Love and Money

by Phyllis Bentley

  “It dropped from his breast pocket when he stooped to put the newspaper down,” said the engineer shrewdly.

  “May I examine it?”

  “Of course. I shall have to turn it in to the Corporation, though, I suppose,” said the engineer. “Leave it on my desk, will you? That’s my hut, up there on the hillside by the inn.”

  I sat alone in the engineer’s hut and opened the pocket-book with careful fingers. The right half was divided into odd little sections, so small that I could not imagine their use till suddenly a gold coin fell from one—they were made to hold sovereigns and half-sovereigns. From another section of similar size I drew a wisp of thin crumpled paper, folded neatly into a tiny square. A larger section held Dr. Tom’s visiting card, engraved Thomas Thornton Archibald, M.D., Whin Grove, in copper-plate on good thick pasteboard.

  The left half of the case was occupied by a single large pocket. From this I drew out a tinted photograph, which had evidently been cut down to fit the aperture exactly, for one of the persons pictured had been cut in half. A fair young girl in a plain stuff frock of the i860 period stood beside a child sitting on a chair, of whom only half a face, a skirt with tucks, some wrinkled white socks and faded blue buttoned boots were visible. I turned the photograph over; the photographer’s name and Annotsfield address were printed on the reverse side, and across the top was written in a strong clear masculine hand:

  Annie, with {part of) little Susan!

  I started, and the wisp of paper was wafted to the ground. I picked it up and unfolded it. A tiny curl of hair, fair, soft and silky, was enclosed, and on the inside of the paper was written in the same agreeable hand:

  Annie June 15, 1861

  Then suddenly in a lurid flash the cause of the Whin Head Mutual Spinning Company’s tragic end became clear to me.

  It was a wild passionate story of love, of hatred, of revenge. Rosa Boocock loved Dr. Tom, and for her sake Eh Boocock invested in the mill. Then somehow Rosa discovered that Dr. Tom loved Annie Callaghan, and all her love turned to furious hate. She prevailed on Eli Boocock to ruin the young doctor by withholding the road, and paid this former suitor for his compliance by marrying him. The doctor, of course, was entirely ignorant of both her love and her hate; Rosa’s loud, coarse beauty would hold no attraction for such a man as Dr. Tom. Neither did he know that that astute rogue Eli Boocock desired Rosa to the point of obsession, and would pay high for her. No; Dr. Tom loved the gentle helpless Annie. It was he, perhaps, whom she met in the mill by night, not the young drover as gossip suggested. And Rosa discovered it.

  So the mystery of the Mutual’s ruin was a mystery no longer.

  But the mystery of Dr. Archibald’s death remained. Did he meet Annie on the night when he fell to his death? Did she reject his love then in favour of Daniel, and drive him, maddened already by his ruin of the weavers, to despair? Or had the love between them already gone further than it should? I remembered the rumour that Dr. Archibald had left his southern practice on account of a woman. Perhaps an over-fondness for women was the one weakness in a character otherwise so estimable? Or perhaps the lad was simply lonely? Did Dr. Archibald destroy himself in remorse for having failed not only the weavers but also the young girl to whom he ought to have shown a chivalrous protectiveness? Poor young man if so; he paid dearly for his sin.

  But in that case where did Daniel O’Prunty fit in? Why did Annie marry him so soon after her lover’s death?

  Then I saw that beside arson, suicide and accident as explanations for Dr. Archibald’s death there was yet another possibility, even more terrible: the possibility of murder.

  Daniel O’Prunty, the strapping young drover, certainly loved Annie, perhaps was violently jealous of her. Perhaps Annie liked him too, with a mild everyday affection very different from her romantic adoration of the doctor. Daniel suspects her liaison with Dr. Tom; doubtless it is he who, by confiding his suspicions to Rosa Boocock, makes Rosa aware of the affair, turns Rosa’s love for Dr. Tom to the hellish fury of a woman scorned and so ruins the Mutual enterprise. On the night of Dr. Tom’s death Annie steals out to meet him; Daniel—perhaps apprized of her departure by Rosa— follows her. He finds the lovers safely hidden, as they think, in the top storey of the unfinished mill. In a passion of rage, without warning Daniel raises his heavy drover’s stick and strikes a savage blow. Dr. Tom, the back of his skull broken, cries out and staggers forward; his brown eyes suddenly widen to a staring horror, he falls on his face, he dies. Now Annie, terrified, is on Daniel’s side; they must not be found out, they must not! The blow on the back of the head would be fatally incriminating; in a fair fight one does not crush one’s adversary’s skull from behind. Daniel heaps shavings together and tries to make a fire to burn the body, but bodies are difficult to burn; the flame blackens the edges of the wood, chars Dr. Archibald’s hand, but fades. So then they tip the body out of the window. They creep away. Next morning, very early so as to be first on the scene, Daniel comes down from Eli’s farm to the field, and pretends to make his discovery of Dr. Archibald’s body. Whether Daniel still loves Annie or not, he marries her to silence her evidence about the murder; she marries him to gain a legitimate birth for her child.

  Is there any evidence that this theory of murder is more likely than the theory of attempted arson followed by suicide? Yes, I think there is. I’m afraid it was murder. The registers of the parish of Ballyfrilan show that Annie O’Prunty’s eldest child was conceived before wedlock, and that it was her second son, not her first, who was called after her husband; the medical registers a quarter of a century later show that her first son, Richard, fought his way up from peasant penury to become a noted Dublin surgeon. So I sought out a photograph of Sir Richard O’Prunty, taken when he was knighted, and laid it beside the Annotsfield Recorder’s portrait of Thomas Thornton Archibald, M.D. The resemblance is very striking. Both men have the curly dark hair, the fine aquiline features, the large bright eyes, the high forehead, the charming look of kindness and affection. Richard’s chin is stronger than his father’s. But that Thomas Thornton Archibald was father to Annie’s firstborn is not, I think, much in doubt. Daniel O’Prunty had every reason for his jealous rage against the doctor.

  Yes, sometimes from the most unromantic sources a poignant human tragedy leaps out which has lain hidden for many years. Nobody has ever known it in its entirety until you piece it together now; only when its tormented actors, while alive perplexed in the extreme, are long dead and forgotten, their sad hearts stilled, do the facts emerge which make the whole troubled, passionate, tragic story clear to us.

  Case Of Conscience

  (1874)

  1

  The Inhabitants Of annotsfield, one of the chief textile towns of the West Riding of Yorkshire, are oftfjf supposed by those outside it to be complete materialists, narrow-minded, uncultured, coarse, interested only in cloth, “brass” and possibly football. That this is a mistake, that the Annotsfield folk are capable of violent and prolonged passion, of severe self-sacrifice, even—as the saying goes—of reaching far down into their pockets, on behalf of an abstract idea, is proved by the following series of events, which split the town in the late 1870’s. It is a moving and tragic story enough, which completely devastated several lives and left wounds in others which remained unhealed even after half a century.

  2

  In the heart of Annotsfield, at the corner where the broad busy Resmond Street is joined by narrow old Eastgate, stood a solid substantial chapel, built in 1849 by a congregation founded in 1825. It had a portico and a flight of steps, spearhead iron railings and a broad flagged path—no tower or steeple, of course, as those frivolous Church of England ornaments were anathema to the austere Nonconformists who built it. If the air of industrial Annotsfield had coated building, railings and path with a heavy black grime which gave them a somewhat sombre and forbidding appearance, that was not the fault of the twenty-one Trustees in whose hands the property was vested, for they tended the fabric with
scrupulous care—the walls were always thoroughly mortared, the flags of the path uncracked and evenly laid, the railings well-painted. Inside, too, the chapel was admirably kept; its pitch-pine pews, whether in the gallery or on the ground floor, were always in a high state of polish; if any of its handsome crimson seat-covers became frayed they were always repaired before the following Sunday; similarly its hassocks never for long showed their stuffing. An organ of good quality was well played by a competent organist, and a mixed choir rendered chants and hymns with admirable tone and precision. In a word, Resmond Street Independent (as it was called) was a prosperous and flourishing institution, ably administered by Trustees and Deacons who were solid ratepayers, prominent in the life of the town, several of them indeed members of Annotsfield Town Council.

  The Resmond Street pastor, the Rev. Richard Tolefree, had grown old in the service of the chapel, having been appointed at the opening of the new building in 1849. A man of austere principle, narrow but clear intellect and blameless life, well versed in the theology of his day, he had been in his youth a fiery and eloquent preacher, the husband of a dearly loved wife and the father of three children. But all this was now long in the past; his wife was dead, his children elsewhere—the two sons had each become a minister in their turn, the daughter had married one. His modest household was kept by an orphaned and dependent niece, Miss Lucy Tolefree, who gave him all that respect and affection which his character deserved and hers was so well-fitted to show. Mr. Tolefree was revered by the older members of his congregation. The younger members also had a deep respect for him but found him a little dull—the doctrine he offered them, though sound enough no doubt, struck them as just a trifle dry and old-fashioned; after all they were living in the 1870’s and one should keep up with the times. New members were not joining Resmond Street quite as numerously as heretofore; young members who married tended to join their wives’ place of worship instead of bringing their wives to their own. It was not serious as yet, but by Trustees and Deacons as well as by seat-holders, the matter, though not openly canvassed out of respect for Mr. Tolefree, did not go unobserved. Probably it did not go unobserved in the Tolefree household, either; Mr. Tolefree was no fool and Lucy was always admirably clear-sighted. Perhaps the realisation of his failing powers was a nagging thorn in the old minister’s mind; perhaps he discussed it all with his niece. We do not know.

  At any rate, his health began obviously to fail. He grew terribly thin, so that his long black coat hung in folds about him; his shoulders bowed, his legs seemed to trail; his voice, once so clear and strong, faded to a thin gentle pipe. He stumbled in the services; the sentences in his sermons, once so orotund, so well constructed, trailed off into shapeless mumblings, lacking verbs. He gave out announcements incorrectly. He sometimes paused so long in his prayers that the congregation waited in an agony of suspense, wondering whether he ever would or could finish them. The look of pain on his lined old face as he strove to retrieve the thread of his discourse was very distressing. At length came the day when he offered to retire.

  The Deacons, however, refused this offer staunchly. If Mr. Tolefree retired, he would have to live on a small pension provided by Resmond Street, while a younger man enjoyed the full pastor’s income. Why not do it the other way round? Let Mr. Tolefree continue as pastor; let a young man come to Resmond Street as Mr. Tolefree’s assistant and learn his duties under the old minister’s admirable tuition. Old Mr. Tolefree, his upright nature shocked by the proposal that he should take most of the money and the young man do most of the work, suggested that after a period of probation the assistant might be appointed co-pastor. This was agreed. Subscriptions were canvassed for the assistant’s salary and two hundred pounds per annum— then a not unreasonable sum—guaranteed. Suitable candidates were sought for, and the Resmond Street congregation —raised to full force by the interest of the proceeding— listened Sunday by Sunday to various young ministers’ best sermons.

  But here the plan encountered some delay and difficulty. Of the twenty-one original Trustees, six still survived, the full number having been kept up by subsequent elections. It was the duty of the Trustees to see that the chapel was administered in accordance with the provisions of the Trust Deed drawn up in 1849. By this Deed, the officiating pastor was required to preach in conformity with ten points of doctrine scheduled therein. While most of these ten points would be acceptable to Christians of every creed and age, others, now that they were set out clearly, struck some of the 1872 Resmond Street congregation as outdated; they viewed with a dubious eye the dogmas of the universal and total depravity of man and the eternal punishment of the wicked, especially when to these was added predestination, so that no escape from hell seemed possible for the majority of the human race. They had not meant their membership of Resmond Street Independent to imply the acceptance of such doctrines, which indeed had never been clearly put to them before. The Trustees, however, especially the surviving original six, felt themselves bound by the Deed, and from a sense of duty subjected all the pastoral candidates to a severe doctrinal scrutiny. Those who passed this test somehow failed in general attractiveness, while some who were otherwise reasonably acceptable seemed unsatisfactorily vague when rigorously questioned on theology in interviews. So the post of assistant pastor remained unfilled.

  3

  Until, one Sunday morning, the Rev. John Spencer Aquile occupied the pulpit.

  A young man just over thirty, from a southern county whose accent agreeably flavoured his ringing speech, John Spencer Aquile was a convert from the Established Church, whose forms and traditions he had found too cramping, too fettering, in his unending search for religious truth. Though the circumstances of his life had not permitted him to acquire a university degree, he was widely and deeply read in English literature and history as well as in theology, and had been trained for the ministry in a Congregational College. Not handsome in the conventional sense, he was tall and strong in frame, with a clear fair skin, abundant light brown hair and whisker, and very fine grey eyes. These could melt into tenderness, flash in righteous anger, or take on a look of piercing intellectual enquiry, in accordance with their owner’s feelings, for John Aquile was utterly sincere. Though not in the least a coxcomb, and quite indifferent to the age or lack of fashion of his clothes, he was always completely fresh, clean and neat; you felt at once that he cleaned his boots and brushed his coat to the glory of the Lord. In addition to these qualities he had a strong, firm, vigorous, resonant voice; without any nonsense of affectation or obvious effort he filled Resmond Street Independent with clear, well-uttered words to its very rim. It was observed during the service that old Mr. Tolefree, with whom John Aquile had stayed the previous night, seemed smiling and happy, and brighter in mind than he had been for a long time; he made almost no mistakes, and uttered a decidedly significant prayer in which he asked that the congregation might be led to make a right and acceptable choice—of pastor, the whole congregation understood. A feeling of hope, of energy, of excitement, rippled along the pews; when Mr. Aquile at length ascended the pulpit the congregation very quickly settled their sealskins and bonnet-strings and frock-coat tails and gazing fixedly at the young minister, gave him all the attention any preacher could wish.

  Choosing as his text Galatians 3, xi: The just shall live by faith, Mr. Aquile delivered, without the help of a single note, a really magnificent sermon. Plain, forthright, simple, so clearly arranged that a child could follow its reasoning, the discourse yet set forth such lofty ideals of what was just and what was faith, in such heart-stirring terms, that the Resmond Street congregation felt inspired and uplifted as it had not done for years. Mr. Tolefree hung on the young minister’s words spellbound, his old face beaming; among the congregation no one rustled and there was not a single cough. At exactly the right moment, the sermon closed in an eloquent passage; the congregation rose for the final hymn, and red velvet bags were handed round for the collection by the Deacons on duty. It was then that, as I
have been told, a Deacon gave a Trustee an enquiring lift of the eyebrows, and the Trustee, glancing downward and continuing to sing, quietly and discreetly turned up his thumb.

  This Trustee, Councillor Frederick Starbotton by name, was one of the main figures in the drama which ensued. The owner, with a cousin, of a small but prosperous cloth manufacturing firm for which he acted as travelling representative, he often visited London, whence he brought gifts of an exciting kind—books, popular music, fashionable furbelows —for his only child, his daughter Eliza, of whom he was very proud. He was small and slight in stature, with a brilliant complexion and fair silky whiskers, which he wore a la Dundreary and took great pride in. Dapper is really the word to describe him, for he was a good deal of a dandy; he carried a silver-knobbed cane and wore lemon gloves—and of course an impeccable top hat and frock coat—to go to chapel. A shrewd business man, skilled in cloth and investing carefully in real estate, he does not at first sight appear the kind of man to play the role which fate assigned to him. But that Annotsfield men are full of surprises is the theme of this tale.

  The reaction to Mr. Aquile’s sermon was overwhelmingly favourable, and when Mr. Tolefree informed the Deacons that the sermon was, in fact, impromptu, they did not at first believe him. But yes, insisted the old man, his faded eyes sparkling with delight. Mr. Aquile had intended to preach on grace abounding—had indeed shown Mr. Tolefree his prepared notes on the subject the previous night; but the two ministers had by chance fallen to discussing the life of faith, they had sat up late discussing it, and Mr. Aquile at breakfast had informed the older man that his mind was full of it and he could speak on nothing else. Mr. Tolefree, who already felt a great affection for Aquile and wished him to gain the assistant’s post, cautioned him against such a rash course—to offer an unprepared sermon to such experienced critics as the Resmond Street Deacons was to court disaster. To this Mr. Aquile had replied, with a quiet smile: