by Lynch, R J
The maid stood aside and Cooper came into the room. ‘That will be all, Sarah,’ said the rector.
‘He came to the front door, sir’, said the scandalised maid.
‘Damned impertinence,’ said Claverley. ‘Mister Cooper, do you usually wear your hat indoors in the presence of gentlemen? Thank you. Now state your business.’
Chapter 25
The man’s voice was as angry as his demeanour. ‘I mean to see Rector Claverley and Overseer Blakiston.’
‘They are before you. I say again, state your business.’
‘I will not leave until I have justice.’
‘Justice?’ demanded Blakiston. ‘You shall have justice if you speak that way, for I shall march you to the Constable and have him put you in the lockup. But not before I have whipped you, you impudent scoundrel. Now, take heed. Using the tone of voice the Rector expects when you speak to him, tell us in as few words as possible the nature of this justice you seek.’
‘I want my father’s money.’
Blakiston stared at him.
‘Sir. If it please you.’
‘It may please us or not please us, Cooper, and that would be neither here nor there, for it is your business—yours and your brothers’ and your sisters’—and not ours. But for what reason do you address this plea to us? I know of no money belonging to your father, and neither does Sir Thomas here.’
Cooper’s look of angry scorn deepened. ‘Well, sir, that is not what we have heard.’
‘We?’ said Blakiston. ‘And who the devil is we?’
‘My brother Samuel was here. He spoke with...he spoke with some of the people of the village. They told him you two gentlemen had searched the ruins of my father’s cottage and after you were gone, the treasure was gone, also.’
Blakiston had become suddenly still. ‘Samuel Cooper was here? I was told he lives in Corbridge. When was Samuel Cooper here?’
Cooper’s belligerence had turned to caution. ‘He was here...I do not rightly know when he was here. But he was here. And he was told what he was told.’
‘Do not toy with us, Cooper. You know very well when your brother was here, and you will tell us or you will not leave this place until the Rector has examined you in his capacity as a Justice of the Peace. I wager you would not leave even then. I ask you again: when was your brother here?’
Cooper twisted the hat between his hands. ‘I cannot say, sir. You must ask him yourself.’
Claverley sat back in his chair. He rang the bell connecting his study with the domestics’ quarters. When the maid appeared, he said, ‘Send John for the Constable. Tell him he will have an unwilling guest this night, and he should come prepared to take him.’
The maid disappeared, closing the door behind her. Nathanial Cooper looked from one man to the other. ‘Sirs,’ he said. ‘You cannot do this. I have done no wrong. You have no right to hold me.’
‘We may leave matters of right and wrong to the Rector here,’ said Blakiston. ‘What I know is that your father was murdered by some unknown hand and that all his children hated him. Is that true? Did you nurse an unchristian hatred for your father?’
Cooper glowered but said nothing.
‘And now I find that your brother has been here, and you will not tell me when.’
‘My brother wants only what I want. Whoso keepeth the fig tree shall eat the fruit thereof: so he that waiteth on his master shall be honoured.’
‘Do you bandy biblical quotations with me?’ said Claverley.’
‘I want what was my father’s and should be mine,’ insisted Cooper.
‘Tell me, Cooper,’ said Blakiston. ‘What makes you so certain that your father had money?’
‘He said so. Sir.’
‘Oh, he said so,’ said Claverley. ‘Reuben Cooper said it, and so it must be true. Your father was an impudent rascal and a Godless man, Cooper, but I never heard tell that he was a man of truth whose word should be believed. Rather the reverse, in fact. Did he say where this money came from?’
‘It was a family matter. Sir.’
‘I will hear more of this,’ said Blakiston. ‘You, Cooper. You live in Staithes?’
‘No, sir. They gave me a certificate for Newcastle.’
‘And how do you make your living there?’
‘I am a potman, sir.’
‘Where?’
‘I work for Grace Barrass, sir. At the Lion. In the Side.’
Blakiston stretched his legs in front of him. ‘Grace Barrass at the Lion in the Side.’ He laughed. ‘I have heard of this woman, Thomas. The Lion is a bawdy house. A stew. Men go there to drink a pot of ale in the company of loose women, do they not, Cooper? Before they do what men and loose women do together. Though perhaps you and I should not speak of such things in the Rector’s hearing. But Grace Barrass shares in the women’s earnings. Am I not right?’
‘I cannot say, sir.’
‘You cannot say? I am sure you could, if you were so inclined. But at least you have the decency not to deny it outright. Grace. They call the woman Grace. One has to smile. I will not claim that stews are unknown to me. I took pleasure there, but I saw little sign of God’s grace.’
‘James...’
‘I am sorry, Rector. I did not mean to blaspheme. Forgive me.’
‘We have had no trouble’ said Cooper. ‘Mistress Barrass has been before no magistrate.’
‘No, Cooper, I am sure she has not. A woman like Grace Barrass knows to pay her dues, and who it is she must pay them to. You are some way from home. Is this intrusion your only reason for being here?’
‘I want what is mine.’
The door opened and Sarah hovered in the entrance.
‘And I what is mine,’ said Blakiston, ‘which is information about your father’s death. Which I shall have, Cooper, before you leave this parish.’ He turned to the maid. ‘Is the Constable here?’
‘Yes sir. He is at the back door. He has brought two men with him.’
‘Admit them,’ said Claverley.
‘Our Constable is a dissenter, Cooper,’ said Blakiston. ‘In truth, he should not be allowed to serve, but that is the way of it here. I believe you will find he has little truck with potmen in stews.’
George Bright bowed to Blakiston and the Rector. Two men, one of whom held a stout rope, stood in the doorway behind him, edging out the maid who strained to see round them.
‘That will be all, Sarah,’ said Claverley.
Disappointment on her face, the girl dropped a curtsey. ‘Yes, sir.’
‘George Bright,’ said Blakiston, ‘we wish you to take this man into custody.’
‘Yes, sir. The charge?’
‘We believe him to be compromised in the matter of his father’s murder.’
‘Yes, sir.’ Bright turned to Cooper. ‘Will you come with us peacefully, or must we bind you?’
‘Oh, I think you had better bind him,’ said Blakiston.
‘Sir,’ said Cooper. ‘Mistress Barrass only gave me a day’s leave, and that right unwillingly. She wishes to see me at my post tonight. If she does not, I may lose it to another. New positions are hard to find, with so many men laid off from the wars. I do not wish to spend the night in the lockup.’
‘I am sure you do not,’ said Claverley. ‘No-one ever does.’
‘If I tell you everything I know, will you let me go?’
Claverley looked at Blakiston, who said, ‘It can do no harm to hear what he has to say. Leave us, Bright. Wait in the hall. Station one of your men at the front door and one at the back, in case this ruffian attempts to bolt.’
‘Instruct my man John, who fetched you, to wait in the hall also,’ said Claverley. Four pairs of hands will be better than three.’
‘Y
es, sir,’ said Bright.
‘Now, Cooper,’ said Blakiston when the men had gone. ‘Speak your piece.’
‘Sir,’ said Cooper, ‘there is a family in Staithes by the name of Blenkinsopp. A decent family, God-fearing.’
‘They would have wanted little to do with the Coopers, then.’
‘I fear you are right, sir. Master Blenkinsopp is a shopkeeper. His wife was the daughter of a farmer, a big farmer in those parts, who owned a good deal of land. There was bad blood between my father and Blenkinsopp, from when they were boys. The farm should have gone to the brother of Master Blenkinsopp’s wife, but he died. There were but the two children, sir.’
‘So when the farmer died, Blenkinsopp’s wife inherited?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Go on.’
‘Yes, sir. Master Blenkinsopp is a shopkeeper, sir...’
‘You said that.’
‘He would never have made a farmer, sir. He sold the farm. It brought a good price. It was the best and biggest farm thereabouts that was not owned by the Church, or one of the big landowners.’
‘So Blenkinsopp was rich, by the standards of his class.’
‘Yes, sir. He had four daughters, all right comely girls. Fanny, the eldest, was a beauty. With her father’s money and her looks, it was thought she would make a good marriage.’
‘Yes? Why do you stop? What villainy are you hiding?’
‘I am hiding nothing, sir. The story gives me no pride. Fanny would go about the parish on errands of mercy, sir.’
Blakiston’s head was in his hands. ‘Would to God I did not know what was coming,’ he murmured.
‘My father and my older brother waylaid the girl one day.’
‘Which brother was this?’
‘Nicholas, sir. Him as works for Farmer Oliver at Wall.’
‘Margery’s twin. The same brother that threatened your father’s life.’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘So your father and Nicholas Cooper took Fanny Blenkinsopp when she was on one of her charitable works.’
‘They did, sir. They hid her somewhere. I do not know where. I was not at home then. Nicholas stayed with her, to keep her safe, like.’
‘Safe.’
‘Yes, sir. And my father went to see Master Blenkinsopp, and told him the girl would be married to Nicholas, unless...’
‘Unless Blenkinsopp gave him money. A lot of money.’
‘Yes, sir. Fanny was the eldest girl, see, and stood to inherit one day.’
‘Blenkinsopp could have changed his will.’
‘Yes, sir, he could. But...’
‘But his daughter would still be married. To a Cooper.’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘And no decent, God-fearing father could leave his daughter in such a predicament.’
‘No, sir.’
‘So Blenkinsopp paid your father to return his daughter. And that is why you believe your father had money.’
‘Yes, sir.’
Blakiston’s head was now buried deep in both hands. When Cooper began to speak again, he said, ‘Be silent a moment, Cooper, for I must still my loathing.’ At length, he raised his head to stare at the ceiling. ‘When was your brother Samuel here?’
‘He has been here many times, sir. He has business here.’
‘What business?’
‘That I do not know, sir. You will have to ask him.’
‘Very well.’ Blakiston raised his voice. ‘George Bright! Gather your men and come here.’
When the four men were in the room, Blakiston said, ‘You will have been listening at the door. You heard what this vile rogue has told us?’
‘I did, sir.’
‘Bind him, and take him into your keeping.’
‘But, sir,’ shouted Cooper, ‘you promised to let me go.’
‘I gave no such undertaking. And Bright. When you have him safe under lock and key, be sure to let it be known that we hold him because we want to know the whereabouts of his brother, Samuel Cooper, and he refuses to tell us.’
‘Yes, sir,’ said Bright. As his men began the task of making Cooper secure with the rope, Bright went on, ‘Sir, if I might speak?’
‘Please do.’
‘Sir, Catherine Robinson has been making my life a right misery.’
‘Catherine Robinson?’
‘Her as was James Robinson’s daughter at Chopwell Garth, sir. She was to marry Matthew Higson. After her father died, she found a position as scullery maid with Mister Bertram at Blackhall Mill Forge.’
‘The sword-maker?’
‘That’s him, sir. Catherine Robinson is after me every spare moment she gets, wanting me to speak to you about Higson.’
‘Can the girl not approach me herself?’
‘She is afraid to, sir. You an agent of Lord Ravenshead and her a scullion. But Higson has vanished and she wants to know where he is.’
‘Surely he made himself scarce after he realised he would not get Chopwell Garth?’
‘That’s what people believe, sir, but she says it isn’t so. She says he was going to marry her when her father was in good health and there was no chance of him having the farm. She says he loved her and he would not have gone off on his own.’
‘And what is this to me?’
‘Catherine Robinson believes Matthew Higson knows something about Reuben Cooper’s death, sir.’
‘She thinks he killed Cooper?’
‘No, sir. But she thinks he might know who did.’
When Bright and his men had taken Cooper away, Blakiston sat again with his head in his hands. Claverley poured more Madeira wine into both of their glasses, but did not intrude on his friend’s distress.
At length, Blakiston sat up and stared at Claverley.
The Rector said, ‘Do you put any value in what Catherine Robinson has to say about Matthew Higson?’
Blakiston shook his head. ‘A lovesick girl is deluding herself, as lovesick girls are wont to do. The man has thought better of his bargain and fled in search of new pastures. And a new woman.’
‘You will speak to her, all the same?’
‘Of course. When I have time. But I am more troubled with this business of Fanny Blenkinsopp. Do you believe in evil, Thomas?’
‘How could I not? My calling requires it.’
‘I must meet this Nicholas Cooper. I cannot believe he kept his hands off that poor girl.’ He drank the remains of his wine. ‘I must be about Lord Ravenshead’s business. But tell me, Thomas. Why are you so set against enclosures?’
‘My word, James, but you have a mercurial temperament. You move from one subject to another...’
‘But we were speaking of it when that blackguard interrupted us, and I would know.’
‘The souls of the people of this parish are in my care, James, and I must look to them even if they themselves do not. Especially if they do not. Our people are poor, James, but they are not unhappy. They have their plots of land, they have the work they do for others, and when they need what they cannot raise themselves they buy it from the smaller farmers at prices they can afford. When enclosures come, the small farms disappear into big farms. The big farmers do not wish to sell to the local people at the farm door, for they can make more money by sending their goods to market in the towns. And so the price of necessities rises. A few big farms need fewer labourers than many small farms, so men are driven to other work. In the coal mines, building ships, or in the manufactories. Or simply begging. The mines and the shipyards and the factories pay higher wages than the farms, but the poor people have lost their pieces of land, their grazing and their rights to gather fuel. Their incomes fall in total, and prices rise. They are happy no longer. They are ground down by poverty. Th
ey come to hate the farmers they once lived among even more than they dislike the gentlemen who deprived them of their land, for the farmers control the poor law and they will do anything they can to get them out of the parish and off the rate.’
‘A grim picture.’
‘Indeed. And it will happen here.’
Chapter 26
Perhaps it was the effect of Blakiston’s visit and the news he brought of enclosures and murder warrants that kept Tom from sleeping that night. Perhaps it was the solitude of the narrow bed he lay in while his wife had the much larger one in the next room. Whatever the cause, he was awake when the door’s faint creaking told him someone was entering the house. Or leaving it.
He went to the window and looked out. The moon was not full but the night was clear and the cloudless sky filled with stars. He watched Lizzie moving stealthily towards the hen run with what looked very like a loaf of bread in her hands. The swelling of her belly was becoming clear. Tom felt a surge of love, and aching longing for peace with this woman he lived with, longed for but could not have, married or not. Most of all, he wished she could be released from the rage that still so obviously possessed her. He got up, dressed and went quietly downstairs.
Although it was now the beginning of May, and the days were warm, the nights were still cold. The Greeners had warmed themselves and cooked their meals by collecting wood from the common lands and burning it on the open fire, into the side of which an oven was built. Tom was able to afford coal from Cockfield Fell. That meant that the kitchen could be kept warm through the coldest night, and Florrie’s last task before retiring each evening was to ruttle the fire with a heavy iron poker and then bank it over with slack coals and coal dust. These formed a crust that would glow dark red for hours and could be brought back to life next morning by further ruttling and the application of larger pieces of Cockfield coal. To Florrie, this perpetual fire in winter was the greatest luxury she had known since leaving service.
Tom settled down by the fire to wait. He could not read—apart from the gentry, in this parish only the children born to Crowley’s Crew in Winlaton had that skill. He was not a drinking man. He possessed no clay pipe, thinking tobacco a wasteful squandering of the money he toiled so hard to earn. With none of these ways to occupy his mind, he simply stared into the fire and followed its slowly shifting patterns while his thoughts ran where they would.
