Without Sin

by Margaret Dickinson

  ‘Mr Snape,’ she said aloud to the empty room. ‘He owes me a favour. I’ll go and see Mr Snape.’

  ‘Do sit down, my dear lady.’

  Mr Snape ushered Clara into his office with the sycophantic attention he gave to all his female clients. He kept his personal feelings well hidden behind his professional mask. He disliked Clara Finch intensely. At the time of her case against Percy Rodwell, he had advised her not to proceed with the prosecution, but she had been adamant. They had all been left looking very silly and Mr Snape was not a man who liked to be made to look foolish.

  Nevertheless, he sat behind his desk and asked, ‘And how may I help you, Miss Finch?’

  ‘I want to find that young woman who married Percy Rodwell.’ She bit back any further explanation, but Mr Snape was not so easily deceived.

  ‘Why should you wish to find her?’ Mr Snape feared further trouble.

  ‘That’s my business,’ Clara snapped. ‘I just want you to tell me the best way to go about it.’ Her eyes narrowed. ‘She has something that rightly belongs to me.’

  Mr Snape frowned. ‘And what might that be?’

  Clara opened her mouth. She was on the point of confiding in him and then thought better of it. All she said was, ‘That does not concern you. At least,’ she added, tempering her tone for she realized she might very well need this man’s help over her plans to adopt the child – it wouldn’t do to antagonize him, ‘not for the moment.’

  ‘The usual way to find a missing person is to hire a private detective—’

  ‘I’ve done that. He was useless.’

  Mr Snape sat staring at the woman in front of him, debating with himself whether he should tell her the information that had, by chance, that very morning come into his hands. He was dubious about her intentions. Clara Finch was a nasty piece of work. Her brother was a shrewd businessman, but a decent enough chap in general, but she – well – she was a vixen. What could she want with the widowed Mrs Rodwell? What did she mean when she said the young woman had something that rightly belonged to her? No doubt it was only some trinket or keepsake from the Rodwell house. Surely it could do no harm to tell her the whereabouts of Meg Rodwell and her son.

  ‘As it happens,’ he said, leaning back in his chair and linking his fingers in front of him, ‘I think I can help you. I happen to know exactly where Mrs Rodwell is living.’

  Clara almost jumped to her feet. ‘You do?’ Her eyes gleamed with excitement and triumph.

  ‘Do you remember Mr Boyd? Your brother would know him. He owned quite a lot of property in the town and he was on the board of guardians.’

  ‘Yes, yes, I know of him.’ Clara was impatient to hear what she had waited months to learn, had paid good money to find out.

  But Mr Snape was not to be hurried. ‘As you know, he died recently and his family wish to sell some of his properties, in particular, a row of terraced houses on Laurel Street. Your brother is intending to buy them and asked me to make some enquiries about the occupants and so on.’ He waved his hand and paused, still debating whether he really should divulge the information.

  ‘Go on,’ Clara insisted and Mr Snape sighed. The Finches were his wealthiest clients and the owners of his office.

  ‘One of the tenants there – a Mrs Florence Benedict – has a lodger—’

  Mr Snape got no further for now Clara did jump to her feet. ‘It’s them. I knew it! I knew they were still here somewhere, though how I’ve never seen or heard of them I don’t know.’ She held out her hand. ‘Thank you, Mr Snape. Good day to you.’

  Before Mr Snape could rise out of his chair to usher her out, she was gone, through the door and out into the street.

  As she walked home, Clara felt like running and jumping for joy.

  ‘I’ve got you, Meg Kirkland,’ she muttered gleefully, refusing as ever to give the girl the name of “Rodwell”. ‘I’ve got you at last,’ she wanted to shout aloud.

  Fifty

  For two days Clara pondered how she could entrap Meg. Now that she knew where Meg and the baby were, she was in no hurry. She didn’t want to rush into doing something that would not work so she had to be sure that every move she made was the right one. The only thing that concerned her was that, if she moved too quickly, Meg might leave the district, taking her child with her.

  ‘I must think this out carefully,’ Clara muttered as she paced the drawing room alone. ‘And Theobald must know nothing of what I’m about until it’s done.’ Her eyes narrowed as her thoughts moved from her brother to the workhouse. ‘That’s where she ought to be. Back in the workhouse, where she belongs. I’ll go and see Isaac.’ She smiled grimly. ‘He’ll help me. If he wants to keep his job, he’ll find he has to help me.’

  That afternoon she walked through the town to the workhouse. She paused a moment outside the austere building. She shuddered. She counted her blessings that she’d been born into the world she had been and would never know life as a workhouse inmate. Yet, so obsessed was she by the child that she had no compunction in seeing Meg back inside its walls.

  Clara would stop at nothing to get her own way.

  She opened the gate and was about to cross the courtyard when Albert Conroy stepped out of his lodge. His bushy white eyebrows almost met in a frown when he recognized her.

  ‘What d’you want? Come slumming,’ave yer?’

  The old man had no time for any of the Finch family. Years before he’d worked for a time for old man Finch, as he called Clara’s father. He’d not been well treated and he thought this woman took after her father. Theobald wasn’t so bad, he supposed. He was a bit of a bumbling old fool, really, except when it came to matters of business and then he was as sharp as a packet of needles.

  Clara pursed her lips. ‘I’d watch your tongue, if I were you. You enjoy something of a position with your own quarters here in the lodge.’ She nodded towards the small room near the gate that was Albert’s only home. ‘That could all change, you know.’

  Albert stared back at her insolently. He wasn’t going to kowtow to the likes of Clara Finch. Own quarters, indeed! A poky little room with a tiny fireplace, for which he was allowed a meagre ration of coal. In return for which he was never off duty. He even had to get up in the middle of the night if the homeless came knocking at the workhouse door.

  Albert sniffed, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and said again, ‘I work for the master, not you. I asked you what you wanted here.’

  ‘I’ve come to see Mr Pendleton.’

  ‘He’s not here.’

  ‘Miss Pendleton, then. She’ll do.’ Clara smiled maliciously. Letitia would be even more pliable than Isaac.

  ‘She’s not here either.’

  Clara frowned. ‘Are you being deliberately obstreperous?’

  He grinned at her, showing blackened, worn-down teeth. ‘I might be – if I knew what it meant.’

  ‘Oh, get out of my way. I’ll find them myself.’

  Albert watched her go, laughing to himself. He’d got under her skin and that had been worth getting up for that morning.

  Clara marched purposefully across the yard, but she wasn’t really sure where to start looking for the matron. As she thrust open the door leading up the stairs to the infirmary and the matron’s room, she almost knocked Ursula Waters flying.

  ‘Oh, I’m sorry. Are you all right?’

  Waters, holding her palm to her flat chest, nodded. Catching her breath, she said, ‘Yes, thank you, ma’am. You startled me, that’s all.’

  Clara stood aside for the woman to pass her, but Ursula hesitated, asking, ‘Can I help you, Miss Finch?’

  ‘I doubt it. I came to see the master or the matron, but I’ve been told neither of them are here.’ Her tone implied that she didn’t believe it.

  But Ursula shook her head, confirming Albert’s words. ‘No. I’m sorry, they’re not.’

  Clara sniffed. ‘I was not aware that they were allowed to both leave their posts at once.’

  ‘They’
ve gone to a family funeral.’ Ursula paused and then asked tentatively, ‘Is there anything I can do to help?’

  ‘I shouldn’t think so, for a minute,’ Clara said dismissively and turned to leave. ‘Not unless you can make an admission for me.’

  ‘Yes, I can do that, Miss Finch. When the matron isn’t here, I’m in charge of anyone coming into the workhouse. Matron or the master sees them as soon as they get back, of course,’ Ursula added quickly, remembering that Miss Finch was the chairman’s sister. ‘But in the meantime . . .’

  Clara eyed her shrewdly. ‘Are you trustworthy – er – Waters?’

  Ursula preened. ‘Mr Pendleton and the matron trust me implicitly. They couldn’t do without me, they say. Ever since that woman –’ Ursula’s tone was scathing – ‘that last paramour of his, died, he’s depended on me. He’s realized who really cares for him. She was just after what she could get out of him – they all were – whereas I—’

  ‘What woman?’ Clara interrupted sharply.

  ‘That Kirkland woman. Sarah Kirkland – the mother of that – that girl.’ Ursula nodded, a pecking movement. ‘You know who I mean, don’t you?’

  Clara eyed Ursula shrewdly. It might be even easier to make use of this woman, who was so anxious to please, than to try to persuade Isaac or his sister to help her.

  ‘Er – when are the Pendletons due back?’ she asked, with deceptive mildness.

  ‘Not until the day after tomorrow. They’ve had to go to a family funeral somewhere. Halifax, I think they said.’

  Clara’s smile widened. Time enough, she was thinking excitedly. Time enough. And when they come back and it’s all accomplished, there won’t be anything they can do about it.

  ‘I think there might very well be something you could do to help me. Is there somewhere you and I could talk privately, Waters?’

  ‘We could use the committee room.’

  They entered the huge room and moved down to the far end of the long table, where they sat together across one corner.

  ‘Would you like some tea, Miss Finch?’

  Clara was anxious to get on, but she wanted to humour the woman. She needed Waters to think herself an equal, at least for the moment.

  ‘That would be nice,’ Clara said, drawing off her gloves. ‘Thank you.’

  Whilst Ursula hurried to have tea brought in for herself and her important guest, Clara pondered how best to approach what she had in mind.

  They chatted about inconsequential matters until the tea arrived. Stirring hers thoughtfully, Clara began, ‘You mentioned Meg Kirkland . . .’ For a moment, Ursula looked startled, surprised that Clara – of all people – should want to talk about the girl. ‘How does Mr Pendleton feel about her now?’

  ‘About Meg?’ Ursula’s voice was a high-pitched squeak.

  Clara nodded.

  ‘He – he never mentions her.’

  ‘Do you suppose he’s – er – fond of her.’

  Immediately, there was a wild look in Ursula’s eyes. ‘Fond of her? Fond of her?’

  Clara nodded, watching the other woman’s reactions closely. ‘For the sake of her mother, I mean. He was fond of Sarah, I presume?’

  Ursula wriggled her shoulders and Clara saw the jealousy flare in her eyes. ‘I suppose so,’ Ursula was forced to admit grudgingly. ‘But she was no good for him. All she ever did was cry over her children. “All my dead babies,” she’d say. “And now I’ve lost my lovely Meg too.” ’

  ‘Didn’t Meg come to see her mother?’

  Waters’s look was suddenly sly. ‘No, never.’ Now she avoided meeting Clara’s direct gaze. ‘And afterwards I think the master blamed her for – for that woman’s suicide.’

  It seemed, Clara thought shrewdly, as if Waters couldn’t even bring herself to speak Sarah’s name. She referred to her only as ‘that woman’. Her hatred went deep, it seemed, as deep as did Clara’s for the daughter.

  ‘I think, Miss Waters –’ the sudden deliberate use of the courtesy title did not go unnoticed by Ursula – ‘that perhaps you could help me. But I need to know that I can trust you. Trust you implicitly.’

  Ursula’s eyes shone and she nodded enthusiastically. ‘Anything I can do to help you, Miss Finch. Anything at all. And I know Mr Pendleton would approve. He thinks very highly of you. Of both you and your brother.’

  Oh, indeed he does, Clara thought cynically to herself, if he values his position here. But she voiced nothing of her thoughts to Ursula.

  ‘It seems that Meg is about to find herself homeless. Her and her child.’ She bit back a tirade and managed to keep her voice calm. ‘I am sure that the master would think you had done the girl a service by admitting her and the child to the workhouse.’

  Ursula stared at her. ‘She’s still here? In South Monkford?’

  Clara nodded. ‘Has been all the time, apparently. Lodging in a house in Laurel Street. But the – er – house where she is living has recently changed hands.’ There was no need for Waters to know that the contracts had not yet been signed and that, legally, the properties were not yet in Theobald Finch’s possession. ‘And the – er – new landlord,’ Clara went on, ‘doesn’t allow his tenants to take in lodgers. Overcrowding and such. You understand?’

  Ursula didn’t, but she nodded, thinking it was expected of her.

  ‘Now –’ Clara leant forward – ‘she’ll be arriving here probably tomorrow. I want you to admit her and her child, but once they are segregated . . .’ Clara ran her tongue nervously round her lips. She was suddenly unnerved by the look of astonishment on Waters’s face, but she had gone too far to turn back now. ‘I will take the child to live with me. The workhouse is no place for my Percy’s son.’

  For a long moment Ursula stared at Clara and slowly, very slowly, realization came to her. Despite all that had happened, Miss Finch still loved Percy Rodwell. Her love for him was as great as Ursula’s own for Isaac Pendleton. No matter how much they were hurt, these two women were united in their undying devotion to their men.

  ‘You – you want to – to take Mr Rodwell’s son and – and bring him up as – as your own?’

  Clara took a deep breath and prayed hard. ‘Yes.’

  Again, Waters just stared at her, trying to imagine how she would feel if Sarah had borne Isaac a child. Would she feel so charitable? Was her love great enough to take that child in and bring it up as her own? She couldn’t answer her own questions at this moment, but later, in her lonely spinster’s bed, she would think them through.

  ‘My, my,’ she murmured, her gaze still on Clara’s face. ‘You must have loved Mr Rodwell very much.’

  ‘I did. He was my life. That – that girl’s child is the child I should have had. He belongs to me.’

  In her own obsession for Isaac, Ursula began to understand Clara’s twisted reasoning. She nodded eagerly. ‘What do you want me to do?’

  ‘Just admit them and leave the rest to me.’

  ‘They’ll be here tomorrow, you say?’

  ‘Yes. Well before the master and the matron return . . .’

  Understanding at once, Ursula’s eyes gleamed.

  It happened with such speed that Meg thought she was in some terrible nightmare. Any moment she would wake up sweating and find herself safely in her bed at Mrs Benedict’s, with Robbie sleeping soundly in his little cot beside her.

  But this was no dream. This nightmare was only too real.

  At the end of a long day, and with Robbie in bed, Florrie and Meg were sitting quietly by the fireside drinking cocoa when a loud knock came at the door.

  ‘Now who can that be at this time of night?’ Florrie said, setting down her cup and hurrying to the door. ‘Sounds as if some poor soul is in trouble.’

  Before she’d even reached the door, three men wearing balaclavas and carrying sticks rushed into the house. Doors were never locked in Laurel Street during the daytime and Florrie’s habit was to lock up just before she went upstairs to bed.

  ‘Here, what d’you thin
k—’

  Florrie’s indignant question was never finished for one of the men pushed her in the chest as they rushed past her. She fell heavily to the floor, banging her head, and was knocked unconscious. Meg had hardly time to rise to her feet before two of the men grabbed her, held her fast and thrust a gag into her mouth.

  ‘Get the kid,’ were the only words spoken in a gruff voice.

  Minutes later she was being bundled into the back of a cart as her squealing son was thrust into her arms.

  ‘Shut him up,’ ordered the gruff voice, ‘else I will.’

  A quieter voice spoke up. ‘Don’t hurt the kid. Remember?’

  ‘Want the whole street coming out their doors, do yer?’

  ‘No, but—’

  ‘Gerrin and let’s be off.’

  The cart jolted away, whilst in the back a terrified Meg held her child close to her and tried to remove the gag from around her mouth.

  ‘Leave that alone, else it’ll be the worse for you,’ came the voice again.

  The men were anxious and agitated. One drove the cart whilst the others ran alongside it, their sticks at the ready.

  But no one stopped them. No one ventured out of their houses. If anyone saw, they stayed within the safety of their homes. No one came to Meg’s aid as the cart trundled up the street towards the outskirts of the town – and the workhouse.

  Fifty-One

  Just inside the gate the men paused.

  ‘What about him?’ One jerked his head towards the porter’s lodge.

  ‘I’ll see to that old fool.’ In the darkness Meg saw him brandish his stick. ‘This’ll keep him quiet.’

  Suddenly Meg managed to free the gag from her mouth. ‘Albert!’ she yelled at the top of her voice. ‘Albert—’

  A rough hand fastened painfully over her mouth. ‘Keep it shut if yer know what’s good for you.’

  As they were dragging her across the yard to the wash house, the door of the lodge opened and Albert peered out. ‘What’s going on . . . ? Ah!’