Amanda Grange - Rebecca’s Refusal

“As I suspected, it was started quite deliberately,” he said. “A lighted flambeau had been left in the bottom drawer of the desk.”

“To destroy the documents?” asked Rebecca.

“I don't think so,” said Joshua. “That's what's so puzzling. You see, the documents are kept in a locked cabinet beside the door.”

“So anyone wanting to destroy the documents would have tried to burn the cabinet and not the desk,” said Rebecca slowly.

“Yes. If they knew where the documents were kept.”

“And Hill? Does he know?”

“Yes. He does.”

“Which would seem to rule him out,” said Rebecca thoughtfully. “Because if he had been guilty of falsifying the documents then he would have made sure they were burnt, and to that end he would have placed the flambeau in the cabinet, and not the desk. Were any additional documents destroyed? When you checked them the morning after the fire?”

“No.”

“Then it seems unlikely that the culprit is Hill. It seems the arsonist is someone else.”

“Most probably.”

“But who?”

At that moment the door opened and Louisa entered the room.

“Tea is on its way,” she said.

Rebecca bit back her frustration. She did not want to abandon her conversation, but now that Louisa had returned it was impossible for her to continue it. She would have to wait until she could have further words with Joshua in private, and who knew when that would be?

Still, there was no help for it. She put her frustration to one side and joined in with Louisa's light-hearted conversation. And Joshua, no less frustrated by their lack of privacy, was forced to do the same.

Two new footmen soon found their way into Rebecca and Louisa's house. Fortunately Louisa accepted their appearance at face value, and was too polite to enquire into the origins of the broken nose of one and the cauliflower ear of the other. She was pleased that dear Joshua had sent the men along to add to her consequence and convenience, and expressed herself delighted with their presence.

Rebecca was genuinely glad to have them there. So far she had not been threatened in any way, but if the unexplained attacks on Joshua were indeed connected with the mill there may come a time when she herself was in danger, and it was reassuring to have two large ex-Bow Street Runners, disguised as footmen, standing in the hall.

Rebecca was reading in the drawing-room on the afternoon of the ball when Louisa came in looking flustered. “Oh, my dear, it is too vexing,” she said. “I have broken my fan. I don't know how it happened. I simply opened it to see if it would go with my new gown, and it snapped in my hand.”

“Never mind,” said Rebecca. “It's still early. We can go and choose another one. Something that will go with your gown.” She closed her book and set it down.

“It is a nice idea, but my legs are feeling a little stiff, and I fear if I go out this afternoon I may not be able to dance this evening.”

Rebecca understood at once why Louisa was so concerned: Edward had claimed Louisa's hand for the first dance, and that dear lady had spent all week looking forward to it.

“Then I can go on my own,” Rebecca said.

“Oh, no, my dear, you mustn't think of it. You will be wanting to get ready yourself soon.”

“Not for another couple of hours at least,” said Rebecca. “What kind of fan would you like? A lace one would go well with your dress, I think. Or would you like a painted fan? Or maybe one made out of ostrich feathers?”

“Oh, no! Ostrich feathers would be far too flamboyant! A lace fan would be perfect — it would match the lace trim on my sleeves,” said Louisa. “But of course it is not important. I can do very well without.”

“I would like a breath of fresh air,” said Rebecca, standing up and stretching. “I have not been out all day. An hour's shopping will help blow the cobwebs away. Don't worry, I can still be back in plenty of time to dress.”

She had soon donned her outdoor clothes and then she summoned the carriage and was on her way. Accompanied by one of the new footmen she set out for Deansgate, where she hoped to purchase the perfect fan to go with Louisa's new gown. There were several shops that sold fashionable items, and she spent a pleasant half-hour browsing in them before selecting a delicate lace fan with ivoiy sticks. Feeling pleased with her purchase she returned to the carriage and made herself comfortable for the short journey home. Or at least, it should have been a short journey, but the streets were busy, and to make matters worse a cart had overturned ahead of her, shedding its load of vegetables all over the road. Urchins, drawn by the calamity, were stuffing their pockets with potatoes and carrots, whilst the carter was trying to alternately pick up the produce and shoo them away.

Rebecca watched the scene for a few minutes and then her attention began to wander. It would take some time for the street to be clear enough for her carriage to proceed, and as her eyes drifted away from the main thoroughfare and down the narrow streets that led away from it she found herself wondering again about the poor housing that lay behind the fashionable areas. She was determined to help Joshua provide suitable housing for the workers at Marsden mill, and wondered whether any of the run-down buildings she could just glimpse might be suitable for renovation. As her eyes began to adjust to the gloomier conditions that prevailed beyond the main street she began to make out more detail: houses, pavements — and then something caught her attention and she sat up straight. There! Loping down the dingy back street was the man who had daubed the Luddite slogan on the wall of the mill!

There could be no mistake. Although she had not been close enough to see him clearly on the day she had all but interrupted him at his work, and although it was too dark for her to see clearly now, still it was light enough for her to recognize his distinctive movement. There was something furtive about it, and at the same time something bold. It was such an unusual gait she knew she could not be mistaken.

What to do? If she left the carriage she could easily lose herself amongst the maze of streets, but she would never forgive herself if she did not make an effort to follow him. Deciding quickly on a course of action she opened the carriage door and jumped out without waiting to use the step, calling to the footman as she did so, “Follow me!”

Once free of the carriage she hurried down the narrow street, reassuring herself by a glance over her shoulder that the burly ex-Bow Street Runner disguised as a footman was indeed following her.

Then she turned her attention back to the man with the loping gait. He turned down a cross street and Rebecca followed, pulling her cloak more tightly around her as she hurried along. The street was narrow, and when he turned again it was into an even narrower one.

The houses crowded in on her but Rebecca did not intend to give up now. If she could apprehend the man she could discover why he had painted the slogan on the wall. And if he had been paid to do it, she could discover who had paid him.

She saw him hesitate outside a mean house, and then, with a furtive glance in either direction, he went in.

Rebecca had managed to shrink back out of sight when he had turned, but now she went forward again. She reached the house and turned round to signal to the footman — only to find he was not there.

He had been following her, she knew, when she had left the carriage, because she had looked over her shoulder to make sure. But now he was nowhere in sight. Had he lost her after one of the many turns? It must be so. She stood still for a moment, unsure of what to do. If she waited for the footman she may lose the man with the loping gait: he could easily slip out of the back door of the house and be on his way again without her being any the wiser. But if she went in alone, she would be putting herself in danger. She felt herself torn in two directions. What should she do?

She crept closer to the house, pressing herself against the wall next to the window. Perhaps she would be able to hear something that would help her decide.

But she could hear nothing.

She thought for a moment, and then decided that she must take the risk of following him into the house. But suddenly the door opened again and he came out.

There was nowhere for her to hide this time, no shadows to shrink back into, no corner to turn.

She was caught.

“What the 'ell are you doing?” demanded the man, his foxy eyes boring into her.

“I lost my way.” It sounded a weak excuse, even to her own ears, but at such short notice she could think of nothing better. “I was trying to find the Exchange Hall. Perhaps you could give me directions?”

As she spoke she busily took in details of the man's appearance, in case she had to identify him at some future date. He was short — only an inch or two taller than she was herself, which put him at about five foot six. He had dark, lank hair and long side whiskers. His eyes were small and set close together. His lips were thin and his chin was pointed. His body, too, was thin — thin and wiry: though small, she guessed he would possess a great deal of strength.

“Lost your way, did you?” he sneered. “Looking for the Exchange 'all?” His tone was menacing. “Pull the other one, it's got bells on.” Then his eyes became sharper and he stood up straight, “'ere, 'aven't I seen you somewhere before?”

“I don't think so.” She began to back away.

He made no move to stop her and she thought he was going to let her go. But suddenly his hand whipped out and caught her arm. His grip was like iron. His fingers bit into her, even through her cloak.

“I know where I’ve seen you before,” he said, as realization dawned on him. “You were at the mill. Thought I didn't see you, didn't you? Slinking back into the shadows. Well you were wrong.” And opening the door behind him he made to drag her into the house.

Knowing that if he managed it she would be lost, Rebecca kicked him hard on the shin. He let out a curse, but the pain only made him clutch onto her more tightly.

“You'll pay for that,” he said menacingly, raising his hand to her.

Rebecca lifted her arm to shield herself from him — and then found herself pulled powerfully backwards, and before she knew what was happening, Joshua was standing in front of her and blocking the man's blow.

Catching the fist that was aiming at his head, Joshua deflected a second blow which was aimed at his mid-section. Not for nothing had he worked out at Gentleman Jackson's gym.

With a few moves he defended himself and then turned the tables on his assailant, twisting the man's arm up behind his back in an unbreakable lock.

At that moment the footman ran up.

“Where the hell have you been?” demanded Joshua, glaring at the footman. “You were supposed to be protecting Miss Fossington. Where were you when she needed you?”

“I lost her —” began the footman.

“Call yourself an ex-Runner?” asked Joshua fiercely. “A blind beggar could have made a better job of protecting her than you've done. What am I paying you for, man?”

“A Bow Street Runner?” asked the wiry man, his small eyes darting from one to the other of his captors.

“That's right,” said Joshua. “A Bow Street Runner. And one who can testify to the fact you attacked a young lady.”

“Lady?” sneered the wiry man. “If she's a lady, what's she doing creeping around the back streets of Manchester on her own. Doesn't seem very ladylike to me.”

Joshua tightened his grip on the man. “I suggest you keep a civil tongue in your head,” he said dangerously.

“Oh! So that's the way it is, is it? Sweet on 'er, are you?” he leered. “I wouldn't mind a bit of that myself —”

“Take him in charge,” said Joshua, ignoring the man's taunts and pushing him towards the footman. “He is guilty of attacking Miss Fossington,” he said, unaware that the wiry man was the same person who had daubed the Luddite slogan on the mill wall. “And don't let him get away.”

“Oh, I won't let him get away,” said the footman, looking at the wiry man with a crooked smile. “I've got a bone or two to pick with him.”

Rebecca and Joshua looked at the footman curiously.

“Do you know him?” Joshua asked.

“Oh, yes. He's known to us, is Cyril Dunn,” said the footman.

“Ow do you know my name?” asked the man who had just been identified as Cyril Dunn.