have thought she’d have flaunted it in public. She’d always liked being noticed.

  When signs of an intruder having scaled the window sill were discovered, it was plain that the thief had
made his entrance and exit that way, the latter no doubt in a hurry, which was why he’d not troubled to steal anything more, and with that logical conclusion an unsolved crime came to a halt.

  After that the news about Caroline Fletcher’s return to her own country came in for its share of speculation and gossip, though no one seemed very surprised about it. How could such a woman be expected to settle down in a cottage as a blacksmith’s wife? It wasn’t the life for someone like her. Marriage certainly united strangers as bedfellows sometimes.

  Down at the Red Lion, Sarah Walker related how the Fletcher place was filled to the roof with her clothes. ‘Ye nivver seed anythink like ’em, an’ she were allus buyin’ more. Wotever she set ’er ’eart on, that she must ’ave, sometimes throwin’ ’em away after wearin’ ’em only once! New things were like toys to’er — buy ’em and toss ’em away, that were the like of it with Mistress Fletcher. An’ did she like ’er own way, an’ did she git it! Spoilt, that were she, but ’ow could it be else, she bein’ so beautiful an’ rich? Felt sorry for the master sometimes, that I did. I guessed’e were ’iding ’ow he felt about a lot o’ things … ’

  ‘Like wot, f’rinstance?’

  But to that, Sarah would say nothing. Others did. Over at the White Hart at Cooperfield the landlord’s wife would lean across the bar, confidentially, and whisper how the pair of them had been together, right here in the private room at the back — she and that handsome rake from Tremain Hall. ‘Course, ’tweren’t my place to ask wot they wanted the room for.’

  ‘Did they come often?’

  ‘No more than once. Seems she didn’t like the room. ‘T’weren’t good enough for her. Said she didn’t find it “comfortable” … ’

  But others reported that the couple had been seen farther afield, fondly imagining they were unobserved. That showed how little the beautiful young lady was accustomed to English country life, where everyone knew everything that went on, even when pretending they didn’t.

  The sudden departure of Damian Fletcher’s wife became no more than a nine days’ wonder, but worth gossiping about over a pint of ale in the local, or at even greater length amongst ladies in refined withdrawing rooms. Not since Olivia Freeman shocked local society by becoming a pottery worker had they had anything so interesting to chew over.

  Then life settled down, humming quietly again, and the workers at Drayton’s stopped whispering about the awful business at Carrion House, ceasing abruptly when Miss ’Livia came into the sheds and going to great lengths to show they were her friends — just as Meg Tinsley told them they should, or she’d want to know the reason why.

  Meg was someone to be reckoned with now, unlike the old days when, as the older workers remembered, she was regarded askance by the women and boldly by the men. She was chief turner now, in charge of the entire shed, and she had a cottage of her own with a tidy garden and a newly painted gate, the place so spick and span you’d never believe it had been occupied by old Ma Tinsley, with her brews and her philtres and her cures and her secret practices. Walk down Larch Lane, and you’d never recognise the place.

  Damian Fletcher came to teach his classes as usual, just as if no upheaval had occurred in his life. He was soon employing two men at the forge and left them to carry on during the hour he spent at the pottery. His arrival always seemed to coincide with the moment that Miss ’Livia walked across the yard to her own pupils, which provoked a lot of knowing glances and approving smiles — and even romantic sighs amongst the younger women. Sometimes he would also be passing when the place was about to close, and ‘ride her home’, their horses neck and neck. And the workers would watch them and think how sad it was that he wasn’t a free man.

  Meanwhile, the Drayton Museum was nearing completion, relics from the marlpit yielding up surprising treasures amongst all the refuse and litter. Mistress Amelia was agog with delight. ‘You see, Meg, how right I was! A pile of disused pots from Drayton’s must have been dumped there when you were a girl, for I’ve found no less than six with excellent examples of your skill.’ To that Meg screwed up her nose distastefully and said she couldn’t for the life of her imagine what anyone could see in them. ‘They’re turned just like any other pots, Ma’am. Nothing special about ’em. Not worth digging up that foul dump for.’

  ‘That foul dump needs digging up. It is being dredged thoroughly. You should come down there sometime, and see for yourself how different the area is going to be.’

  But Meg always refused, declaring she had seen enough of it in the old days and didn’t want to be reminded, which Amelia well understood.

  One thing everyone began to notice was that the Master Potter’s wife arrived later these mornings, and that her husband, always solicitous for her, appeared to be even more so, but her enthusiasm for her manifold tasks was as great as ever, though there did seem to be rather more urgency about it. She was determined that the Drayton Museum should be ready ahead of schedule, and gave as her reason that when winter settled in people would be less willing to travel to the official opening, which was to be an important event. Local dignitaries were to be invited as well as friends, and the workers would have half a day’s holiday and share in the celebration — which meant another ox-roasting in the potter’s yard and more than one good-sized butt of Staffordshire ale to be broached.

  One day Martin invited Meg to see some of the relics the marlpit had yielded. ‘My wife has put some on display, after scrubbing them clean. She understands your reluctance to go down to the marlpit itself, but you can’t refuse her this … ’

  And, of course, Meg didn’t. She crossed the yard and obediently inspected the day’s finds, frankly saying she couldn’t understand why anyone should want to look at broken pots and ancient salt phigs which weren’t any use at all.

  ‘But they are important because they illustrate the progress made in potting, the changes in techniques and style and glazing, even in decoration. Take these knife handles — or these knobs for walking sticks and parasols, made long ago and very beautiful. Or this surgical bowl, for bleeding a patient … ’

  ‘Ugh!’

  ‘ … or strange things like this knife. Not that it’s the work of any potter, but see the design, how beautiful it is. My husband says it is made of ebony — isn’t that right, dear? — and because it’s a hard wood it has survived burial for a long time. An interesting find, but not for this museum, though I suspect it might well interest another. See how the blade has corroded away, while the carving on the handle remains almost unmarred. It was so caked with mud that the design couldn’t be seen, until cleaned. When riddled, the tip of the blade went clean through the mesh. It must have been as narrow and sharp as a rapier, once upon a time.’

  But Meg wasn’t listening. She was very still and her face was white. After a moment she murmured an excuse and headed for the door.

  ‘Martin dear, I’ve upset her. Perhaps it was that surgical bowl. It made me feel squeamish myself this morning, which I suppose isn’t surprising in view of my condition … my wonderful, exciting condition, for so long waited and prayed for. But do go after her while I cover these things. You have an especial understanding of Meg and if anything has particularly upset her, she’ll talk to you.’

  Outside, Meg was waiting, her face lifted to the sky, her eyes closed. Martin took her by the elbow and led her a short distance away.

  ‘I think you have something to tell me,’ he said gently. ‘Would you like to tell me now, or later?’

  ‘Now … ’

  He waited, but when she seemed incapable of continuing he said, ‘It was the knife, wasn’t it? The knife with the Polynesian handle?’

  She nodded.

  ‘Was it yours?’

  ‘Aye. Frank gave it to me afore he went ahead to Liverpool. He said I oughta have something to defend mesel’ with, he were always that afraid of me being molested, walking alone in these country lanes.’

  ‘Why didn’t you go with him? Your mother had died, you were alone, free
— and very much in love with him, as he was with you. I saw a lot in those days. So why didn’t you go?’

  ‘I had — summat to do. Summat important.’

  ‘Concerning my brother. Am I right?’

  ‘Aye. It had to be settled, for me mother’s sake. I’d warned him, told him I’d get even. There was a debt to be paid and I couldn’t rest until he’d paid it.’

  ‘Money?’

  ‘No. Worse than that.’ She turned her great dark eyes to him, begging for understanding. ‘Tis long-ago business, but it’s stayed with me ivver since, and allus will. But for him, me dear Ma might’ve lived a little longer … ’

  ‘In pain, Meg. In pain … ’

  ‘In less pain, at least. Martha Tinsley wouldn’t have stopped her med’cines if Master Joseph had kept his word. She blamed me for that. Thought I’d kept the money, an’ wouldn’t believe me when I told ’er I’ve nivver even seen it. That’s God’s truth, an’ so I told ’er, but she kept back the belladonna for sleeping and the lotion for her poor breast and the herbal brew for the pain of it. Your brother wouldn’t pay up ’cos the lady nivver arrived at Martha’s place, so the two gold sovereigns he’d promised for the job were kept back.’

  ‘Didn’t you demand them, and tell him why?’

  ‘I did that, but he laughed. Called me strumpet and worse besides. Sent me packing. Told me to be off.’

  ‘He had used you as go-between, I take it, to arrange things with Martha and to keep his name out of it.’

  ‘And threatened me, if I ever told the old woman who’d sent me.’

  ‘She would have recognised the lady and known at once … ’

  ‘But would never’ve gossiped. Never dared let on. If she so much as whispered about it, the Master Potter said, he’d see she was drummed out of Burslem. And that he would.’