The Girl from Cotton Lane (63 page)

The fog spread its sulphurous fumes through the Bermondsey backstreets and along the river. All night it hung like a thick, poisonous blanket, and when folk rose from their beds to face another day it was still there, though thinning gradually as a blood-red sun climbed up over the rooftops. The morning traffic moved at a crawl, and when the Bermondsey Crown Court went into session at ten o’ clock the air was still laden with fog.

Ellie Roffey looked composed as she stepped into the dock. There was an air of expectancy in the large courtroom as the trial got under way, and in the public gallery the number of police had been increased. Florrie Axford looked around at the blank faces surrounding her. Carrie sat to her left and on her right Maisie sat impassive, her arms folded. William Tanner was not present, however. He had felt ill when he arrived home the previous night and was confined to bed with a bout of bronchitis. Carrie had left Jamie Robins in charge of the yard and had given the ever-present Sharkey instructions to keep his eye on things. The old man was still sprightly and could be relied upon in case of an emergency.

The last of the witnesses had been heard and the prosecuting counsel rose to his feet to address the jury. The huge man, looking even more gross as he puffed out his silks, began by making the jury aware of the longstanding trading record and integrity of the owner, then he suddenly raised his voice for effect.

‘We have here a threat,’ he began, ‘a dire threat of which this heinous crime perpetuated against Mr Harrison is but one manifestation. Mr Harrison’s thriving business has now been destroyed, even though he was doing his best to solve the problem of the rats, and even after he had willingly met with the women of Page Street to try to reassure them. The defending counsel would have us believe that Mr Harrison is a devious person who has schemed to bring an innocent party to trial. An innocent party? The accused threatened openly to burn down Mr Harrison’s business. You heard the witness state on oath that he saw the accused using a key to enter the yard, and minutes after she was seen hurrying away the fire broke out. Further, the defence wishes you to believe that the piece of cuttle-bone found at the home of the accused was planted there. What else could they say? I ask you, members of the jury, is this trial to become a sinister precedent, casting aside the standards of moderate decency and good sense so that the forces of chaos may enter in, wreaking havoc and destruction where they will? Or shall it be a vindication of the sane and democratic British judicial system? You have to decide, and I submit to you that the only possible verdict you can return in this case is one of guilty.’

Murmuring and muttering in the public gallery died away as the defending counsel rose. ‘You have to remember that Ellie Roffey did not attempt to deny her presence at the yard on the evening of the fire,’ he explained, addressing the jury. ‘In fact she went there in answer to a request. Now you have seen the note, which my client assumed to have come from the owner of the rag sorters. Mr Harrison stated that he did not send the note, but someone did. Someone sent that note. I submit to you, members of the jury, that whoever originated that note wanted Mrs Roffey to be seen at the yard immediately before the fire started. I also submit that the same person was hiding in that yard at the time, and as soon as my client left he started the blaze which destroyed the premises. Mrs Roffey, because of her campaigning on behalf of the women of Page Street, had become a nuisance.

‘Are we to believe, as the prosecution would have us, that when my client first went to the yard to confront the owner about the problem with the rats, she suddenly took advantage of Mr Harrison’s absence from the office by making an impression of the key which would open the wicket-gate, using a piece of cuttle-bone which she happened to have in her pocket? I say categorically that this is supposition, pure supposition based on the discovery of a piece of the aforesaid cuttle-bone in my client’s home. You have heard my client deny all knowledge of it. Well, it was found there, so how did it get there? I submit to you, ladies and gentlemen of the jury, that it was put there, in the knowledge that a subsequent search of the house would uncover it. I say here and now that it was part of the monstrous, meticulously worked-out plan to bring my client here before you today. Well, ladies and gentlemen of the jury, are we to believe that this melodramatic concoction of barefaced lies and shameless collusion, this callous victimisation of my client, constitutes the truth of the matter? Were the consequences for my client not so grave it would be laughable, the stuff of fantasy one finds between the dog-eared covers of a penny dreadful. I therefore ask you to ensure that justice is upheld by bringing in the only just verdict, one of not guilty.’

After the lunch adjournment the judge began his summing-up. Ellie Roffey stood passive in the dock throughout, her head bowed slightly and her hands clasped in front of her. Her dark hair was pulled tightly behind her head and secured by a thin black ribbon and she looked wan and hollow-eyed, her face clearly reflecting the ordeal she was going through. Above her in the public gallery her two adult children sat together, clasping each other’s hands, their eyes staring down at the stern figure of the judge. A few feet away Florrie Axford sat beside Maisie Dougall and Carrie Bradley, all three listening intently to the solemn voice which echoed around the lofty court room.

Finally the jury left to deliberate and Florrie turned to Maisie. ‘I could do wiv a nice cuppa, Mais,’ she said. ‘I’m fair parched.’

The tea room in the basement of the building was packed, and for an hour the three women sat sipping cups of tea, talking quietly and watching the comings and goings.

‘D’yer fink they’ll be out long?’ Maisie asked.

‘Well, I ’eard once that the longer juries are out the better the chances fer a not guilty verdict,’ Carrie told her.

‘In that case I don’t mind stoppin’ ’ere all night,’ Florrie said, taking out her snuffbox and giving the inquisitive woman sitting near her a hard look.

Suddenly the word passed around that the jury were returning, and by the time Florrie had negotiated the many stairs to the gallery the jury were taking their places.

‘Foreman of the jury, have you reached your verdict?’ the judge demanded.

‘We have, your honour.’

‘How find you the accused? Guilty or not guilty?’

‘We the jury find the defendant guilty as charged.’

A loud anguished cry rang out from the gallery and down in the dock Ellie Roffey lowered her head. Florrie took out her handkerchief and dabbed at her eyes while Maisie remained impassive, hardly believing what she had heard. Carrie looked down at her clasped hands feeling pain for Ellie’s two daughters who were sobbing loudly, while Ellie’s many supporters gave vent to their angry feelings shouting obscenities down into the well of the court.

After order had finally been restored the judge pronounced sentence. ‘Arson is a serious crime, and apart from the destruction of property it very often happens that in the perpetration of the crime of arson innocent lives are lost. Mercifully in this instance no deaths occurred, but the crime is not made any less dire by circumstance. The lives of those dwelling nearby and the firemen who were required to fight the fire were put at great risk. Ellie Roffey, you will go to prison for five years.’

Chapter Thirty-Six

In January as the hard winter took a grip Carrie was finding it increasingly difficult to keep the business running smoothly. Icy roads and lame horses stretched her resources to the limit, and when one of her customers phoned her to say he was forced to cancel their contract she slumped down at her desk and dropped her head in her hands. It had been a miserable Christmas with her father ill in bed, and two lame horses for which she had made poultices day and night. There had been no news of Joe and Carrie had thought about him constantly. Rachel too had seemed very subdued, spending much of the time alone in her room, when she was not helping her mother with the household chores. Only once had she mentioned Joe, and that had been on Christmas Day when the two of them were alone in the cosy parlour.

‘Do yer still wish Joe was ’ere, Mum?’ Rachel had said as she sat in front of the roaring fire, her head resting on the edge of Carrie’s armchair.

‘Of course I do,’ she answered, stroking her daughter’s hair.

‘Yer still love ’im, Mum, don’t yer?’

‘Yeah, I do.’

‘I wish we could find ’im,’ Rachel sighed.

‘P’raps Joe don’t want to be found, luv,’ Carrie replied.

‘If I ’ad one wish I’d wish for Joe ter come back, Mum. I can’t stand ter see yer so miserable an’ lonely,’ Rachel said, taking her mother’s hand in hers.

Carrie sighed sadly as she gazed into the glowing coals. Her daughter was growing into a beautiful young woman and life for her should now be exciting, happy and carefree. Instead she had been lending a hand in the business and tending the home as well as helping to care for her sick grandfather ever since she had left school at fourteen. She never seemed to complain, but there were times when Carrie noticed a sad, tired expression on her daughter’s face and she worried for her. One day the business would be hers, and if it prospered Rachel would be able to enjoy a good future and a good life. Would it all be worth the price she was having to pay now?

The bleak winter days were long, tiring and empty for Carrie, with the constant worry of the business and her father’s failing health taking its toll. Her mother seemed to have accepted that William was not going to get better and she sat around for most of the day, hardly ever venturing far from the house in case something happened to him. Carrie’s only relief from the endless grind was when Don Jacobs visited the yard. She always looked forward to his visits. What had happened between them before Joe came home from prison seemed to have sealed their friendship in a strange way and their short passionate encounter was never mentioned. They both understood that their loneliness and need for human warmth had thrown them together for a brief moment in time, and in the future they were destined to go their separate ways, remaining just good friends. Don was now courting again and he was well aware of Carrie’s yearning for Joe, for whenever he visited the yard the conversation invariably turned to the absent man.

During the cold, bleak January, folk were still talking about the Roffey trial and Ellie’s subsequent imprisonment, which had shocked and saddened the little riverside community. Everyone felt that Ellie had been unjustly imprisoned and there was talk of an appeal being made as soon as possible. In the meantime the burnt-out premises in Page Street remained closed, and rumours abounded that the owner of the rag sorters had done very nicely by way of insurance.

The women of the little riverside street blamed themselves for involving Ellie in their troubles and whenever they gathered together they always ended up discussing the affair.

‘Yer know, I can’t get that bleedin’ young bloke out o’ me mind,’ Maisie said as she sat with Sadie and Florrie one day in Sadie’s parlour. ‘I’m sure I’ve seen ’im somewhere.’

‘It was that git who ’elped put ’er away,’ Florrie growled. ‘I’d take a bet it was ’im what put that bloody cuttle-bone in Ellie’s ’ouse.’

‘’E looked a shifty git, didn’t ’e?’ Maisie remarked with distaste.

Sadie had been ill with pleurisy during the trial but she had been kept informed of what happened. ‘What must that poor cow be goin’ frew?’ she said sadly. ‘Fancy bein’ stuck away in that ’orrible ’ole. They say ’Olloway’s worse than the men’s prisons. There’s all sorts in there. Mind yer, though, I reckon our Ellie’s converted a few of ’em already.’

Florrie took out her snuffbox and tapped her two fingers on the lid. ‘I saw Ellie’s younger daughter at the market the day before yesterday,’ she told them. ‘The poor cow looks done in wiv the worry.’

‘I wish there was somefink we could do,’ Maisie said, sipping her tea.

‘Well, there’s not a fing we can do, so it’s no good keep goin’ on about it, Mais,’ Florrie replied sharply.

‘I wish I could fink where I’ve seen that bloke before,’ Maisie went on.

Florrie raised her eyes to the ceiling and put down her teacup. ‘Yer’d better be careful, Mais, or yer’ll be talkin’ about ’im in yer sleep. Your Fred’ll end up givin’ yer a back-’ander.’

During the wintry January William Tanner took a turn for the worse. His breathing became increasingly difficult, and when the doctor was called he diagnosed pneumonia. William was rushed away to hospital and for two days he hovered between waking and unconsciousness, then on the third day he sank into a peaceful sleep from which he never awakened. The funeral was attended only by William’s immediate family but as the cortege passed along Page Street everyone seemed to be at their front doors, the women holding handkerchiefs to their eyes and the men standing erect and bare-headed. As the funeral carriages swung around the turning Nellie glanced from the carriage window at the deserted yard where William had spent so much of his working life. ‘At least yer farvver never suffered at the end,’ she said, her voice betraying little emotion.

Danny sat with his head bowed. He had become very close to his father during the latter years of his life and he knew that he was going to miss him badly. Carrie glanced at her grieving brother and then her mother as though fearing that they might see how hollow she felt inside. There was no tearful emotion, no despair, only an emptiness that frightened her. All the memories of her childhood days helping her father in the Galloway stable came crowding back as she sat in the carriage following after his coffin, but she could not bring herself to cry. It was as though all her emotion, all her feelings had been drawn away from her. The only comfort she had was knowing that before her father died she had managed to fulfil her vow, taking him and her mother away from the slum dwellings that had been their home for so long. At least her father had known some comfort and happiness in his final years, helping in the yard and being amongst the horses that he loved so much.