Things happened on the moors.
And that way also meant dropping over the other side to take the old rakes used for walking the cows down from the moors and then passing through hamlets where the Hartleys had other known friends and allies; more watchful eyes to track their route.
Places like Mankinholes. Lumbutts.
Callis.
So they stuck to the safe option of the main thoroughfare, that broad rutted track that ran the horses and carts and traders through the valley, and whose pot-holes were routinely filled with shale and stone to ensure no goods got damaged and the wives of visiting money men did not have their powdered posteriors unduly troubled.
As the footpath left the trees and joined the main route they saw, dotted ahead of them, workmen. Half a dozen in all. Men with rods and spools of rope. Joseph Broadbent approached the nearest of them as he leaned idly against his length of wood. His trousers were tucked into his socks and his wool cap dotted with holes.
What’s all this?
Land survey, replied the man, who was Irish.
Land survey? said Joseph Broadbent.
That’s what I said.
Well what for?
The turnpike.
Turnpike? What bloody turnpike?
The man shrugged.
We don’t know nowt about a turnpike, said James Broadbent.
That’s not my problem, friend, said the Irishman.
Well, what do we need a bloody turnpike for?
Again the man shrugged.
Why does anyone need a turnpike? So folk can get from one place to another.
Things are reasonable as it is with the track and the trees, said Joseph Broadbent. Why should you go and change it?
Look mister, said the Irishman. I just stand here. I just hold the stick.
Well where’s it going to?
This one here?
Yes.
Up there.
The Irishman pointed up ahead towards the smoke-blackened stone buildings of Hebden Bridge peeping above the trees.
From Halifax to yonder he said.
Joseph Broadbent started coughing and kept coughing, the rasp thick and trapped in his chest. Something almost solid. When he stopped he wiped his lip.
But past there is nothing but moors, he said.
Then it’ll be nothing but moors still but with a turnpike running through it.
Joseph Broadbent shook his head and then he and his son carried on walking.
They reached the White Hart in Todmorden in two hours and when they entered William Deighton bought them ale and hot soup and squares of cold butter crust chicken pie and then they sat.
Joseph Broadbent introduced the exciseman to his son. They drank and ate and then William Deighton said well now James Broadbent your father says you are ready to talk about the Hartley gang.
Yes I am, came the reply.
So you know that you will be rewarded fully.
One hundred guineas was mentioned to me.
One hundred guineas is what I could pay you.
No less?
No less.
The boy is putting his neck on the block for you Mr. Deighton, said Joseph Broadbent.
I understand that Mr. Broadbent, though is not his neck already on the block – or in the noose – for being involved in this forgery trade?
James Broadbent shifted awkwardly in his seat and looked at his father and then in a lowered voice said: all I know is Hartley is a bastard and one hundred guineas is enough to get me away.
There are questions I’ll need you to answer.
And you can protect us?
William Deighton leaned back. Raised his eyebrows.
Of course anything you tell me will be in the strictest confidence until these men are brought to task, whereupon you will receive your reward direct from the mint of the king of England himself. But after that, your liberty is yours alone. This valley is your valley. These people are your people. Not mine.
Hartleys aren’t my people, said James Broadbent.
But you know them.
Yes.
And you work for them.
I work with them.
I’ll need to know everything you know, said William Deighton. Starting with a lot more names. The whole valley talks of this one they call the king, but no man runs something so widespread without a lot of minions.
What’s minions? said James Broadbent.
People like you. No games now. I’ll need names. A lot of names.
Joseph Broadbent coughed and then drank some ale and coughed some more.
Listen to the man, he said to his son. Do right by Mr. Deighton and he’ll do right by you.
William Deighton nodded in agreement.
A moment passed while James Broadbent stared deep into his drink. He raised his head and spoke, his voice deep and dry in his throat.
What will happen to Hartley if I yap?
When he has been brought to justice? said William Deighton.
Yes.
That man will hang.
James Broadbent nodded.
Then I’ll give you names of the whole bloody lot of them as long as Hartley hangs and I get the ribband that’s owed to me.
You’ll get yours, said William Deighton. But you can start by giving me a name. Someone close to you. Someone who clips. As a show of faith. So I know you mean what you say.
I can give you dozens of names but for now you can have John Sutcliffe.
William Deighton finished his drink and said: John Sutcliffe? I don’t know of him.
He’s my landlord, said James Broadbent. And a tighter more miserable son of a whore you could not meet.
Show me.
What?
Show me where this man lives, said William Deighton. I’ll arrest him this day.
Not bloody likely. I can’t be seen with the man who vows to hang all Coiners.
Then you go with your father now and I will follow. I will wait. And if this man has about his person or in his possession the tools of his vile trade then you signal to me and I will do the rest. I will begin to bring the whole cursed lot of you down.
Not me though, said James Broadbent.
No, said William Deighton. Not you. It’s with God that you will have to make your peace.
The nite In the nite it was It came I sor it A rat A rat like no uther rat As big as a cat it were Its clors on the flor is what wokeus The scratchin and scrapin of it An its tayle its tayle was as long an thick as a bootlays right thick it was and its wiskys were long and thick too Mynde if Ive seen wan rat ive seen twelf thousand rats and didunt we yoosed to go rattin as lads down by the brown worters of the calder or rownd the chicken sheds killen mebbes twenny or thirtee in wan go with the hounds but this rat mynde this rat were different becors this rat had the ieyes of a man I tell thee its troo The eyes of a man An tho it were dark here in the jale sell it wernt that dark becors this rat was scrattin about in me stror mattin and when I went to boot it it moved away and sat back and lucked at us with this luck on its fays and thas when I knew it were pussessd by a purson.
Thats when I knew hoo the rat really were That’s when I knew the rat were the nugget pushin yeller rat bastid son on a guffy fucker Jaymse Brordben and I did leep up and went forrit an it hissed then an I went Brordbent yoo loose tunged yeller cunt its yoo that’s gorrus done for now and I swear on the heads of my chillun there was this luck in this rats eyes an it were laffin arrus it were laffin at all of us coyners So I booted it I booted it hard So hard it hit the worl an I stamped on it I stamped on it so hard it burst open like a bludd pudding that’s boilt dry in the pan and I reecht down I reecht in and I pult with my fingus at what it was I could see in there wich was guts and strings and coils and werms An I fownd wot I recken were its hart and I took that
hart and I ate that hart an it popped in my marth Jaimse Brodbents hart popped in my marth like a goosegog and the filthee stinken lyin cowidlee blud of his ran down King Davidd’s froat an into my stomack An I sed to the rat I sed to the moon I sed to the cold dark wet stone room I sed have that yoo cunt Then I sleept the sleep of the ded and then I woke up and wrote this down with the tayst of that yeller basterds blud still on my tung an dryed into my beard an orl down my shirt fronte like the tears of tankard on a gennulmuns westcott after hes tied a long wan on But when alls sed and dun I feel in fine fissicle fettul with it an all Strange it is the things a man will do when confined down here in the dark sellars of the cassel and he is hungree lonelee and faysun the gallers desprit in his thorts and visherns Aye strange lyfe and straindge deth acummun in too I shudnt wonder.
After she had slopped out the pigs and upended a bucket of peelings and scraps that were already fermenting into an acrid puree for them to jostle over, and squatted beneath the cow and milked it and then put fresh straw and water in the byre – she noted that the beast’s teats seemed crusted and unduly red and mottled with what appeared to be tiny white welts – Grace Hartley went to the hen hut and lifted each bird in turn and carefully collected the still-warm eggs, each a small creamy mushroom-coloured miracle, some freckled, some not, and as she did one or two of the chickens ruffled their feathers or shook the fleshy wattles of their throats in agitation or curiosity but when she opened the door and scattered a fine mix of grain and dried grass and bread crumbs and tea leaves across the pen they slowly left their hut and pecked at the ground around her swollen feet with a concentrated frenzy, and then Grace Hartley took the eggs into the kitchen and placed a pan on the range and heated some butter and cracked three eggs into the bubbling liquid and then when the yolks were colouring like the evening sun she tilted the eggs to one side of the pan and then added a dash of the milk and into this she scattered some field mushrooms which she slowly poached and she cut two slices of bread and poured the eggs and mushrooms and butter on the bread and set it on the table and called to her husband who appeared in the doorway with a strange, strained look on his face that she could not read and then she boiled a kettle to mash the tea, and he sat and silently ate while steam plumed from the kettle’s spout until its whistle became a shrill shriek that he could not stand and she saw the storm clouds coming.
William Deighton gave James Broadbent and his father Joseph Broadbent time and space. He allowed them the protection of distance.
When the father and son had left he waited in the White Hart and slowly drank one more ale, careful not to take so much that his senses became dulled. He then had his horse fed and watered, and he tipped the stable boy.
The six mile clip back to Mytholmroyd would be nothing on horseback but on foot the old man would surely slow the pair down. On foot they would take two hours or more. He saw death in that man’s yellowed eyes. He wore it about himself like a broken man. It hung from him. Pushed his shoulders down. Scratched at his lungs and throat.
Precipitancy was to be avoided but haste was nevertheless important. It was something he and Robert Parker had discussed at length: the gang needed to be brought down quickly before they spread and fled, never to be seen again. Parker’s letters to and from London confirmed the crown was behind them. Treason would be the charge, William Deighton the man to deliver the many felons.
The old man was the key with which to unlock his son, who in turn knew enough to send several men to their graves. James Broadbent himself could not be trusted. James Broadbent was as bad as they come and stupid with it. James Broadbent was greedy and duplicitous and un-Godly and a liar and bully and a cheat. His playing for both teams brought a death sentence either way, as sure as the Calder flows and floods. Both he and Robert Parker knew that this was an untenable position, hence the need for alacrity and action.
William Deighton would take them on. Take them on himself. Take them on and bring them down. Bring them in. Let them swing. String them up. For all to see. He would write a message across the sky with their blood then let the crows at them. Let the gulls at them. The shrieking gulls far from the sea. Create carrion of them. Send a message. A message to the hill folk. That times were changing. The empire expanding. That men earned money not made it; that a country ran on rules. Rules for everyone. Call it society. Call it civilisation. From the crown all the way down. Rules. Laws. Restrictions. The dark days were over. New ways were coming. Big ideas. Ideas that would change the world. Call it economy. Call it industry. Call it England.
William Deighton caught them up at the far side of Hebden Bridge, and then hung back. He let the horse canter and then stroll. Let it stop from time to time. To idle in the long grass. To chew at it with its lips peeled back and oversized teeth tugging then grinding. Tugging then grinding.
He heard the old man’s cough a half mile off. He had heard that rattle before in the chest of his own father; it was a cough of death then and it was a cough of death now, each breath a grain of sand slipping through the hourglass of the old man’s smoke-wracked body. His son idled beside him; his body too big for his clothes. His head too big for his body. His hat too small for his head.
Long arms dangling.
Up ahead on the river track James Broadbent resembled, thought William Deighton, a side of pork dressed in shirt and trousers, jacket and leather clogs. He was useless for anything but might and violence. Intimidation. A bestial type, Broadbent. Animalistic really. Savage. He would get no reward for his part in all of this for he was forger, an enforcer and a savage, was Broadbent – and now you could add turncoat to the litany of his dire achievements. That was all. He served no purpose in society and never would. He contributed nothing but pain and had neither the integrity nor the true commitment to a criminal cause like Hartley. He would get nothing but a lesson in life. William Deighton hated him on principle.
When the pair stopped he stopped. Gave them a chance. Retained a distance.
Eventually they left the trees and entered the village of Mytholmroyd. He crossed the rising waters of the Calder and saw whorls of scum-foam forming there in an eddy where the river was joined by a feeder stream. The water was shallow and the colour of copper. It was moor-top run off, metallic to the taste but pure too. Often trout hung there in the shadows of the bridge, held there by the oncoming current and an occasional tail-flick. But not today. Today there were none.
William Deighton tracked them to Hall Bank Lane where he heard the old man coughing into the incline. A coffin’s cough, it was.
They reached the three-house dwelling of Hall Gate. The Sutcliffe place. James Broadbent’s lodgings. Father and son stopped. They stood by the black quoin of the terrace to confer for a moment then looked down the track to William Deighton then conferred again. He urged them on. To stick to the plan. To enter the house and then leave the house and give the signal.
At the bottom of the bank he alighted his horse and secured it.
James Broadbent entered and then providence beckoned for he returned a moment later and William Deighton saw him beckoning him on. He strode up the bank and entered the house. He stepped into a scene just like a thousand he had previously imagined during long days and listless nights. It was precisely how he had envisioned. It was a form of perfection.
John Sutcliffe was at a table, by the fire, clipping. He had shears and coins in hand. He looked at the exciseman with surprise. Broadbent feigned dismay – badly. Broadbent feigned outrage – badly.
He overplayed it but that didn’t matter now; that was on his head. William Deighton had other concerns.
John Sutcliffe set the shears aside and said Well now.
Marble. Crystal. Porcelain.
Back chairs and tripod tables. Statuettes. An ornate fireplace. Several ornate fireplaces. Furnished textiles. A pewter platter. A tea service. A decanter. Mirrors. Many mirrors reflecting James Broadbent’s eyes as they darted around the room and str
uggled to take everything in.
He saw candlestick holders rendered in the style of classical columns. A piano scattered with sheet music. He saw wood panelled walls and painted skirting boards. And the paintings. Paintings of animals. Paintings of children at play. Paintings of a family. Of a meadow. A man. Several men. Portraits in oil. Framed and hung.
He had not been in a house like that belonging to Robert Parker. Everything clean. Everything scrubbed. Dusted. White. So white. A world unimaginable, were he not witnessing it now.
That someone could have so much space to move about – to fill and occupy and stretch out in – made James Broadbent marvel. That they might never need to stoop for doorways or sleep three to a loom loft was close to beyond his understanding.
He was used to banging his head and squeezing his bulk beneath pressing lintels in dwellings built for half-blind weavers and the very poorest of charcoal-burners, but the Parker place was high-ceilinged and wide-windowed. It made him feel lost. It distorted his proportions so that his limbs felt heavy and cumbersome. It was the house of a man who had chosen the right side of the law, the side he had now crossed over to.
He did not see the King of the Craggs living in such a house.
William Deighton was there already when James Broadbent arrived, and already there were cigars circulating. And books. Books everywhere. More books than a man would ever need if he could read.
Robert Parker clapped him on the back and said: John Sutcliffe lives in York gaol but mere hours after his detention and we have you to thank for that Mr. Broadbent. And now we need another name.
James Broadbent moved his bulk from one foot to the other and found he could not look this confident solicitor in the eye.
Well now speak up, said William Deighton. Mr Parker is pleased enough to receive you into his house but our good work is just beginning.
The money, said James Broadbent, his voice thin.
There’s plenty of that to come, said Robert Parker, and then turning to William Deighton he said: it seems like this whole valley has a mania for money one way or another.
Turning back to James Broadbent he continued.
The Gallows Pole Page 11