The Jacobite Murders

by G. M. Best

  Even as he spoke, the man moved his horse alongside with such surprising swiftness that Jones had no opportunity to defend himself before a sword sliced itself across his chest. Had not the cuirass absorbed its cutting power he would have been instantly disabled. Almost instinctively Jones pulled back his horse and fired his pistol. At such close range there was no opportunity for him to miss. His opponent instantly tumbled from his horse, a look of surprise across his face. Having recovered from the shock of the attack, Tom cautiously dismounted and approached the apparently lifeless body. There was no movement and blood was oozing out of a gaping hole in the man’s chest. His potential assassin was wearing the same cloak that had obscured his dress the previous evening, but now it no longer hid the broadcloth coat, the cambric shirt and the satin breeches that indicated here was no common footpad but a man of substance. A brief search revealed a plentiful supply of money in his pockets. Jones surmised that Burnett had left the man behind to kill anyone attempting to follow him. He dragged the body of the failed assassin into the midst of some bushes where he hoped it would lie undiscovered for at least a few days. Then he slapped the man’s horse on its rear so that it headed off in the opposite direction to the one he was taking.

  Jones then resumed his journey, conscious that Warwick was almost forty miles away. Fortunately the straight line of the Fosse Way took him through Bourton-on–the-Water, Stow on the Wold, and Moreton on the Marsh without demanding anything in the way of difficult terrain. It was a tedious journey with the road seeming to stretch ahead forever into the shadowy horizon. He made no stop other than to occasionally water and rest his horse. The hearty breakfast that he had eaten stood him in good stead and it was not until he reached the Halford Bridge Inn in the afternoon that he briefly delayed to eat a light meal. He then travelled the remaining ten miles in ever darkening conditions, grateful once again that a cloudless sky provided welcome moonlight. It was not until the early evening that he finally arrived at his destination. Fifty years before a fire had destroyed much of Warwick and so he discovered most of the houses in the town were surprisingly uniform, having been built to rigid specifications that dictated all buildings should be two or three storeys high and created either of brick or stone with roofs of tile or slate.

  He sought accommodation in the Warwick Arms, which was not far removed from the town’s ancient castle. The landlord happened to be in the yard when Jones arrived. He was obviously a man who enjoyed the comforts of life because his red face and nose bore all the signs of heavy drinking and his belly was excessively large. However, there was nothing dull about his mind. He quickly observed the quality of Tom’s horse, even though it was obviously exhausted, and he recognized that its rider had an air that distinguished him from the vulgar. He gave Jones a welcome in a voice that was ingratiating but not unpleasant and, ushering him inside, invited him to dine in his company whilst his wife prepared their best room for him. Jones willingly accepted, hoping that their conversation might provide him with some information as to whether Burnett was still in the town or whether he had already moved on further northwards.

  The food was good and the wine even better but in the course of the meal it became apparent that the landlord preferred entertaining to working. He expected his wife to undertake all that was required in running the establishment. This she did, but not with good grace, and the landlord’s conversation with Jones was therefore interspersed with bouts of wrangling with her. The fact that she carried an ugly bruise on her right cheek was testimony that their quarrels were not always confined to words. Jones could see that in her youth she had been a very attractive woman but years of servitude had taken their toll. Her hair was lank, her skin sallow, her eyes cold, her mouth bitter. He hoped that the young girl with whom he had flirted the previous evening found a better life partner for herself than this woman, though he had to admit that the landlord had a ready wit and was a fund of amusing anecdotes.

  Almost inevitably, their conversation turned eventually to the threat posed by the invading Jacobite army. ‘I am afraid that the news is not good, sir,’ confided the landlord. The Highlanders have taken Carlisle, Penrith, Lancaster and Preston without facing much opposition. According to the latest reports that have reached here they now threaten to take Manchester. Indeed, for all we know, that city may have already fallen as we speak. There is talk that Derby may be next. Understandably there is mounting panic about what will happen here if, as is almost inevitable, they begin moving southwards towards London. All I can say is God be praised that General Ligonier has set out with the forces assembled at Coventry. I hear he has over two thousand men.’

  ‘That is far fewer than the Highlanders,’ remarked Jones.

  ‘Aye, but I am sure they are better disciplined and that matters much in any battle. Moreover, they fight for liberty and God as well as their country. I won’t tolerate any in here who think we should be transferring our loyalty.’

  ‘Would you then serve your King if given the opportunity?’ enquired Jones.

  ‘Aye, that I would.’

  Jones leaned forward. ‘Then help me. The reason that I am in Warwick is that I am pursuing a traitor who is taking important information to the enemy. If I can prevent him, it may throw the Jacobite forces into disarray. Unfortunately the only lead that I have is that a meeting of traitors was to take place here under cover of a touring group of players performing The Beggar’s Opera.’

  ‘Aye, there was to have been a performance of that here in the morning and another in Coventry in the evening, but they have been cancelled. The players have not turned up.’

  ‘That is because they have been prevented by those loyal to King George. The traitor of whom I speak is called John Burnett but he may well be travelling under an assumed name.’

  ‘Describe him to me.’

  ‘He is not a fine man to look at. He has a pale face that is badly pockmarked and lank black hair and he has a habit of screwing up his eyes and pursing his lips. His nose is hawk-like and his chin pointed. He is of my age but acts much older.’

  The landlord swallowed convulsively. ‘A man of that description came here on horseback at lunchtime and ate a hearty meal. He then asked for directions to Kenilworth Castle.’

  ‘Did he say why he was going there?’

  ‘No, but I did not bother to ask him.’ The landlord paused and then added as justification, ‘He was not a man that I took to.’

  ‘Where is this castle and who resides within it?’

  ‘The castle dates back to the Normans and lies midway between here and Coventry but it is largely ruined thanks to Cromwell’s actions after the Civil War. It was almost like a royal palace in Tudor times when it was the home of the Earls of Leicester, but Cromwell destroyed one wall of its great tower, various parts of the outer bailey, and all its battlements, and he drained away the lake that for centuries had surrounded and protected it. Only the gatehouse was permitted to survive intact and that was in order that a Parliamentarian colonel could make it his home. When the monarchy was restored the castle passed to Sir Edward Hyde, the Earl of Clarendon. The family still own it but they live elsewhere and the place is now just a farm.’

  ‘And do you know anything of the Clarendon family’s political views?’

  ‘The current earl is a Tory but his son, Henry Hyde, Viscount Cornbury, got himself into trouble about twelve years ago by trying to sponsor a French invasion in support of the Old Pretender. Since then he has seemingly mended his ways and he is now the Member of Parliament for Oxford.’

  ‘So, it is possible that the man I seek is secretly meeting the viscount at Kenilworth with a view to persuading him to rejoin the Jacobites?’ The landlord nodded his assent and Jones rose to his feet with excitement. ‘Then I must also ask you for directions to Kenilworth and you must wake me very early so that I can get there in time to prevent the meeting having the success that our country’s enemies desire.’

  The landlord agreed and, as a consequence, Jones foun
d himself once more rising whilst it was still dark so that he could ride out at the first glimmer of morning. On this occasion, he drove his horse as fast as it could go because the landlord had told him the castle was a mere four miles away. Even on a bleak morning in early December the sight of the ruined castle rising above the bare trees took his breath away when he reached it. He had not envisaged anything on its scale. Its red sandstone walls dominated the skyline, the massive ruins testifying to the castle’s former splendour. Jones imagined it as it must have been in its prime – the sweep of its outward walls ornamented with banners, the majesty of its outer bailey with its succession of commanding towers, the beauty of its extensive inner court with its striking mix of medieval and renaissance buildings, and, over it all, the dominating presence of its central Norman citadel with its huge corner turrets. As he drew nearer he saw that what had once been the castle’s surrounding lake was now little more than a swamp covered with the decaying remnants of rushes. There was no trace at all of the knot gardens that had once entertained the most noble in the land. Even more sadly the countryside around, once richly wooded and full of deer and every species of game, was deforested.

  Jones rode past the three-storeyed red sandstone gatehouse that had been converted into a residence. It was built of red sandstone ashlar, rectangular in plan with octagonal turrets at each angle and a battlemented parapet. He suspected that inside there was now little evidence of the building’s original purpose. The landlord had directed him to go to the nearby village, and travel down its High Street to the medieval church of St Nicholas and from there had given him instructions how to find the workshop of a man called John Littleton, who took horn from the local tanneries in order to make combs. He had told Jones that Littleton was utterly loyal to the government and a man who could be relied upon in an emergency because he was both brave and level-headed.

  When Jones pulled up outside the workshop he found that, despite the early hour, there was already a man working. He was tall and rather angular in appearance. Despite the urgency of his mission, Jones could not help but admire the man’s skill. Using tongs the comb-maker had just extracted some horn from a brick kiln and was hitting it with a pruning knife in order to assess by the sound whether the heat had sufficiently softened it. Judging it had, he drove his knife into the thickest section and proceeded to cleverly bring it down in a spiral. He took a piece of what he had sliced and began flattening it by reheating it. Jones knew that this was just the beginning of what was an arduous process because the flattened horn would then have to be marked and cut to shape and ground smooth and, finally, polished to bring out its natural lustre. Dismounting from his horse, Tom spoke to him. ‘It looks hard work, sir, and I am sorry to interrupt you, but I am hoping you are John Littleton. The landlord at the Warwick Arms gave me your name as an honest man who would help me.’

  The comb-maker put down his tools and looked up at his visitor. He had an intelligent, ruddy-skinned face and there was both humour and shrewdness in his striking blue eyes. His nose was slightly crooked as a result of some physical altercation earlier in his life and his brown hair was beginning to be flecked with grey, though Jones judged him to be only in his early forties. Physically he was obviously strong, his frame well built and muscular. ‘Aye, I’m John Littleton,’ he said in a voice that was gruff but which did not lack grace. Jones quickly explained his purpose, ending his account with a description of Burnett. Littleton stared at him throughout as if assessing whether he was being told the truth. Not a muscle moved in his face. There was a brief silence after Jones’s account had finished and then the comb-maker thrust out his right hand and grasped that of his visitor in an iron-like grip. ‘I am no lover of traitors and I am happy to shake the hand of a man who would assist in the downfall of those who destroy the peace of the realm.’ He smiled and the genuine honest worth of the man shone through. ‘As to the person you seek, I saw a man of that description arrive here yesterday though I have no idea where he may have spent the night. What I can vouch for is the fact that he has already departed. He rode past my workshop on a white horse less than fifteen minutes ago, taking the road to Coventry.’

  Jones’s jaw tightened with frustration. ‘Then I must follow him at once before I lose his trail. Pray show me the road that he took.’

  ‘That’s the direction he took,’ said Littleton, pointing down the street. ‘Given what you have told me, sir, I pray that you may not fail to catch him.’

  Jones wasted not a moment. Shouting his thanks, he at once remounted his horse, dug his spurs into its sides, and set off at a gallop down the road. His eyes watered as the cold wind cut into them but he hardly noticed the discomfort, such was his determination to catch up with Burnett. For some half an hour he travelled without any slackening of his pace and then his heart leapt with excitement at the sight of a rider on a white horse ahead of him in the distance. He raised himself in his stirrups to see if he could detect any shortcut that might increase his chances of catching up with his enemy, but, judging the terrain too dangerous, decided that he would have to stick to the road. He could only hope that his horse would prove the faster animal. He dug his spurs into its sides. The poor animal reared with pain but then broke into a gallop, scattering a shower of small stones as it went. The gap between him and the rider ahead gradually narrowed until the sound of his approach made Burnett turn around. Even at a distance Tom could see the shock on his face as he saw who was pursuing him.

  Now began a desperate race as the horses responded to the demands of their masters and for what seemed an eternity the gap between the two riders failed to narrow. It was Burnett’s horse that eventually tired first. He heard its breathing becoming increasingly laboured as it struggled to maintain the pace he desired and he sensed it would not be long before it would collapse under him. He therefore reined it in and swung it around to face his pursuer. He drew out his pistol, uncocked it, and, once he judged his pursuer was in range, pulled the trigger. However, the flintlock mechanism failed to ignite in the damp air. Cursing, he cast the useless weapon aside, and swung his horse back round to resume his flight. The beast did its best to respond but then stumbled, throwing him heavily to the ground. Jones reined in his horse and swiftly dismounted, but even as he did so he saw Burnett stagger to his feet.

  ‘You will not leave this place with what you carry,’ shouted Jones, ‘Hand over whatever documents you have in your possession in the name of King George!’

  Burnett wiped blood from where his mouth had been cut by his fall and his lip curled up in a sneer as he drew his sword. ‘That German usurper has no right to my allegiance nor that of any true Englishman. ’Tis I who serve the rightful king and, in his name, I demand that you let me continue my journey or you will face the consequences.’

  ‘A direct fight is not your usual method, John. I seem to recall that you prefer to seek to injure people without forewarning them, or else employ others to do your dirty work. Why should you now risk your life for a pretender?’

  Burnett’s voice cracked with intense passion as he replied, ‘For the sake of her whom I loved.’

  ‘You refer to Sarah Darr? Can’t you see that she was no more than a murdering, treacherous whore?’

  Burnett’s face distorted with rage. ‘She was worth ten of your stupid, whimpering, ludicrously innocent Sophia!’

  ‘So was it her who recruited you to assist the Jacobite cause?’

  ‘No. That was a decision that I made long ago of my own volition, but I knew not what to do to show my loyalty. By stature and temperament I am not cut out to be a soldier. I was unaware that Sarah was an agent of the Jacobites when I first entered the house in Queen Square. I knew nothing of her family or youth, nothing of her desire for vengeance. The first intimations came the night that Lord Kearsley returned. I heard him enter the house and challenged him. He managed to surprise me and knock me unconscious. By the time that I awoke Sarah had killed him.’ He stopped for a moment. His loss was still too raw for
him to think of her without pain. ‘She told me of her reasons for hating the government and how she had been selected to infiltrate the house. From that moment all I wanted to do was assist her. We worked first as partners and then as lovers.’

  ‘Her way of paying for your services, perhaps?’ goaded Jones.

  The taunt roused all Burnett’s suppressed anger and he hurled himself at the man whom he had hated since childhood. Fortunately Jones had already drawn his own sword and, although caught offguard, he parried the immediate thrust with ease. Nevertheless, such was his half-brother’s fury that he soon found that he could only just manage to keep his enraged adversary at bay by every moment changing his position, even though he had the advantage of height and weight. Neither man was a skilled swordsman and what ensued was no contest fought to fencing rules, but a frenzy of cutting, thrusting and slashing. It was Burnett who eventually drew first blood because the point of his sword struck Jones in the chest, but the blow lacked power and so did not penetrate the cuirass that still lay beneath his coat. Realizing that Jones was wearing some form of protection over his chest, Burnett sought to disable him and immediately followed up the blow with a second vicious thrust that entered the inside of Jones’s sword arm and made its exit at the outside of the elbow. Jones sprang backwards, dislodging the hostile blade from his arm. Such was the flow of adrenaline that he was able to wield his weapon with the same dexterity as before, though the wound began bleeding freely and the sight of this led Burnett to be less cautious. Jones parried a flurry of blows that grew ever more reckless and then, when exhaustion finally caused Burnett to draw breath, he shifted his position and suddenly thrust his sword directly at his opponent’s face. Taken completely by surprise, Burnett had no time to block the blade. It entered his right eye, penetrating his brain and killing him outright.

  For a moment Jones looked at the corpse at his feet, almost expecting Burnett to get up again. Then, as he realized the fight was indeed over, he sank to his knees, his chest heaving. He knew that he had been very fortunate and that, had he not been wearing the cuirass, he might well have been killed. Despite all that Burnett had done, Jones felt only pity for his half-brother. From childhood his nature had been such that none had found him lovable, not even their mother or their uncle. He had been forced to endure seeing an illegitimate foundling receive the affection that was denied him. No wonder he had grown up full of hatred. No wonder that, when the opportunity had arisen to have Jones removed on Guy Fawkes’ Night, he had wished that to happen in the cruellest way possible. Jones thought it likely that Burnett had first taken up the Jacobite cause not because of any deep-seated political or religious views, but because the Jacobites had offered him what he desperately sought: acceptance and recognition. Almost certainly Sarah Darr had manipulated him. When Burnett had finally unlocked his heart, he had given it to a woman more cold and calculating than himself.