When I were young and in my prime,
as lazy as can be,
I stepped on board a Mersey Flatter number 23.
BAMALAM Productions proudly presents Scuttled,
Episode 3 in association with the Museum of London
Archaeology and the Arts and Humanities Research
Council.
Directed by James Steventon.
Written by Ian Winterton.
With Neil Bell,
Isabel Haig,
Janine Lanick,
Katie Moore,
and Paul Rigby.
Produced by Kelly Griffiths,
James Steventon,
and Ian Winterton.
Becca might not have run off that night after the
fire,
but we lost her all the same.
But she stayed with us.
We let her go to school.
And she disappeared into them books.
I found her weeping once.
Full of sorrow.
I asked her,
What's wrong,
my girl?
What's amiss?
And she tells me,
You stay here,
Vi.
She's dead.
A woman from a flaming book.
But that was her way.
Every night after supper,
even in colder winters sometimes,
she'd go up,
sit on the hatchboards by herself and read.
For years that was her way.
Exchanging scarcely a word with us mortals,
she lived in her head.
In them stories.
And that's where she was that night.
Early autumn,
September of 1877.
Aye.
Moored up hundreds of yards down from the
footbridge at Ludenden.
Becca had just turned 18.
And she was out there as she always was.
On the hatchboards.
A drop of brandy to warm her bones.
And then she sits there,
for hours,
reading.
Our Paul's out.
Alehouse with your uncle.
Fifteen year old,
Paul is.
Too young,
I reckon.
But it won't be her you're interested in.
Was a certain young landlord's daughter.
And Harry,
ever since he got burnt in the fire,
he took to drink more than ever to take his mind
off how he looked now.
Half his face scarred,
poor man.
And we're in the cabin.
Just the two of us.
In bed together.
But not sleeping.
A rare enough occurrence,
that.
I love you,
Eliza Ashworth.
And I love you and all.
Oh.
What the hell was that?
Sounded like-Ma'am!
Dad!
Come quick!
A woman's falling!
Call!
Becca!
Pass us that mooring pole!
Help!
Come give me a hand,
girl!
There he is!
Here!
Grab on to the pole!
I landed him on the towpath like a giant fish.
And he lays there gulping for air like one and
all.
Looked in his thirties.
Skinny,
like a rake.
Losing his hair up top.
And from the cut of his clothes,
he's higher up the pecking order than us.
Who went?
Not too far above,
though.
I took him maybe for a clerk.
Which wasn't too far off,
as it turned out.
You got him?
Aye!
I'm bringing the brandy.
It were a woman.
Eh?
It were a woman.
Did the woman scream?
Hey,
you!
Were there a lass with you?
Sir?
Were you alone?
Is there a woman in there?
No.
I was by myself.
But-Must have been the gentleman here.
He ain't exactly the most manlier man,
is he?
I suppose.
How come you fall off bridge?
I don't know.
But the wall on it,
it don't make sense.
Did you jump?
Let the poor man be,
Becker.
Brandy,
sir.
Thank you.
Not the best,
is it?
Burns more when it warms.
Here.
Up you get.
Let us get you up onto the bar to dry off by
the stove.
That won't be necessary.
I live nearby.
Thank you.
Don't be so daft.
Come back.
He looks like he knows what he's doing.
Damn fool,
he'll catch his death.
Now we can do.
Come,
back to the boat.
Uncle Harry and our Paul will be here soon.
Aye.
Becker,
come on now.
It was a woman I heard,
I swear.
She was right,
of course.
But we weren't to know that.
Moved on at first light.
Cargo coal this time.
Sixty tons per boat.
Bound for the foundry in Rippenden.
First full load in some months.
We needed that money.
Foxglove and Primrose in dire need of maintenance.
Went into dry dock in the Rochdale basin.
Tar Betty slathering Foxglove's hull in hot pitch.
Ah,
Tar Betty.
For as long as anyone can remember,
she'd cook the tar for all the boats this side of
Manchester.
Was from her I heard the news,
as I'm bringing her out a cup of char.
Thank you,
Grand.
You heard her.
Lass.
Dead.
Fetched her out at Cutter bridge near Ludenden.
Ludenden?
Poor girl.
Tangled in weeds.
Hellfast.
You know how it can be.
Barges passing through.
Lot brought her to surface.
She'd been in there a while,
they reckon.
Weeks.
They don't know how many.
But we had a pretty good idea.
Three weeks.
That's how long it had been since that night on
the bridge.
I went straight to Becca,
who was darning clothes on Wharfside.
Told her that she'd been right.
She did hear a woman scream.
Ma'am,
we've got to go fetch a constable.
You and Harry weren't too keen,
as I recall.
With good reason.
No friend of us,
canal folk,
the police.
She's gone to the bloody peelers.
She had to.
Liza,
you should have come to me first.
Talked it through.
Oh.
There was nowt to talk through.
That skinny chap we fished out of the court,
there was a woman went in with him.
So why,
eh?
Why didn't he let on?
And why'd he run off like that?
Cos he pushed her in.
Drowned her.
It's murder,
Thomas.
Murder.
Murder,
aye.
And how long do you think it'll be before they
fix it on me or Tommy here?
Or even your Paul?
Don't talk soft,
Harry.
He ain't talking soft,
Liza.
And you know it.
Aye,
I knew it.
The law says.
You serve the people and most people.
Are they lighting out better than blaming everything
on navvies and barges?
You mark my words,
Liza Ashworth.
One of us will hang for this.
Oh,
afternoon there,
ladies.
How can I help?
It's about the woman what was found.
In the canal at Luddingdon?
Oh,
aye.
The suicide.
That's just it,
Sergeant.
It wasn't no suicide.
Desk Sergeant's having none of it.
But he takes a statement anyway.
Says he'll pass it on to his superiors.
We leave wondering if he'll even bother.
But he did that,
at least.
Because,
before the sun's even up,
there's someone on our deck,
wrapping his knuckles against our cabin door.
Tall bloke.
All smart in his best police uniform.
Stripes,
bright eyes.
Light white on his shoulders.
And his buttons gleaming.
More like a damn vicar than a policeman.
Who are you?
What's going on?
Good morning,
sir.
No need for any alarm.
I'm Superintendent Richard Pickering of the Rochdale
Police.
Apologies for my calling so early.
But I know you canal folk like to get underway at
break of day.
Aye.
Not today,
though.
Boats in for repairs.
Ah.
That is propitious.
Aye?
Fortunate,
I mean.
That you'll be here another day.
Is it,
aye?
You wish.
You want our Becker,
right?
If Becker is one Rebecca Elizabeth Ashworth,
aged 18,
resident to this very boat,
then yes,
sir,
I do.
And,
indeed,
your good self.
And your wife.
Pickering got us to tell all we could remember
about the skinny fella.
His appearance,
his clothes,
the way he spoke,
what class of gentleman we thought he was.
But it was Becker's account she spent longest on.
Those few moments after she heard a word about
him.
Women scream and fall in the cut.
So,
you're certain you heard a woman scream?
I am,
sir,
yes.
And the splash?
You've grown up on this boat,
I suppose?
Not wrong with that.
She's had plenty of schooling and all.
That is evident.
Your daughter is a bright,
intelligent and educated young woman.
All I mean to ascertain is that,
having lived on the canal since birth,
she's heard people fall or jump into the canal
many times before.
Yes.
Jumped in a few times myself.
Good.
So,
cast your mind back to the night in question.
The splash you heard.
It was big.
Like two folk falling together.
And yet,
only one of them emerged.
The skinny man.
Before Dad got him out,
he was thrashing about so awful.
We just assumed he couldn't swim.
I heard her.
Not the scream as she fell.
But after.
When she were in the water.
I shouted for Mum and Dad.
Mum!
Dad!
Come quick!
A woman's fallen in the canal!
I can hear it now.
It was a big splash.
And yet,
only one of them emerged.
The skinny man.
Before Dad got him out,
he was thrashing about so awful.
We assumed he couldn't swim.
I heard her.
Not the scream as she fell.
But after.
When she were in the water.
She were in the water.
I shouted for Mum and Dad.
I can hear it now.
They were drowning her.
Armed with what our Becker had told him,
Superintendent Pickering set off,
determined to find out who the poor girl in the
canal was and to bring that skinny chap in for
questioning.
Hello?
Good morning,
madam.
Apologies,
but I'm conducting inquiries into the death of a
young woman in the area.
Is your husband home?
No,
he ain't.
This about that drowned lass?
It is.
Madam?
They say Lottie Bew's fella ain't seen her in a
while.
Lottie Bew?
Though that ain't exactly unusual from what I hear.
You mean she,
apologies for my indelicacy,
but you mean she is a woman of low morals?
No,
but her husband,
Peter Bew,
he is.
Ask anyone.
Us wives,
any road.
He'll have done her in.
You'll see.
Pickering did ask around and all he heard from the
womenfolk,
the men not having the first clue about any of
it,
was how Peter Bew had a temper and was handy with
his fists.
Poor old Lottie Bew.
Oftentimes folk would see her with a split lip or
a black eye,
and when it got really bad,
she fled the house till his rage had subsided.
Days at a time,
on occasion,
sleeping out under the stars if the weather were
fair,
or booking a night at an inn if it weren't.
Peter Bew,
open up in the name of the law.
Peter Bew!
We have officers outside the building.
All right,
all right.
It's open,
it's open.
Superintendent Pickering and his constables find
Peter Bew lying on the floor,
drunk,
his hand curled around a jar of cheap grog,
snarling at them.
Only problem is,
he has a full head of hair and he's maybe the
fattest man alive.
And he says, 'The dead lass.
It's her,
innit?' They drag him down the mortuary.
Lord knows what the body was like by then.
Two weeks in the cut and laying out on the slab
for days after.
But Bew,
he said it was her,
sobbed,
sobbed like a babe when he saw her.
Left the police station right after and crawled
inside the nearest whisky bottle and never came
out.
A week later he was dead.
Beaten to death while drunk,
found in a back alley.
We'll never know why for sure,
but plenty folk in Ludenden took it on that he
killed his wife.
Didn't help that half the peelers were of that
mind too.
Except Pickering.
Now he knew Lottie Bew's name.
He kept on knocking on doors,
asking questions,
piecing together her movements on her last day
alive.
Week later we're at Ludenden,
not far from the bridge where Lottie Bew was
drowned.
I'm hammering in a mooring pin,
our Paul,
our Becker holding the boat in place by the bank
with the ropes.
Paul,
tie it on.
Dad?
Good evening,
Mr Ashworth.
And I know right away from his face.
You found him?
Might I buy you a pint of beer,
Mr Ashworth?
She was here.
This very establishment.
Mrs Lottie Bew.
That night.
Paul,
me lad,
me brother Harry,
they were here and all.
Paul's sweet,
you see,
on the young lass serving drinks.
A pretty young maid.
Katie,
the landlord's daughter.
I see,
well,
your son,
your brother,
they can perhaps be added to the extensive list of
witnesses who saw Lottie Bew in here that night,
sat alone in the corner,
eating a bowl of soup,
and a man who came and sat with her.
Uninvited,
by all accounts.
His advances?
Unwanted.
A skinny man,
between 30 and 40 years of age,
balding,
a man many recognised as passing through the
village once a month.
A Mr Jonathan Roberts.
Rent collector for one of Rochdale's biggest
landlords.
And on the night in question,
Mr Ashworth,
he was seen leaving this public house just moments
after Lottie Bew.
He followed her,
tried to have his way with her.
That is my working supposition.
Mr.
Ashworth,
I've asked you here because I know you have good
cause to mistrust the police,
and that the sooner you get your cargo to its
destination,
the sooner you get paid.
But,
I need you.
And your family.
To look at this Mr.
Roberts,
then tell me if he's the man you pulled from the
canal.
You have him?
Tomorrow,
I'll arrest him at his place of work,
in Rochdale.
Travelling there by train,
first thing.
And I'd like you,
Mrs.
Ashworth and Rebecca,
to accompany me.
By train?
Sorry,
no.
But Mr.
Ashworth-No,
our cargo.
Like you said,
the sooner we deliver,
the sooner we get paid.
That comes first,
always.
So,
no train.
You couldn’t tell him the truth,
of course.
That trains frighten you.
I never even told you that.
You didn’t have to,
Thomas Ashworth.
You’re sure he’s your man?
This rent collector?
It all seems to fit.
Then he can stew in your cell and wait for us.
And wait he did.
A clear week before we got back to Rochdale.
Went to the station at night.
We weren’t going to waste any daylight on him.
Forward,
Roberts.
He stands there,
hands lightly gripping the bars,
staring out at us.
And he’s smiling,
like he hasn’t a care in the world.
And our Becca,
brave as you like,
strides right up to him,
studies his face.
It’s him.
Yeah,
it were him all right.
Not a shadow of a doubt.
No doubt at all.
But he didn't seem to see me,
or you.
Only our Becca.
He stares at her,
still smiling,
unblinking,
leering,
drinking her in.
Our Bonnie daughter.
And she,
for her credit,
holds his gaze.
For as long as she can bear,
at least.
Mum,
Dad,
let's go.
Come on,
love.
Becca hurries out,
looking close to tears and you go after her.
Me turning to follow.
I shoot a look back at Roberts.
He nods at me,
like he was any polite gentleman you might see in
the street.
That's when I knew.
He'll walk.
Course he will.
Gentle like him ain't gonna hang off the word of
one of us.
We don't know that,
Harry.
Why take the risk?
There's still time for them to figure out something
you ain't done.
Don't talk daft.
We'll be out of pocket and all.
Day off of work,
at least.
Dad,
a woman is dead.
And we all saw the man has likely killed her.
So we go to court.
Do our duty.
As a family.
Course we will.
Won't we,
Thomas?
Yes.
Proud of Becca I was.
I'm shamed of myself,
truth be told.
Listening to Harry's nonsense.
Except,
of course,
it weren't all nonsense.
Your face next day when Pickering tells you where
the child was being held.
County Sessions House.
Liverpool.
And only way to get there was the bloody train.
This is us.
Liverpool train.
Carriage D.
Come on,
Tom.
I'm coming.
Where's our Becca gone?
Becca!
You're too busy summoning up the courage to board
the train so you don't see her.
Becca,
a ways down the platform.
There's the crowd of folk gathered to see off
their loved ones.
And she's waving at one of them.
There's a wave back.
A young man.
Handsome.
Blonde-haired.
And I know straight away it's Matthew.
Workhouse boy.
Back from London.
I don't say out to you,
of course.
Aside from the trial hanging over us,
there's the fact that you go green as soon as the
train pulls out of the station.
You ain't gonna be sick,
are you?
Oh,
just be quiet,
woman.
Please.
Becca,
of course,
was entranced.
Oh,
my goodness.
The field slipping by so quickly.
I feel giddy.
How fast do you suppose we're travelling?
Twenty-five miles per hour,
I heard.
Ain't natural.
Oh,
Dad.
It was happiest we'd seen her in years.
Strange to think that happy memory coming off the
back of something so grim.
Of course,
what I'd seen on the platform,
where she'd waved at that Matthew,
I had a good idea why she was in high spirits.
Young,
on a train,
and in love.
Journey back,
she wasn't so full of joy.
No.
We weren't prepared for how many folk could turn
out to watch the trial.
Oh,
my giddy aunt.
Superintendent.
Mrs.
Ashworth.
Miss Rebecca.
I trust you had a good journey.
What's everyone doing here?
It's a murder trial,
my child.
I can't do it.
What's that?
I can't speak.
Not in front of all these people.
Dad.
She clung onto me,
like she used to as a little girl.
And I hugged her tight.
Hey,
hey,
hey.
It was the last time I ever did.
This bunch of gopers.
Ignore them and speak the truth.
What you saw,
what you heard.
Do it for her.
That young woman,
he drowned,
who wasn't much different from us.
Lottie Bew.
Yes,
Lottie Bew.
Think of it like one of your stories,
and you,
you,
Becca,
you're the what's-it,
hero.
The heroine,
Dad.
Aye,
the heroine.
Here's the magistrate.
Bring in the accused.
Roberts looks the same as he had down in the
cells.
Smiling.
Eyes sparkling like he was cleverer than everyone
else.
And it were that,
more than how else,
that made our Becca determined to play her part.
To get justice for Lottie Bew.
But the barrister for the defence,
a preening,
self-regarding peacock of a man,
dressed in a suit that had cost ordinary folk a
year's wage.
Mr Enoch Oakeshott his name was.
And he had other ideas.
Superintendent Pickering laid out his case,
reading statements or calling forward folk who'd
seen Roberts harassing Lottie in the alehouse,
or seen him follow her out.
All through it,
Oakeshott brings it back to one unfortunate but
indisputable fact.
No one saw any murder taking place.
And that,
of course,
brought us to Becca.
Sole witness.
It was him who stands there now.
He were the man my father pulled from the canal.
The canal?
The canal,
aye.
Canal.
And you saw him fall into the canal,
yes?
From the bridge?
I didn't see him.
No,
I heard the splash.
And the cry afore it.
Only it weren't him who screamed.
It were a woman.
So you contend?
It were a woman.
Tell me,
Miss Ashworth,
what were you doing sat up on deck that night?
Reading.
Reading?
Your Bible,
I assume?
No.
Though I read the good book often enough.
Our reading of Charles Dickens is Great
Expectations.
Reading outside?
Tis my habit at the end of most days.
Your habit?
On the night in question,
it was cold,
was it not?
I had my shawl around me.
And we don't feel cold like you city folk.
No.
No,
you don't.
Because you,
you have other ways of warming yourself.
A totter of whiskey,
or gin,
or mayhap some strong spirit concocted in an
illegal still.
You are under oath,
Miss Ashworth.
And it were then he got her.
She told the truth.
I had a glass of brandy with me,
aye.
It's no crime.
It's no crime,
no.
Though I would posit that for a girl as young as
yourself to be nightly imbibing brandy,
it speaks to negligent parenting.
It were just one glass; two for several hours.
Oh,
Miss Ashworth.
One glass of brandy.
Are we really to believe that?
Well,
I for one do not.
And I would wager I am not alone.
Who here believes her?
You see,
Miss Ashworth,
everyone here,
they've seen too often with their own eyes the
drunkenness of the Irish navigator or waterway
gypsies such as yourself.
That's no more case than with other people.
And for you to claim you drank just one glass of
brandy,
well,
to me that seems so implausible,
so obviously a fabrication that one can only come
to the conclusion that in fact the counter is
true.
You had the bottle with you,
did you not?
No,
sir.
And you topped it up throughout the evening.
That ain't true.
You're just sprouting lies.
Suppositions,
Miss Ashworth.
Reasonable suppositions.
But,
but.
She just couldn't take no more.
Broke down in the dock quietly sobbing.
What could I do but run to her?
That weren't the problem.
I was.
Shame on you.
She's just a lass trying to do right by a
murdered girl.
Shame on you.
Sit back down,
Mr.
Ashworth.
I shan't,
till he apologises.
Mr.
Ashworth,
while we have you,
I'd like to ask you a question.
On the night in question,
while your daughter was reading and your
fifteen-year-old son was at the alehouse with his
uncle,
a known drunk,
were you and your wife,
perchance,
also drinking?
No,
but,
well,
maybe.
Yeah,
we'd had a couple of ales.
Oh,
only a couple.
You,
Mr.
Ashworth,
and your wife,
you were laying in a drunken slumber,
were you not?
You,
most nights.
Bloody lies!
Come here and say that,
and knock your bastard head off.
Sergeant,
remove Mr.
Ashworth from my courthouse.
That was that.
Now we said,
from then on,
counted for out.
And Jonathan Roberts,
he was found not guilty,
walked away a free man,
just like Uncle Harry said he would.
And on Robert's face,
as he shakes Mr.
Oakeshott's plump hand,
that same smile as we saw in the cells,
arrogant,
laughing at us.
He's getting away with murder,
and he don't care who knows it.
And Becca,
that day in court made her mind up.
Last train of the day,
and he's waiting for her on the platform,
Matthew.
And Becca,
she ain't hiding him from us no more.
Mam,
Dad,
remember Matthew?
From the fire?
Aye,
I do.
We owe you the life of our Paul.
He's grown to be a credit to you,
I hear.
Engaged to be wed.
To his Katie,
aye.
You ran off to London?
I did,
sir,
yes.
And you're back up here now?
Not permanent,
no,
sir.
What's with her,
sir?
He's come for me,
Dad.
Has been on and off for a year now.
I have a steady job,
Mr.
Ashworth,
sir.
Clerk for a shipping company,
West India Docks.
We're getting married.
Married?
If you,
that is,
grant us permission.
We're getting married.
And then I'm going with Matthew.
To London?
No,
to New York City.
America?
Oh,
Lord.
We have passage booked.
We're going,
whether you give us your blessing or no.
I do.
My blessing.
You have it.
Oh,
Daddy.
I love you.
What else could I do?
Should have run away,
otherwise.
And we got to have the wedding.
Same church as me and thee.
Had one last week.
Ain't the same,
though.
Damn him.
That Matthew.
He's made our Becca happier than we ever could.
A schoolteacher in New York City,
and mother to four children.
weren't for her the canary,
And Matthew.
He saved our Paul from the fire.
Let him grow.
Become a man.
Marry his Katie,
and have the twins.
The twins.
The flaming twins.
Iris and Daisy.
You have been listening to Scuttled.
Episode 3.
Directed by James Steventon.
Starring Christopher Eccleston,
Joyce Branagh,
Becky Kershaw,
Kimberly Cochran,
Jonathan Carley,
Adam Grayson,
Stephen Hillman,
Annie Connell Welsh,
and James Steventon.
Featuring Isabella Arrowsmith,
Bailey Cockcroft,
Katie Rowan.
Elliot Winterton.
And the little voices of St Edward's Primary
School,
Rochdale.
Title music by Jennifer Reid.
With archaeological consultancy from Kelly Griffiths.
Based on archaeological excavations in Rochdale,
England.