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The woman in the green coat had moved away and Mr Pearson was looking at her over the top of the Fry’s Chocolate cabinet. He had sandy hair, a thick moustache like a fox’s brush, and an air of permanent harassment, as if the queue of customers in his shop was something of a trial to him. Kate pushed her dreams aside and placed her list on the counter.
‘There’s quite a lot this week, I’m afraid.’
Mr Pearson picked it up and adjusted his half-moon spectacles as he studied it, glancing up at her with an expression that lay somewhere between incredulity and outrage. ‘Three cones of sugar, Mrs Furniss? Six pounds of tea?’
‘It’s this week Sir Randolph returns to Coldwell, isn’t it?’ Mrs Pearson, serving another customer, bustled behind her husband, nudging him out of the way none too gently as she reached for a tin of treacle. ‘Bringing his new wife. My sister lives in Howden Bridge—she says there’s a dance on Friday, to welcome home the happy couple.’ Kate heard the cynicism in her tone. ‘It’ll be quite a change for you, I daresay?’
‘A new era for Coldwell Hall,’ Kate said smoothly. ‘Speaking of which, perhaps you might be able to help…? With Sir Randolph and Lady Hyde in residence we’re going to need more staff. I’m looking for girls—kitchen maid, scullery maid, and housemaid—I wondered if you might know of anyone looking for a place. I don’t mind if they’re young—full training will be given, and a good wage—’
There was a muffled snort to Kate’s right. She looked round and saw that it had come from the customer Mrs Pearson was serving; a solidly built woman, with iron-grey hair escaping in wisps from beneath her battered hat and an expression of undisguised hostility. ‘You could pay a king’s ransom and you still wouldn’t get any takers for that place, girl or boy,’ she muttered, just loud enough to be heard. ‘Not now he’s back. People hereabouts aren’t daft. And they’ve got long memories.’
Kate felt the colour creep up her cheeks as embarrassment burned down inside her. The criticism felt personal, though she didn’t know what had prompted it. She was aware of eyes on her—Mr Pearson’s, the woman who’d spoken, the other customers behind her. The hum of conversation had stopped, and there was a moment of frozen silence before Mrs Pearson stepped in to fill it.
‘Perhaps you could write to the matron of the Barnardo’s Home in Sheffield? Their girls are always grateful for a place,’ she said, addressing Kate with soothing courtesy. ‘Now, leave that order with Mr Pearson and we’ll get the lad to deliver it tomorrow, as usual. Won’t we, Mr Pearson?’
‘If we’ve got it all,’ her husband muttered dubiously as he hurried round to open the shop door for her. ‘But I’ll always do my best for you, Mrs Furniss, as you know.’ He lowered his voice, as if admitting something shameful. ‘The Coldwell account is very valuable to us and we’re grateful for your business. Good day to you.’
The brewery was at the scrag end of town by the river, where the neat streets of shops and houses gave way to sheds and workshops and privies and the cobbles were slick with mud. Once Jem had got down from the wagon at the back of the Bull’s Head it was easy to find. He just had to head towards the tall brick chimney and the smell of yeast and roasting hops.
Mr Goddard might have refused his request for a day off, but it hadn’t been hard to find an excuse for the trip. The old man was so vague these days, he could barely remember what year it was, never mind whether the beer he’d ordered for Sir Randolph’s homecoming dance was adequate. Jem had casually sown the seeds of doubt and seen the relief on the butler’s face when he’d offered to go to the brewery himself, reassuring Goddard that, with his experience from the Station Hotel, he was well-placed to make sure they had secured the best deal for the best ale, and enough of it.
He’d planned his strategy carefully, using his last Sunday half day to go to church in Howden Bridge. He’d positioned himself at the back and spent the tedious service studying the congregation, looking for the woman he had spoken to on coronation day. It was easy to spot her red hair, especially as she had a brood of children with the same striking colouring. Slipping out quickly at the end, Jem had lit a cigarette and waited by the door to catch her.
‘Is there a Mullins here?’ he asked the foreman now, raising his voice above the hiss of steam and the mechanical clank of the great pumps.
The man barely glanced at him. ‘Why d’you ask?’
‘Just curious. If it’s the Mullins I’m thinking of, I might have found something that belongs to him.’
He was as certain as he could be that it was the Mullins he was thinking of. The woman with the red hair had eventually confirmed that Mrs Mullins, who’d helped her with the teas at the coronation fete, had a lad who’d once worked at Coldwell. She too had asked why he wanted to know, and he’d told the same lie.
He followed the foreman across the dusty floor of the brewery, past the gleaming, steaming coppers to the wide mouth of the cavernous space. ‘What kind of something?’ the man said.
‘Personal.’ Jem shrugged. ‘Something that might have sentimental value, if it’s his. It might not be, but I found it in an old coat that had his name in it. Heard he worked here so I thought I’d ask. Of course, if he’s not—’
‘Mullins!’
The foreman pushed his cap back and bellowed across the yard. Having done that, he gave Jem a cursory nod and disappeared inside.
A head appeared over a stable door; a broad, blank face with the mouth hanging open. Jem went unhurriedly over, sliding his hands into his pockets and closing his fingers around a small fold of paper so he could feel the hard disc inside it. It was his own St Christopher medallion, the only thing he had that had belonged to his mother. He didn’t want to lose it, but he hoped it wouldn’t come to that.
‘Are you Mullins?’
‘Who wants to know?’
Jem had thought about this. It was likely that for the duration of his brief stay at Coldwell Jack would only have been known by the name of his employer, as was the custom for visiting servants. However, he couldn’t be sure, and couldn’t risk revealing too much at this stage. ‘I work at Coldwell Hall,’ he said, watching the lad’s face. ‘I think you used to have a place there? We were going through the old uniforms and came across a coat with the name Mullins in it. Tiger’s livery.’
Mullins’s eyes narrowed and his slack mouth closed like a trap. ‘Yeah, well, it’s a common enough name round these parts, ain’t it?’
He was half-hidden by the stable door, but his agitation was obvious. Behind him, the heavy horse seemed to sense it and shifted its hooves, scraping them on the stone floor. Jem patted his pockets absently, making a show of looking for something. Eventually he pulled out the square of folded paper.
‘This isn’t yours, then? Belongs to some other Mullins?’
‘What is it?’
‘Found it in the pocket of the tiger’s coat. But if you weren’t at Coldwell—’
‘I never said I wasn’t. I don’t like talking about it, that’s all. It was a long time ago—I was glad to get away. So… you going to give it back then?’