Page 3 of The Heart’s Choice (Cotton Cops Mysteries #1)
Chapter 2
Vital Matters
Bolton, Lancashire, England
R oger Sandiford stroked the stubble on his chin with the backs of his fingers. Contemplating the dwindling supply of baled raw cotton on the receiving dock, he had to face the fact Broadclough Mills couldn’t survive long at the current rate. Adding to the problem was the presence of a policeman investigating a murder at the mill. Sergeant Halliwell was of the opinion no spinning mule could have caved in Malcolm Pickering’s skull. A hammer was more likely.
“Bluidy Peelers,” his overseer exclaimed. “All this fuss over a dead brat.”
“Pickering may have been a brat,” Roger replied. “But we can’t tolerate violence at the mill.”
“They think I did it, tha knows.”
“Did you?” Roger quipped.
“Nay. Pickering were a bad lad and I may have felt like killin’ ’im many a time, but nay.”
“Don’t tell the police that.”
“Already did. Halliwell made a note of it in his little book.”
Roger gestured to the meager supply of raw cotton. “Meanwhile, we have more important matters to worry about.”
“Bluidy Colonials,” Miles agreed. “Their Civil War’ll bring this business down if it ain’t o’er soon.”
Roger didn’t always agree with Miles Smethurst, and he ought to point out America hadn’t been a colony for almost a hundred years. However, in this case, his overseer was probably right. The profits from Roger’s once-thriving mill had already plummeted. No cotton from America meant no work for his employees. Every mill in Lancashire was experiencing the same problem. Roger inhaled deeply, but the usual reek of dozens of sweaty working men laboring in the yard was missing. There were no shouts of friendly greetings or admonishment, no tang of oil in the air. Unemployment led to unrest, but he couldn’t afford to keep the machines running without cotton to spin and weave.
“It’s ironic,” he told Miles. “We’ve weathered strikes, machine-breakers, even fire. Now, a war on the other side of the world and a murder threaten to close us down.”
He didn’t mention the years of struggle and sacrifice to get the mill up and running in the first place, nor the ruthless wheeling and dealing in which he’d had to involve himself. At twenty-five, he’d expected to be financially secure.
Miles nodded. “At least our workers support the fight agin slavery.”
“There is that,” Roger agreed. “Let’s hope the anti-slavery spirit sustains them once the money runs out.”
“On another subject, I ’ear there’s to be a new occupant at Belmont Grange,” Miles remarked.
“Aye, a vicar from a small village in Dorset, of all places. He’ll find life in our northern county very different.”
“This ain’t the best o’ times to be comin’ north, I reckon,” Miles said. “And they say the Grange needs a bit o’ work.”
It struck Roger somebody should perhaps have checked on the old house. He simply hadn’t had time, and it was hardly his responsibility. “Well, the estate is five miles out of town and surrounded by moorland. Last time I was invited there, the place was looking jaded, and that’s at least six years ago. They say Belmont went off his head shortly after that.”
“Still, the old Baron, God rest him, kept his nose out o’ thy business. I suppose gentry don’t socialize wi’ mill owners.”
Roger shrugged. What did he care if members of the nobility looked down their noses at tradesmen? “Let’s hope the same proves true for the new Baron Belmont.”
* * *
Later the same afternoon, Roger attended the fortnightly meeting of local mill owners, held in the banquet room of The Pack Horse hotel. His frustration grew as discussions between his fellow mill owners degenerated into the usual squabbling. They had vital matters to resolve, yet the current argument centered on who amongst them should meet the new Baron when he arrived at Great Moor Street station in a few days. It was to be expected that a local businessman would put in an appearance.
“The chap from the London solicitors wrote to say he and the Baron’s family will arrive on Thursday,” Roderick Hampson shouted. “That’s payday at my mill. I can’t go.”
Roger inhaled deeply and instantly regretted it. The mill owners in the small banquet room might be wealthy, but he’d warrant some of them hadn’t bathed in a long while. Payday fell on the same day for every mill, but Hampson wasn’t a man to tangle with. “I’ll go,” he yelled in exasperation, hoping they’d move on to discussing the famine.
“Are you allowed to leave Broadclough while the murder investigation is ongoing?” Hampson replied.
Curious frowns indicated most of those present hadn’t heard. Trust Hampson to mention it. “Why would it affect my movements? It’s in hand. I’m confident the murderer will soon be apprehended.”
Amid the ensuing shocked whispers, Hampson immediately brought down his gavel and adjourned the meeting. He announced refreshments were being served in the adjoining room, which meant there’d be copious amounts of ale consumed in the course of the afternoon.
Roger couldn’t keep silent. “But aren’t we going to discuss the American war and its effects on us? We initially believed the warehoused stocks would see out a brief conflict.”
“Aye,” Hampson retorted. “But all the early Union advances were driven back and it’s becoming clear the war will drag on. Can’t do nowt about it. Just have to lay people off till it’s o’er.”
A self-made man from a working-class family, Hampson was proud of his mode of speech. Yet, he had no empathy for the men, women and children he employed.
Roger had been born and brought up in a cellar dwelling in the maze of dark alleys near the Croal, a narrow, sluggish river that was more like a trickle of liquid filth than a waterway. He’d never forgotten the stench. When he was a child, cholera epidemics carried off many of their neighbors. In summer, his home swarmed with flies. He’d worked hard all his life and taken enormous risks to be where he was today. He knew what it was to go hungry, and was desperate for a better solution to the cotton famine. The nearby city of Manchester had formed a relief committee. Why couldn’t Bolton do the same? Evidently, his fellow mill-owners didn’t see the urgency.
Preferring not to spend his afternoon drinking watered ale, he left, emerging from the hotel into the busy street. He tossed a farthing to an urchin eager to clear a path with his broom through the ankle-deep mud and horse droppings. Bradshawgate was paved, but the endless stream of horse-drawn carriages made it impassable without the help of a sweeper. His attention was diverted by a band of minstrels who appeared oblivious to the filth and the traffic as they paraded down the middle of the busy street, singing and dancing for their supper.
He passed by most of the market stalls, ignoring the vendors of pickled whelks and pigs’ trotters, trying to outshout each other. Feeling peckish, he stopped to purchase a meat pie from Mr. Thornley. The local butcher was one of the few who used real, lean beef in his pies, and the crust was always fresh.
“Tha’s had a lad kilt,” Thornley said, as he handed Roger his pie wrapped in greaseproof paper.
“Indeed,” he replied, not really surprised by how quickly news had spread.
“Reckon that poor excuse fer a father did it,” Thornley opined.
While it was true Joss Pickering was a belligerent drunkard, surely a man wouldn’t kill his own son.