*Coline!' Eppie yelled. *Look out!'

Forgetful of where she was, Coline lost all sense of her own peril. All she was aware of was Fur's tortured expression. Something ripped through her hair. She instinctively threw up her hands to protect herself.

Mr Grimley hastened from his office. *Crumpton, how could you do that to the boy?'

Crumpton was so heated that his sideburns steamed. *Stop hopping about, Longbotham! Get that book! Fine Dunham. Thrupence for oaths and insolent language.'

In response, Wakelin tore down a Yellowing from a pillar and screwed it up.

Du Quesne took not the slightest heed of Coline, who lay with her head in a pool of blood, writhing in the aisle where Eppie and Mr Grimley had dragged her. *Clearly, Dunham, you have not read Rule Number 21. If any person wilfully damages the Notice of Rules and Regulations they are dismissed, instantly.'

*Suits us,' Wakelin retorted. *I'd rather die in the open air than chained up in this stifling mill.' Loudly, he cried, *Be seeing ya, Crumb!' A venomous look in his eyes, he walloped the overseer so hard on the back that his donkey teeth were propelled from their bedrock of evil-smelling gums.

The remainder of the day Coline spent in the baling room, the nerves of her body racked by the agonising pain of her torn scalp.

Though poorly, his head wrapped in a blooded bandage, Fur drudged on.

Evening crept around.

Du Quesne was busy inspecting textiles with Crumpton. Eppie deemed this a good opportunity to speak with Mr Grimley. Creeping into the lamp-lit office, she was surprised to see Mr Loomp seated at the clerk's desk, thumbing through the entries in the book of misdemeanours.

Mr Grimley strode into the office and shot a startled glance at the truck store manager.

The clerk slithered in after the mill manager, clutching the red fines book, which he had salvaged earlier.

Agitatedly, the manager waved his wooden hand at the fines book that Loomp had been scrutinizing. *Longbotham! Away with it!'

A stern look upon his face, du Quesne paced in and seated himself at his desk.

*What are you about Mr Loomp?' the mill manager demanded.

*I am in need of a fresh grocer's boy, one what's less light-fingered. On more than one occasion I have caught that recalcitrant lad, Hubert, pilfering confectionery and disposing of the evidence by stuffing it down his own throat.'

*Yes, yes,' Mr Grimley said, flustered. *I will see to it.'

All the while Eppie, standing in the corner, stared wonderingly at the slowly flicking pages of the book of misdemeanours, watching du Quesne check the fines calculations for the day. He might not have noticed, but she had. There were two copies of the book and, from the fearful tone she had detected in Mr Grimley's voice, it would appear that he wished the existence of the second copy to remain concealed from the mill owner.

The three men engrossed, she hesitantly stepped behind Mr Grimley's chair. *Please, sir.'

Mr Grimley visibly jumped, startled by her voice so close to his ear. *Yes, yes, what is it?'

*Coline needs to go home.'

*Home?'

Exasperated at Eppie sneaking around again, du Quesne growled low in his throat like one of his mastiffs.

*The trouble is,' she said apologetically, *we've lost it.'

Mr Grimley cast a perplexed look into her serious eyes. *That is a little remiss. How did you manage that?'

*Wakelin shredded it for firewood. Last night we slept beneath your tumble-down house.'

*So it was you! Priscilla and Rowan suspected somebody was down there. No home? You are in a stew.'

*Send them to Rotten Yard,' du Quesne said, without looking up from the book. *Number 61 is empty.'

Eppie had heard about Rotten Yard from other workers and knew that du Quesne fixed the rent for these derelict, greedily crammed cottages at three shillings a week. *Now you've sacked Wakelin, we won't be able to afford the rent. Besides, my mam won't like it there.'

*Your mother willingly cut her mark to my indenture, agreeing to abide by my rules. I say she will occupy Number 61 or go to jail for breaking the agreement. The choice is hers.'

*It is nearly the end of the day,' Mr Grimley said. *As Coline is poorly I will take your family and the O'Ruarc children to Rotten Yard.'

*Over my dead body, you will,' stormed du Quesne. *The workers must make up for lost time. For six weeks, starting as from tomorrow, I am introducing Brisk Time. The mill hands will start work at three o'clock in the morning and finish at ten-thirty at night. In order to complete that outstanding order they shall work through tonight and all tomorrow, without pay. You and the over-lookers must stay on to supervise.'

Mr Grimley's mouth opened and closed rapidly in amazement at what he was hearing. *The workers can't do that. I can't. It's physically impossible. What about their sleep? What about mine?'

Du Quesne rose and tugged on his overcoat. *I will be at The Wolf. Upon no account must I be disturbed. My big toe is playing up with this infuriating gout.'

Throughout the bleak, hellish hours family discipline grew increasingly severe, with beatings to awaken sleepy children. If parents were drained of energy, unable to watch over their offspring, Crumpton was always around to drive the children on and to exact punishments.

Towards two o'clock in the morning Simkin fell asleep on his feet and, seized by the blower, died of his injuries.

Crumpton was adamant that Jenufer alone was blameworthy for not having kept a sharper eye on her child.

Du Quesne did not turn up at the mill that day.

CHAPTER FIFTY-SEVEN.

ROTTEN YARD.

Minds swimming with exhaustion, Eppie and the others headed to Rotten Yard in a borrowed cart. It had poured all day and still teemed. Rotten Yard was near Saint Peter's church, though they knew not precisely where.

Not wanting to dally, Wakelin shouted for directions from workers who scurried home. *Hop down, Eppie. See if this is the place.' Cries of innocence and drunken shrieks filled the air. *Though I hope not; it's too close to the jail for my comfort.'

About these warrens of narrow passageways, leading in and out of one another, was something fearful. At first, she nervously tiptoed, then, bunching up her skirts, pelted down the passage, noticing a privy with a bucket, but no door.

Entering the courtyard, she stepped towards Number 61. *It's here!'

The door was constructed of old boards nailed together. She turned the knob and pushed. It would not budge. Forcing it with her shoulder the door abruptly fell inward.

*Good, you've found it,' Martha said. *Hasten, Wakelin, we need to get Coline out of the rain.'

Paltry light from candles, seen through broken windowpanes, staggered in draughts as mill workers fixed meals or prepared to go to bed. *Eppie, go and knock on a door and see if someone will give us a candle.'

Returning with the precious flicker cupped in her palm she stared around the interior, feeling as cheerless as the shivering shadows. Utterly devoid of furnishing there was only an ash-heaped hearth to show that folk had once inhabited the dwelling. Scarcely was there room for six people to stand up, let alone lie down to sleep.

With one stride Wakelin stepped into the middle of the filthy, ruinous shack. He laid Coline on the bed, which was covered with a heap of dirty blankets. *We can't stay in this place, Ma.'

*It needs sprucing up,' she answered. *And it looks like we'll have to patch the roof.'

*Patch it?' He kicked a dead rat. *What we gonna do that with? Pig muck an' straw? Ain't you forgetting summat? Like, we ain't got no money. Think of the way du Quesne lives and he expects us to put up with this. I tell ya, we can't stay here, not one night.'

*We have to make the best of things.'

*Can't ya see, Ma? Staying here, it'd be like du Quesne's won. In me head I'd hear him laughing cos' he's got me where he's always wanted me, rotting in some wormhole.'

*There's nowhere else.'

*I'll sleep on the streets.'

*Don't be silly, Wakelin. Wakelin! Come back. What about Mr Grimley's horse and cart?'

Left alone during the day, Coline had no option other than to look after herself as best she could.

Pig-raisers rented land in the centre of the court, where hogs rooted in heaps of evil-smelling offal and rotting vegetables. Now and then they ventured into Number 61. Coline was too weak to shoo them off.

By the third evening she had grown weaker. Martha managed to get a fire going and fix a stew from a pigeon that Fur had netted the previous day. Coline, however, finding it hard to swallow, could take but little. Mr Grimley had sent along a parcel of food and a bottle of physic. Martha poured the linctus onto a spoon and gently raised Coline's head. Her neck excruciatingly stiff and painful, she fell back with a cry.

Eppie and Fur returned from the riverside where they had been gathering firewood.

Martha had set a kettle on the trivet to boil. Exhausted from her day's labour, she lethargically stirred the fire.

Wakelin was slumped in a corner like a beaten animal.

Hesitantly, Eppie approached.

*I should leave him be,' Martha said.

*Where's he been sleeping all week?'

*No idea.'

*Is he drunk?'

*When ain't he?'

Coline was insensible to her surroundings and to those around her. Her throat swollen, she could no longer speak or sip the water that Fur offered her.

Martha stared at sparks arching and tumbling into ashes. *I've not sorted supper.'

Careful so as not to disturb Lottie and Coline, Eppie drew back the blanket and slipped into bed. *I feel too miserable to eat, anyway.'

During the night, Wakelin's spates of muttering drew Eppie to wakefulness. She could not catch the words, but gathered it was something about Tobias. It was on one of these occasions that she awoke and felt Coline's stiff, cold limbs.

The vicar, a plump, hunched man, held a fleeting service over Coline's grave, and hastily retired for supper.

Wakelin had found work at the knacker's yard. Since he lived apart, Martha had scant opportunity to speak with him. Swiftly, she followed as he left Coline's graveside.

By the glow from the lantern at his feet, Fur noticed the look of curiosity on Eppie's face as she gazed at Martha and Wakelin, straining to catch their flow of words. *Don't you think Reverend Clinch is an odd fellow?' he asked.

*Why?'

*He told me that if I felt distressed about Coline's death, I could call at the rectory and he would comfort me.'

*I can't see what's wrong with that.'

*Why would he want to pay me for going to see him?' Fur asked.

*Look at the state of you,' Martha grumbled at Wakelin. *I know it's your job, but what must Reverend Clinch have thought to you attending a funeral with blood splattered all over your clothes? Why won't you tell me where you're staying? You can't have shaved in weeks. And it wouldn't have taken much effort to wash your face.'

*Many a man has died from a sound scrubbing.'

*Don't be ridiculous. Are you eating? You'll not last long like this.' She rubbed the sores on her lips. *Nor will I, come to that, and I'll probably end up like poor Jenufer.'

Arriving at the mill that morning, Ezra had told workers that Jenufer's body had been dragged from the canal the previous evening. Some of the mill workers said that Crumpton had pushed her to take her own life after he accused her of being responsible for her son's death, but Ezra was adamant that his wife would never have committed suicide.

Eppie had her own conjecture, especially as Jenufer's death followed almost directly upon the discovery of Alicia Strutt's mortal remains beneath the hearthstone in the study of The Rogues' Inn.

After work, Eppie had stopped off at The Wolf and Child, where Dick Pebbleton worked in the stables. *So it's as you guessed,' she said. *Thurstan killed Alicia. He hated Hurry Eades. That's why he sold The Rogues' Inn to him. It seemed odd at the time. Now everything fits.' Consequent upon the unearthing of the corpse, Thurstan had Eades hung for Alicia's murder. *We ought to tell Judge Baulke what Thurstan's done.'

*I value my life too much to get involved,' Dick answered. *Even if Thurstan was convicted, Cudbert or one of Thurstan's other friends is sure to kill me in retaliation.'

Later, Eppie spoke with Martha. They had to accept that there was no factual evidence to incriminate Thurstan for the deaths of the sisters. *Besides,' Martha said, *with Septimus Strutt long since in his grave, his evidence that Thurstan claimed Alicia was a kept woman, living in London, can hardly be brought to light.'

Fur turned from his sister's grave. *I'll walk home on my own.'

Eppie nodded understandingly.

Patiently, she waited for Martha. Her feet encased in shoes that had more holes in them than leather, she scrunched her toes in an effort to warm them.

Provoked by misery, Martha spoke angrily to Wakelin. *The time is nigh. Seeing Eibhlin and Coline's deaths must surely bring it home to you? My mind is made up. I'm going to tell her.'

*No!' he rasped.

*Do you want Eppie to die in a mill accident like Coline? Is that it?'

*Of course I don't, but things ain't that simple.'

Eppie wondered at Wakelin's unnerving behaviour as he strode back and forth before Martha in a state of agitation.

*When I was young I enjoyed nowt better than the killing,' Wakelin said, *to see dogs ripping the badgers at the baiting. I've had me fill. Do you imagine I like doing this job? I'm sick of the sight of death. Every day I have to force myself to kill the beasts. All right, I know they're all knackered but, one after the other, I see *em looking into my eyes like they're pleading for their lives. It reminds me of when Twiss died. And it'll be us what's laid on slabs, our guts trailing over the floor, if du Quesne finds out about Eppie. Is that what you want, huh?'