sir.’
Carver continued to stare at the door as his manservant withdrew. Barlow. That meant the job was done, or at least it had better be if the manager wanted to hold on to his own.
‘Good evening, Mr Felton.’
John Barlow shuffled his feet nervously as Carver entered the room.
‘Is it done?’ He ignored the greeting.
‘I did as you instructed, sir.’
‘ And ?’ Carver demanded.
‘And . . . and nothing, Mr Felton,’ Barlow stammered, uncomfortable at being in Felton Hall, and wary of the man who stood glaring at him with eyes black as the coal his miners ripped from the earth. ‘What else could there be?’
‘The man Price, did he say anything?’ Carver grabbed a pen from the desk, twisting it irritably between his fingers. ‘Did he ask why?’
Barlow touched the palm of one hand to the edge of his jacket with a quick nervous movement. Why had he been told to report here to the house? Why didn’t Felton wait until his next visit to the mine . . . in fact, why ask for a report at all? He had given men their tins before and never asked how they reacted, so why this time? What was so special about Price?
‘Arr Mr Felton, he asked, but like I told him, the owner don’t ’ave to give no reason. You said as ’e was finished at the Topaz and that was all the reason necessary. I ‘ope I did right, sir?’
‘Of course you did right!’ Carver threw the pen on to the desk, watching it roll the width before dropping off the edge. He gave no man a reason for his actions, explained himself to nobody. Yet the feeling of guilt that had resolved itself into anger persisted as he asked, ‘The man . . . this Price . . . you are sure he was the right one?’
John Barlow swallowed, the Adam’s apple of his throat moving visibly. A man needed to take care in his dealings with the like of Carver Felton. One wrong word was all it would take, just one wrong word, and he would be in the same boat as Price was in now and the bugger would sink just as fast.
‘You said as the one I was to finish was the one living up along Doe Bank.’ Barlow hesitated, then when Carver made no answer went on, ‘Well, the preacher man lived there . . .’
‘Preacher man?’ Carver looked up from watching the pen.
‘That be the name folk have given him, though ’e were baptised Caleb . . . Caleb Price.’
‘So why the title? Is the man a priest?’
‘Caleb Price ain’t never been ordained, he be no true priest.’
Carver’s brows drew together and beneath the branched gasolier the twin streaks of silver shone among the darkness of his hair.
‘So where did the name come from?’
His throat still working, John Barlow studied the face of his employer. So many questions about a man he had never mentioned until yesterday, questions that did not come from an easy mind. But why the preacher man? What was it about him that so disturbed Carver Felton?
‘Caleb Price fancies himself as something of a lay preacher. He sometimes takes a service down at the Chapel and teaches a bit of Sunday school for the young ’uns, though I’ve not heard him myself, being a Church of England man. But I ’ave heard him spouting off to the men at the mine. A real Bible thumper is Price, I reckon he quotes the Scriptures more often than did any of the Disciples.’
‘The preacher man.’ Carver mulled over the name. ‘Interesting. Did he preach you a sermon when you gave him his tin?’
Barlow shook his head, though his glance as it rested on Carver was keen as before. ‘Not as such, sir, though ’e did say as how no man acted of his own accord. That all was done according to the will of God.’
The will of God. Carver smiled as the mine manager left. Or the will of Carver Felton.
‘I thought at first it was a furnace being opened.’ Emma sat in a neighbour’s house. It had taken two men to drag her there, to prevent her from racing into the burning house, and all the time she had screamed her mother’s
Carver continued to stare at the door as his manservant withdrew. Barlow. That meant the job was done, or at least it had better be if the manager wanted to hold on to his own.
‘Good evening, Mr Felton.’
John Barlow shuffled his feet nervously as Carver entered the room.
‘Is it done?’ He ignored the greeting.
‘I did as you instructed, sir.’
‘ And ?’ Carver demanded.
‘And . . . and nothing, Mr Felton,’ Barlow stammered, uncomfortable at being in Felton Hall, and wary of the man who stood glaring at him with eyes black as the coal his miners ripped from the earth. ‘What else could there be?’
‘The man Price, did he say anything?’ Carver grabbed a pen from the desk, twisting it irritably between his fingers. ‘Did he ask why?’
Barlow touched the palm of one hand to the edge of his jacket with a quick nervous movement. Why had he been told to report here to the house? Why didn’t Felton wait until his next visit to the mine . . . in fact, why ask for a report at all? He had given men their tins before and never asked how they reacted, so why this time? What was so special about Price?
‘Arr Mr Felton, he asked, but like I told him, the owner don’t ’ave to give no reason. You said as ’e was finished at the Topaz and that was all the reason necessary. I ‘ope I did right, sir?’
‘Of course you did right!’ Carver threw the pen on to the desk, watching it roll the width before dropping off the edge. He gave no man a reason for his actions, explained himself to nobody. Yet the feeling of guilt that had resolved itself into anger persisted as he asked, ‘The man . . . this Price . . . you are sure he was the right one?’
John Barlow swallowed, the Adam’s apple of his throat moving visibly. A man needed to take care in his dealings with the like of Carver Felton. One wrong word was all it would take, just one wrong word, and he would be in the same boat as Price was in now and the bugger would sink just as fast.
‘You said as the one I was to finish was the one living up along Doe Bank.’ Barlow hesitated, then when Carver made no answer went on, ‘Well, the preacher man lived there . . .’
‘Preacher man?’ Carver looked up from watching the pen.
‘That be the name folk have given him, though ’e were baptised Caleb . . . Caleb Price.’
‘So why the title? Is the man a priest?’
‘Caleb Price ain’t never been ordained, he be no true priest.’
Carver’s brows drew together and beneath the branched gasolier the twin streaks of silver shone among the darkness of his hair.
‘So where did the name come from?’
His throat still working, John Barlow studied the face of his employer. So many questions about a man he had never mentioned until yesterday, questions that did not come from an easy mind. But why the preacher man? What was it about him that so disturbed Carver Felton?
‘Caleb Price fancies himself as something of a lay preacher. He sometimes takes a service down at the Chapel and teaches a bit of Sunday school for the young ’uns, though I’ve not heard him myself, being a Church of England man. But I ’ave heard him spouting off to the men at the mine. A real Bible thumper is Price, I reckon he quotes the Scriptures more often than did any of the Disciples.’
‘The preacher man.’ Carver mulled over the name. ‘Interesting. Did he preach you a sermon when you gave him his tin?’
Barlow shook his head, though his glance as it rested on Carver was keen as before. ‘Not as such, sir, though ’e did say as how no man acted of his own accord. That all was done according to the will of God.’
The will of God. Carver smiled as the mine manager left. Or the will of Carver Felton.
‘I thought at first it was a furnace being opened.’ Emma sat in a neighbour’s house. It had taken two men to drag her there, to prevent her from racing into the burning house, and all the time she had screamed her mother’s
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