Page 13 of The Heart’s Choice (Cotton Cops Mysteries #1)
Chapter 12
Relief
A s the mill owners gathered once more at The Pack Horse , the tension in the air was palpable. Roger suspected many of his fellow industrialists were facing the same worsening situation with regards to the cotton famine. He assumed the discussion would center around the looming catastrophe of mass layoffs. Instead, he was bombarded with questions about the progress of the murder investigation.
“Nothing much to report,” he replied. “The sergeant has interviewed several people, not all of them suspects. As far as I know, he hasn’t yet tracked down the culprit.”
“But tha must have some idea of who it is,” Hampson claimed. “We all know who the bad apples are in our workforce.”
“True,” Roger conceded. “But I can’t think of a single employee of mine who’d stove in a boy’s head with a hammer.”
“Art insinuating one of our workers did it?” Sutler retorted.
Roger rolled his eyes. “Look, we have more important matters to discuss. What are we going to do about the famine?”
“Nowt fer it but to close the mills,” Hampson declared.
“Aye,” a few mumbled.
Roger decided he wasn’t going to sit by and let his workers starve. “If we do that, we must provide relief for our employees.”
“Nay, lad,” Hampson replied, in a patronizing tone of voice. “It’s every man fer hisself.”
Roger rarely challenged Hampson who could be a vindictive sod, but he stuck to his guns. “Our workers have stood by us time and again. They refused to strike when unionists threatened them. Lancashire cotton spinners have sent an official letter to Abraham Lincoln in support of the fight against slavery in America. They’ve helped all of us become rich. Now, we plan to abandon them? There’ll be hell to pay and more than one murder to solve.”
“They’ve made threats?” Hampson growled.
Exasperated, Roger shook his head. “The American war will end one day. Lancashire folk have long memories. Chances are they’ll work willingly for masters they respect.”
“Well,” Hampson groused. “I suppose it’ll do no ’arm to write to the Manchester Central Relief Committee. Mebbe they can ’elp. In the meantime, I’m shuttin’ down.”
Roger suspected the people in Manchester had their hands full assisting unemployed men and women in that city. But he’d said his piece. He could only try to protect his own workers. Lucinda had known hunger. She’d help him set up some sort of kitchen with simple food. It was the least he could do with his meager resources.
Intending to purchase another of Mr. Thornley’s pies, he left the meeting and set off to Newport Street. Intent on watching where he stepped, he thought for a moment he espied a man wearing yellow trousers heading for the hotel. It couldn’t be the foppish law clerk. He’d gone back to London, and this fellow was deep in conversation with another man. Perhaps yellow was the fashionable thing these days, though Roger would sooner be caught dead than even consider such an ostentatious color.
* * *
The morning after her foray into the slums, Bea awoke later than usual. It was the second day in a row she’d slept in. Every part of her body still ached from cleaning the Grange. Shrugging on a wrapper, she found her parents in the sitting room. Her father was hidden behind his newspaper. She wondered how he’d manage out on the moor. It was doubtful the paper would be delivered to the Grange.
Her mother was spooning the last of a boiled egg from an eggcup.
“Looks good,” she said. “I’ll get Glenda to make me one.”
“She left already,” her mother announced. “Gone out to the Grange with the crew.”
Her father lowered his newspaper. “It’s good of Sandiford to foot the bill for the clean-up. I suspect he can ill afford it.”
Guilt surged in Bea’s throat. She’d more or less cajoled him into paying for new curtains.
“Our daughter rejected his advances the day before yesterday,” her mother revealed.
Bea seethed. “I told you that in confidence, Mama.”
Her father peered at her over the top of his spectacles. “I suppose you know your own mind, child, but Sandiford’s a good man. I’m impressed with his achievements as a self-made man. He pays better wages than most of the other mill owners. You could do worse, although your outburst last evening did little to enamor you to him. He told me earlier this morning that he and his mother are planning to set up a soup kitchen for those he can no longer employ. He’s got men refurbishing the idle machinery who otherwise would be out of work.”
Bea couldn’t change the past, no matter how much she regretted her tendency to always put a foot wrong. She shook off her lethargy. “Surely there’s something we can do,” she said.
“The women can learn to do fine needlework, like invisible mending,” her mother suggested.
“Then they could perhaps find work as seamstresses,” Bea replied enthusiastically. “I could teach them.”
“And we can give classes in reading and writing,” her father said.
“And simple mathematics,” Bea agreed, her spirits lifting. If she helped with good works, Roger Sandiford might see she wasn’t the snobbish socialite he deemed her to be.
* * *
For a week, Roger made a point of dropping into the soup kitchen at midday. He noted that the number of workers taking advantage of the free food increased daily. His mother insisted on being present every day to ladle out the soup. She’d never found it easy to socialize with people, so he was proud of her efforts to keep the workers’ spirits up. The one topic of conversation was, of course, the murder. The consensus seemed to be that the killer would never be caught. Roger found that prospect disturbing.
Despite the drain on his resources, he was glad they’d set up the kitchen in a storage shed that was no longer needed. The unemployed women who made the soup told him they felt useful again. It was clear the people who came appreciated his efforts, especially those with large families of young children. They were polite and respectful. It might have been a very different story if he’d done nothing. There’d been talk of machine breaking at other mills.
The classes offered by the Parkers had also gone a long way to relieving tension. Attendance entitled the workers to Poor Law payments. Beatrice was teaching dozens of women the skill of invisible mending. So many had wanted to be included in the literacy and mathematics classes, she and her father had been obliged to limit enrollment to the older boys. Most of them were piecers and little piecers, who might have a better chance of obtaining other employment if they could read and write and do simple sums. It was encouraging to see such a thirst for knowledge and the workers’ realization that education meant advancement. Winning a scholarship to Bolton Grammar School for Boys had changed his life.
Roger’s home had become a hive of activity. Halliwell informed him he was beginning to think outsiders had killed Malcolm. He no longer needed the study for interviews. It became the location of the mathematics classes. Only Philippa petulantly objected to commoners using the drawing room and his study for lessons. Roger had to smile. His sister apparently considered herself a member of the nobility.
Roger stupidly looked forward to spending time in his study in the evening so he could inhale lingering traces of Beatrice Parker’s lavender perfume.
Her obvious enjoyment of the classes was commendable. Perhaps she wasn’t the stuck-up socialite he’d thought. It was inevitable they bump into each other from time to time. On one occasion, she stammered out an apology for what she called her atrocious manners and lack of gratitude. Each time they met after that, she blushed furiously and couldn’t meet his gaze. She took her meals upstairs on a tray, ostensibly to keep her mother company. He began to wonder if she did have feelings for him. Despite his best efforts, his desire for her refused to abate.