Elizabeth Murray picked up the newspaper and frowned. The Birmingham Post had become the Birmingham Daily Post. Just another way to entice new readers and make more money, she thought with disgust.
Every day she had scoured the newsprint in the hope of seeing that Gabriel Short had been arrested, and each day she had been disappointed.
Laying the paper in her lap, Elizabeth thought back to the day she had visited the police station to report Short for thieving. She had heard nothing since. However, one good thing had come out of the whole debacle – her mother and Ann Bradshaw had become firm friends sharing afternoon tea and gossip as well as trips out to the theatre. Two lonely women drawn together by an inept charlatan.
Elizabeth stared into space as she wondered what had become of Mr Short. Was he still living in Rea Terrace? Had he in fact been apprehended and she had somehow missed the reporting of it? Maybe he had absconded with the intention of trying his luck in another town. He could, at this very moment, be duping some other poor woman out of her money and possessions.
With a small shake of her head, Elizabeth knew it would serve no purpose to revisit the police station; they would tell her nothing. She could take a little jaunt to Rea Terrace though, if only to satisfy her curiosity.
Tossing the newspaper aside she got to her feet. Dressing warmly, she set out and walked briskly to beat off the cold. One way or another I’ll see you behind bars, Gabriel Short, she thought as she stepped swiftly but carefully along the frosty streets.
Eventually coming to number twenty seven, she rapped the knocker with gusto. After a moment she banged the door with her gloved fist.
‘Can I ’elp yer?’ came a gruff voice.
Elizabeth turned to see a well-built woman leaning on the fence that separated the properties. Her straggly hair looked like it had not been brushed in an age and her teeth were turning black.
‘I hope so. I’m look for Mr Gabriel Short,’ Elizabeth answered.
‘Ain’t nobody of that name living there, me duck,’ the woman said in a friendly manner.
‘Oh, has he moved away then do you know?’
The woman shook her head. ‘Like I said, there’s no Mr Short there.’
‘But I visited him here a while ago with my mother and a friend,’ Elizabeth said, confused.
‘Ar, I remember seeing you.’ The woman nodded as she spoke.
‘Then you will surely know we met Mr Short,’ Elizabeth said, the frustration building inside her.
‘Look, missus, I can see you’m a lady which tells me you ain’t dim witted, so what part of this ain’t you understanding?’ The woman ran a sleeve beneath her nose and sniffed.
With a wince, Elizabeth said, ‘Maybe we should begin again. Can you tell me who lives here?’
‘I can that,’ the woman answered.
Waiting for more, Elizabeth pushed her head forward. ‘Well?’
‘Well, what?’
‘Well, who does live here?’
‘Mr Arthur Micklewhite. Lived there for years. After his wife passed, it was just him and the little wench,’ the neighbour said finally.
‘Little wen… girl?’
‘Ar, Arthur’s step-daughter. About twelve years old I would say, but she run off shortly after her mum died.’
‘Why?’ Elizabeth asked.
‘What am I – the Birmingham Daily bleedin’ Post?!’ the woman huffed.
‘Sorry,’ Elizabeth said, suitably chastised. ‘Is Mr Micklewhite working then?’
The woman shook her head with a laugh. ‘That lazy bugger ain’t never worked a day in his life. Lived off his wife he did. Swaggering around lording it over everybody, but that soon changed when he was on his own. Living in muck now he is.’ The woman wrinkled her nose and sniffed again.
‘I see. Well, thank you very much for your help,’ Elizabeth said and turned to walk away.
‘Hey, missus,’ called the woman and when Elizabeth faced her once more, she added, ‘He was hauled away by two big blokes t’other day, and I ain’t seen hair nor hide of him since.’ Then she held out her hand saying, ‘Nothing’s for free in this world.’
Digging in her drawstring bag, Elizabeth produced a florin and placed it in the outstretched hand. The woman nodded her thanks before biting down on the coin.
Walking away, Elizabeth’s mind whirled around the information she had gleaned from the neighbour. So, Gabriel Short was not his real name after all. It could be that Arthur Micklewhite was not genuine either. If that was the case then who was this man? Where did he hail from and where was he now?
Reaching home, Elizabeth knew she had reached a dead end. She could go no further in her quest to see that dreadful man get his just deserts. The thought was like bitter aloes to her after all she’d done to try and get him off the streets.
The only thing left to her now was to continue to read the newspapers and hope to read that Arthur, aka Gabriel Short, had been detained at Her Majesty’s pleasure in Stafford Gaol.
Whilst Elizabeth was endeavouring to track down the person she hated with a vengeance, Ezra Morton was trying to decide what should be done with the same man. Arthur Micklewhite had made a serious attempt to flee whilst owing Ezra money, and that simply couldn’t be allowed to happen. Now he was being held in a cellar not far away. The question was – how to deal with him.
Ezra knew he would never get his money; Arthur was as poor as a church mouse. The house in Rea Terrace could not be his either while Arthur still lived. However, if the man was to pass into the next life, then Ezra could take possession of the property. Should he be challenged regarding ownership, then he had the contract to prove his legal right to the building.
Taking the document from the desk drawer, Ezra read it through once more and smiled, then he gave a whistle. A moment later the door opened to admit one of his minions. Waving the paper in the air, Ezra said, ‘I have a job for you.’
Meanwhile, over at Daydream Palace, the Hodges family were working like Trojans. The bar room and kitchen were all finished and now they were whitewashing the bedrooms. In the next couple of days Dolly and her new staff would move in and the place would be open to the public.
Word of the renovations had spread rapidly around the town and folk had taken a few minutes out of their daily lives to stop and watch. Some were eager to pass on the knowledge that a new gin palace was opening up; others were disgusted and grumbled that more lives would be ruined by mother’s ruin.
Excitement in the kitchen of The Crown Saloon was building with everything they had to look forward to, from the grand opening of the new premises to Nancy and Fred’s wedding.
There was a sadness too. Dolly was moving out and it seemed like the family was splitting up, for all she would only be across the road.
Nellie voiced this thought, and Dolly responded with, ’It’s progress, Nellie. Nothing stays the same for long except our love for each other. That will remain strong for the rest of our lives.’
That night, when all were asleep and the saloon was dark and quiet, Nellie’s thoughts roamed over all that had happened since Dolly had come into their lives. An old head on young shoulders, Dolly had sorted out each problem wisely. She had taught Jack to read well and eased his discovery of Nellie not being his real mother. She’d been like a daughter to Nancy and a good friend to Poppy.
Even though Dolly would only be a few steps away she would leave a space in the saloon kitchen that could never be filled.
Nellie’s tears fell in the darkness of her bedroom. Silent and hot they trickled down her face as she prayed.
Dear Lord, take care of that young girl who I love like my own. Let her be successful in her endeavours and one day have a husband and children of her own.
Nellie buried her nose beneath the covers and the warmth helped dry her tears. She thought about all of those who had joined her family, and she thanked God for every single one of them. Closing her eyes, a smile lifted the corners of her mouth and before long she felt herself drifting into sleep.