Come Rack, Come Rope

by Robert Hugh Benson

They had lived royally these last three months. The agent of the Council had had a couple of the best rooms in the inn that looked on to the market-square, where he entertained his friends, and now and then a magistrate or two. Even Mr. Audrey, of Matstead, had come to him once there, with another, but had refused to stay to supper, and had ridden away again alone.

  Downstairs, too, his men had fared very well indeed. They knew how to make themselves respected, for they carried arms always now, since the unfortunate affair a day after the arrival, when two of them had been gravely battered about by two rustic servants, who, they learned, were members of a Popish household in the town. But all the provincial fellows were not like this. There was a big man, half clerk and half man-servant to a poor little lawyer, who lived across the square—a man of no wit indeed, but, at any rate, one of means and of generosity, too, as they had lately found out—means and generosity, they understood, that were made possible by the unknowing assistance of his master. In a word it was believed among Mr. Topcliffe’s men that all the refreshment which they had lately enjoyed, beyond that provided by their master, was at old Mr. Biddell’s expense, though he did not know it, and that George Beaton, fool though he was, was a cleverer man than his employer. Lately, too, they had come to learn, that although George Beaton was half clerk, half man-servant, to a Papist, he was yet at heart as stout a Protestant as themselves, though he dared not declare it for fear of losing his place.

  On this last night they made very merry indeed, and once or twice the landlord pushed his head through the doorway. The baggage was packed, and all was in readiness for a start soon after dawn.

  There came a time when George Beaton said that he was stifling with the heat; and, indeed, in this low-ceilinged room after supper, with the little windows looking on to the court, the heat was surprising. The men sat in their shirts and trunks. So that it was as natural as possible that George should rise from his place and sit down again close to the door where the cool air from the passage came in; and from there, once more, he led the talk, in his character of rustic and open-handed boor; he even beat the sullen man who was next him genially over the head to make him give more room, and then he proposed a toast to Mr. Topcliffe.

  It was about half an hour later, when George was becoming a little anxious, that he drew out at last a statement that Mr. Topcliffe had a great valise upstairs, full of papers that had to do with his law business. (He had tried for this piece of information last night and the night before, but had failed to obtain it.) Ten minutes later again, then, when the talk had moved to affairs of the journey, and the valise had been forgotten, it was an entirely unsuspicious circumstance that George and the man who sat next him should slip out to take the air in the stable-court. The Londoner was so fuddled with drink as to think that he had gone out at his own deliberate wish; and there, in the fresh air, the inevitable result followed; his head swam, and he leaned on big George for support. And here, by the one stroke of luck that visited poor George this evening, it fell that he was just in time to see Mr. Topcliffe himself pass the archway in the direction of Friar’s Gate, in company with a magistrate, who had supped with him upstairs.

  Up to this point George had moved blindly, step by step. He had had his instructions from his master, yet all that he had been able to determine was the general plan to find out where the papers were kept, to remain in the inn till the last possible moment, and to watch for any chance that might open to him. Truly, he had no more than that, except, indeed, a vague idea that it might be necessary to bribe one of the men to rob his master. Yet there was everything against this, and it was, indeed, a last resort. It seemed now, however, that another way was open. It was exceedingly probable that Mr. Topcliffe was off for his last visit to the prisoner, and, since a magistrate was with him, it was exceedingly improbable that he would take the paper with him. It was not the kind of paper—if, indeed, it existed at all—that more persons would be allowed to see than were parties to the very discreditable affair.

  And now George spoke earnestly and convincingly. He desired to see the baggage of so great a man as Mr. Topcliffe; he had heard so much of him. His friend was a good fellow who trusted him (here George embraced him warmly). Surely such a little thing would be allowed as for him, George, to step in and view Mr. Topcliffe’s baggage, while the faithful servant kept watch in the passage! Perhaps another glass of ale——

  III

  “Yes, sir,” said George an hour later, still a little flushed with the amount of drink he had been forced to consume. “I had some trouble to get it. But I think this is what your honour wanted.”

  He began to search in his deep breast-pocket.

  “Tell me,” said Mr. Biddell.

  “I got the fellow to watch in the passage, sir; him that I had made drunk, while I was inside. There were great bundles of papers in the valise.… No, sir, it was strapped up only.… The most of the papers were docketed very legally, sir; so I did not have to search long. There were three or four papers in a little packet by themselves; besides a great packet that was endorsed with Mr. FitzHerbert’s name, as well as Mr. Topcliffe’s and my lord Shrewsbury’s; and I think I should not have had time to look that through. But, by God’s mercy, it was one of the three or four by themselves.”

  He had the paper in his hand by now. The lawyer made a movement to take it. Then he restrained himself.

  “Tell me, first,” he said.

  “Well, sir,” said George, with a pardonable satisfaction in spinning the matter out, “one was all covered with notes, and was headed ‘Padley.’ I read that through, sir. It had to do with the buildings and the acres, and so forth. The second paper I could make nothing out of; it was in cypher, I think. The third paper was the same; and the fourth, sir, was that which I have here.”

  The lawyer started.

  “But I told you——”

  “Yes, sir; I should have said that this is the copy—or, at least, an abstract. I made the abstract by the window, sir, crouching down so that none should see me. Then I put all back as before, and came out again; the fellow was fast asleep against the door.”

  “And Topcliffe——”

  “Mr. Topcliffe, sir, returned half an hour afterwards in company again with Mr. Hamilton. I waited a few minutes to see that all was well, and then I came to you, sir.”

  There was silence in the little room for a moment. It was the small back office of Mr. Biddell, where he did his more intimate business, looking out on to a paved court. The town was for the most part asleep, and hardly a sound came through the closed windows.

  Then the lawyer turned and put out his hand for the paper without a word. He nodded to George, who went out, bidding him good-night.

  Ten minutes later Mr. Biddell walked quietly through the passengers’ gate by the side of the great doors that led to the court beside Babington House, closing it behind him. He knew that it would be left unbarred till eleven o’clock that night. He passed on through the court, past the house door, to the steward’s office, where through heavy curtains a light glimmered. As he put his hand on the door it opened, and Marjorie was there. He said nothing, nor did she. Her face was pale and steady, and there was a question in her eyes. For answer he put the paper into her hands, and sat down while she read it. The stillness was as deep here as in the office he had just left.

  IV

  It was a minute or two before either spoke. The girl read the paper twice through, holding it close to the little hand-lamp that stood on the table.

  “You see, mistress,” he said, “it is as bad as it can be.”

  She handed back the paper to him; he slid out his spectacles, put them on, and held the writing to the light.

  “Here are the points, you see …” he went on. “I have annotated them in the margin. First, that Thomas FitzHerbert be released from Derby gaol within three days from the leaving of Topcliffe for London, and that he be no more troubled, neither in fines nor imprisonment; next, that he have secured to him, so far as the l
aws shall permit, all his inheritance from Sir Thomas, from his father, and from any other bequests whether of his blood-relations or no; thirdly, that Topcliffe do ‘persecute to the death’ ”—(the lawyer paused, cast a glance at the downcast face of the girl) “ ‘—do persecute to the death’ his uncle Sir Thomas, his father John, and William Bassett his kinsman; and, in return for all this, Thomas FitzHerbert shall become her Grace’s sworn servant—that is, Mistress Manners, her Grace’s spy, pursuivant, informer and whatnot—and that he shall grant and secure to Richard Topcliffe, Esquire, and to his heirs for ever, ‘the manors of Over Padley and Nether Padley, on the Derwent, with six messuages, two cottages, ten gardens, ten orchards, a thousand acres of land, five hundred acres of meadow-land, six hundred acres of pasture, three hundred acres of wood, a thousand acres of furze and heath, in Padley, Grindleford and Lyham, in the parish of Hathersage, in consideration of eight hundred marks of silver, to be paid to Thomas FitzHerbert, Esquire, etc.’ ”

  The lawyer put the paper down, and pushed his spectacles on to his forehead.

  “That is a legal instrument?” asked the girl quietly, still with downcast eyes.

  “It is not yet fully completed, but it is signed and witnessed. It can become a legal instrument by Topcliffe’s act; and it would pass muster——”

  “It is signed by Mr. Thomas?”

  He nodded.

  She was silent again. He began to tell her of how he had obtained it, and of George’s subtlety and good fortune; but she seemed to pay no attention. She sat perfectly still. When he had ended, she spoke again.

  “A sworn servant of her Grace——” she began.

  “Topcliffe is a sworn servant of her Grace,” he said bitterly; “you may judge by that what Thomas FitzHerbert hath become.”

  “We shall have his hand, too, against us all, then?”

  “Yes, mistress; and, what is worse, this paper I take it—” (he tapped it) “this paper is to be a secret for the present. Mr. Thomas will still feign himself to be a Catholic, with Catholics, until he comes into all his inheritances. And, meantime, he will supply information to his new masters.”

  “Why cannot we expose him?”

  “Where is the proof? He will deny it.”

  She paused.

  “We can at least tell his family. You will draw up the informations?”

  “I will do so.”

  “And send them to Sir Thomas and Mr. Bassett?”

  “I will do so.”

  “That may perhaps prevent his inheritance coming to him as quickly as he thinks.”

  The lawyer’s eyes gleamed.

  “And what of Mrs. Thomas, mistress?”

  Marjorie lifted her eyes.

  “I do not think a great deal of Mrs. Thomas,” she said. “She is honest, I think; but she could not be trusted with a secret. But I will tell Mistress Babington, and I will warn what priests I can.”

  “And if it leaks out?”

  “It must leak out.”

  “And yourself? Can you meet Mr. Thomas again just now? He will be out in three days.”

  Marjorie drew a long breath.

  “No, sir; I cannot meet him. I should betray what I felt. I shall make excuses to Mrs. Thomas, and go home to-morrow.”

  PART III

  CHAPTER I

  I

  THE “RED BULL” in Cheapside was all alight; a party had arrived there from the coast not an hour ago, and the rooms that had been bespoken by courier occupied the greater part of the second floor; the rest of the house was already filled by another large company, spoken for by Mr. Babington, although he himself was not one of them. And it seemed to the shrewd landlord that these two parties were not wholly unknown to one another, although, as a discreet man, he said nothing.

  The latest arrived party was plainly come from the coast. They had arrived a little after sunset on this stormy August day, splashed to the shoulders by the summer-mud, and drenched to the skin by the heavy thunder-showers. Their baggage had a battered and sea-going air about it, and the landlord thought he would not be far away if he conjectured Rheims as their starting-point; there were three gentlemen in the party, and four servants apparently; but he knew better than to ask questions or to overhear what seemed rather over-familiar conversation between the men and their masters. There was only one, however, whom he remembered to have lodged before, over five years ago. The name of this one was Mr. Alban. But all this was not his business. His duty was to be hearty and deferential and entirely stupid; and certainly this course of behaviour brought him a quantity of guests.

  Mr. Alban, about half-past nine o’clock, had finished unstrapping his luggage. It was of the most innocent description, and contained nothing that all the world might not see. He had made arrangements that articles of another kind should come over from Rheims under the care of one of the “servants,” whose baggage would be less suspected. The distribution would take place in a day or two. These articles comprised five sets of altar vessels, five sets of Mass-vestments, made of a stuff woven of all the liturgical colours together, a dozen books, a box of medals, another of Agnus Deis—little wax medallions stamped with the figure of a Lamb supporting a banner—a bunch of beads, and a heavy little square package of very thin altar-stones.

  As he laid out the suit of clothes that he proposed to wear next day, there was a rapping on his door.

  “Mr. Babington is come—sir.” (The last word was added as an obvious afterthought, in case of listeners.)

  Robin sprang up; the door was opened by his “servant,” and Anthony came in, smiling.

  Mr. Anthony Babington had broadened and aged considerably during the last five years. He was still youthful-looking, but he was plainly a man and no longer a boy. And he presently said as much for his friend.

  “You are a man, Robin,” he said.—“Why, it slipped my mind!”

  He knelt down promptly on the strip of carpet and kissed the palms of the hands held out to him, as is the custom to do with newly-ordained priests, and Robin murmured a blessing.

  Then the two sat down again.

  “And now for the news,” said Robin.

  Anthony’s face grew grave.

  “Yours first,” he said.

  So Robin told him. He had been ordained priest a month ago, at Châlons-sur-Marne.… The college was as full as it could hold.… They had had an unadventurous journey.

  Anthony put a question or two, and was answered.

  “And now,” said Robin, “what of Derbyshire; and of the country; and of my father? And is it true that Ballard is taken?”

  Anthony threw an arm over the back of his chair, and tried to seem at his ease.

  “Well,” he said, “Derbyshire is as it ever was. You heard of Thomas FitzHerbert’s defection?”

  “Mistress Manners wrote to me of it, more than two years ago.”

  “Well, he does what he can: he comes and goes with his wife or without her. But he comes no more to Padley. And he scarcely makes a feint even before strangers of being a Catholic, though he has not declared himself, nor gone to church, at any rate in his own county. Here in London I have seen him more than once in Topcliffe’s company. But I think that every Catholic in the country knows of it by now. That is Mistress Manners’ doing. My sister says there has never been a woman like her.”

  Robin’s eyes twinkled.

  “I always said so,” he said. “But none would believe me. She has the wit and courage of twenty men. What has she been doing?”

  “What has she not done?” cried Anthony. “She keeps herself for the most part in her house; and my sister spends a great deal of time with her; but her men, who would die for her, I think, go everywhere; and half the hog-herds and shepherds of the Peak are her sworn men. I have given your Dick to her; he was mad to do what he could in that cause. So her men go this way and that bearing her letters or her messages to priests who are on their way through the county; and she gets news—God knows how!—of what is a-stirring against us. She ha
s saved Mr. Ludlam twice, and Mr. Garlick once, as well as Mr. Simpson once, by getting the news to them of the pursuivants’ coming, and having them away into the Peak. And yet with all this, she has never been laid by the heels.”

  “Have they been after her, then?” asked Robin eagerly.

  “They have had a spy in her house twice to my knowledge, but never openly; and never a shred of a priest’s gown to be seen, though Mass had been said there that day. But they have never searched it by force. And I think they do not truly suspect her at all.”

  “Did I not say so?” cried Robin. “And what of my father? He wrote to me that he was to be made magistrate; and I have never written to him since.”

  “He hath been made magistrate,” said Anthony drily; “and he sits on the bench with the rest of them.”

  “Then he is all of the same mind?”

  “I know nothing of his mind. I have never spoken with him this six years back. I know his acts only. His name was in the ‘Bond of Association,’ too!”

  “I have heard of that.”

  “Why, it is two years old now. Half the gentry of England have joined it,” said Anthony bitterly. “It is to persecute to the death any pretender to the Crown other than our Eliza.”

  There was a pause. Robin understood the bitterness.

  “And what of Mr. Ballard?” asked Robin.

  “Yes; he is taken,” said Anthony slowly, watching him. “He was taken a week ago.”

  “Will they banish him, then?”

  “I think they will banish him.”

  “Why, yes—it is the first time he hath been taken. And there is nothing great against him?”

  “I think there is not,” said Anthony, still with that strange deliberateness.

  “Why do you look at me like that?”

  Anthony stood up without answering. Then he began to pace about. As he passed the door he looked to the bolt carefully. Then he turned again to his friend.

  “Robin,” he said, “would you sooner know a truth that will make you unhappy, or be ignorant of it?”