by Evie Grace
For the first time, she understood what Catherine, her true mother, must have gone through, alone on the streets and with child. Now Agnes was just one step away from the workhouse with her own child growing in her belly. In spite of the rather blunt reassurances that Mrs Hamilton offered at every opportunity, Agnes was scared for her future. What would happen when she was too far gone to work? How would she support herself and her baby then?
1859
Chapter Twenty-Three
Powers of Persuasion
By March, Agnes had been settled in Canterbury for almost three months. One morning, she sat with Jeannie, Mr Riley and Mr Fletcher at the screevers’ office, her table empty of work.
‘It is quiet again,’ Jeannie remarked.
‘It is getting worrying,’ Mr Fletcher said as Mrs Spode emerged from the back room, carrying a stack of newspapers.
‘We are short of work,’ Mrs Spode said. ‘We will have to use our initiative. Mr Riley, you are no longer required.’
‘Oh?’ He frowned.
‘There’s no point in you sitting here twiddling your thumbs. I’m doing you a favour. I could keep you here until business picks up, or I can let you go so you can find more lucrative employment.’
‘I don’t want to leave. How am I going to pay for my tobacco?’
‘That isn’t my problem,’ Mrs Spode said.
‘Whatever happened to the principle of last in, first out?’ he went on, his cheeks high with colour. He stared at Agnes. ‘It’s her who should be gone.’
‘She is our best screever, I’ll have you know,’ Mrs Spode said. ‘Mr Spode has looked at the figures, and Mrs Linnet’s techniques of persuasion bring in a far better return than yours do. When she writes, she puts herself in the shoes of the person who has fallen on hard times with great conviction. Her letters to potential wealthy patrons induce substantial benevolence. They are utterly believable, while yours are rather amateur.’
‘That isn’t fair,’ Mr Riley said. ‘Screeving is my profession and I take great pride in my work. If you let me go, you’ll be cutting off your nose to spite your face.’
‘It’s a case of pure economics,’ Mrs Spode insisted. ‘Goodbye, Mr Riley.’
Agnes felt uncomfortable as her colleague packed his pens and paper and stood up to leave. Poor Mr Riley – she didn’t like him much for his cocky attitude, but she felt sorry for him. She was wracked with guilt as well at having to practise such deception.
As soon as he was out of the door, Mrs Spode dropped the newspapers in his place at the table. She sat down and put on her pince-nez. She took the first paper and opened it, checking through the pages.
‘Ah, here is another poor soul recently departed from us.’
‘The obituaries are a goldmine of opportunities,’ Mr Fletcher said.
‘Indeed. Mrs Linnet – I require you to write a letter to the dead gentleman himself to appeal to his family’s conscience and generosity, along the lines of, “Dear kind and honoured benefactor of mine. The money you sent me last is all expended. Our child is in need of clothes and education. A few hundred pounds will be all that is needed for now. Please send care of Mr Spode of Canterbury where we have settled as you requested, out of sight, but not out of mind, I trust. Your ever loving friend, Helen Gray.”’
‘But you have obtained the name from an obituary – this imaginary lady’s benefactor is dead.’
‘Which is perfect for our ends. I know of this man – he was generous in life and his relatives will wish to honour his memory by continuing that after his death. The grieving relatives cannot question the deceased about what could turn out to be one of many indiscretions that he committed during his life.’ Mrs Spode turned to Mr Fletcher. ‘I think you should apply to the estate for a donation to a charitable trust of your choice, and of your imagination.’
He smiled and took up his pen.
‘Mrs Cotton, I think a distant relative, or a long-lost acquaintance, might be in touch to apply for aid.’
‘Of course, Mrs Spode,’ Jeannie said with a smile.
‘I will read you the addresses to which you will make your applications.’
Agnes grabbed a piece of paper and her pen, and dipped the nib in the inkwell.
‘Mrs Linnet, you will apply directly to Mr Samuel Cheevers …’
Agnes felt sick. The kindly Mr Cheevers was dead. Nanny’s uncle, the head of the happy family at Willow Place, was gone, and now she was being forced to insult his memory by making up a lie against him.
‘I too know of this man,’ she said.
‘It isn’t surprising. He’s been well known in this area for many years,’ Mrs Spode said. ‘He’s always been poking his nose in where it’s not needed.’
‘He has done many good works,’ Agnes said, defending him. ‘He would never have done what you’re suggesting.’
‘Whether he’s done it or not is irrelevant. You will screeve as I have requested, or you know what you can do. You have a rebellious streak, Mrs Linnet. Don’t make me regret sending Mr Riley on his way.’
She didn’t know what to do. Black Monday would be upon her after the weekend and the rent would be due. If she refused to write the letter, she wouldn’t be able to pay Mrs Hamilton and she would be out on the streets. If she continued to give in to Mrs Spode’s wicked demands, she was as bad as she was. If they were caught, she would go to prison, and at the final day of judgement, she would go to Hell. She shuddered as the baby squirmed inside her, reinforcing the seriousness of her predicament. Either way, she thought, she was damned.
She glanced towards Mr Fletcher, who had his head bowed over his paper, and his tongue sticking out as he concentrated on his piece of fakery. She turned to Jeannie.
‘Mr Cheevers wasn’t short of a bob or two,’ she said. ‘Where there’s muck there’s brass.’
‘Well said, Mrs Cotton,’ Mrs Spode said. ‘He took pleasure in sharing his good fortune. Now, Mrs Linnet, are you with us on this?’
What could she do?
‘Yes,’ she said.
‘I trust that this really is the end of this nonsense and you will not breathe a word of our work here when you are away from the office.’
‘Of course.’
‘Good.’ Mrs Spode shook her head, dispersing a cloud of powder from her hair. ‘Some people don’t know which side their bread is buttered.’
Agnes bit her tongue. She couldn’t afford butter, only dripping to spread on her bread.
She began to write. What had happened to Samuel? He hadn’t been well when she’d last seen him. She wished she could have paid her respects, but that would have been impossible. Someone – Nanny, Temperance or Oliver – would have recognised her at the graveside. Her sentences blurred in front of her. She brushed away a tear. The Cheeverses had given her a glimpse of a happiness that she would never forget.
Yet here she was in the middle of a concerted attempt to defraud them.
‘Mrs Linnet,’ Mrs Spode’s voice cut in. ‘You have blotted your work. That isn’t good enough. Start again.’
She put the spoiled paper aside and took a fresh piece. She wrote, her pen like a weapon against the Cheeverses. She was sullying the good name of a true gentleman who couldn’t defend himself. She was stripping Oliver and Temperance of their inheritance because she knew that they would do the right thing by a poor woman who had been taken advantage of. They would give her the benefit of the doubt, she thought, and pay up. She wondered about the tannery and the workers there. The money that came in by their efforts would go to feather the Spodes’ already luxurious nest.
She wrestled with her conscience as she continued to write. If she squealed on the Spodes, Mr Fletcher and Mrs Cotton would be obliged to find other employment. They’d been lucky not to have been caught out before. It occurred to her that she could set up a new, honest screeving business with them. They could work anywhere – they wouldn’t need an office at first, then when they became known and demand grew, she could rent one in the H
igh Street.
She finished the letter and signed it, ‘Your ever loving friend, Agnes Berry-Clay’.
She blotted the ink, folded the paper and sealed it with wax and a wafer. She wrote the address on the front and handed the completed missive to Mrs Spode.
‘Thank you, Mrs Linnet. I’m glad you’ve seen sense. We will send this one by the penny post, and await the response. If it is positive, then maybe another bastard child or two may find their way out of the woodwork.’
The boy, Arthur, came to collect the letters a little while later.
‘He is the perfect errand boy,’ Mrs Spode said as he left the office with the post tucked in a bag which he carried over his shoulder. ‘Reliable, quick, available, and best of all, he can’t read to save his life.’ She began to peruse the newspaper again. ‘It’s a good time of year for us. I see that the senior partner at the solicitors on Bargate Street has dropped off his perch – we must make hay while the sun shines.’
Agnes continued writing. She had done her best. If Oliver or Temperance opened the letter, they would recognise her name. It would certainly make them question the facts as laid down according to Mrs Spode. She hoped that it would be enough to stop them throwing their money away at least.
When she went back to her lodgings, Mrs Hamilton was all of a flutter.
‘A woman called here today, looking for you. I kept my silence, Mrs Linnet – I wasn’t sure you wanted to be found.’
Who was it? Could it be Evie sent from Roper House? Had Felix had a change of heart? No, of course not. She chastised herself for thinking of him. Why was there still a tiny part of her that wished he would come when she knew that it was over and she would probably never see him again?
‘She gave her name. Now what was it? Oh yes – Miss Treen.’
It was Nanny, Agnes thought, her spirits lifting at the mention of her name.
‘You were right not to reveal my whereabouts,’ she said.
Her landlady seemed to be expecting something, a gesture of appreciation, perhaps. Agnes gave her a coin from her reticule. Mrs Hamilton smiled.
‘While you’re at it, I could do with an advance on your board and lodging – the butcher has sent me his bill. If you see your way to …’
‘Of course,’ Agnes hesitated, ‘but just to confirm that it is an advance.’
‘Don’t you worry, I’ll write it down in the rent book. You are too kind, Mrs Linnet.’
She was too considerate for her own good, she realised as she examined the remaining contents of her purse, because in doing Mrs Hamilton a favour, she had run herself short.
Several days passed. At the weekend, Agnes searched for Samuel’s grave, finding it in the cemetery at Thanington. On the last Monday in March, she paid the rent and went to work as usual on the Tuesday, when Mrs Spode gave her a petition to write, including signatures, numbering at least fifty.
When she was halfway through, the doorbell jangled and the door flew open. Three men and a boy came rushing in.
‘Stay in your seats,’ one of the men shouted. ‘Where are the Spodes?’
‘Through there,’ Jeannie said, pointing to the door into their inner sanctum. She grabbed up her papers and stuffed them into her bag. ‘I haven’t done nothing wrong.’
The first man went through to the Spodes’ living quarters.
The second man moved towards the table and snatched up Agnes’s paperwork.
‘Here’s another fake petition,’ he said.
The third man, Oliver Cheevers, leaned back against the exit door to block the way.
‘Do as you’re told and no one will get hurt,’ he said.
Agnes began to panic. She was in the mire now, along with the others.
‘We’re all going down. Someone has snitched on us.’ Mr Fletcher tore his paper into tiny pieces, and stuffed them in his mouth.
‘Who can that be?’ Jeannie stared at Agnes, but she didn’t flinch. ‘You’ve gorn and done it now.’
‘None of you are in trouble,’ Oliver said. ‘We want the Spodes.’ He acknowledged Agnes with the briefest of smiles, then addressed the second man. She had a vague memory that she had seen him before, one of the workers at the tannery.
The first man reappeared with Mrs Spode walking meekly behind him.
‘Where is your husband?’ Oliver asked.
‘He has taken to his bed with the shock of your false accusations,’ she said. ‘We run our business with the purest of motives, to provide a service to those who cannot screeve themselves. I don’t understand this interruption at all.’
‘I’ve served the papers on them, sir,’ the first man said. ‘They will come voluntarily in front of the court as arranged.’
‘What if we don’t agree with your papers?’ Mrs Spode said.
‘Then you’ll be arrested,’ Oliver said. ‘You are accused of fakery, fraud and corruption. I have proof that you have tried to extort money by preying on dead men’s estates with lies and falsehoods. It is well known around here that you provide fake petitions and set up new identities for crooks.’
‘We do nothing of the sort. Now, go away. You are causing a stir outside.’
Agnes glanced towards the window, where a small crowd were looking in, pressing their noses against the glass as they pushed and shoved to get a better view.
‘In that case, you will attend court to clear your names,’ Oliver said.
‘Everyone out,’ Mrs Spode said. ‘Go! All of you.’
Agnes made her way out of the office and on to the pavement with Mr Fletcher and Mrs Cotton. Mr Fletcher spat out the paper that was left in his mouth. Agnes and Jeannie looked back at the door where Oliver’s associates came out first, followed by Oliver himself.
‘Thanks for that,’ Jeannie said. ‘What am I supposed to do now? I have a sick husband at home. I need the money.’
Oliver stepped across to them, put his hand in his pocket and pulled out a few coins. He handed them over to her.
‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘Those people have taken advantage of you as well, leading you into their life of crime, and taking all the profits.’
‘I’m an honest woman,’ Jeannie cried. ‘Thank you for your kindness, sir.’
‘Go home,’ he said gently.
Agnes looked around. Mr Fletcher had gone, disappearing into the crowd. Arthur had vanished too.
‘Don’t take pity on that snitch,’ Jeannie hissed. ‘It has to be her who done it, told on us. We was all right till she came along. Since then, Mr Riley got the push and now you’ve turned up. It’s no coincidence.’
‘She is no traitor,’ Oliver said.
‘She is a whore,’ she heard Jeannie go on. ‘She has a bellyful of child, and if she knows who the father is, she won’t let on. She pretends to be one of us, but she i’n’t. She’s snootier than Queen Victoria herself.’
‘You don’t know her,’ Oliver said, his voice fading as Agnes retreated along the street, pulling her hood over her head. She was deeply ashamed and embarrassed. What’s more, she had lost her position and any chance of making a living. Why did doing something right to make up for her previous transgressions feel so very wrong? And, on a more prosaic and practical note, what on earth was she going to do instead?
Chapter Twenty-Four
The Darkest Hour
She made her way back to her lodgings to find Mrs Hamilton waiting for her on the doorstep with her arms folded across her chest and Agnes’s bags in front of her. The landlady was wearing a scarlet dress which looked strangely familiar.
‘I’ve heard that you are recently unemployed,’ she said.
‘How?’
‘News travels fast around here. The boy came running back to tell his mother. She passed it on to me, knowing that I would ’ave an interest.’
‘Why have you packed up my things?’ Agnes feared that she knew very well why, but she asked anyway.
‘Because you’re out on your ear’ole, I’m afraid. I’m sorry, but I l’arned a long time ago
that you ’ave to put yourself first. Nobody else will.’
‘I’ve paid up for at least one more day, and I’ll go back to fetch the wages I’m owed tomorrow. Mrs Hamilton, you can’t do this to me.’ Agnes clasped her hands together and begged her landlady to reconsider. ‘My name isn’t Mrs Linnet—’
‘Well, I’d guessed that already,’ Mrs Hamilton interrupted. ‘Don’t tell me – you’re the long-lost daughter of a wealthy family and your father will come and pay me in gold and silver. I wasn’t born yesterday, ducky. I’ve heard it all before. Now, don’t waste my time. I’m sorry for you,’ she repeated, ‘but I ’ave another family ready to take your room.’ She tipped her head to one side, her eyes gleaming with avarice. ‘And I’ve managed to negotiate an extra shilling over the usual rate.’
‘What can I do? Where shall I go?’
‘It’s nothing to do with me. You may go wherever you like.’
‘I am without help.’
‘I would help you if I could, but I’m terrible hard up at the moment. I’ve had to take the liberty of divesting you of some of your belongings to settle your bill from the extras you’ve had from me.’
Agnes tried playing on her compassion for a mother heavy with child, but Mrs Hamilton wouldn’t be swayed. She didn’t entirely blame her – there was no way she could find the rent money for the next week without her work at the screevers’, and Mrs Hamilton had been offered extra in the way of rent. She had sacrificed her survival and that of her child for the truth. Had it been worth it? At this point, she doubted it. She had paid a heavy price for giving the screevers away to make up for her sins.
‘Be gone then.’ Mrs Hamilton began to shoo her away.
Agnes picked up her bags. The scarlet dress had disappeared. Now she realised why Mrs Hamilton’s dress looked familiar. The hem had been dragged through the mud and the seams had burst at her waist. There was a piece of grubby lace untidily stitched to cover her bosom. There had been a time when Agnes would have been upset to see the dress in such a state, but now she didn’t care. Mrs Hamilton was welcome to it. She didn’t think she would have any need of it in the future. She wasn’t sure she could see a future.
