Page 9 of The Heart’s Choice (Cotton Cops Mysteries #1)
Chapter 8
The Tour
I t took Roger a few days to assemble a gang to work on rehabilitating the Grange. He was paying wages to spinners and weavers who had little work in the mill, so he recruited men from among them who had carpentry or gardening experience and women willing to clean.
He therefore spent most of his time in the mill, hoping to minimize contact with Beatrice Parker. He was becoming far too preoccupied with her.
What spare time he had was taken up by Halliwell and the ongoing interviews. He felt very uncomfortable throughout Miles Smethurst’s questioning. Miles was either too honest for his own good or he was guilty. He admitted often wishing he could get rid of Malcolm Pickering and that he owned a hammer—but there was nothing untoward in that. Miles was often called upon to tinker with various pieces of machinery that needed attention. Nevertheless, Halliwell insisted Miles produce the hammer which he promptly confiscated because it had what looked like blood on one end. Miles’ insistence it was rust carried no weight.
Anxious to get the machines running again, Roger asked permission to reopen the spinning room. To his surprise, his request was granted.
The same day, Arthur Parker reminded him of their agreement for a tour of the mill and he could hardly refuse. He was dumbfounded and perplexed when Beatrice asked to accompany her father. Mrs. Parker had yet to emerge from her sickbed.
Father and daughter were intelligent and would quickly realize the mill wasn’t operating at full tilt. Neither the murder nor the cotton famine was Roger’s fault. He had no control over the outcome of the American war, and could only hope Halliwell found the killer quickly. Yet, pride stood in the way of admitting his business might fail if things didn’t improve soon. He doubted the Parkers had money, but impressing them might be a solution if it turned out they were wealthy. He operated and lived in mortgaged premises—an unfortunate necessity when he was first starting up the mill. If he couldn’t make the payments …
The day before the tour, he arranged with Billy Wiggins to have the spinning room going full throttle to process what little raw cotton remained on the loading dock.
“Tha’s sure?” Wiggins asked. “There’ll be nowt left.”
Roger realized it was folly, but it was likely he’d soon have to lay off most of his workforce in any case. “I’m sure. Let’s show these southerners what a busy Lancashire mill looks like.”
“Aw reet,” Wiggins replied. “I’ll see to it. By the way, I told yon peeler I were glad to see the back o’ that bugger Pickering. I gave ’im me ’ammer afore he asked fer it.”
Surprised by this revelation, Roger asked, “You’ve been interviewed?”
“I tracked ’im down. Smethurst told me Halliwell asked fer ’is ’ammer, so I took mine wi’ me. Can’t be too careful wi’ them coppers.”
* * *
Nervous about the tour planned for the following day, and anxious to understand the industry that was the lifeblood of Lancashire, Bea approached her father after dinner. “Papa, have you noticed there doesn’t seem to be much going on at the Broadclough mill?” she asked.
His nose remained buried in the newspaper he was reading in their sitting room. “Don’t worry your pretty head about it,” he muttered.
Annoyed by the unusual patronizing remark, she pressed on. “If I’m to fit into this new world, I need to know what’s going on.”
He lowered the newspaper and peered at her. “According to reports in the newspapers, there’s a shortage of raw cotton. I’ve been following the story since I learned we were coming to Lancashire.”
“I don’t understand,” she replied.
“There’s no cotton being imported from America because of the civil war there.”
“Surely that’s not the only country that grows cotton?”
“No, Egypt and India supply cotton, but Americans grow the best crop for spinning and weaving. Unfortunately, it’s grown in the south, where the fighting is taking place.”
“I understand the war is over the issue of slavery.”
“Well, I think there are many issues, but the south wants to secede from the Union, principally so it can keep using slaves. The large cotton plantation owners depend on slave labor.”
Bea shivered. She’d never thought about how the cotton garments she wore came into being. “But if there’s no cotton, how can Sandiford’s mill survive?”
“It can’t, unless he has machinery that can be adapted to spin the inferior cottons. However, there is a wider problem.”
Bea felt heartsick, but at least her father was willing to credit her with enough intelligence to discuss such matters. Most men thought women incapable of understanding world affairs. “Which is?”
“The last few years have seen a boom in the cotton industry. I suspect therein lies Sandiford’s success. But the unprecedented growth produced a glut of woven cotton. Prices collapsed worldwide.”
“So, even if the mill has cotton, the finished goods are worth a lot less.”
“Bright girl,” he replied, with an indulgent smile. “India is the biggest importer of printed cottons, but there are apparently warehouses in Bombay full of unsold cloth.”
They sat in silence for a few minutes, until her father lowered his paper again and said, “There’s something else you should be aware of.”
“Glenda was gossiping about a murder, but I didn’t think it could be true,” she said, alarmed by his deep frown.
“Unfortunately, it is. Don’t tell your mother, but a boy’s body was found in the spinning room here. The police are investigating.”
“That’s terrible. I understand many children are injured in the course of their work in the mills. Why do they believe he was murdered?”
“His skull had been caved in, possibly by a hammer.”
Shocked to the core by the revelation, Bea now understood the presence of the policeman she’d seen. She worried for Roger Sandiford and what this might mean for his mill. He’d obviously wanted to keep the news from her family. The knowledge there was a murderer at large was unsettling.
With a heavy heart, she looked in on her mother then retired to bed, but she lay awake worrying for Roger Sandiford and wishing she hadn’t insisted on joining the tour. It was no wonder his mother was so antagonistic. She must be aware of the threats to her son’s empire.
* * *
Despite the ramifications, Roger’s pride soared when he entered the spinning room of his mill the next day, Arthur and Beatrice Parker in tow. The roar and click of the spinning machines were deafening, the cotton dust like a blinding blizzard. Miss Parker wrinkled her nose and covered her mouth with a kerchief, but for Roger, it was like returning to the good days. The noise of a spinning mill operating at full capacity was the sound of prosperity. Music to his ears.
The same contentment lit the faces of the spinners. The resumption of work seemed to have put new energy into the limbs of the little piecers crawling beneath the spindles to reattach broken threads.
Miss Parker frowned as she watched the children narrowly escape the machine when it moved back and forth. He anticipated a scolding about employing children to do dangerous work. Who else was small and agile enough to do the job? Thankfully, Malcolm’s blood had been scrubbed from the planked floor. Roger hoped she hadn’t learned of the murder.
The noise rendered it impossible to explain what was happening, so Roger simply let the visitors watch the spun thread being wound onto the cops.
Miss Parker’s keen eyes missed nothing. He’d wager she quickly understood how the spinning mules worked.
When he ushered them out into the yard, she proved eager to pepper him with questions. The heat in the spinning room had reddened her beautiful face. Flecks of cotton dust lay trapped like snowflakes in her burnished tresses. The temptation to take her in his arms and kiss her silly was powerful, but she’d probably slap him.
“Why are the machines called mules?” she asked.
Her question dragged him back to reality. “A local man by the name of Samuel Crompton invented the prototype by combining two earlier inventions. The mule results from the mating of a horse with a donkey, so …”
“I see,” she replied, her blush deepening. “So, can your mules be adapted to spinning other kinds of raw cotton, now there’s none coming from America?”
Roger realized he’d fooled nobody with this unwise demonstration, least of all Miss Beatrice Parker. “Unfortunately not,” he replied. “The fibers of Indian cotton are too short and break too easily. It would be impossible to provide enough humidity to prevent that from happening.”
“And I suppose producing goods made with inferior Indian cotton won’t solve the problem of the glut on the market.”
Roger chuckled inwardly. This remarkable young woman might turn out to be as astute as his mother. He normally had no time for women who thought themselves the equal of men, but Beatrice Parker’s perceptive intelligence only increased his desire for her.
“Is the spinning room where they found the murdered boy’s body?” she asked.
“It is,” he replied, effecting an air of nonchalance. He should have known the secret would leak out. The killing had been reported in the local newspaper and Arthur was keen to read it every day. “On another matter, I’ve assembled a crew to work on Belmont Grange. They’ll start tomorrow.”
Her green eyes widened, but she made no comment about the abrupt change of subject. “That’s wonderful. I’d like to go with them to make sure they know what I have in mind for improvements.”
Roger’s throat tightened. He couldn’t allow her to go alone with a gang of workers. “Splendid,” he replied. “We’ll go in my brougham.”
She hesitated. “That’s generous of you. We’ll take Glenda too.”
It was only to be expected the maid would come along as a chaperone. He should be glad. Spending time alone in a vehicle with him would ruin Miss Parker’s reputation and stretch his restraint to the limits.