Is it not true that these Coiners are as soft as tripe in their own ways? They must be if they can’t take care of their own grim business.
That is true, Bobbsy.
Then is it not also true that their riches could be our riches, said Robert Thomas. That is – they are there for the taking?
There are many of these Coiners to contend with, said his companion.
The men continued walking briskly into the freezing night.
Indeed there are but their leader is locked up now and they say he will swing for it. These coining men are nothing. They scrape together shavings and they melt them and stamp them and pass them on. That is all. Even then they say there is only one of them who truly knows the art of coining.
But with great success it seems, said Matthew Normanton.
With some success, yes – if you consider your new home address of York Gaol a success, as it is now of their leader. No, it is you and I who are the ones with the hearts of killers, brother. Cold blood does not bother us.
Matthew Normanton smiled into the nothingness. Robert Thomas continued.
All we need is the coins – and they are not hard to come by – and, of course, this man that has the knowledge of the fire and metal. An alchemist. They say there are a hundred Coiners or more sharing the profits of this golden venture.
Yes.
Well think on brother. All that could be ours. Yours and mine. The wealth of one hundred fools and cowards.
No more threshing corn, said Matthew Normanton.
No more threshing corn.
They let their feet guide them through the cold mud. They were quiet for a few moments and then Matthew Normanton spoke again.
Certainly this is worth some thought. But perhaps not on this long night. I am algid and weather-worn.
So too am I.
You can rest at mine – it is closer. And tomorrow we shall go and collect one hundred good milled guineas from that daft cunt Isaac Hartley.
He threw an arm around the shoulder of Robert Thomas.
A hundred golden guineas, he said again. One for every bint we’ll fuck.
At Normanton’s lodgings they made straight for his room where they peeled off stiff clothes that reeked of sweat and death and they fell into bed together, shivering naked in the night, white skin taut and touching in the eldritch winter dark, both awake under a heap of blankets, both thinking of coins – hundreds of them, thousands of them. Millions. More coins than there were sheep turds in the whole of the crooked valley. Then they slept and in their leaden slumber they dreamt of coins too.
So they say the lore man is ded As ded as moldy blue bread Deightons ded its said Blassed in the phiz with shots of led an stomped abowt the hed The nite street paynted a bluddygud red.
Part V: Winter 1769: Bubblinmeet
Robert Parker received the news at first light on the cold crisp morning from his young clerk: the exciseman William Deighton was dead. Shot twice. Once in the head.
He had been found trampled and bleeding and broken by his daughter, Susannah, and the Deighton’s house-maid Mary, his last gasp still on his lips. His final breath ascending out of sight. Much blood.
Gunned down in the street like a dog that’s gone foam-mouthed, were the young clerk’s precise words. Shot down in the cold clear night, on the slick stone, not thirty paces from his own door-step, his wife now widowed, his children fatherless, two of the boys over the seas, the town a-talk with names of those that might have done it.
I know who has done it, said Robert Parker. But knowing isn’t proving. So I will prove it.
The solicitor wasted no time. He first paid a visit to Bull Close Lane to offer his condolences and make a solemn promise that he would see justice was served. He then returned to his chambers where he spent several hours consulting the file that Deighton had accrued on the many suspected forgers: their descriptions, movements and interlinking relationships. Their last known whereabouts. To these Robert Parker added his own notes. It was imperative that a clear chronology was set in order, beginning with Deighton’s first encounter with the Coiners, taking in his many reconnaissance missions and verbal threats or acts of intimidation received, and concluding with this diabolical deed that had taken place the night before.
The murderers were from a pool of many, but greed would surely smoke them out like rodents beneath a grain store. The turncoat James Broadbent had proven that greed could make a Coiner talk and Robert Parker knew he was more than capable of avenging William Deighton’s death the moral and legal way, just as he had promised – though of course as a practising man of the bar vengeance was not a word he would entertain using. This was about pragmatism and trust in a system. The English way.
The solicitor worked right through luncheon and long into the afternoon, and then he called upon his clerk to receive dictation for a press missive and a series of posters and hand-bills based on the late William Deighton’s thorough findings to be printed and distributed immediately.
WANTED FOR CLIPPING, COUNTERFEITING AND MURDER
UNDER THE HIGHWAYMAN’S ACT OF 1692
Information on the activity and whereabouts of the following.
Any Person making such Discovery of af’d (except as before excepted) shall receive a Reward of forty pounds which is hereby offered by the Gentlemen and Merchants of the Town and Parish of Halifax to be paid by the Constables of Halifax.
THOMAS CLAYTON, late of Turvin in the township of Sowerby, and Parish of Halifax, Stuff-Maker, aged about Forty, and about five feet seven inches high, is slenderly made and round shouldered, has light-coloured Hair, is thinnish visaged, and of a fair complexion. He used to wear brown coloured Cloaths, and was but indifferently dressed.
BENJAMIN SUTCLIFFE, late of Halifax, Stuff Weaver (commonly called Benny Nunco) aged about Sixty, and about five feet four inches High, is a broad sett Man, and has a reddish pimpled Face, and wears a Brown wig. When he went off he was dressed in Claret coloured Cloaths.
ISAAC DEWHURST, late of Owle Nook, in Luddingden Dean, in the Township of Warley, and Parish of Halifax, about Thirty-Five or Thirty-Six years of age, about five five Feet eight Inches high, is a stout broad made Man, wears his own hair, which is black, and is black complexion’d. When he went off he had two Suits of Cloaths, the worst of a light coloured drab Cloath, and the better was of a Sad blue Colour.
NATHAN HORSFALL, late of Saltonstal, in Warley, Butcher, aged about Thirty, and about five feet seven Inches high, is a broad sett Man, wears his own Hair, which is dark, brown and bushy; he is of a fresh Complexion, and much marked with the small Pox.
JOHN TATHAM, late of Wadsworth, in the said Parish of Halifax, Stuff Weaver, aged about Twenty-Four, and about five Feet ten Inches high, is slender made, and active, wears his own Hair, which is Flaxen coloured and curls, is of a fair Complexion, cherry cheek’d and handsome; when he went off he had blue worsted Shag Coat, and a Draw-Boy waistcoat, with mixed colours of blue, white and Scarlet.
JOHN PARKER, late of Shackleton, in Stansfield, Stuff Maker, aged about fifty, and about five feet ten Inches high, is a thin Man, wears his own Hair, which is of a saddish Flaxen Colour, and a little bushy; he is thinnish visaged, and has remarkable thick Lips, wears an old blue Coat and waistcoat, and is shabbily dressed.
JAMES GREEN, late of Halifax, Heald-striker, aged about Twenty-five or Twenty-six, is about five Feet three Inches high, a broad sett man wears his own Hair, which is black and bushy, and is of a blackish Complexion, pale looking and a little mark’d with the Small Pox; he used to wear a Scarlett Stuff waistcoat, and a blue Cloth Coat.
PETER BARKER, late of Stanfield in the Parish of Halifax, Miller (commonly Called Foul Peter) aged 36 years or thereabouts, a broad-set Man, about Five feet seven Inches high, black hair, tyed behind, dark complexion’d, and generall wears light-coloured Cloaths.
WILLIAM CLAYTON, late of Sowe
rby, in the same Parish, Weaver, aged near 40, about five feet seven inches high, broad-set, flaxen-coloured Hair, which curls a little, is fresh-coloured, and generally wears dark brown Cloaths, sometimes a Crimson Shag Waistcoat.
JOHN IBBOTSON, late of Ovenden, in the same Parish, dealer in wool, about 25 years of age, five feet six inches high, slender made, fair complexion’d, looks pale but very smart, wears his own Hair, which is brown and curls a little.
MATTHEW HEPWORTH, late of Ovenden, in the same Parish, Butcher, about 40 years old, 5ft 7 ins high, rather slender a little pock-broke, wears his own Hair, which is of a reddish Colour, and almost straight.
JOSEPH HANSON, late of Halifax, Innkeeper, broad-set, about 5ft 6 ins high, of a dark Complexion, a Mole upon one Cheek, dark Eyes and Eye-brows, and some Pimples on one Side of his Face, wears a brown Coat and Waistcoat, and a brown Cut or Bob Wig.
ISAAC HARTLEY, late of Erringden, in the Parish of Halifax (commonly called the Duke of York, being younger Brother of David Hartley, usually called King David, now a Prisoner in York Castle) about 35 years old, 5 ft 7 ins high, a dark down-looking man, wears his own Hair, which is black, a little pock-broke, and generally wears light-coloured Cloaths.
JOHN WILCOX, late of Keelliam, in Erringden, in the same Parish, Weaver, about 30 years old, 5 ft 7 ins high, broad-set, black complexioned, wears his own Hair, dark-coloured, and generally stripp’d Waistcoat and brown coat.
JOSHUA LISTER, late of Halifax, Innkeeper, about 30 years old, 5 ft 4 ins high, round shoulder’d and broad set, a ruddy Complexion, wears his own Hair, which is flaxen-coloured and curls a little; he used to wear a Copper coloured Bath Ruggy Coat and Waistcoat.
JOSEPH GELDER, late of Halifax, Stuff weaver, about 25 years old, of a Dark Complexion, and squints, wears his own Hair, which is of a dark Colour, and curls well; he is about 5 ft 7 in, high: had on when he went off, a light-coloured Drab Coat and Waistcoat.
JOSHUA SHAW, late of Halifax, Innkeeper, about 35 years old, 5 ft 4 in. high, well looking, rather pale Complexioned, wears his own Hair, which is of a light brown Colour and curls a little; he used to wear a dark mottle-coloured Coat, and a red Waistcoat.
In small print along the bottom of posters and hand bills was printed:
Other Persons suspected of Coining etc include:
WILLIAM PROCTOR of Maiden Stones
JAMES BROOK of Collingbob
BARTHOLOMEW WALKER of Mytholmroyd
CROWTHER O’ BADGER of Sweet Oak
ISRAEL WILDE of Deerplay
GEORGE O’SMITH of Soyland
WILLIAM FOLDS of Callis
RICHARD CLEGG of Turvin
JOHN PICKLES of Wadsworth
THOMAS PICKLES of Wadsworth
PAUL TAYLOR of unknown
BOB ARDELL of Halifax
WILLIAM HARPUR of Lee Bank
STEPHEN MARTON of Elland
WILLIAM SYKES of Waton Mill
JOSIAS SMITH of Bradford
ABRAHAM KERSHAW of Turvin
ANTHONY SUTCLIFFE of Swamp
JOHN RADCLIFFE of Lighthazles
JOHN FEATHER of Roughead
BRIAN DEMPSEY of unknown
THOMAS VARLEY of Warley
JONAS EASTWOOD of Eringden
DAVID GREENWOOD of Hill Top
& others.
Robert Parker dispatched the missives for facsimiles to be printed overnight; by the following afternoon they would be pasted and pinned in every shop and inn across the town and in every one-horse hamlet the length and breadth of the Calder Valley.
Because the voices of the same valley, he was sure, would talk. Not every man was a Coiner and those that were would surely see that with their king caged the days of their forging and laundering were limited. A candle only burns once, and always downwards.
As this dark day darkened still he had his clerk contact the same two bailiffs who had helped with the arrest of Hartley. Arkle and Baker. One was to stand outside the Deighton household in Bull Close Lane and the other outside his own home in The Square. They would remain there until told otherwise. This was now a war, of sorts.
Finally the sky was free of clouds and the stars cut through the night like smashed quartz sprinkled and thrown aloft to stick there. Everything tightened. A crusted hoar of glistening frost formed over rutted scrolls of mud like bull’s liver and puddles retracted into plates of white scratched glass. Shards of grass became spines that snapped underfoot, and the prints of nail-soled boots and cloven hooves and clawed feet alike became markers of the nocturnal traffic that passed through the woods and glades and dells of the valley.
The icy air held hot breath as if it were a strange weightless object – the human form expelled into abstractions bigger than any torso that made them; life turned inside out and hung there, solidified, sculpted and suspended.
The sun warmed only the top half of the northern valley slopes now. The rest were kept in a state of permanent shadow, and when the burning ball set it was with one final burst of shattering rays that blazed up from beyond the line where the angular bronze peaks bowed to the salmon sky.
The trees held no leaves. They were skeletal now. When a breeze lifted, their branches played a fidgeting rhythm and the dry stiff leaves that had matted together around their roots stiffly flapped an inch or two but mostly the air was still, as if that too was frozen. As if that too was a solid thing to be chipped away by the indifferent rays of a sun that sat low, malevolent and with little warmth.
The sheep were brought down. The cows brought in. Stray cats took to the woodsheds and found spaces beneath split logs that had hardened with frigid sap, and the birds busied themselves with the gathering of berries and nest-lining. Deep winter circled like a fairytale wolf around a clearing of lost children.
Soon all the valley was first frost and then ice, and then dry flecks of granular snow fell, spiralling like ash coughed back from a blocked chimney, and though it did not settle it began to fall heavier and the ground was so cold the snow had nowhere to go. It piled in windswept drifts. It sat then on the frozen ponds, dusted vegetable patches and gathered in little dry drifts. The dusting became a quilt.
Overnight the river ran thin and then thinner still. It became a rushing streak of water bubbling through shelves of ice on either side that grew jutting from its banks like blades. Everything around it hardened. All became stone. Even the sun appeared solid, a stone wheel suspended, immutable and unyielding.
And the snow moved through the various stages towards an end purpose: first powder dry and ball-like, then young, aerated and playful, and then more complicated flakes fell and linked together like acrobats in the air. There was a panic to their spinning freefall as the plunging temperature drew them in. Settled, they became something else – something vast and powerful.
The morning sun softened the next wave of falling flakes slightly but only enough to alter their form before they too turned into beautiful gems gleaming in the afternoon stillness, stitched to the earth like dress sequins.
The valley was beautiful and blinding. A world of black and white. Of day and night. A world of binaries and oppositions.
Winter.
The window was mottled with a thick frost that appeared to Matthew Normanton to mirror the blemished rippled skin of the woman whose large round rear was pressed up against his morning stiffness. Her untied hair lay tangled across the pillow.
He could not recall her face.
He lifted the blankets and surveyed the rest of her body, saw the bruises on her forearm and the scratch marks upon her waist. The soles of her feet, dirty. A red rash around one wrist. Big hips.
Behind him there was stirring. He rolled over and was face to face with another woman. Her mouth was open and he could smell her stale morning breath: the aftertaste of gin and ale and meat and tobacco. Her front tooth was missing and the brea
th whistled through the gap. It was June. Her other name he could not recall but he had known her since childhood, and now she worked for Old Rose putting men in her mouth for coins. Last night, his coins. His stick.
Matthew Normanton looked down at the mapwork of veins across her breasts, one pressing down on the other. Her nipples were dark and distended from recent suckling. Her children would go without breakfast this morning.
It was in Old Rose’s back room that he lay. He must have paid extra to stay the night. Extra still for sheets and the empty bottle on the bedstand. The fire was dead in the grate and his cock end felt tight. Sore. Shredded.
Someone farted and he wondered what had become of Robert Thomas.
He tried to remember the night that had gone before; he tried to recreate it but all that remained were a few fleeting scenes. He remembered singing, slipping on ice. A lot of drinking and boasting. Ale and gin and his first ever taste of whiskey like a small fire ignited in his stomach and scorching his throat with its rough, woody vapours.
He recalled falling up the stairs, and the sound of coins rolling and laughter too. And then the women undressing him, and the wax-coloured winter moon nearly full and shining down, making something beautiful out of those frost patterns on the window, and the bright moon on their tallow flesh, everyone shivering and laughing and shivering still, and the moon smiling too.
And as the broken night pieced itself together in the aching fog of his gin-hammered head, Old Rose walked into the room and said right you lot, up and out, and Matthew Normanton lay wondering what it was that had been done and said, and again what had become of Robert Thomas.
As it happened Robert Thomas had stopped on his way home on the flat fields by the river at the hamlet of Brearley to take a pipe and sing a victory song to the very same moon, an improvised ditty that bragged of his physical and sexual prowess, and which told the world that he, Bobbsy Thomas, a lowly corn thresher and sometime stuff-making weaver that was born a bastard, had slayed the devil Deighton while David Hartley sat in a cell a broken man, and was therefore in fact the true king of Yorkshire, and wealth and fame and more women were assured, until midway through the sixth verse when he slipped off a rock like an otter into the shallow, fast-running ice cold waters of the River Calder.
The Gallows Pole Page 24