A Black Shadow: a tale of Lancashire life

Front matter

A BLACK SHADOW: A TALE OF LANCASHIRE LIFE, BY J. W. KNEESHAW, Authm of '-That Fai-tonj Lass," " Knave or Hem.'" etc. BURNLEY : "EXPRESS" PRINTING COMPANY. LONDON : SIMPKIN, MARSHALL, HAMILTON, KENT & CO. DEDICATED BY PERMISSION TO J. O. S. THURSBY, ESQ., As a token of admiration of the keen interest he and his family have always taken in the welfare of the people of the busy town on the banks of the Brun, and in the hope that in these descriptions of life and character in Burnley and District his high literary tastes may find much to approve and little to deprecate. $% fflacR £hadoi2.

Chapter I. The Foundling

The night had fallen with every indication of an approaching storm. The clouds had covered the sky with their advancing battalions, and added their murky masses to the night, to make the blackness more like that of Egypt. The wind moaned and sighed among the trees, and already a few drops of rain had fallen on the upturned face of John Denton, as he glanced into the darkness overhead. He was hurrying home across the fields, from a neighbouring village, whither some business had taken him after the day's work. " Ther's goain' to be a storm," he muttered, "an' it's awfully dark. I wish I wor eaut o' this an' on th' high rooad agean." He had hardly spoken before his words were verified, for the rain began to fall steadily. He had still nearly a mile to go, and he buttoned his coat up to his chin, drew up the collar, thrust his hands into his pockets, and trudged stolidly on ; while the rain streamed down his face, splashed under his feet, and dripped on him from the trees, as he passed under their weeping boughs.

By and by he came to a place where the path divided. In order to facilitate the passage of occasional vehicles, the road had here been cut several feet lower than the surrounding fields. This place was apt to become muddy and unpleasant A BLACK SHADOW. in wet weather, and so pedestrians had diverged to one side, and gradually made a new path across the fields. This led by the side of the country lane, which lay below in a hollow, with a rough and very imperfect hedge on either side. When John arrived at this point he hesitated a moment, undecided as to whether he should keep along the lane, or take the path over the fields. The former afforded more shelter from the driving rain, but it was likely to be very muddy ; after all, the steady drip from the overhanging hedges would be almost as bad as the rain ; besides it was very dark and would be darker still in that lane.

So he climbed the stile and entered the field and went tramping along the bank beside the low-lying lane. John, you knew it not, but that little decision, trivial as it seemed, was destined to have tremendous consequences to you and yours. Little you guessed at the awful tragedy that had taken place in the lane since you passed through it last, or that now there lay in its darkness something that would have made your quiet plodding spirit stand aghast with terror. Ah well ; we cannot know what effect even the most trivial acts of our lives may have on our future career, or on the fortunes of those around us. John Denton, thinking nothing of all this, but grumbling in his heart at his wet miserable plight, trudged on with head bent to the driving rain, every now and then glancing to one side to see that the hedge loomed up on his right, and longing for the warmth and comfort of his own fireside.

He had gone about a hundred yards, when he suddenly stopped and listened. The fretful wail of a child had reached his ear, or at any rate he fancied it had. " Pooh, it is impossible," he muttered. " What should a bairn be doin' eaut here at this time o' neet? " But it was not fancy, for again he heard it in the field on his left. " Mammy, mammy," he could hear the child sob, and then there was a fresh burst of wailing. John was puzzled, and it must be acknowledged a bit nervous. He felt inclined to push on and disregard the cry. It was no business of his, and probably some one was near. " John yat/ieiiil up th'e child in his strong arms and it nestled close to him." — Page 3. THE FOUNDLING. But John's heart was soft ; and he could not forget that at home, half a mile further on, he had three little ones of his own, and that a fourth had been laid in the churchyard but the week before ; and after a little hesitation he ventured to call out.

The crying instantly ceased. " Hello " he called again, peering into the darkness, and then the crying and sobbing began once more, and the pite ous wail of "Mammy" a second time reached his ear. It was clearly a lost child — one of the neighbour's children very likely. He began to walk slowly towards the spot whence the sound proceeded. He got right into the midde of the field, and the sound of the child's weeping grew more distinct, before a sudden rift in the clouds gave him a little more light, and he saw something white a few yards further on. In another moment he was standing beside the sobbing child, who instantly ceased its wailing, when he stooped and picked it up in his arms. " What's to do ?" he asked, "are you lost ?" But the only answer was " Mammy, I want my mammy." " Wheer is yo'r mammy ?" he enquired.

For answer the little dot pointed out into the darkness in a vague indefinite way. " Wheer do yo' coom fro' ?" asked John. But the child could give no answer. It was thoroughly soaked with the rain and was shivering with cold. It seemed, however, quite content when John gathered it up in his strong arms ; and it nestled close to him, as if glad of the com panionship and the warmth. It made no demur at being carried away. John hesitated a few minutes, considering what was best to be done. It was too dark for him to see what the child was like, but judging from its words, its mother could not be far away. He gave forth another shout but there was no reply. Clearly there was only one course open — he must take the child home and then find an owner. It would die if left there. He drew his coat over it as well as he could, and, holding it tenderly in his arms, he found his way back again across the field to the path, and trudged on home once more.

The child was asleep before he had gone many yards. In a quarter of an hour the lights of the village came into view, and shortly after he stood at his own door, which was one of the first in the village. "Ay, John, but tha will be fine an' wet," said Mary Denton, looking up from the fire, where she was preparing supper. " Whativer hes ta getten theer ?" she. asked in astonishment, when her eyes fell on the bundle in his arms. " Why, it's a little un I feaund wanderin' abeawt in th' fields as I coom on. Poor little thing, it's welly (nearly) dreawned. Doesta know whoa it belongs to?" As he spoke he sat down, and holding the sleeping child on his knee proceeded to examine it. It was rather a delicate looking girl, apparently about two years old, its clothes were fairly good, and it wore boots — contrary to the custom of those parts, where the children mostly wore clogs.

Its garments were, of course, soaked through, and its boots and socks were covered with mud. "No," replied Mrs. Denton, bending over it, "I doan't know it. I'm sure it don't belong to any o' th' naybours. It looks like a stranger. Poor little thing," she murmured softly, and there was a mist in her eyes. " My own little lass that we buried last week were just sich another as this," and she took the child up in her arms. The little thing just opened its eyes and looked up into the motherly face bending over it, and murmured " Mammy," and then with a sigh of relief it dropped off into slumber again. " It's reight tired eaut," said Mary. Then she added, in her usual practical fashion, " Well, we shall ha' to keep it all neet, John. We doan't know whoas it is, an' we can't turn a little thing like this eaut on a neet o' this soort.

These wet rags mun be taken off at once, or else it'll get it deeath o' cowd. Thee get me eaur little Liza's neet dress, an' I'll undress it an' put it to bed aside o' eaur Tom. Poor little thing!" And, suiting the action to the word, Mrs. Denton began to remove the wet soiled garments ; and in a quarter of an hour the little foundling, warm and comfortable, was sleeping the quiet sleep of innocence, in the place whence the little Eliza had been snatched so recently ; and, mother-like, THE FOUNDLING. 5 Mrs. Denton was bending over it, trying through her tears to trace in the lineaments of the little stranger some resemblance to her own lost child. John Denton was only a weaver, and his wife was — or rather had been — one too. At present they were neither of them more than thirty. They had both been born and reared in the village of Goulton, a few miles away, and had migrated here to Crawforth about a year before.

Honest, careful people were John and Mary. No one had an ill word for either. Of the two perhaps Mary was the more energetic, while John was the more cautious. Their ten years of married life had been fairly prosperous, and very happy. Mary had a nice little sum hoarded away in the proverbial " stocking," for industry and thrift had been the guiding stars of their lives. They had been blessed with four children, of whom three remained. John Denton was rather tall, but Mary was short, and at present slight ; though she bade fair, as the years settled on her head, to grow stouter, if her super-abundant energy and ceaseless activity did not prevent it. Neither of the two were people to let a chance slip. Mary had gone to the mill and worked " anent " her husband as long as she was able, and, when the increasing demands of her family no longer allowed that, she had, by bread baking, plain sewing, etc., added to the family income, and increased the amount in the " stock ing," of whose contents John knew very little, though he had a shrewd guess at its existence.

At this period Mary was agitating a change — neither more nor less than the removal to Burnley, some ten miles away. She had broached the subject that evening at tea-time, but John's business at Goulton had cut the discussion short. As soon, however, as they had seen the little stranger put to bed, Mrs. Denton renewed the attack. " Well, John," she began, "hes ta decided about goin' to Burnley ?" John was lighting his pipe by sticking the bowl into the fire, preparatory to going to the police station ; and he looked up with a twinkle in his eye. " What does ta want to goa theer for ?" he asked. "Tha knows what for," was the reply, " eawr John's gettin' on, an' in a year or two he'll want some'at to do, an' I should like him to be a bit better up than a fact'ry hand. An' then Clara'll soon be gettin' on, an' there'll be a better chance for 'em i' Burnley."

" Tha's lookin' a long way into th' future, for eaur John's nobbut eight year owd yit." " Why that's nowt. I' eight year moor he'll be sixteen. An' I feel as I shalln't settle here ageon, neaw that our Liza's been ta'en." " What does ta reckon on us doin' when we get there?" John asked, " for I know thee weel enough to know tha' hes some'at i' thi mind," Mrs. Denton bent more industriously over the garments of the little stranger, and John for a few minutes sat watching her with a twinkle in his eye. " Why, John," she said at last, " I'm thinkin' we aren't gettin' on as fast as I should like, an' I think we could do better in a town. Tha' sees I can't go to th' mill neaw, but we could tek a bit of a shop, 'an I could look after it while tha' went to th' mill. We should do varry wreel that way."

" But Mary, tha' doesn't consider. To stock a shop 'an to flit would take nearly a hunderd peaund, an' wheer should we get that ? Tha' knows as weel as me, 'at what wi' childer, an' sickness, an' one thing wi' another, we'n niver getten on as we could like. We've niver been i' debt, an' we'n allus kept us heeads aboon watter, but when that last doctor's bill's paid, an' th' funeral expenses, there willn't be mieh left." " Does ta think a hundred peaund would do ?" " Why, I reckon it might, but it's noa use talking abeaut it. Fower or five hunderd 'ould be just as mich eaut of eaur reyk." (reach.) " Why, I've managed to scrat (gather) abeaut a hunderd together." "Tha hes!" exclaimed John, in amazement. "Why wheer is it "? " I put it i'th Burnley Building Society. Nay, I'll let thee look at 'th book," and she went upstairs, and shortly returned THE FOUNDLING. 7 with the pass book, which she handed to her husband.

" Tha caps me !" he exclaimed, in wonderment at the array of figures, "but I say, Mary, this is no use to me. If owt had happened to thee, I couldn't ha' gotten a hawp'ny on it." " Heaw's that ?" " Why, tha's put it in i' thi maiden name." " Yigh I did. But does ta meean to say that tha couldn't ha' getten it eaut?" " Now, not a fardin." " Well, if iver ! Why John, I didn't know. I'll goa an' get it eaut an' hev it altered. But will ta goa to Burnley, an' let me start a shop neaw ? Does ta see I want thee to be leeavin' th' mill ; an' I think if we get on all reight there'll soon be enough work at a shop to keep booath on us goain." John shook his head. " I'm freetened it'll nooan come to that ; but we'll goa ower o' Setterday an' hev a look reaund." " Oh, I've had my eyes oppen. I know wheer there's a shop 'at '11 just suit us," Mary said.

" I thowt tha would," said John, laughing. " Tha generally hes it all arranged i' thi own mind. But neaw as th' rain isn't quite as bad , I think I'll goa to th' pl'iceman's, an' tell him abeaut this little 'un I've feaund. Somebody '11 be i' trouble abeaut it, I've no deawt." John went out and in a while returned. The policeman knew nothing. He had not received any notice as to the loss of a child. " Child's all reight, Mary," John said. " I wonder whoas it is. Some woman '11 be in a bonny stew to-neet abeaut it. But we can do now't till mornin'."

Chapter II

A FOUL CRIME. About six o'clock the next morning a man named Davis was going across the field in which John Denton had found the child. The storm had passed away with the night, and the sun had risen, bright and unclouded, nearly an hour before, though the trees and the grass were still dripping with water. He took the path across the field, as John Denton had done, and went on whistling softly, with a sublime indiffer ence to the beauties of nature around him. Suddenly he stopped to examine an object lying in the middle of the path. It was a woman's hat, soiled, crushed, and wet. Then he noticed that the grass all around was trampled down. This was all very strange. A quick glance around showed him a gap in the hedge protecting the lane on his left. This fence was only in a poor state of repair.

Here and there gaps occurred and these had been patched up with rails, which in their turn had decayed. " Some one fallen into the lane in the darkness," was his mental comment, as he saw the broken fence close by. He walked to the bank and peered over into the lane, some three or four yards below him. Sure enough a woman was lying down there. He could not see the face, but there was no mistake about the figure. She lay on the road and had apparently fallen from the place where he now stood. The marks made on the bank by the descent were plainly to be seen. It did not take him many seconds to scramble down. The woman was lying face downward in the road. He took hold of her hand. It was cold and clammy. It required no one to tell him that death had been there before him. He glanced up at the bank.

It was curious that a fall like that should kill her ; at the most it was only some four yards. He turned to the body again. He had a very natural repugnance to touching it, but his curiosity was stronger than his dislike. He turned it over to look at the face. Then an A FOUL CRIME. 9 exclamation of horror broke from his white lips. It was not an accident, not a fall down the bank. It was worse than that — it was murder. The woman's face and head had been beaten into a horrible shapeless mass, and underneath the red blood had stained the hard ground, and trickled down into the ruts made by many generations of carts. In another instant the man was racing down the lane back to Crawforth to give the alarm. It was too late to bring the victim to life, but no time must be lost in following the trail of the murderer.

The village policeman had been out most of the night, and had not long been in bed when Davis dashed up and began furiously rattling at his door. It took some little time to rouse any one, but ultimately the constable's wife came down stairs in no very gracious mood. " What do you want ?" she enquired tartly. " Is the p'liceman in?" Davis asked excitedly. " Yes, he has just gone to bed. You had better come again later on." " But he must come now. There is a woman lying murdered in Goulton Lane. Tell him to look quick " persisted Davis. That was enough. The constable did not take much time to dress himself and get ready to accompany the man. On the way he learned all that Davis had to tell. " You are quite sure that the woman is dead ?" he asked. " Yes, quite sure," was the reply. " And by the look of things she must have been lying there most of the night."

"Now don't you go tramping all round," said the constable, as they got to the place. " I shall want to examine everything just as it is. The woman has fallen down the bank apparently. That's what has killed her. That place has been dangerous a good while, though one would hardly think a woman would be killed through falling down a little bank like that." " YTou won't think this one has when you see her face," returned Davis shuddering. When they reached the body the officer lifted the woman's hand and looked at her face. "No" he said in an awed, hushed voice. "It is murder, hard enough. Awful !" he added with a shiver, as he took out his handkerchief, and mopped his forehead. " Why, her face is nearly beaten to pulp. Poor thing ! D'ye know who she is, Davis ?" " No," said the man, " She is a stranger here."

By this time a boy arrived, attracted by the sight of the policeman hurrying down the village street, so early in the morning, accompanied by Davis, and was despatched for help to carry the corpse ; and when he had gone the officer began to examine the ground. He was an intelligent man, and arrived at a theory of the crime with surprising rapidity. " That's what the deed has been done with," he said, pointing to a stone all smeared with blood, which lay beside the murdered woman. "A married woman," he went on, indicating the ring on her finger. " Well dressed — at any rate middling — not a tramp, I should say. What do you think, Davis ?" Davis merely nodded. That awful thing which he had found lying in the road had unnerved him. It was some thing that would disturb his dreams for nights to come.

When the constable had noted all that seemed to call for attention in the lane, he clambered into the field above, still followed by Davis. " Ah, there s been a struggle here," he went on as soon as he reached the top ; " and this is the very field where John Denton found that child last night. Hear o' that, Davis?" " No," said Davis, " what child?" " Well, John was coming home rather late last night from Goulton, and when he was crossing this field, he heard a child crying, and he began to look round a bit, and he came across a little lass, that was lost apparently. It was some where here about. He took it home and his wife put it to bed, while he came and told me. See there ! That's the woman's hat." " Yes," said Davis, "That was what I saw first, and I wondered what it meant. ' " What d'ye make of it all ?

Davis shook his head. He could make nothing of it at all but a great and fearful horror. A FOUL CRIME. " I'll just tell you my opinion of it," said the officer, whose name was Smith. " This woman is a better sort of tramp, and the child belonged to her, and you can bet your boots its a case of wife murder. There's been a man and wife and a child in the party. Something has gone wrong, and the man in a temper has killed his wife, and then made off. Of course that's only an opinion, but you'll find it'll be right. See there," he added triumphantly, pointing to a patch of soft ground where the grass had been worn off by the passage of many feet, " that's the mark of a man's foot. He's attacked her up here while they've been passing. There has been a struggle. Look, there are the marks. Then they've fallen down there together, and he's picked up that stone and finished her off.

That is the story, sir, as sure as you are alive. And another thing, she's been laid there nine or ten hours, and the man may be miles away now ; but which way he went is another matter. As soon as I can I'll be off after a clue. He's had plenty of start, anyway." Here several men came running up in great excitement, and even a woman or two were seen approaching, for the news was spreading like wildfire. Mr. Smith at once proceeded to have the body borne to the Wellington public house in Crawforth. Mrs. DentoD was looking out with a white, scared face, as the ghastly object was carried past her door ; and her interest in the melancholy procession was all the more intense from the apparent connection which the little one, at present sleeping peacefully upstairs, had with it. The excitement in Crawforth that day was tremendous.

Such a thing as a murder had been previously unknown in the quiet little village within the memory of the oldest in habitant. Men, women, and children found in its ghastly details an absorbing topic of conversation. John Denton received his first intimation of the affair at eight o'clock, when the factory doors swung open to enable the mill hands to pour forth to breakfast. A little crowd had gathered in front of the Wellington, and the women in nearly every house were looking out, and talking in awed whispers ; and more than one man that morning found evidence of the prevailing excitement at home, in the shape of cold grates and no breakfast. " I wonder what's to do," John said to another weaver, as they passed together along the street. " Some'at moor nor common," replied his mate. " Here, missis, what's to do?" he asked of a woman who was standing at her door with a child in her arms.

"What is there to do up yonder?" " There's bean a woman feaund murdered 'i Goulton-lane," she replied. " They say as her head an' face are nearly knocked to bits." " Goulton-lane !" ejaculated John, with a sudden recollec tion of his adventure of the previous evening. "Why, I came on there late last neet." "Yea, I've heard so," said the woman. " Yo' feaund a little 'un, I understand. Did yo' coom on th' pad (path) or on 'th rooad?" "On th' pad." " Yigh, an' this woman was feaund on th' rooad. Bob Davis feaund her." The woman would have added a good many more items, if John would have stopped to listen. But John was a quiet, peaceful man, more intent on minding his own business than that of his neighbours, and he felt very uneasy at being dragged into this affair. Most of the neighbours were looking out for him, and several accosted him concerning the discovery, and wanted to learn his version of the affair of the previous evening ; but John was in no mood for gossip.

His mind was disturbed, and he was busy calculating the probable consequences to himself. " John, hes ta heard this tale ?" asked Mary, as he entered. " Y'igh, I've heared as they'n feaund a woman up i' Goulton-lane. Murdered, they say. " " They say so, but one hardly knows what to believe. But they browt th' body past here a bit sin'. Did ta hear owt last neet ?" "Now, I heared nowt but that bairn cryin'. I say, Mary, this woman'll mooast likely be the child's mammy it wor A FOUL CRIME. cryin' for ?" Mary nodded as she poured out her husband's tea. " Then hoo must ha' been theer when I passed through th' field. If I'd gooan through the lane I should ha' feaund her. Whoa is she?" " As far as I can tell hoo's a stranger. I hevn't getten th' tale right, but that is what I mek on it." " Heaw does th' little un look this morning'?"

" All right. Harken ! Tha can hear t'others mekin' a fuss o'er it. They're all rare an' suited. Eawr Tom wanted to know if it wor Liza corned back." " What had we best do does ta think? Tha' sees I were abeaut th' last on that lane last neet." " I doan't see what tha' can do. Nowt as I see on. Tha' telled 'em last neet that tha'd feaund th' bairn, an' it's for them to come an' see after it. I expect they'll come fast enough, an' tha'll ha' to go to th' inquest, an' I expect some body'll have to tek th' child to see if it owns (recognises) this woman. But I'll look after that. Thee goa to thi work." " I reckon we shall ha' to keep th' bairn a day or two ?" " Y'igh. We can't turn th' poor little thing eaut." During the day John was interviewed by the police. But he could tell nothing that would help them.

He had passed through the lane about seven, and there had been nothing then. Between nine and ten he had found the child in the field adjoining the lane. That was all he could tell. The child had settled down quite contentedly in the Denton household, though now and then it would ask for its " mammy." When taken to the Wellington, the crowd of inquisitive faces frightened it, and it clung tightly to Mrs. Denton. It was led into the room where the body lay, and it immediately recognised the dress and stretched out its little arms, crying joyfully " My mammy, my mammy," and struggled to be free. When released it ran to the body and tugged at the wet dishevelled gown. " Mammy, waken up. Mammy, waken up," she wailed, but there was no response to the pitiful cry. She looked timidly round. " Daddy's gone," she cried, again turning to the body.

" Did daddy hit mammy ? Naughty daddy. Come mammy, he's gone, waken up. Hetty wants her mammy." There were few dry eyes there, as the little one was carried out, wailing piteously for the mother who would hear its call no more. Mrs. Denton's eyes were filled with tears as she took the child home. The mother's heart, now crying out in its own emptiness, went forth to the poor little orphan, which seemed, as it were, almost put into her arms, to replace that which she had lost.