by Jean Rowden
With some trepidation she followed him, and found the climb easier than she expected. She was rewarded by a fine view over fields, villages and scattered farms, with a glimpse of the sea in the distance. ‘How lovely! I would never have thought you could see so far.’
‘I wish my uncle had come. He knows the name of every place from Hagstock to Clow Bay, he told me so.’ The boy’s face clouded. ‘I never see him now.’
‘He misses your company too,’ Phoebe said. ‘I believe he means to try to find some time for you. Maybe one day Lady Pickhurst will come to know you and your sister better, and be a little kinder.’
The child shook his head. ‘I hate her, and she hates us. Knytte was supposed to be mine when my uncle dies, but now she’s to have it.’
Phoebe bit her lip; she should reprimand the boy for saying such things, yet she suspected he was right about Lady Pickhurst. ‘Surely that cannot be true. Everyone knows you’re the heir.’
‘I’ll be Lord Pickhurst perhaps, if she doesn’t have a boy, but I shan’t have Knytte. My uncle told me, the first time she came here. I’m sure he was sorry, but she was smiling behind his back. She wants him to send me away to school.’
‘Even if that happened, Knytte will be your home until you’re grown up,’ Phoebe said. ‘And going to school might not be so bad. It might be quite an adventure. There would be lots of other boys, and you’d soon make friends.’
‘Would I?’ He looked doubtful.
‘Of course. Anyway, let’s forget that for now. We’re here to work. Make the map first, with as many things labelled as you can manage. Once that’s done we’ll have some fun.’ She looked at the view again. ‘While you’re busy I might bring my sketch book up here.’
‘I’ll fetch it, shall I?’ Without waiting for a reply he was gone, coming back a few minutes later with Nunnings, who gave her a shy smile. ‘I thought you’d like something to sit on, Miss Drake,’ he said, putting one of the cushions from the dog cart on the stone ledge that ran around the inside of the wall. ‘Don’t worry about the young master, I’ll keep an eye on him for you while he’s poking about down below.’
‘Thank you, that’s very kind. Don’t forget, Rodney, the map first, and see you make a good job of it.’
The two hours they had scheduled soon passed. Once his task was done Phoebe rewarded the boy with a game of hide and seek among the ruins. Flushed and laughing, they returned to the dogcart. Nunnings didn’t object when Phoebe asked to take the reins for a while; she had often driven her father when he was visiting his parishioners although it was a challenge, managing a pair of blood horses rather than a staid pony. She was concentrating hard as they trotted briskly along the moorland road; Nunnings seemed happy to have her seated beside him, although he remained properly respectful, speaking only when it was necessary.
Phoebe was happier than she had been in months, lifting her face to feel the warmth of the sun and letting her eyes close, just for a moment. A startled sound from Nunnings jolted them open again. There was a swirl of dust ahead, and a strangely disturbing sound.
As they drew closer the dark moving mass turned into a knot of men and boys, intent on something that lay in their midst on the road. The sound of their shouts and laughter became more plainly audible above the rattle of the wheels, and Phoebe slowed the horses.
‘Have they caught some poor animal? I believe they’re throwing stones at it.’ She hated to see senseless cruelty. Her father had been a compassionate man; in this situation she knew exactly what he would have done. She slowed the horses, fired with his crusading spirit.
Nunnings shrugged. ‘Pull around them, Miss, it’s none of our business.’
Ignoring him, she brought the bays to a smart halt. ‘What do you think you’re doing?’ she called. ‘What’s going on here?’
The group opened up a little, and she saw to her horror that their target was not an animal but a man, who lay apparently senseless on the road.
One man, evidently in charge of the others, knuckled his forehead. ‘’Tis nothing to worrit you, missus,’ he said cheerfully. ‘’Tis only a beggar. We’ll see him out o’ the road for ye.’
‘Beggar or not, you’ve no business attacking the poor man. Get away from him at once. You should be ashamed of yourselves.’
‘He’s nobbut a stranger,’ another of the road-menders said sullenly. ‘A man should keep to his own parish, not come beggin’ from decent folk. Tain’t no fault of ourn he got lost on the moor. We didn’t do no harm, he were all but done-in anyways.’
‘Then that’s all the worse!’ Phoebe leapt down before Nunnings could prevent her, pushed her way through the roadmen and went to stoop over the tramp. His clothes were in tatters, his hair and beard so long and matted that she could barely make out his face.
Phoebe had become used to dealing with charity cases from an early age, being only ten when her mother died. Her father had never shirked a local priest’s less pleasant duties, and Phoebe had become his constant helpmate. Putting a hand to the man’s filthy arm she felt his pulse. It was there, stronger than she’d expected. However, his breathing was shallow, and his flesh felt hot and dry. She turned to the ganger. ‘He’s feverish. Bring him something to drink. At once!’ she added fiercely, when he hesitated, ‘don’t you listen to your preacher? Have you never heard the story of the good Samaritan? Once the poor man has had a drink you can lift him into the dogcart.’
With the lad called from his perch to hold the horses, Nunnings came to her side, closely followed by young Rodney. ‘I don’t know that this is any business of ours, Miss Drake,’ the coachman said. ‘What will his lordship say if we bring home a toe-rag like that?’
‘I don’t know and I don’t care, I’ll not leave him here with these barbarians. Surely he can be spared a meal. I’ll pay for it myself if necessary,’ she added, taking the battered tin cup she was offered, and sniffing it. Strong cider; it would do. It was a relief to see the unconscious man’s throat move as she tipped each tiny mouthful between his lips. ‘Master Pengoar, get back in the carriage this minute, there’s no call for you to be involved here.’
‘But this could be the man Sir Martin Haylmer is after,’ Rodney said, his eyes alight. He turned to Nunnings. ‘There’s a reward. Didn’t you see the handbill?’ The man looked mystified. ‘It was in the stableyard, pinned to one of the doors. I saw it there this morning.’
Nunnings shook his head. ‘I saw it, but I didn’t read it,’ he mumbled, ‘I’m not too good at my letters.’
‘A tramp is wanted for questioning about the jewel robberies.’ The boy was hopping up and down in his excitement. ‘Maybe we’ve just caught the thief.’
‘Hold on,’ the road-mender said. ‘You say there’s a reward? You reckon to tek him away, but who found the beggar, eh?’
‘You found him, but you also half killed him,’ Phoebe retorted. ‘There’ll be no reward for a dead man. Two of you lift him up and put him in the carriage. Handle him gently; you’ve done enough harm. Master Rodney, you will ride in front with Nunnings, and I’ll do what I can to make this poor soul comfortable in the back. It’s lucky we’ve room.’
The men obeyed, but the ganger wasn’t prepared to let their captive go so easily. When Phoebe was settled with the unconscious man propped half on the floor and half on the seat, and Nunnings had taken up the reins, the road-mender grabbed the offside horse by the bit. ‘I reckon we’re owed summat,’ he said obstinately.
‘The poster said that they would pay anyone who could tell them where the tramp was,’ Rodney said. ‘You may go to Sir Martin at Clowmoor and tell him he’s been taken to Knytte.’
‘Yes, do that if you wish,’ Phoebe nodded. ‘If the Lord Lieutenant is looking for this man he should be told, but be sure I shall inform him of what happened here. Now step aside, if you please.’
The dogcart jolted into motion, but the unconscious man didn’t stir. Phoebe looked down at what little she could see of his face, wondering how he’d come to
such utter destitution; he looked as if he hadn’t seen a square meal in years. However, the makeshift splint and bandage on his arm suggested that somebody had recently spent some care upon him, unless he’d managed it for himself.
They turned a corner and the tramp almost rolled from the seat, and Phoebe shifted away from him, startled by the movement. As she did so, she heard an echo of her father’s voice in her head. ‘We are all God’s creatures, Phoebe, equal in his eyes.’
It wasn’t easy, for he was heavy despite looking half-starved, but she managed to lift the man into a more comfortable position. Swallowing her revulsion, she set his filthy head upon her lap.
The vagrant stank, and his hair was matted with dirt and blood. Phoebe sighed; her dress would be difficult to clean. As if in sympathy, he too let out a deep sigh, a slight frown between his brows mirroring hers. She gave a rueful smile; they had more than their humanity in common. Her father, leaving her with his sense of duty, had bequeathed her little else; on his death she had been almost as destitute as the poor beggar who lay in her lap. That thought led to others, and the last vestiges of the holiday spirit left her; if Lord Pickhurst succumbed to his wife’s wishes and sent the Pengoar children away, she would be looking for another post. The unpleasantness at Clowmoor Manor still haunted her. It had been such a relief to find a safe haven at Knytte, and even more reassuring with Jonah working nearby.
She sighed again. The accusation her cousin had made was untrue; she’d never considered marrying him as a way of escaping her poverty, nor would she, no matter how much she feared being cast out into the world again. She’d only ever seen him as a friend, but losing his friendship was hard to bear.
Phoebe stared unseeingly ahead, looking into a future that held no guarantees, no certainty of any kind. Like so many women who had to fend for themselves, if fate was unkind she could be no better off than this poor soul who lay injured and helpless in her care. Without conscious thought, she let a hand rest upon the filthy head, stroking it gently.
The ganger wasted no time. As soon as the dogcart drew away, he sent a boy to the nearest farm with a message and a sixpence, and within five minutes he returned with a borrowed pony, a shaggy half-tame colt off the moors. Giving his men orders to keep at their work, the roadman set out for Clowmoor. He feared the young woman’s tongue; she might bring Sir Martin’s wrath down upon him, but he thought if he acted quickly enough the reward would be his.
With the Lord Lieutenant’s house within sight, he began to feel a little less sure of himself; he didn’t think he could ride up to the front door of such a place, no matter what news he carried. He slowed the pony to a jog; he must go to the stableyard and hope to meet somebody who could help him.
A tall black horse was being ridden fast from the opposite direction; seeing the diminutive pony the animal balked and veered across the road, almost unseating the gentleman upon its back. The rider soothed the black, and with some coaxing it came closer. Given a clear view of his face, the ganger recognized him at once. Mr Docket was well known all over Sir Martin’s estate and beyond, and he was generally considered a decent man. The ganger waved a hand and shouted, kicking the pony on.
Docket frowned as the roadman told his tale. ‘You’d better come with me,’ he said. ‘Sir Martin isn’t at home, but this can’t wait.’
Once they reached the stables, Docket gave the order for horses to be put to a carriage, urging the grooms to hurry. He sent a boy to Trembury, carrying a message for his master, while another was dispatched to summon the Lord Lieutenant’s personal physician.
The roadman stood watching, open mouthed, amazed at so much fuss being made over a tramp.
‘I shall go at once to Knytte,’ Docket said, addressing the roadman as the carriage started down the drive. ‘If this man you’ve found is the one we’re looking for, then I’ll see the reward is sent to you. In the meantime I suggest you get back to your work, and pray you’ve done him no serious damage.’
Chapter Twelve
Beddowes had been dreaming, rising gradually towards consciousness. There was an unfamiliar taste in his mouth. Swallowing, he remembered what it was. He’d never had a taste for cider, yet the pain in his head suggested a drinking bout lasting several days.
He floated nearer to the surface. There was movement. He could hear hoof beats, and the grate of metal tyres. Beyond the cider and the stench of his own filthy body, Beddowes noted a more pleasant scent, one that reminded him of summer meadows and the first cut of hay. A hand swept the tangled hair from his forehead, and the gentleness of the touch shocked him into opening his eyes.
Coming abruptly to full consciousness, Beddowes saw a young woman staring down at him. There was an expression of concern on her face; something about her seemed comforting, as if she was somebody he knew and trusted, yet he couldn’t recall ever seeing her before.
‘Look, he’s awake.’ The words were clear and shrill, and spoken by a child who belonged to a class far above his own. Beddowes tried to twist round so he could see the speaker.
‘Don’t move,’ the woman said; her voice as cultured as the boy’s, and as gentle as her expression. ‘You need to rest.’ She turned her head a little, her tone changing to become almost severe, though somehow Beddowes doubted she could ever be anything but kind. ‘Master Pengoar, pray mind your manners, it’s rude to stare.’
With his senses unexpectedly keen, Beddowes understood at once; the young woman was a governess. A childish glee accompanied this feat of deduction; it reminded him that he gained great satisfaction from his work as a police detective. Pleasure was instantly replaced by something close to panic. His memory was patchy, incomplete; why was he here, in rags and apparently destitute? An event leading to dismissal would surely be hard to forget, but the recent past was a blank. One thing was plain; he was a long way from Scotland Yard.
The rhythm of the wheels changed as the vehicle turned between high gates. Here the dusty green leaves of late summer hung over them; he assumed they must be approaching the end of their journey.
‘Don’t worry, you’ll be well cared for at Knytte,’ the young woman said, as if his sudden fear had communicated itself to her. ‘Lord Pickhurst is a humane man, he’ll not send you away without a meal, and I shall make sure your hurts are tended.’
Talking was more difficult than he’d anticipated, but he forced the words from his throat, shocked to hear that they were little more than a croak. ‘Thank you miss, you’re very kind.’
He was rewarded by a smile. She really was pretty, he thought, his own cracked lips sketching an attempt to respond. Beddowes wondered briefly what her name was. At that instant he barely felt sure of his own; he hoped the rank which had been his for so long, both in the service of Her Majesty and in the police force, still belonged to him.
The news spread with exceptional speed. Within twenty four hours it was common knowledge in every inn, stable-yard and kitchen between Hagstock and Trembury: a man had been captured and taken to Clowmoor House. The more knowledgeable among the gossip-mongers identified him as the tramp described on Mr Docket’s handbills. Some said he had been arrested and charged with the theft of Mrs Stoppen’s jewellery, while others scoffed at this idea, maintaining that he wasn’t the thief, merely an accomplice. Very little was agreed upon, except that Sir Martin Haylmer would be handing out the maximum penalty when the man appeared before him in court.
As Monday afternoon turned to evening, wilder rumours grew; it was said the militia were to be called out to escort the criminal to prison because he was known to have escaped before and might vanish into thin air if not watched for every second.
In contrast, a roadman assured his audience that the miscreant had been beaten to within an inch of his life by other members of a criminal gang, and was even now hovering between life and death. This particular rumour gained credence when it was confirmed that Dr Long had been summoned from Hagstock, and had remained at Clowmoor all afternoon.
Once the children
were in bed and asleep, Phoebe sat at the window once more, staring into the darkness that enveloped the garden. The tramp was very much in her thoughts. She’d heard none of the gossip: belonging neither above stairs nor below. She’d stayed away from the servants’ hall.
When he had taken charge of the fugitive the day before, Mr Docket had assured her the man would be properly cared for, but he had rushed him away in answer to Sir Martin’s summons before she had a chance to fulfil her promise and see the poor soul fed and his hurts tended. Phoebe felt uneasy, for she hated to break her word.
Monday night was disturbed by dreams. She sat in a ruined tower. A man lay with his head on her lap, looking up at her. His eyes were those of the penniless derelict, yet he was well-groomed, his beard and his hair trimmed and clean. As he smiled up at her he looked ten years younger, and when his hand reached for hers she took it eagerly. She awoke with a start, strangely perturbed.
Annie was already dashing noisily around doing her chores, seeming even more eager to finish than usual. Phoebe closed her ears to the girl’s chatter. Once in the classroom she tried to concentrate on the children, but her thoughts kept returning to the tramp and her strange dream. She was still feeling distracted when there was a knock on the door, and a footman and maid entered.
‘Excuse me, miss,’ the footman said, ‘Lord Pickhurst wants to see you in his study. Clara is to stay with the children while you’re gone.’ He held the door for her, curiosity in his eyes; obviously he had no idea what was behind this rare summons.
Phoebe ran her hands over her hair to check that it was suitably restrained. She hurried downstairs, her mind racing. Was she about to lose her post? Lady Pickhurst had been trying long enough to have the children sent to school, yet only yesterday his lordship had spoken of Rodney with such affection.