Bloodie Bones

by Lucienne Boyce

  “I don’t know. They’re masked.”

  Drake probably did know, but he would not betray his neighbours by name, and Dan would not ask him to. He said, “Ackland, summon the male servants to the servants’ hall. Send to the home farm for Mudge, and send someone to find Caleb Witt and Potter. Get word to Sutter in the stables that he and his lads will have to protect the yard and the rear access to the house. And tell the housekeeper and any women you can trust to do the job properly to lock all the doors and shutter the windows.”

  The butler, who was no fool in a crisis, did not wait for Lord Oldfield to approve the orders. He hurried off.

  “Lord Oldfield, how many guns do you have in the house?”

  His Lordship had stopped asking questions and was beginning to grasp the situation. “A dozen or so in the gun room.”

  “Good. We’ll distribute them to anyone who can use them. We need to get the ladies upstairs. Do you think Lady Helen can do that?”

  “Of course. I’ll have them join Mother in her sitting room.”

  “Drake,” Dan continued, “you’d better go before they know you’re here.”

  He shook his head. “I’ll stand with you. Don’t matter the wrong, I’ll break no law.”

  “Then follow Ackland to the servants’ hall. Find out what weapons they can gather. I’ll be down soon. And now, My Lord, we’d better tell your guests.”

  Dr Russell came out of the drawing room and carefully shut the door behind him.

  “I came to see what’s wrong,” he said in a low voice.

  “We’ve a riot on our hands,” Dan said.

  “I can shoot. Give me a gun.”

  “Fine…Let’s get the women out of the way.”

  The ladies in the drawing room had already been made uneasy by the sound of shutters and doors slamming, the running footsteps, the whispering in the hall. Mr West tried to calm his wife, who had her handkerchief to her eyes. Dr Russell’s lady-love sat with her hands crammed over her mouth, her eyes wide. The scholarly woman was pale. Lady Helen, however, was nonchalantly tidying away the game, while Garvey calmly sipped his sherry.

  “I must ask the ladies to join Lady Oldfield upstairs,” Lord Oldfield announced. “Lady Helen will take you. Nothing to worry about. There’s a gang of low fellows on their way here and I don’t want you exposed to any unpleasantness while we see them off.”

  Mrs West screamed at the darkening windows as if she could already see a line of murderous faces pressed against the glass. The doctor produced a phial of smelling salts and wafted it under her nose.

  Lady Helen rose. “I don’t wish to hear any unpleasantness, do you, Lady Felicity? Dear Mrs West, do come with us and tell us some more about Mr West’s Hamlet. And Mrs Cotterell, perhaps you would read us another of your poems?”

  Dan had thought Lady Helen bold, but he had not imagined she would see the thing through in such style. Mrs Cotterell, thrilled by her hostess’s sudden interest in her blue-stocking jottings, followed without a glance at her son, who was so shortly to be exposed to danger. Mr West supported his wife out of the room, and Dr Russell gave Lady Felicity his arm to the foot of the stairs. The doctor rejoined the rest of them in the hall, but West went up with the women, gabbling something about not being able to leave his frightened spouse.

  “Where do you want us, Oldfield?” Garvey asked.

  “Get the guns,” Dan said. “I’ll go and organise the servants. Join me back here.”

  The gentlemen clattered off after His Lordship to the gun room. Dan hurried through the door to the kitchen. He waited at the top of the stairs, and when the others were out of sight slipped back to the drawing room.

  The paper was not on or under Mrs West’s chair, nor in the vase. He rifled through the sheets Lady Helen had left neatly stacked on the table. It was not there either.

  If he had been able to see it, then so had Lord Oldfield. Dan had to award him the belt for coolness: he had shown not so much as a twitch or a flicker. Somehow he had managed to remove it in the confusion, though Dan could have sworn he had had him in view the whole time. There was nothing he could do about it. The paper had been consumed in the fire by now.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Dan sent a boy down the drive to keep a lookout. By the time they had armed themselves with guns, knives, and whatever else would make do as a weapon, he was back with the breathless news that torches were visible in the lane.

  “And they’re making rough music,” the boy added.

  They did not need him to tell them. They could hear the din of the rattles, bells and horns.

  Dan stationed men at the downstairs windows, concentrating the guns at the front. Ackland and the footmen were in the hall, and Cotterell, Garvey, Mudge and Potter in the dining room. Dan took the library with Drake, Dr Russell and Lord Oldfield. Caleb Witt was with them too. He had frightened the life out of one of the scullery maids when he had pounded on the back door a few moments earlier. He had seen the torches from the wood and run cross-country to reach the Hall.

  Dan did not intend to let Lord Oldfield out of his sight. No man, murderer or no, should meet his death at the hands of a lawless mob, but Dan did not want His Lordship giving him the slip either. Though he must know Dan had seen the paper, nothing in his attitude suggested that he viewed him as a threat. Was he so confident that without it Dan could prove nothing against him? Which was, damnably, the case. But knowing the identity of the murderer was a good starting point.

  They had had no time to close the gate, and it would not have held the mob back if they had. They passed through it, torches smoking over their heads. Their faces were blacked and hidden by scarves. Some were dressed in the mummers’ costumes worn at the Fence Fair to remind the lord of the manor of their rights to Barcombe Wood. One man had antlers on his head; another was astride a hobby horse; one wore a skirt over his breeches.

  As far as Dan could tell, their weapons were the tools of their trades: billhooks, cleavers, hammers, axes and mattocks, with a few cudgels, staffs and swingels. Above the racket was the marrow-chilling chant: “Bloodie Bones – Bloodie Bones!” True to the rough music tradition, they had an effigy with them: a skeleton jiggling at the end of a long pole.

  Lord Oldfield cursed. “They’ve raided the mausoleum again.”

  “No,” said Dr Russell. “The skeleton is wired.”

  “Then where did they get it?” His Lordship asked.

  “From my house. My poor old housekeeper! They’ll have frightened her half to death.”

  The skeleton had given Dan a turn when he’d seen it at Dr Russell’s house. Seeing it prancing in the air above two score desperate men was much more unsettling.

  They straggled to a halt and fell into a semi-circle around their leader. He was a tall man, all bone and muscle, with the carriage of someone aware of his physical strength. A build very similar to Singleton’s.

  “Oldfield!” he bellowed, and his voice was so like the blacksmith’s that Dan exclaimed, “Singleton? How did he get here?”

  “It’s his brother, Silas,” Witt said.

  From Peasedown. Dan should have guessed. A brother out for vengeance.

  “What should I do?” His Lordship asked.

  “Wait here,” Dan said.

  He went to the hall, handed his gun to Ackland, and ordered him to open the door. When it was wide enough he squeezed through, and the butler locked it behind him. He walked towards the crowd, his hands held out to show he was unarmed. Hard eyes glinted from the muffled faces. Stars glittered above the twisting flames. Dan’s breath smoked on the cold air.

  “What do you want with Lord Oldfield?” he demanded.

  “It’s the Runner,” someone cried. He felt their hatred surge towards him. They edged closer.

  “What do you want with Lord Oldfield?” he repeated.

  “To tal
k,” said Silas Singleton. “If he’s man enough.”

  “Why should he talk to men who come armed and masked to his home at night?”

  “We mean him no harm. We want him to hear our petition.”

  “Petitions should not be delivered at the point of a sword.”

  Silas laughed. “None of us have swords, pig.”

  “If I tell him what you want, will you go home quietly?”

  “We’ll tell him to his face.”

  “He’s listening now.”

  “We’ll tell him and no one else.”

  Dan heard the door open behind him, then His Lordship’s voice. “It’s all right, Foster. I’ll hear them.”

  “No!” Dan said, keeping his eyes on the crowd. “It won’t do any good. Go back inside.”

  Lord Oldfield took no notice. Drake, Witt and Russell followed him out of the house, though he had not asked them to. Drake took advantage of the shadows to hand Dan his gun, and he pocketed it while all eyes were fixed on Lord Oldfield. He signalled Witt and Drake to keep close to His Lordship, nodded at Russell to take a wide left flank, while he himself moved out to the right. Between them and the guns at the windows, they would be able to produce a raking volley of shots if need be.

  “What is your petition?” asked His Lordship.

  The crowd shuffled and murmured. They had not expected it to be this easy.

  Singleton silenced them with a chopping motion of his hand. “First, we demand the release of the men you have cast in prison to satisfy your bloody laws: Bob Singleton, Martin Travell, Jonathan Dunnage, Abe Wicklow, George Buller and Luke Warneford. Second, we demand that you give back the rights to Barcombe Wood. And third, we demand that you leave the heath open.”

  Dan willed His Lordship to answer carefully. After a moment, he did.

  “Very well. I will consider your petition. Now, do as the law officer says and go home.”

  Oaths and protests filled the air. Silas gestured again, reducing the outcry to angry muttering.

  “We want your answer now,” he said.

  Lord Oldfield’s self-control snapped. “I am not going to give my answer now. Not while you and this rabble – ”

  Dan saw the first stone coming, grabbed Lord Oldfield’s arm, and shoved him back towards the house, Witt and Drake guarding his back. The protesters rushed forward, the skeleton gibbering above them. The sound of breaking glass came from the library. A stone struck Witt on the shoulder. Others thudded against the door. It shot open, and Ackland pulled his master inside. Witt and Drake tumbled in after.

  As Dan yelled at the doctor to go back, someone grabbed his arm. He spun round and smashed his left fist into a face, at the same time trying to reach for his gun. But there was another man coming at him from the other side, and he had to let his right hand swing too. There was more breaking glass and a shot rang out from one of the library windows. It came from Drake’s station and passed over their heads. A sensible aim. If any of them had gone down, the rest would have torn Dan apart. The rioters faltered, Dan dived through the door, and Ackland slammed and bolted it. From upstairs came a scream, quickly stifled.

  “Are you hurt, My Lord?” Russell asked.

  “No…I’m going to read the Riot Act.”

  “There’s no point,” said the doctor. “We’ve no militia to enforce it.”

  “But we are armed,” Dan said. “And we should give them due warning before we aim at them. I think His Lordship should read it. But not from here, from an upstairs window. Doctor, you and I will stand guard beside him. It doesn’t look as if any of them have firearms, but if anyone does pull a gun, don’t hesitate. Shoot them.”

  Russell nodded, and they ran up to one of the front bedrooms. Dan and the doctor opened the shutters.

  “You are breaking the law by being here like this,” Dan yelled at the upturned faces. “Don’t make it any worse for yourselves. Go home now.”

  The only response was curses. He cocked his gun and held it so they could see it. The doctor did the same.

  “Go on,” he said to Lord Oldfield. “But stay back.”

  “I am about to read the Riot Act,” His Lordship announced. “Once I’ve read the proclamation, you are required to leave within the hour. If you do not, we will take whatever measures are necessary to disperse you.”

  They took no notice of the warning. He took a scroll from his pocket and unrolled it, though he only glanced at it. The words were few and he knew them well. What magistrate didn’t?

  “I order silence,” he cried.

  “Come down here and shut us up!”

  “Our sovereign Lord the King chargeth and commandeth all persons, being assembled, immediately to disperse themselves, and peaceably to depart –”

  “Death to magistrates!”

  “ – to their habitations, or to their lawful business, upon the pains contained in the act – ”

  “Give us back our forest!”

  “ – made in the first year of King George, for preventing tumults and riotous assemblies. God save the King.”

  “God save King Bloodie Bones!”

  Stones flew at them from every hand. Dan pushed Lord Oldfield out of the way as a flint gouged the polished wooden floor where he had been standing. All at once the bombardment stopped. Something else had caught the mob’s attention and they were running back towards the gate. A cart careered down the lane, the horses sweating under the whip and shying at the sight and smell of the torches. Some of the men seized the harness, others gathered around the tailgate, while the driver and his mate clambered into the back of the vehicle and distributed the contents of a large crate. Wisps of straw fluttered in the air and the torchlight glinted on glass. One of the men lowered his brand and his neighbour thrust a bottle into it. A fuse flared. Bottle in hand, the man twisted round and took a running aim at the Hall. A streak of flame smashed through a dining room window, immediately followed by half a dozen more.

  Ackland yelled at the footmen to get the fire buckets from the kitchen corridor. They clattered up and down stairs, dashed sand over the flames, flung the empty buckets aside, pelted back for more. When the sand ran out, they stamped and beat out the fires with rugs, cushions, books – whatever came to hand. Still the incendiary bombs kept coming. With the tumult, the fires, and the capering skeleton, the crowd was reaching frenzy pitch.

  “It’s no use,” Dan said. “We’ll have to fire.”

  “I’m ready,” said Dr Russell.

  “Ackland!” Dan shouted. “Witt – Garvey! Fire over their heads – now!”

  Lord Oldfield pulled out his gun and knelt by the sill to take aim. Russell and Dan stood over him, and they fired together. The crowd had exhausted the bottles by now, and the salvo from the downstairs and upstairs windows made an impressive show. The fumes of powder and the echoes of the retorts hung heavy on the night air.

  Now the attackers had to weigh up the chances of men armed with sticks against men with guns. The driver leapt into his cart and whipped the frightened horses out of the gates. His mate shouted “Oi!” and ran after him. Silas Singleton yelled, “Stand your ground!” but some of the others had already had the same idea.

  They reloaded the guns, and Dan gave the order to fire again. Another clutch of Singleton’s men flung their torches into the mud and bolted.

  “Next time we shoot to kill!” Dan warned.

  The man carrying the skeleton flung it to the ground. Singleton, stunned by the speedy collapse of his army, had to be dragged away by his friends. One lone straggler faced the Hall and shook his fist up at the window, dislodging his scarf from his face as he did so. Lord Oldfield was already on his way to his mother’s room to tell the ladies the danger had passed and did not see him. Nor did Dr Russell, who was fiddling with his gun. But Dan got a clear view. It was Walter.

  “Damn him, damn him, damn him
!”

  “What’s the matter?” said Dr Russell.

  “Nothing. I’m going to check outside. Stay here and look after His Lordship. Don’t let him leave the house. It isn’t safe yet.”

  On his way out, Dan saw Ackland and repeated the order to keep Lord Oldfield inside. “Get the windows boarded up. Serve brandy and wine, food for them that want it. Post sentries outside, two front and back. Lock this door behind me.”

  The scuffed gravel was littered with hissing torches, broken glass and shattered bones. Dan sprinted around the side of the Hall and saw Walter running across the lawn, his figure silhouetted against the scaffolding around the half-built temple. He made for the nearest entry point into the forest and slipped into the trees.

  Dan plunged in after him. Branches whacked his head and arms, brambles snatched his ankles and legs. He stumbled into a pile of fence posts and put out a hand to save himself. A coil of wire cut into his fingers. Pain shot through his left knee. And he had lost Walter.

  No. It was too sudden. He was younger than Dan, but he was no fitter. Dan might not know the sounds of the wood, but he knew the sound of a winded man trying to catch his breath. The lad was somewhere to his right.

  “Walter, I know you’re there. I’m not going to arrest you. I just want to talk.”

  Leaves rustled. A twig broke. Dan twisted round, but could see nothing except darkness under the trees.

  “I’m not going to arrest you,” he said again.

  “No, you’re bloody not!”

  Walter flew at him, swinging a thick branch in a two-handed grip. An easy target. Dan ducked and brought his fist up under the lad’s chin. He staggered, doubled up against a tree, the branch still in his grasp, trailing on the ground.

  “Stay back,” he gasped, “or I’ll kill you.”

  “Don’t be stupid. Put that down. I’ve come to send you home.”

  “So you can arrest me in the morning? No fear. I’m off. I’m leaving Barcombe tonight.”

  “And turning yourself into an outlaw? You’ll be on the run for the rest of your life – which will be short. Do as I tell you and no one need know you were here tonight. Go home and stay there. Keep away from the village, away from the forest, away from Singleton and the rest.”