Death and the Chevalier

by Robin Blake

  ‘Good day, Cragg. Clever sermon from the vicar, I thought. Should put the fear of God into anyone thinking of throwing in their lot with the rebels. By the way, I have written to you, in which connection I’ll expect you tomorrow in the morning. It is a matter that bears on your recent inquest. Yes, my dear?’

  Lady Derby had come to his side and was plucking his elbow. She drew him away.

  I found his lordship’s letter on the hall table when I returned from church. It had been written the previous day.

  Cragg, he wrote, from reports I have heard it seems you suspect who killed and beheaded those two Highlanders. I will not write his name, but the fellow’s lawyer has been bothering me. Will you come to Patten House on Monday to talk the matter over? The lawyer has new evidence for you. Derby.

  The next morning, then, as the many clocks in Patten House were chiming nine, I sat outside the Lord Lieutenant’s business room. Through the door I heard voices raised in argument, and when at last the door opened, half a dozen men from the Corporation of Preston filed out. Each of them gave me a grim glance as he passed.

  ‘Those are not happy fellows,’ said Lord Derby as I went in. ‘They are frightened and want me to bring the militia here and summon a regiment of dragoons. Well, the militia is useless – not enough officers and a paltry ragbag of men. And how in God’s name am I to procure a cavalry troop? I told the Corporation I had more to think about than Preston. The whole of Lancashire is at the mercy of the Pretender now.’

  ‘There are others who say we are better off undefended, my lord. They mind what happened last time there was fighting here, when the town suffered so grievously.’

  ‘Well, if it should come to a serious fight, open ground is always better from a civilian point of view. Ah! Rudgewick! Please join us.’

  Richard Rudgewick, who had appeared at the door, slid into the room. He was one of those small dapper men who thought themselves devilishly alluring but who, in fact, had very little charm and a good deal of self-importance.

  ‘Perhaps you know that Mr Rudgewick is the legal representative of James Barrowclough,’ Lord Derby said. ‘He brings word from Barrowclough Hall. Say your piece, Rudgewick, and be quick about it. I am extremely busy.’

  Rudgewick cleared his throat and addressed me directly.

  ‘Before I impart the important information entrusted to me by Mr James Barrowclough, I have something on my own account to say to Mr Cragg. Mr Barrowclough considers your handling of Saturday’s inquest to be an outrage, sir. Your examination of him was tantamount to an accusation of murder and he is minded to bring an action.’

  ‘He has no grounds,’ I said. ‘It was our duty to examine the facts as best we could. The hearing dealt only with those facts. And they did not in the end lead us to name any killer or killers.’

  ‘We are concerned not with the facts but with your words. Your accusations of murder.’

  ‘Accusations? Suggestions at most, I would say, made in the normal course of questioning. That is entirely proper. And by the way, I am and was not even certain it can be called a murder, and nor were the jury.’

  ‘Come, come, gentlemen,’ interrupted Lord Derby. ‘The substantive business, if you please. Mr Rudgewick, you told me your client has new evidence of interest to the Coroner, and to me. Well, we are here. What is it?’

  ‘Very well, my lord. It is a letter come into the hands of Mr Barrowclough which is addressed to friends of the Pretender in this county. Mr Barrowclough believes it was carried by the two deceased rebels. The letter asks for help both in funds and in volunteers to the rebel army. This letter is in short a gross incitement to sedition.’

  ‘Who signed it?’

  ‘The pretended prince, my lord.’

  ‘And which friends are addressed?’

  ‘It is not specific as to names. It is a general letter.’

  Lord Derby extended his hand and snapped the fingers.

  ‘Show me the letter.’

  ‘I don’t have it, my lord. Mr Barrowclough keeps it at home, for safety.’

  Lord Derby’s features clouded in displeasure.

  ‘That is unfortunate. And you have not even a copy of it?’

  ‘No, my lord.’

  He considered for a moment, then said, ‘Oh God. I had better go and see Barrowclough myself. It is a great bother as I have very much business in hand, but I want to see this letter with my own eyes. Be so kind as to send to him, Rudgewick, and tell him I will wait on him in the morning at nine. Cragg, you had better come with me, as this touches on your inquest. Be so good as to come here at eight, and we shall ride together. That concludes our business for now. Good day, gentlemen.’

  James Barrowclough received us in the stone-flagged great hall of the old mansion in which he lived with his (at present) absent father. Towards the Lord Lieutenant, Mr Barrowclough cringed deferentially; of me, he took as little notice as possible.

  Our host and the Earl exchanged small talk while a handsome pair of twin footmen (I assumed twins as they looked extraordinarily alike with vivid ginger hair) brought in refreshment. His lordship, as soon as the footmen left us, pressed on directly to the point.

  ‘I am here to look over the letter that Mr Rudgewick has told me about. The one that came into your hands purporting to be from the rebel camp.’ He gave Barrowclough a transfixing look. ‘The one that sought contributions of money and men.’

  Barrowclough met his lordship’s gaze for a moment, then wilted and looked away. He lifted his arms from his sides in a gesture of haplessness.

  ‘It is gone, my lord. I deeply regret. It is destroyed.’

  ‘Destroyed?’

  Barrowclough now waved towards the great stone fireplace, where a heap of logs blazed.

  ‘It is burned. In that fireplace.’

  Lord Derby was momentarily lost for words. He swung around and stared at the flames in an accusatory way.

  ‘You had better explain yourself, man,’ he said, his eyes now more raptorial than ever. ‘From what I have heard, that letter is of considerable importance to the state. How did it come to be burned?’

  A pair of oak settles faced each other in front of the fireplace, with a low table between them. Barrowclough gestured at this table.

  ‘The letter was here, you see. I had been reading it and laid it down as I was obliged to ease nature, and so went outside. A gust of wind from the open door must have blown the letter into the fire. When I returned, the last of it was being consumed in flame.’

  Lord Derby sat down on one of the settles and gestured to us that we both sit with him. His face looked pained, with an edge of anger.

  ‘And you have made no copy?’

  ‘I regret, my lord.’

  Lord Derby was agitated in a way rarely seen in him.

  ‘By God,’ he said, ‘that is damned careless, Barrowclough. That is damned … So I have come all the way out here on a fool’s errand!’

  He flexed his fingers, making and unmaking a fist. His jaw tightened. For a full quarter of a minute he said nothing, appearing to be attending only to the crackling of the fire. Then, mastering himself, he sighed.

  ‘Very well, there is nothing to be done. You had better tell me how and when you got this letter.’

  ‘It was on Sunday, my lord. It had been delivered during the night. No one saw the person. It was pushed under the front door and found by my man when he came in the morning.’

  ‘Do you mean Abel Grant?’ I put in.

  ‘Yes, of course I mean Abel Grant,’ he said testily, and without looking at me. ‘Anyway, my lord, the people who had killed the two rebels must have recovered the letter from one of their pockets, or a bag, and thought fit to deliver it to me, as local magistrate, since it was clearly seditious.’

  ‘Was there any indication who it was addressed to?’

  ‘No. The letter was headed something like “to all English men and women who would rejoice at the restoration of the true monarchy under King James III”, or some
such treasonable twaddle.’

  ‘And how was it signed?’

  ‘It was signed Charles Edward by the Grace of God … I am sorry, my lord. I can hardly say the hateful words.’

  ‘By the Grace of God what?’

  ‘Regent of Scotland and Prince of Wales.’

  Derby smiled tightly.

  ‘So that is how he styles himself. He has nerve, I’ll say that. So tell me what you can of the letter’s substance.’

  ‘He announces in the most pompous terms that he has come to restore his house to the crowns of Scotland and England. He then asks for all who love his cause to rally to his standard with men, horses, arms and money. These men who died were carrying this wicked message all around the county. What happened to them – well, I myself had nothing to do with it, but they deserved to die, so I do think.’

  ‘They suffered a hideous cruelty, nevertheless,’ I said.

  Now, for the first time, Barrowclough turned to me.

  ‘Look here, Cragg: “An evil man seeketh rebellion: therefore, a cruel messenger shall be sent against him.” Will you cast doubt on the Proverbs of the Lord? And will you allow evil to prosper?’

  ‘Much as you may prefer it, we do not live in biblical times, Barrowclough,’ said Lord Derby. ‘However, it is not the manner of these deaths I regret so much as the missed opportunity. Those men should have been taken up and brought to me for questioning. Valuable information has been lost about the Pretender’s intentions and the strength and morale of his army, and so on. We know little enough about all that, and this whole business has been a pitiful train of carelessness and waste.’

  He stood up.

  ‘Well, I can see nothing useful about prolonging this conference. I must get back now. Much to do. Good day, Barrowclough.’

  The Lord Lieutenant strode towards the door and I followed him.

  ‘Cragg,’ said Lord Derby as we rode through the gate and out on to the rutted road, ‘your horse is such a dawdle; I must leave you to wend your way alone. I have a heap of work to attend to.’

  He applied his spurs and the horse leapt into a trot and then a canter as the Lord Lieutenant hurried on his way back to Preston. As for Jones and me, we continued on at the old horse’s desultory pace.

  After leaving Jones at the stable, I was crossing Market Place when I saw a fellow standing on the steps of the monument. A small crowd had gathered to hear him rant against the Highlanders.

  ‘Barbarous, they are, both in their clothes and language, believe me. And also in their way of fighting. They like to hack at you with a bloody big sword they call a claymore before they close with you and take you on hand to hand using a stabbing knife they call a dirk. Their joy in slaughter knows no bounds, my friends, and likewise their appetite for rape and eating human flesh. And now they come. They come. And all they seek is to destroy us and ruin our just society and agreeable customs, all because we love decorum, speak civilized English and wear coats and breeches.’

  Listening to this rant, I was reminded of Michael Montaigne who laughs at those that think everything abroad is barbarous, while all at home is done perfectly. It is in the essay on cannibals. This suspicion of foreigners and their habits was called by the Greeks ‘misoxeny’, which is a rare word in English. Only recently I had maintained to Fidelis that those who manage their justice without a jury are barbarians. Am I then a misoxenist? In the evening I asked the question of Elizabeth and she said not, unless it counts that she had many times heard me cursing the barbarous people of Wigan.

  The events in that time – exciting to some, dreadful for others – have a way of crowding together in the memory, so that what happened seems to have occurred higgledy-piggledy, as in a dream. Reference to my other, more orderly memory – I mean my journal – allows me to put them in order.

  Wednesday November the Twentieth.

  The thermometer shows the weather colder. No news of the rebels.

  I found Matty in tears while using the smoothing iron. She is afraid of the Highlanders.

  Hector is walking without tottering now & claps his hands. He points to all sorts of objects & gives them names, but only approximations of their real names.

  I delivered my inquest report to His Lp this morning & found Patten House in a fluster. He is locking up & will remove himself and his family to London. I asked does he advise that I take my own family out of Preston & he said, ‘I will not counsel you either way. But it is an important consideration that it is I not you that is Lancashire’s Lord Lieutenant.’

  Later I discussed this question with Elizabeth. We agree it is no good to go on the roads when times are uncertain, the weather is cold and wet, & the only horse on hand is Jones. We shall face what comes.

  Thursday November the Twenty-first.

  The rebels are still at Carlisle. News has come from there saying they forage the farms thereabouts & tax the merchants, but do not move. The Prince holds daily council & supervises manoeuvres.

  It sleeted today & little more happened except business. Many are reviewing their wills & we are plagued at the office by requests from anxious clients to have their title deeds & other muniments back, that they might make sure they are safe.

  Others are filling their storerooms with food and fuel. I have scoured the town for sea coals & firewood. Supplies are scant & prices increased by three times. Elizabeth has already secured a large ham, a shoulder of pork for pickling, much salt, butter & flour, & plentiful turnips & potatoes. She is a rare housewife. At night we kissed each other, & so on. Her love is my delight, & my comfort. & mine hers, I hope.

  Friday November the Twenty-second.

  In the afternoon a rider came from Kendal, less than fifty miles to the south of Carlisle. The Mayor questioned him & it is proclaimed that nothing of the rebel army has yet been seen at Kendal. At Preston the town-talk is all, what to do? The people watch each other like spies, trying to discover inner intention from outer action. The excitement of all the Jacobites here is palpable & the fear in the others ditto.

  Saturday November the Twenty-third.

  A clergyman travelling out of Lancaster reports that word has come there from the north of the rebels being on the move. Some Prestonians that swore they would never flee to the country are now preparing to sheer off. Others who swore they would quit the town are still here. I am reminded of the time I watched a beheaded chicken running hither & thither.

  Sunday November the Twenty-fourth.

  Scotch outriders have been seen in the roads between Penrith & Kendal. The main body must be in Penrith itself. The town-talk is all disputes between our Jacobites and the rest.

  Monday November the Twenty-fifth.

  We have word that the rebels are marching fast & are in Kendal. There is a report confirming that the Prince does not ride but walks at the head of the army. No one doubts now that we must expect them here in Preston within the week.

  I had a conference early with Furzey. We picked out the most important documents in our keeping at the office, & locked them in a strongbox, but now I don’t know what to do with the strongbox.

  Later, I drank with Luke Fidelis at the Turk’s Head. We spoke of my day’s work as follows:

  LUKE: You have brought everything of large value together & put it into one box?

  ME: We have. So if the office were looted or burned, we would not lose anything irreplaceable.

  L: It is a mistake, Titus. If you concentrate all your valuables in one place, you can easily lose all. If you scatter them, you will probably miss only a few.

  M: I don’t want to miss any.

  L: What are these valuables?

  M: Title deeds, marriage contracts, deeds of entailment, old charters.

  L: But if the rebels come here, they’ll only want ready money & valuables. They will find your box &, naturally thinking it contains money & jewels, what will they do?

  M: Force it open?

  L: Of course, & finding no money or jewels they will be enraged & likely destro
y the lot.

  M: Then I shall not let them find the box. Those papers have enormous value.

  L: To a looting Highlander they will be good for nothing but fire-lighting & wiping their bottoms.

  Fidelis’s reasoning is not always stronger than my instinct, but this time it prevailed. I took all the papers out of the strongbox & replaced them where had been before in the cellar, much to the disgust of Furzey who prophesied ruin.

  The rebels are at Lancaster. The town-talk has turned apocalyptic. Will they be here tomorrow?

  NINE

  First thing next morning a message came that I was needed on coroner’s business at Penwortham, which lies on the southern bank of the Ribble. Glad to have employment on this anxious day, I immediately went down to the ferry, crossed to Middleforth Green and walked along the bankside path to Penwortham. It is a sizeable village with a very imposing parish church, once, I believe, a Priory church. My mission was to a house in which lived Horace Limmington, a retired gentleman of much reduced means.

  I was ushered in by a serving woman of unknowable age, with a discontented twist about her mouth.

  ‘He’s in the parlour.’

  She opened a door and I entered. It was a gloomy room with little furniture and no fire in the grate, so it was also very cold. Sitting at an oak table was a down-at-heel figure in a skull cap, shabby greatcoat and woollen gloves, reading a newspaper with the help of a single candle. I had known the man professionally, as in more prosperous days he had been a client for whom I had drawn up several contracts. He had had a considerable business in linens and cottons.

  ‘I am right glad you are here, Mr Cragg,’ he said. ‘Well, before we proceed to business, you must tell me: has His Highness arrived in Preston? Have you seen him?’

  His eyes were shining, by which I perceived that Limmington was cast from the same mould that produced William Entwhistle and the Parkinsons: a true believing Jacobite.

  ‘No, we haven’t seen him yet,’ I said. ‘We expect him hourly and hope there will be no fighting. No army approaches to oppose him, which gives hope they will occupy our town peaceably.’