A spark of recognition flared in the Beadle’s mind. The vaguest of memories stirred, and he had a moment of worry. He’d been Beadle to the parish council for twenty years. Many brats had passed through the doors of the workhouse in that time, and he’d made a tidy profit placing likely lads and girls with the right people for the nefarious trade he was involved in. It paid a good deal better than the normal fee for placing apprentices. Could this young man be one of those he’d arranged to place up river? It seemed likely. But clearly, from his dress and his appearance, he was no longer a part of it. The Beadle relaxed. “Been a tidy few brats through the work’ouse in my time. Can’t say as I remember ’im. Three, four year ago? I remember most, but I can’t place ’im.”
“’E were t’ Widder ’Owel
