The Drayton Legacy

by Rona Randall

  Her bare feet were squelching in slush before she reached the brink of it. It was a black and seething mass spreading to the desolate hovel. It was a dark burial ground for a thousand unwanted things which would never be recovered. She waded in it up to her shins, then hurled the knife with its barbaric handle as far as her young strength would take it. It was best to get rid of it, just in case that bastard up at Carrion House had caught a glimpse of the weapon and decided to look for it when he recovered, searching the garden house first, then perhaps even the cottage in Larch Lane — unbeknown to anyone, of course — hoping to face her with it in accusation or threat. But never would he trace it. Or her.

  She waited while the knife sank into its thick and slimy grave, buried for ever. She would have to tell Frank that she had lost it, and that would be the first and last lie she ever told him.

  When she reached home she stripped and washed her body from head to toe, then she dressed and carried the muddy water outside and poured it into the ground. She had spent the day cleaning the cottage room by room, washing every dish, dusting every article, straightening every piece of furniture, and now she went all over the place, systematically checking. Not another thing waited to be done.

  She heard the steeple clock of the parish church chiming in the distance. Half past two. She packed her few possessions into a bundle, then went upstairs and lay on her mother’s bed, fitting her body into the shallow dent left behind by the frail figure. She didn’t sleep. She lay listening for the church clock, and when it chimed four she rose, straightened the coverlet, kissed the pillow where the dear head had lain, went downstairs and picked up her bundle. She had an hour in which to reach the Hiring Cross. She would be waiting there well before time.

  Burslem folk weren’t surprised to hear, from Martha Tinsley, that Meg Gibson had gone off with a gent she’d picked up somewhere.

  “Went last Sat’day night, she did. Saw’em meself. Brought’is carriage right to’er door,’e did. T’were one o’ them smart London turn-outs, so I can give a good guess where it were bound for. Off she drove in it, bold as brass. I were abed, but the sound o’ wheels waked me, so o’course I looked out t’see wot were a’goin’ on. ‘Strike me dead!’ I thought. ‘She’s done it at last!’ I alius guessed she’d’ang around’til she landed a man wi’money. Nay — I couldn’t see’is face from me upstairs window…”

  Folk in the Red Lion nodded their heads sagely. Hadn’t they always predicted that Meg Gibson would come to a bad end? The London gent would surely abandon her and she’d finish where her kind always finished, in the gutter. But kinder ones forecast better things; they could picture her enjoying the high life around that notorious Drury Lane — even becoming a nobleman’s mistress, or better, like that Nell Gwynne did once upon a time. Most folks wished her well, remembering how devoted she’d been to her mother. Given a better chance in life, she might’ve wed some nice young lad.

  “Well, I be glad’t’weren’t our Frank,” Martha growled, and as she buried her sharp nose in her tankard no one noticed her stare across at that crateman, Zach Dobson, newly arrived and sitting in his corner, poker-faced.

  Hearing this exciting story of Meg’s departure, fellow workers from the Drayton Pottery then recalled how she had lingered behind that Saturday, turning every pot until no more waited to be done, then cleaning up her workbench. Had they put two and two together they would have realised what she was up to — leaving her workplace spick and span so nobody could say she left unfinished work or a fine old mess behind. Cunning piece that she was, she’d said nary a word to anybody! But they’d miss her…and Drayton’s would be hard pressed to find a turner as good as she.

  But all that was eclipsed by what happened after she had gone, and the last thought spared for Meg Gibson was that she would never know about it. That was a pity, seeing how she’d disliked the Master Potter. Never made any bones about that, she hadn’t, for all he seemed to favour her because she did such good work. And with that their thoughts turned to Carrion House and its newest tragedy.

  There had always been something strange about the place, of course. Something sinister. So no one was surprised when Joseph Drayton’s widow left it and went back to Tremain Hall. It was all of a pattern, all in keeping with its history, with the tales of a walled-up couple and a faithless wife mysteriously disposed of, and now a man found dead after three days when the whole neighbourhood had been searching for him — but who would have thought of looking in a garden house in the depths of winter?

  And what a terrible shock it must have been for his wife! Especially after they had spent the whole of Sunday together. ‘He had devoted himself to me entirely, the whole day,’ she had testified, and this had been substantiated by the evidence of people who had seen them together both at Matins and Evensong, also driving to Tremain Hall to visit her parents in the afternoon, and in the evening they had had guests to an early supper, all of whom vouched for his devotion to his wife. Concerned about an incipient cold which seemed to be threatening her, he had insisted on her going to bed early. He had even taken a cup of hot chocolate to her personally, the dear man.

  And, said his widow, there was nothing unusual about his leaving the house for awhile later. He frequently took a turn round the garden before retiring. The fresh air helped him to sleep, he always said. Of course, the garden house wasn’t yet in use, being winter, which was why no one thought of searching for him there, so he must have gone inside to check on things and been attacked by some dangerous tramp who had taken refuge there. But when no signs of a struggle had been found, no furniture overturned, no evidence of a fight, Doctor Wotherspoon had sagely declared that he must have struck the back of his head on something and, reeling under the blow, had staggered to the couch and collapsed against the cushions.

  So there the Master Potter had lain, with a puncture at the base of his skull neatly sealed with a clot of blood, and not a sign of anything that could have caused it.

  Naturally, the death certificate recorded death by misadventure, and if the doctor wondered why the unfortunate man was naked but for an elegant robe, he made no comment. Particularly to the victim’s wife, that brave young woman who wore her widow’s weeds well beyond the normal length of time, in testimony to her grief — though her sister-in-law Phoebe spitefully declared that it was because the widow thought them very dramatic and was amazed to discover that black could be very striking.

  But the woman did a strange thing at the funeral. After her husband’s body had been lowered into the grave and everyone waited for her to drop a flower onto the coffin, she stepped forward — quite composed — and instead of a flower she dropped a small offering from Drayton’s Pottery as her personal token of grief. Those who saw it said it was a commonplace beaker with a dull green glaze; two mourners recognised it as the beaker she had refused to drink hot chocolate from that Sunday evening. They recalled how her husband had smiled indulgently and insisted on its being replaced with a fine porcelain cup.

  But others were to remember, for a long time afterwards, how she had smiled a secret sort of smile when she dropped her offering into the grave. It had fallen with a thud on her husband’s coffin, as if knocking to let him know it was there. And that was when she smiled.

  Of course, people said, Agatha Drayton had always been an odd sort of creature, not the woman one would have expected so handsome a man to wed, and they were quite sure she had not appreciated her good fortune.

  As for the doctor’s verdict on the cause of death, the people of Burslem rejected it. They wanted no logical explanation for yet another tragedy in a house so ridden with sinister legend. It was a tale to link with all the others, to be talked about in the Red Lion and beside the fireside on winter nights. Carrion House was a house of secrets. Let it remain so.

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  Author’s Note

  The character of Simon Kendall was inspired by James Brindley (1716-1772), the unschooled genius who carried out many engineering projects without the benefit of drawings or calculations. These included the Bridgwater Canal, followed by a network of waterways covering over 360 miles, and the surveys and planning for the Grand Trunk Scheme, a proposed navigable link between the rivers Trent, Mersey, and Severn. After a lengthy fight, the Grand Trunk Bill was finally passed in 1766, with Brindley being appointed Surveyor General at what was then the high salary of £200 per annum.

  Brindley was also ahead of his time in recognising the dangers of air pollution, building a windmill to grind flint in water to reduce the problem in the neighbourhood of the potteries. For this idea, and others, he was ridiculed by many. He was also scorned because of his humble background and lack of education, but he was accepted and admired in high circles, becoming known and remembered as ‘Brindley The Great’.

  In every other respect, Simon Kendall is a wholly imaginary character — as are all others in the book.