The Weaver's Daughter

By Alan Addison

Life had moved on at Fordom since the death of Viscount Havington and his weaver Robert Peterson or so everyone thought. But life in Victorian Scotland had a way of coming back to haunt one and in this follow-up to The Damask Weaver, it came back in bucket loads. The Weaver’s Daughter, brings the nineteen century to life in all its wonder: some good, some not so good, and some downright evil.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Lulu.com
• Release date: Jan 31, 2023
• ISBN: 9781447862123

Book preview

CHAPTER ONE

Wednesday 29th August 1883

‘I still miss him Thomas.’

‘I know Mary.’ Thomas Havington put his arm around his wife’s shoulders. It had been ten years and they’d come here to Dalgety Bay cemetery on the anniversary of his death every year since.

Mary leaned forward and put flowers which she’d picked that morning against her father’s headstone. ‘There you are Pa, flowers from the forest of Fordom.’ She touched the gravestone as she stood upright and turned. ‘Every time I come here I am struck by the grandness of this stone. Robert Peterson was a mere weaver yet here he is, lying beneath a monumental edifice in a Kirk of Scotland graveyard.’

‘Papa insisted on the stone,’ replied Thomas.

‘I know Thomas. And now your Papa is at rest in your family chapel.’

‘It is our family chapel Mary. He wanted your father there too but your mother would have none of it. She wanted all of Dalgety to be able to pay their respects without having to ask permission from the Viscount.’

‘And now that is you my husband.’ She took his arm. ‘Viscount Masterton, shall we go to visit your Papa while it remains light?’

‘If you don’t mind Mary, I am somewhat tired this evening after our visit to see the opening of the library. What a spectacular event and what a beautiful building. I think more than half the people of Dunfermline were there.’

Thomas had been complaining for some time about tiredness, causing Mary to wonder once more about the death, through consumption, of his father. But she chose to say nothing on the subject. ‘Andrew Carnegie is an amazing man and him the son of a damask weaver.’

‘And you the daughter of one. I think we’ve your father and George Lauder to thank for that library too.’

Mary looked once more to her father’s grave. ‘He was a great man and a good weaver. I’m glad we kept the panel.’

‘The staff tell me there’s a story to that panel.’

‘Don’t you mean Cook? She’s the only one who knows it.’

Thomas laughed. ‘Mary, would you mind if we went home now?’

Mary could see how tired her husband was and had been for some time. ‘Of course not husband, poor soul, let’s get you home. After all, your Papa is not going anywhere soon.’ She put her arm through his.

#

When the large oak doors of Calton Gaol swung open, the late afternoon sun shone into Albert Spencer’s eyes. It had been nine years since he’d seen the light of day and he wasn’t sure of his footing.

‘Aye, the cobbles get them every time my lad. You’ll have to go easy when you’re looking for somewhere to kip down tonight.’ The warden threw Albert’s carpet bag onto the street. ‘You’ve Lady Hyde to thank for your release so you’d better not be causing her any more harm.’ The warden slammed the door closed. Albert heard the rusty metal bolts slam into place, causing a shiver to run the length of his spine. He looked across to Calton Hill and wondered where his future lay.

#

At almost exactly that same moment Martha Peterson was locking the door of the Fordom Museum of Weaving. It had been a busy day, made all the more so by a visit from the children of Fordom School with their new teacher Margaret. ‘A nice lass that one,’ whispered Martha to herself as she put the key in her apron pocket and turned towards the West Gatehouse.

Her mind then fixed on her son William. He wasn’t getting any younger. His wife Christine was six years dead and yet still no sign of him taking a wife.

‘Boo!’

Martha almost jumped out of her skin then looked toward the noise just as William appeared from behind a tree holding a bunch of bluebells. ‘You big galoot, you gave me the fright of my life.’

He handed her the flowers. ‘What’s for tea Ma?’

‘No point in asking me son, Annie’s cooking the tea tonight.’

‘Aw Ma, I love Annie to bits, but she couldnae cook if ye paid her a King’s ransom.’

‘We’ll have no more of that now William Peterson; our Annie tries her best.’

‘I might just take a wander up to the big house afore tea.’

‘To see Cook no doubt.’

‘No, I’ve a few things to attend to with the Viscount about his gardens. Hector Walker started with me last week and the Viscount wants to know how he is getting on with the woodcutting.’

‘And how is Major Walker getting on?’ Martha was subtly reminding her son once more of Major Hector Walker’s standing with his old Captain, the deceased Viscount and of the rumours that it was Major Walker who’d saved her son-in-law Thomas’s life whilst in London.

But William was for none of it. ‘He’s an amazing man Hector and a pleasure to work with.’

Martha turned towards the cottage. ‘Well head gardener or not, are you remembering you’ve a display of weaving to do at the museum tomorrow? That nice new schoolteacher is bringing the bairns.’

‘I am remembering. What did you say her name was?’

‘Who?’

‘The new schoolteacher.’

‘That’s for me to know son and you to find out.’

CHAPTER TWO

5th September 1884

It had taken Albert over a year to sort himself out. His first task when he was released was to stowaway on the London train from Waverley, vowing as he did so that he would never return North.

On his arrival at King’s Cross station he all but changed his mind. Worried as he was that he might be arrested for vagrancy, he was shocked to see the station full of policemen. They were searching everywhere and checking each passenger as they left the train.

Albert’s first reaction was to run in the opposite direction but knew this would be hopeless. Standing as tall and imposing as possible he headed towards the uniformed men. ‘What in Heaven’s name is going on here officer?’

‘You don’t know?’ answered the bearded constable.

‘I’ve just arrived from Edinburgh.’ He pointed to himself. Excuse my demeanour but I was set upon by some thugs at Waverley Station and they stole my clothes. I was fortunate that the left-luggage office gave me these clothes to wear.’

‘Not sure if that is fortunate or not Sir.’

‘So what is going on?’

‘Those bloody Irishmen are at it again. You must have seen the newspapers, even in Edinburgh.’

‘Oh that, yes of course.’

‘Bloody Fenians, they’ve even tried to blow up London Bridge. Anyway you’d better be on your way Sir before our search begins in earnest.’

#

Albert’s first appointment, after he’d sorted himself with clothes from his home, a home he’d not seen in years, was with the family lawyers. After taking them to task for not intervening in his arrest and sentence, he broached the subject of his older sister’s death.

The lawyers were pleased to inform him that his sister had left him an exceedingly large sum of money and a terraced house in Kensington. Both the money and the house had been left to her by her first husband, Lord Stamworth.

From his new position of wealth and status it did not take Albert long to ingratiate himself with his old colleagues from the Stock Exchange and it was not long before he was offered his old job back and began a life of quality and standing amongst those and such as those, where reputation mattered.

And that is exactly what he was thinking when on this cold September afternoon he found himself walking by the docks on Executioners Quay.

It hadn’t taken him too long to work out what had happened to his older sister and her fiancé and more importantly why. He’d merely to employ a private investigator to trace back Thomas’s steps leading up to their murders before he found the warehouseman.

As it turned out the warehouseman was not the man who’d been described to him by Iain Cockburn all those years previously, whilst he and Albert shared the floor of the London Stock Exchange. No, this warehouseman was no heavy weight, but an old man who’d obviously seen better days. He sat perched on a ship’s capstan drinking from a stone bottle and watched as Albert approached. He held out his large hand. ‘Penny for the poor kind Sir?’

‘I’ve more than a penny for you if you can tell me what it is I need to know.’

‘And what might that be?’

‘You were involved in trading opium with Algernon Hyde and others.’

The warehouseman seemed to pay no heed to the question but took a large drink from the stone bottle before answering. ‘Are you the police?’

‘I am not.’

‘Then why do you ask me such a thing?’

Albert produced a small pouch of coins from his coat pocket. ‘Because I want to give you this but that requires an answer.’

‘I may just have been involved with such people.’

‘And if you were, then you may have heard who was responsible for the deaths of my sister Lady Spencer and her fiancé Sir John Quant. They had taken over the opium business from Thomas Peterson and soon afterwards met an untimely and violent end.’

At the sound of Thomas’s name the man tried to stand and walk off but Albert took hold of his arm. ‘Was it he?’ He showed him the money pouch once more.

‘It was, but he did not do the killing.’ As he said this the older man turned to look up at the rig moored adjacent to where they stood.

Albert followed his gaze and saw the ship’s crew getting her ready to sail. ‘Now I understand.’ He handed the man the pouch.’

‘Thank you kind Sir. If that is all I will be on my way.’ He turned his back to Albert and began shuffling along the quay. That was when he felt the dull pain of Albert’s leaden cosh hit the top of his head and it was the last thing he’d ever remember.

#

‘Thomas, I am taking the coach to Edinburgh today. I am going to see our son’s school Master.’ Mary was standing by their bed looking down at her husband.

Thomas pushed his pillows hard against the bed end. ‘Do you wish me to escort you?’

‘That will not be necessary thank you my husband. I am a big girl now.’

‘That’s not what I meant. I am an alumnus of the Academy and it may prove useful.’

‘No doubt it would Thomas, that’s why it’s perhaps best you are not in attendance.’

Thomas sat upright against his pillows. ‘And why might that be, if you don’t mind my asking?’

‘Because I will be bringing our son home with me. He is done with schooling and will be given more menial tasks on our estate.’

‘He’s done with schooling! He is nothing of the sort!’ Thomas was shouting.

‘Husband I am no longer prepared to suffer the indignity of another letter from the school complaining of our son’s behaviour. He is never done fighting and that poor lad