Page 5 of The Heart’s Choice (Cotton Cops Mysteries #1)
Chapter 4
Belmont Grange
I t was unfortunate that Roger’s driver had no choice but to take them through one of the seediest areas of Bolton when they left Great Moor Street station in the brougham. The cobblestone streets made for a bumpy ride.
Glenda and most of the luggage had to be left behind. The surly maid seemed unimpressed by Roger’s promise to send a wagon.
Mrs. Parker was visibly impressed by the quality of his carriage, but she looked frail and worn out, which was understandable given the distance they’d traveled. Eyes closed and kerchief held firmly to her nose once the carriage was in motion, she might have dozed off for all Roger could tell.
Arthur Parker kept up a steady stream of conversation, asking about the town and Roger’s mill.
Miss Parker didn’t utter a word, but her deep frown clearly showed her dismay as they passed slums and derelict buildings. Garrulous women plucked chickens in the street. Empty crates littered the pavement. Grubby, unshaven men loitered outside The Wheatsheaf , waiting for opening time.
She cringed when his driver shouted obscenities at the horde of ragged children chasing the carriage, begging for money. He’d noticed her disdain when he introduced himself as a mill-owner. Obviously, a tradesman wasn’t considered the social equal of a baron’s daughter.
He foresaw difficulties ahead for the haughty Miss Parker if she thought life in Lancashire was going to be the same as the one she’d left behind in the south.
“As it happens,” he told Parker. “Our route takes us by my mill. This is Broadclough coming up on the left.”
Normally a hive of activity, before the American Civil War brought about the cotton famine, today the mill boasted an almost empty loading dock and idle laborers hanging about. Thankfully, Sergeant Halliwell was nowhere to be seen. Roger ordered the driver to stop, then beckoned Billy Wiggins. “There’s a servant named Glenda waiting at Great Moor Street with luggage,” he told the spinners’ gaffer. “Send a man with a wagon and tell him to fetch her to the Grange.”
Unwilling to launch into an explanation for the lack of activity as they resumed the journey, he instead told the Parkers, “I’m relieved none of the men were smoking, otherwise I’d have been forced to remonstrate with them.”
“I suppose fire can be a problem,” Parker replied. “All that cotton.”
“Fire is the biggest danger any mill faces. More than one establishment in Lancashire has gone up in smoke with heavy loss of life when workers were trapped.”
While he spoke true, he couldn’t help but think fire hadn’t been the cause of Malcolm Pickering’s death. Satisfied they’d passed his mill without his having to confess to these strangers that things weren’t going well, he wasn’t prepared for the horror in Miss Parker’s wide eyes. It was as well he hadn’t mentioned the murder. A man could drown in those green depths.
* * *
Bea couldn’t rid herself of the horrific image of people burning alive inside a fire-ravaged factory. Cobblestones soon gave way to streets paved with what Sandiford told her father was a mixture of flint and grit. The carriage wheels threw up a fine dust.
“We’re lucky it’s not raining,” Sandiford remarked.
Unwilling to contemplate the significance of his remark, she relaxed a little when the dirty streets of the town gave way to moorland. It wasn’t the picturesque landscape of Dorset’s downs, but the air was easier to breathe and there were no ragged beggars. Her mother rallied briefly, but lapsed back into sleep after a quick glance out of the window.
Bea didn’t know what to think about Broadclough Mills. Roger Sandiford might be considered a handsome man if one were impressed by brooding good looks, or by the way his black hair curled into his nape. His intelligent brown eyes were disturbingly dark. His black topcoat and trousers were well tailored, his winged collar starched, his neckcloth tied perfectly. The brougham was a splendid vehicle which spoke of financial success. However, there didn’t seem to be much going on at the mill itself.
They were obliged to stop two or three times to wait for moorland sheep to wander out of the way. A few skeletal trees clung to rocky outcroppings. A knot of dread tightened in Bea’s stomach when the rolling moorland with the occasional patch of purple heather soon turned into a barren, windswept plateau.
Her fears were confirmed when Belmont Grange came into view. She said a silent prayer of thanks that her mother was still asleep and hoped she remained so until Glenda arrived with the smelling salts.
* * *
Roger wasn’t surprised when the state of Belmont Grange shocked even the chatty Arthur Parker into silence.
The decrepit mansion stood as a haunting reminder of its former glory, shrouded in a wild tapestry of nature reclaiming its territory. The once-grand structure was now draped in thick vines and ivy, with trees whose roots had begun to intertwine with the foundation. Cracked stone walls were coated by layers of grime and moss.
The overgrown gardens were a chaotic blend of wildflowers and towering weeds. Nature had taken over the manicured hedges and pathways. Trees unsuited to a moorland landscape had withered for lack of care. They loomed like sentinels, their gnarled branches casting eerie shadows. Amidst the tangled underbrush, the head of a moss-covered statue poked out here and there. A crumbling fountain in front of the house hadn’t seen water in years. Pathways meandered into the unknown.
The house belonged in one of Mrs. Radcliffe’s Gothic novels, yet it held an intriguing charm. “Belmont Grange has a rich history,” he told the gaping threesome. A mischievous need to lighten the mood took hold of his tongue. “Are you brave enough to venture inside to uncover this house’s mysteries?”
* * *
Tears trickled down Abigail Parker’s cheeks when she startled awake and looked at her new home. Bea decided it was up to her to do what she could to soften the blow for her parents. They weren’t elderly by any measure, but neither were they in the first flush of youth. Abigail in particular would have a difficult time dealing with this travesty. She rose to Sandiford’s cheeky challenge. “We are indeed brave enough. Would you please summon the servants to assist us?”
“I’m afraid Algernon sent them all away. He grew rather paranoid in his dotage. Thought they were trying to poison him.” He leaned closer to Bea’s ear. “I suspect it was more a case of no funds to pay wages.”
He had come inappropriately close, but his warm breath tickling her ear wasn’t unpleasant. However, if her first sight of the house wasn’t enough to confirm the estate was in financial difficulty, Sandiford’s aside was the last nail in the coffin of her hopes. Her parents had a little money set aside from the sale of furniture, but not nearly enough to put this place to rights. “Come along,” she urged, linking arms with them both after Mr. Sandiford helped them alight. “We’ll soon have this house fixed up.”
Bea filled her lungs as Sandiford put a broad shoulder to the reluctant door, then the trio followed him into the dark foyer. She half closed her eyes, suspecting there was nothing good to see. As if sensing they shouldn’t linger, he led the way into what she supposed had once served as a sitting room.
Towering windows, many cracked or obscured by foliage, allowed slivers of light to filter into the dim interior, casting ghostly shadows that danced across dusty wooden floors. The odors of rodent droppings, mildew, and decay mingled with the faint hint of something vaguely floral.
The room held remnants of lives once lived there, with faded photographs and tattered curtains rustling gently in an invisible breeze, whispering secrets of the past.
Her mother sank into a settee, unleashing a cloud of dust that brought on a coughing fit. “I can go no further,” she croaked.
Bea was surprised she’d managed to remain upright for as long as she had.
“I’ll stay with Mother,” her father said.
Exiting the room, Bea and Sandiford made their way to the central staircase. The threadbare carpet on the creaking stairs spoke of bygone wealth. The landing led to a darkened hallway lined with doors that squealed ominously when coaxed open. The remnants of opulent furnishings lay beneath layers of dust. “This place has known elegance and luxury,” she whispered.
She hadn’t meant the remark to be overheard, but Sandiford nodded. “Aye, it has.”
His rich baritone chased away the chill, but she clutched his arm and shrieked when a mouse ran across her path. He put his arm around her waist and supported her until she calmed. “My apologies,” she murmured, mortified she’d touched him, though his strength had warmed her. “Thank goodness you were with me. I went cold all over.”
“Indeed,” he agreed, rubbing her arms. “A cat might be a good idea, but I’ll send out the rat catcher.”
“Do you think there are rats?” she asked nervously.
“Probably not, but I’ll protect you if any dare to appear. Are you able to carry on with the tour?”
She took comfort in Roger Sandiford’s offer of protection and his teasing smile.
Downstairs once more, they investigated the dining room. A long table with two dozen or so mismatched chairs hinted at joyous gatherings now lost to history.
The ruined house served as a poignant reminder of the precarious nature of life. Every corner held a story waiting to be discovered.
But there were practicalities to face before Bea could indulge in fanciful thoughts of investigating the house’s history. “Obviously, we cannot stay here until the place has been thoroughly cleaned,” she told Sandiford.
“I apologize,” he said. “I haven’t been here in some time. Had I realized …”
She privately thought a person charged with welcoming them would have made a better job of making sure the house was ready to receive them. “Yes,” she said. “If you could recommend a nearby hotel.”