Dark Waters (30 page)

Suddenly Fidelis's eyes were sparkling.

‘A pleasant afternoon ride in the country – what could be better?'

Chapter Twenty

I
T WAS GETTING
on for five o'clock when Fidelis and I rode through the Church Gate bar and up towards the division of the road between the way that ran directly east towards the small settlement at Longridge, and the bridge road that turned south, crossed the Ribble and divided again, one way continuing to Wigan and the south, the other sweeping away east towards Hoghton.

Peter Wintly's cart, not being an especially sporting vehicle, had trundled off for Hoghton a couple of hours in advance in order not to be late to the graveyard. Fidelis and I on our horses came up to it 3 miles beyond Bamber and rode on ahead. We could get the exhumation started while Wintly caught up.

As we rode on we played catch-up of another kind.

‘You heard, did you, that Shackleberry and Andrews have run away?' I asked.

‘Yes.'

‘They will be put in the stocks if they come back.'

‘And I shall be there with a sack of bad turnips. You said in your note that you had made progress with Destercore's mysterious list. The names picked out with a dot, wasn't it?'

‘Yes. All were people the Whigs believed would be Tory tally captains – resident freemen, and out-freemen.'

I told him how Allcroft's wife had characterized her husband – as a leader of men, a determined and vigorous opponent of the Whigs.

‘The sort of man whom, if the Whigs wanted to damage the Tory cause and didn't mind how they did it, they might have thoughts of getting out of the way,' mused Fidelis.

‘As they might Nick Oldswick, and he was threatened.'

‘But your wife's uncle is dead too, and he doesn't fit the type. He was not very formidable', mused Fidelis.

We tossed ideas back and forth as to whether and how Antony Egan's doubtful death might be connected with the election. On Mary-Ann's evidence he had spoken loudly about following Allcroft's example and drumming up a tally of local freemen to vote against the Whigs, but he would hardly be a principal target for the machinations of Destercore and his faction, though he was, of course, an easy one.

We had now crossed the bridge, and reached the fork in the road. As we took the left-hand way we passed a windmill, standing alone by the side of the road. It had long since stopped turning; the canvas of the sails was rotted and hung down in rags, the skeleton round which they had been wrapped exposed like the bones of a half-picked trout. All at once the front door of the mill opened and the figure of a man stood there, looking out with a certain expectancy to left and right.

‘Good God! What is he doing here?' exclaimed Fidelis.

The fellow had gone back inside and I had seen little more than a tall man: my vision at a distance was not as sharp as my friend's.

‘You recognized him?' I asked.

‘Wasn't it the man Peters, Destercore's servant?'

‘Was it? I doubt it. You must be mistaken.'

We left it at that and, for the time being, I forgot all about Fidelis's doubtful sighting. It was seven by the church clock when we rode into the parish, and then the village, of Hoghton, where Allcroft was buried. After the outright defiance of his widow the previous day, I had expected to meet resistance against the exhumation of her husband, which is why I had written to the parish constable, William Blenkinsop, seeking his assistance. He met us at the lychgate.

He was a little over thirty, and had a serious, even ponderous manner. I was glad that he was not one of those constables too old to run after a thief and too poor-sighted to recognize him afterwards.

‘Susan Allcroft is a very determined woman, Mr Cragg,' he told Fidelis and me. ‘If she does not want this exhumation, she will do all in her power to stop it.'

‘Which is why we are glad you are here, Mr Blenkinsop, to maintain order and allow us to do our duty.'

‘I have my deputy with me. We'll do our best.'

‘Is the sexton here also?'

Allcroft's grave lay on the far side of the graveyard from the gate. All there was to see was a bed of freshly turned earth, sodden from the earlier rain, with as yet no headstone. We found the sexton beside the grave, leaning on a long-handled spade. There was no sign of anybody else.

‘We have an hour of light,' I said. ‘Let us get the job done.'

The sexton began to dig, with such energy as would have exhausted me in five minutes. But he plied his spade continuously for twenty, and had got down to a depth of about 4 feet when we heard a cry from the direction of the lychgate.

‘Stop! Desecration! Blasphemy! Stop
at once.
'

Mrs Allcroft was running towards us through the gathering gloom, with two young women barely out of childhood trailing behind and wearing canvas cloaks with hoods. A white spaniel ran in closer pursuit, yapping at her mistress's billowing clothing. Arriving at the graveside, the widow looked down at the sexton, and then up at the constable and his deputy, while she caught her breath. She was barely able to contain her fury.

‘William Blenkinsop, this is an outrage. I hope you will put a stop to the coroner's unwarranted intrusion into my late husband's resting place.'

The spaniel was still yapping as Blenkinsop produced a piece of paper bearing my signature, which he showed to her.

‘Madam, it is not unwarranted. This is Mr Cragg's very warrant and it is legally binding. We must proceed.'

‘You shan't. Daughters, into your father's grave!'

Giving each other an anxious look, but not daring to disobey their mother, the two girls sat on the side of the grave and let themselves down beside the sexton, their lightweight shoes half disappearing into the wet earth. They stood awkwardly, one on each side of him, unsure what to do next. Pointing with her finger, their mother told them what she expected.

‘Down, girls! Lie down! The sexton shall not dig this sacred earth. Lie down and impede him!'

It sounded as though she was talking to the dog, and indeed the spaniel did make a move to jump down too, but the sexton aimed a swipe at her with his spade and she sprang out of the way.

Susan Allcroft shook both her fists and stamped her foot.

‘You dig up my husband and now you try to kill my dog. Lie down, daughters. We shall prevent this iniquity. Your father's great soul shall not be disturbed.'

Then she was bending to pet the dog, giving her a sugar lump from her pocket.

‘Poor little Polly-dog. Did the horrible man frighten you?'

Incredibly, to my eyes, the Allcroft girls did at this point lie down, forcing the sexton to come out of the grave, for lack of anywhere to stand without stepping on them.

‘Mrs Allcroft,' I protested. ‘This is very undignified. Surely it is abusing your young daughters to make them act like this.'

‘I wish I had my son Jotham here, sir. He would break your nose for you. Since he is occupied with business in town, I must manage with the forces that I have.'

Polly-dog had lost interest in us and was running in a wide arc around the graves, her tongue lolling. At this moment, a mangy, half-starved village mongrel appeared, who began joyously loping after Polly-dog and sniffing her rear end.

Blenkinsop addressed himself to the daughters.

‘Please, young ladies, come out of there. It is unseemly.'

‘Unseemly!' spat back the widow. ‘What you do is unseemly. Say that you will desist at once, and I will let them come out.'

But now Susan Allcroft's attention, previously so fixed, became fatally divided. She caught in the corner of her eye the whereabouts of her spaniel, and immediately swivelled in horror at what she saw. The mongrel and Polly-dog had stopped running and were circling each other with unmistakable intent.

Mrs Allcroft hesitated. She glanced at her recumbent daughters, then looked anxiously back at the canine pair, who were at least 35 yards away. In the same moment the black mongrel planted his front paws on Polly-dog's back and waddled on his hind legs up to her rear. With his tongue out and teeth showing in a devilish grin he started to couple with her.

‘No, Polly-dog! No!'

Faced with the ravishment of her pet by the village cur Mrs Allcroft temporarily forgot the prime purpose of her visit to the graveyard and set off, running again, towards the dogs. She was waving her arms and screaming at the spaniel to stop, but Polly-dog took no notice. Indeed, she showed every sign of enjoying herself keenly.

Fidelis crouched down beside the grave.

‘My dear young ladies, your mother's looking the other way,' he said. ‘I am sure you would rather be anywhere but here. So which of you will be the first to take my hand and be pulled out of there?'

The three parish officers were watching Mrs Allcroft and laughing and nudging each other at the sight. She had taken off a glove and was thrashing at the mongrel with it as she uttered a rhythmical string of curses. The poor brute would no doubt have liked to disengage but now, it seemed, he was not able. Polly-dog had somehow locked him inside her and the two animals could do nothing but circle around, their passion spent, in an exhausted parody of a country dance.

Meanwhile the Allcroft girls had been pulled from the grave. I was surprised at how little fear, or horror, they showed. Each had some work brushing the worst of the mud off the other and then they hurried away, not yet wanting to face their mother.

‘Sexton!' I called and the man, still chuckling, returned to his spadework, while Fidelis strode over towards Mrs Allcroft and the struggling dogs. He knelt and reached towards Polly-dog's backside. He made some manipulation with his fingers, and at once the mongrel sprang free.

‘Bad Polly-dog!' The dog squealed at the rap on the nose she got from her owner. ‘Dr Fidelis! How clever you are. How can I thank you? Bad dog!'

Fidelis picked up Polly-dog and tucked her under his arm. He gave her owner a slight bow, crooked his other arm for her to take and the two of them strolled back to us by a roundabout route. Superficially they might have been enjoying a polite afternoon in Preston's place of genteel recreation, Avenham Walk, but I could see that Fidelis was speaking rapidly to the woman. By the time they arrived at the graveside, the sexton had almost dug down to the coffin. Susan Allcroft's eyes were damp as she took back the dog.

She looked down into the dark slot of the grave, shuddered, and produced a handkerchief.

‘Dr Fidelis has convinced me, in the nicest way possible, that I have made myself ridiculous. So I shall follow my daughters home now. There is nothing more I can do to stop this infamy, except to ask you please not to treat my husband with barbarism.'

Before she left I reminded her of the inquest.

‘It starts at ten o'clock. I would be most obliged if you would be punctual.'

She did not reply, but turned smartly and marched away, with a chastened Polly-dog trotting behind. Mrs Allcroft might have been charmed by Dr Fidelis, but she did not like me at all.

*   *   *

‘How did you unplug the dog? Some trick?'

We were riding back towards Preston as escort to the cart on which John Allcroft's coffin was being transported.

‘Something I learned many years ago.'

‘Which was?'

‘You stick your finger in the bitch's arse, and she just lets go.'

‘Why would she?'

‘Well, wouldn't you?'

In Preston's streets the fire of election excitement had not died with the fall of night. The darkness flared here and there in torchlight as groups of men rampaged from one rowdy alehouse to the next, and the air resounded near and far with the human voice in all of its more extreme registers.

I had made arrangements with the churchwarden to lodge our body in the vestry. Having done so, I locked all doors, and gave instructions to the nightwatchman standing guard. Then Luke and I strolled past the Moot Hall and down Fisher Gate towards his lodging. On our right we passed a bakery and pastry shop, whose sign creaked in the wind. It showed a crusty round pie, with the words
WILKINSON FINEST BREAD AND PIES.

‘Our victim's brother-in-law's shop.'

‘Is that where the son Jotham works?'

‘Yes. They do a roaring trade with the election, I have heard.'

A minute later we reached the Lorrises' door and said goodnight.

*   *   *

It had not been easy to assemble a full jury with all the other distractions to contend with. Furzey had found just seven men prepared to serve and with that we had to make do. I swore them in, invited them to choose a foreman, and then opened the proceedings by making a brief summary of the known facts. After this I trooped them outside and we made the short walk to the vestry, where I uncovered Allcroft's body for the nine to see.

‘It's an horrible sight, is that,' said Gerald Pikeroyd, who had been chosen foreman. He put his hand to his nose.

‘I'm not touching him, Mr Cragg,' protested Jack Barlow, hanging back. ‘I'm not catching the sickness off him.'

‘You don't have to touch, Jack,' I reassured him. ‘You do your duty just by looking.'

‘Did anyone know the man?' Pikeroyd asked.

‘I knew of him,' said John Mort.

‘I know his lad,' said Charley Booth. ‘Jotham, who helps at his uncle's pie shop – his mother's brother's.'

‘Good pies they make.'

‘Allcroft was a hog farmer, see?' said Booth. ‘Meat comes direct from him to the shop.'

‘Does Jotham not like farming, that he works in the pie shop?' Martin Ware asked.

‘Or does he not like his father?' put in Julius Treadwell.

‘Or the old man not like
him?
' This was Booth. ‘He sent him in the army as a fusilier. Now the boy's come back, but he still denied to have him at home.'