Page 12 of The Heart’s Choice (Cotton Cops Mysteries #1)
Chapter 11
Exploring
T he next day, tired of Philippa Sandiford’s constant harping on the wonders of London compared to dirty, smelly Lancashire, and feeling the need to exercise muscles aching after the hours spent cleaning, Bea resolved to visit Bridget’s home on Red Lane. She explained her mission to Glenda, who thought she’d lost her wits and tried hard to deter her from venturing abroad in this dirty town, especially with a killer roaming the streets.
Bea thought the manner of the boy’s death indicated an argument that had gotten out of hand and doubted they’d be accosted even if they met the murderer on the street. She felt she’d won the argument when Glenda agreed to accompany her, first to the International Tea Co. Shop, two streets away from the mill. She was soon glad her maid had come with her. The dozens of men loitering in the streets were polite enough, some even touching their caps when they passed. However, it all felt very foreign and intimidating after the leafy laneways of Milton Abbas, not to mention there was filth and broken pavement underfoot, and the stench was nigh on overwhelming.
The shop’s awning proclaimed its owners imported and distributed provisions from two hundred branches throughout the kingdom. Flies swarmed around two whole sides of bacon propped up on display outside. One window was crammed with slabs of butter, cheese, bacon, and joints of meat. The other window featured an array of various types of tea.
Bea’s funds were meager, but she had enough to buy tea, sugar, and rice, with sufficient coin left over to purchase lamp oil. She tucked the provisions into Glenda’s basket, alongside the bottle of elixir.
Red Lane wasn’t easy to find in the warren of tumbledown tenements. The further they ventured, the narrower the streets. Windows were coated with grime. Many had rags stuffed into broken or cracked panes. They dodged lines of washing strung across from one side of the alley to the other, side-stepped ominous deep puddles, and tried to ignore the incessant wailing of children. A cigarette or pipe dangled from the mouth of every sour-faced man. Every unkempt woman had a wailing baby lashed to her back with a shawl. The street seemed to be the place where laundry was done in large galvanized tubs equipped with washboards. The laundresses worked in a cluster around a lone stand pipe. Idle men leaned on doorways while others played dice.
The two were eyed with suspicion by folk clad entirely in gray clothing beyond repair. Enquiries about the location of the Mann household were answered with grunts and finger-pointing.
The door they finally knocked at was opened by a girl Bea didn’t recognize. “I understood Bridget Mann lives here,” she tried.
The girl shrugged and disappeared down a flight of stone steps, leaving the door open.
Bea and Glenda entered cautiously, squinting into the dark interior as they navigated the steps.
When their eyes became accustomed to the darkness, they found themselves in a windowless cellar with three people staring at them, Bridget, the girl and an older man.
“We brought you a basket,” Bea tried, not certain how to open the conversation.
“We’ve nowt to put in a basket,” Bridget replied hoarsely.
“You misunderstand,” Bea said, taking out the packet of tea. “There are things in the basket I thought you might need.”
“Don’t ’old wi’ charity,” the man hissed.
“Then you’re a stubborn fool,” Glenda declared.
A coughing fit seized Bridget, and Bea expected to be ushered out in short order. When she was finally able to breathe, Bridget said, “She’s right, Pa. I won’t turn me nose up at a good cup o’ char.”
Sulking, he slumped down in a rocking chair by the cold hearth while Bridget unpacked the basket. “This is me sister, Meg,” she wheezed.
Bea extracted the elixir. “Here is the real reason for our visit. I don’t like the sound of that cough.”
“Nowt to be done ’bout it,” Mr. Mann said. “Cotton dust int’ lungs.”
“Well,” Glenda replied. “Won’t do the lass any harm to take the medicine.”
“Aye, more dangerous out int’ street wi’ a murderer ’angin’ about.”
Bea might have known her maid would pursue his statement. “Who do you think is guilty, Mr. Mann?”
“Plain as the nose on tha face. John Smythe kilt the lad.”
“The man sacked for smoking?” Bea asked.
“I agree it could be him,” Glenda said.
Bea sighed. Her maid was apparently as confused about the murderer’s identity as the police.
“Halliwell’ll ne’er catch the killer,” Mann said. “’E’s too slow and steady. Did tha fetch baccy fer rollin’ fags?”
“Definitely not,” Bea replied, thrown off balance by the abrupt change of subject and bothered by Mann’s cryptic remark. “Smoking cigarettes in the house will only worsen Bridget’s cough.” She refrained from voicing the opinion that the dank place likely wasn’t good for the health of the occupants anyway.
His reaction left no doubt about what he thought of his visitors. Snarling, he got up from the chair and stalked out of the house, tripping on the steps as he went.
“Pa’ll not give up the fags,” Meg said, when the door slammed.
“Then you must take the elixir and walk in the fresh air whenever you can,” Bea asserted.
Both girls stared at her. “And where will we find fresh air around ’ere?” Meg asked.
Bea had no answer, so she launched into a monologue about looking forward to moving to Belmont Grange.
“I’m surprised tha wants to leave the Sandifords,” Bridget said with a grin.
“Aye,” Meg echoed. “I wouldn’t mind livin’ with a handsome chap like Mr. Sandiford.”
Bea’s throat tightened. “I’m not living with him, as you put it,” she retorted. “The Sandifords have been good enough to put us up while the Grange is being fixed.”
“And I’ll wager the crafty Mrs. Sandiford is encouragin’ tha friendship with ’er son.”
“That’s utter nonsense. Mr. Sandiford and I are not friends.”
Bea found that reality truly depressing.
* * *
After Beatrice’s rejection of Roger’s advances, the Parkers’ presence in his home was awkward, but his mother insisted he continue to take his rightful place at the head of the dinner table. The conversation inevitably turned to the murder. Arthur Parker asked if there’d been any progress. Roger gave a brief summary of the interviews he’d witnessed, but refused to express an opinion as to who might be the guilty party.
Beatrice kept her gaze on her plate and remained silent. It irritated Roger that he still craved her, despite her aloofness.
He was taken aback when she suddenly announced she’d ventured into the slums to visit a girl she’d befriended.
“Red Lane?” he exclaimed. “You were lucky to escape in one piece.”
“It wasn’t that bad,” she retorted. “Glenda came with me.”
“I say, Bea,” her father said, his voice full of disapproval. “Why would you take such a risk?”
“Bridget Mann has a terrible cough, thanks to the cotton dust she inhales working in your mill, Mr. Sandiford. I took her some medicine.”
Thunder darkened Lucinda’s face. “Miss Parker,” she began.
“It’s all right, Mother,” Roger said. “Miss Parker obviously isn’t aware that I have suggested many times that ventilation be installed to clear the air. At my own expense, I might add.”
“And?” Beatrice retorted.
“The workers won’t have it. The carders at Sutler’s Mill complained of hunger as a result of the improved ventilation, arguing that they’d been long used to swallowing fluff and that their wages ought to be raised if they were to work in such places.”
Beatrice pursed her lips and thrust out her breasts, only adding to Roger’s torment.
“That is no excuse not to improve working conditions,” she declared.
“You should keep your nose out of affairs that don’t concern you, Miss Parker,” Lucinda said. “I am proud of what my son has accomplished with Broadclough.”
“If you’ll excuse me,” Beatrice said, as she rose and flounced out of the dining room.
“Good riddance, Miss La-Dee-Da,” Philippa said, with her nose in the air.
Roger heard the sound of another nail being hammered into the coffin of his hopes to woo Beatrice Parker.
* * *
Sick at heart and suspecting she’d get no sleep, Bea decided to write a letter to her one friend in Dorset. She and Edith Rexton were the only girls of their age in Milton Abbas and had consequently been friends since childhood. Unlike Beatrice, Edith had been quite content to marry a sheep farmer, and hadn’t understood the excitement of a new beginning in Lancashire.
It was galling to write about the difficulty of adapting to life in the north. She could imagine Edith’s told you so reaction.
She had to let somebody know how lonely she was, how isolated she felt, but was it true that she longed to return to Dorset? She did miss long walks across the downs, but walking around Bolton was more—she searched for the right word, finally settling on exciting .
She included a lengthy description of Belmont Grange and the work that had to be put into its restoration, briefly mentioning how grateful she was to the Sandifords.
She tried to describe the social divide, the antagonism between workers and masters. Lucinda believed some men were meant to be masters while others would always try to pull them down. It was doubtful Edith would accept that as the way of the world.
In her letter, she complained about the damp northern weather and wrote at length about the appalling working conditions in the cotton mills, but she made no mention of her burgeoning feelings for Roger Sandiford and the mess she’d made of her relationship with him. That ship had sailed.