Blood On the Stone

by Jake Lynch

  All three of his listeners exhaled audibly at the same time.

  ‘So it was you what killed him?’ Robshaw cut to the chase.

  ‘Well, steady on!’ Birch said. ‘From what we’ve heard, Martin acted in self-defence.’

  ‘That would be for a jury to decide,’ Luke said.

  ‘You’re arresting him?’

  ‘We must, Silver, given what we’ve heard. But you’re right, on Fletcher’s own account, he acted in self-defence.’

  ‘Under attack from a man who’d wronged his daughter. Surely no jury would convict him for that?’

  ‘Maybe not. At least, it would be involuntary manslaughter, not voluntary, since Harbord was the one who drew the weapon. But Fletcher, you’ll have to come with us. One more thing – you didn’t take Harbord’s dagger?’

  ‘No, indeed, sir – left it where it was.’

  ‘That’ll be why the blade was the wrong way up, an’ all – if ’twas still in Harbord’s own hand,’ Robshaw said. Birch looked at him quizzically.

  ‘When we examined the wound, it looked as though the blade had entered the body upside down,’ Luke explained, ‘with the sharp edge uppermost.’

  At that, the constables turned to depart, leading their horses on foot as Fletcher trudged between them. As he showed no inclination to resist or try to escape, they left him unshackled – and, indeed, it was an uneventful walk to Oxford Castle, where they knocked up the gaolers, and had him committed to a cell for the night.

  As they led their horses back towards the Guildhall, Robshaw asked:

  ‘So what was it first put you on to him then?’

  ‘I’ve been slow on the uptake, Robshaw. Distracted. I did wonder how Fletcher knew about Harbord, the first time I met him. There was clearly no love lost. But I put it out of my mind.’

  ‘And then?’

  ‘Millington remembered about Harbord being in Oxford and getting a girl pregnant. But of course I was worried about Cate by then.’

  ‘So it was just now, then, that it all fell into place?’

  ‘Yes. Watching the opera made me realise Harbord’s son could still be around and, if he was orphaned, he might have ended up at the abbey. So he could have been your “ghost”. Then when we saw Martin, I remembered his tale of woe that Silver had told me.’

  ‘Good! Well, that’s that.’

  ‘Aye, well, now for the hard part – getting Cate back.’

  Chapter 60

  The Chimes of Great Tom

  Ed fished in his pocket for his silver hip-flask, took a swig, and passed it wordlessly to Tom Lucy. The officers had kept The Unicorn and Jacob’s Well under surveillance for three hours or so when the mighty bell suspended high in the cathedral next door tolled the nine o’clock student curfew. Ed started forward on his stool. What was this? Two men were walking towards the entrance of the inn. He turned to his fellow captain and saw that he, too, had noticed it: the first such incident of any importance since they took up their vigil.

  ‘That could be them,’ Ed whispered. Would they go inside? He loosened his sabre in its scabbard and slipped off the stool. Strangely, however, the pair merely came to a halt outside the front door of the tavern, and stood there.

  ‘Bold, are they not?’ Ed remarked. ‘I mean, not bothering to hide themselves.’

  A couple of minutes passed by, and they realised something was amiss.

  ‘The men we’re looking for – I thought one was supposed to be big, and the other small,’ Lucy said. ‘These fellows both look about the same size.’

  ‘You’re right,’ Ed replied. He strained to see to the other side of the road. ‘And I don’t think one’s a blackamoor, either.’ At that point, a cloud that had scudded across the moon suddenly cleared, and they could pick out more detail.

  ‘Ah, no! They’re University proctors.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Yes – look at their uniforms.’

  ‘This could ruin everything, Sandys.’

  Ed decided on a policy of direct action.

  ‘I’ll have to go and tell them to get lost.’

  ‘Right. I’ll hold the fort,’ Lucy replied.

  ‘Good evening to you, sirs,’ the captain called out, as he crossed the road towards the proctors. The pair nodded warily in response. ‘Captain Edwin Sandys, at your service. Did my brother not tell you? There’s to be no guard posted outside the inn tonight. We’re watching it from behind the college gates instead.’

  ‘No sir, they did not tell us,’ one of them said.

  ‘I wondered why there was no constables here, like, when we arrived,’ the other remarked.

  *

  As the chimes of Great Tom died away, Francis stood up.

  ‘I’ll go and take another look at the inn. Surely the night watch won’t be guarding it again tonight?’

  ‘Yes, you’d think the constables would have everything they need from there, by now,’ Settle replied thoughtfully. ‘If they are still there, it’ll be a sign that something’s up.’

  As usual, Cate pretended not to listen to the men’s conversation, but she stored this away as another sign of the pamphleteer’s nervousness. As he opened the door to let Francis out, her fingers closed around the bottle underneath her chair and hidden by her skirt – but this was not, in truth, the opportunity she had been waiting for, since, of itself, the departure of the big fellow created insufficient distraction. She had begun seriously considering an attempt to catch Settle unawares and wrest the key from him, but on this occasion he caught her eye on the way back to his seat, fixed a hostile glare in her direction, and placed his sword across his knee.

  Here’s-a-health-unto-His-Majesty – Francis had scarcely set off when there came a knock at the door. Surely he could not be back already? Settle crossed rapidly to the door and opened it, sheathing his blade as he went.

  ‘Hawkins! About time.’

  Cate coiled like a cat ready to spring, her fingers clasping the neck of the bottle. The newcomer was a tall, heavily built fellow who briefly turned towards her one of the cruellest faces, Cate thought, that she had ever seen. He handed in a square wooden box.

  ‘Take hold of this, Settle, there’s a good chap.’

  ‘The blades?’

  ‘Aye. Francis not with you?’

  ‘No, he’s… stepped out.’

  ‘“Stepped out”? You know he can’t be seen, man, else he’ll give us away! How many blackamoors are there, abroad on the streets of Oxford?’

  ‘I’m well aware of that, Hawkins,’ Settle snapped.

  The pamphleteer turned to stow the box on the ground at the far end of the walled-in area, next to the cartwheel; but without closing the door, since Hawkins then slipped out for a second item: a coil of rope. For a brief moment as he came back in, the door swung open, and both men were facing away from it – and from Cate. This was her chance. She swung the bottle up in one motion from underneath her chair, and lobbed it in a perfect arc over the far wall, where it fell with a distinctive crash-and-tinkle on some hard surface beyond.

  ‘What the Devil?’ Hawkins cried, reaching for the hilt of his sword. ‘Someone’s spying on us back there! Give us a leg-up.’ As he placed his foot in Settle’s cupped hands and lifted himself up to peer over the wall, Cate moved as quickly and quietly as she could towards the still-open door. This was working better than she had dared hope. She shifted her weight from right to left foot, then to the right again, to jink around the door without touching it, lest its hinges creak – she had thought of everything. With a backward glance to see she was not being followed, she sprang through the gap and into the undergrowth outside – she was free!

  It was with a jarring thump that Cate, turning to face forwards, ran headfirst into the barrel chest of the man moving in the opposite direction and pulling a low cart, up the path of New Inn Yard towards the hidey-hole.

  ‘Whoa, there,’ said a deep voice – and, in an instant, her hopes and spirits were dashed, as she was seized in an implacab
le grip.

  ‘Let me go, sir!’ she cried. ‘Let me go, I beg of you!’

  ‘Not so fast. ’Tis not so often a young lady rushes into my arms. Seems I got here in the nick of time.’

  By now, Hawkins and Settle had come tumbling out, drawn by the commotion. With a foul oath, Hawkins cuffed her across the face with the back of a heavy hand, and she fell to her knees.

  ‘Try and trick us, would you, Papist trull?’ He reached again for his sword, then returned his hand to his side, seething. ‘Only to think what’s coming to you – you’ll wish I’d finished you off now, by tomorrow morn!’

  ‘Settle, what’s this?’ Francis came jogging back up the yard. ‘Get back inside, all of you. The streets are not empty – we must keep our heads down.’ Cate sobbed in despair. She had come so close to escape. Why, oh why had this other man had to come along at that precise moment? Lifted and propelled back into the yard, she sank into a heap in the corner, shoulders heaving in impotent rage and frustration, along with dread at the fate that awaited her.

  Chapter 61

  Recriminations

  ‘How the deuce did you come to let her out?’ Francis was demanding. ‘If it hadn’t been for Armstrong here, turning up at the right moment, you’d have lost her – and she’d be calling down the night watch!’

  ‘Why, we was short-handed, ’cause you decided to go walkabout,’ Hawkins shot back, his eyes flashing with temper.

  Recriminations did not end with the departure of Armstrong and Hawkins for the night, now they had delivered their contributions to the plan for Cate’s execution.

  ‘Did you get the wallet?’ Settle demanded, once the others had gone.

  ‘Nay,’ the other answered shortly.

  ‘You’re not telling me those constables are still there?’

  ‘Worse. Two proctors – and a captain of the Blues. Even in this light, I reckon I recognised him – could only be from Maastricht. And if he was there, God knows he’d recognise me.’

  ‘Well, maybe you’ll have to do for him as you did for Unsworth.’

  ‘You’re not paying me enough to cross swords with a Horse Guards officer.’

  ‘I’d say you’re turning yellow, though, to look at you, ’tis impossible to tell,’ Settle returned with a sneer.

  Francis took a step and loomed over the smaller man, who backed off, though without lowering his gaze.

  ‘I’ll let the insult go, Settle, this once,’ the ex-soldier said, releasing the sword-hilt from his grasp. ‘Though you should know there’s men now dead who took that liberty with me in the past. I’d chance my arm with him in a duel, if the proctors weren’t there to raise the alarm. But then we’d have the whole regiment down on us.’

  ‘They’d have to find us first.’

  ‘You don’t get it, do you? Think it’s difficult to carry out this plan of yours amid a hue and cry, run by the local constables? Why, a Guards regiment could lock this city down like that’ – and he snapped his fingers.

  ‘Very well,’ the pamphleteer replied. ‘We’ll just have to fetch it in the morn, while all eyes are on College.’

  *

  Back at The Unicorn and Jacob’s Well, after some minutes of indecision, the two night watchmen set off to report on the unexpected development to the head proctor. Feeling greatly relieved, Ed returned to his post, with no means of knowing that the encounter had been witnessed – and misconstrued – by their quarry, who had, of course, turned away just before the men dispersed.

  Chapter 62

  A Plan is Formed

  Luke and Robshaw were handing their horses back in to the ostler when, out of the shadows, came a now familiar voice:

  ‘Sandys! A word, if you please.’ It was ‘Tom’. He did have a knack of appearing as if from nowhere. Luke waved his deputy off to join the Guards captains at Christ Church College, and ushered the spy into his office, where he lit a candle and they sat down. This time, he had some news of his own to impart.

  Both men started to talk at once.

  ‘No – you first,’ Luke said.

  ‘Very well. Stephen College is here in Oxford,’ Tom announced, sitting back to savour the effect of this news. Luke felt a chill through his – what was the word Fletcher had used? – his ‘vitals’.

  ‘He’s going to make a speech tomorrow morning, to the market crowds.’

  ‘I see.’

  ‘I should tell you, the Green Ribbons are planning to build a stage for him outside The New Inn.’

  ‘But – but that’s opposite us here, at the Guildhall.’

  ‘Quite so. Can you think of any reason why?’ Luke shook his head.

  ‘Well… I told you he was a rabble-rouser. I’m afraid he might be planning to rouse a rabble against you.’

  ‘Against me?’ This was, indeed, an alarming prospect.

  ‘Well – against the City. He’s likely to pick up on this business about Harbord – you know, “MP stands for Murdered by Papists”, while the constables do nothing; Oxford is complacent about the threat from Rome, that sort of thing.’

  Now it was Luke’s turn. He found it was a moment he’d been looking forward to.

  ‘Well, his information is out of date. We know who killed Harbord.’

  Tom leant forward.

  ‘Really?’

  Luke recounted Martin Fletcher’s story, with its antecedents in Harbord’s wrongful treatment of his daughter, and abandonment of their child. The spy listened intently, then, at the conclusion of the narrative, asked eagerly:

  ‘How many people know about this?’

  ‘Well, there’s Birch, and Robshaw – and he’s probably told my brother by now. The gaolers at the Castle have Fletcher’s company for tonight, at least, but they ask no questions.’

  ‘Then we’ll have to make sure the story reaches a wider audience, won’t we?’ Tom said, with a smile that would be chilling, were it not for the mutual interests that put them on the same side.

  ‘And how can we do that?’

  ‘I’ve spent the week building up a number of local assets. As things stand, they’re primed to heckle College at his speech tomorrow. When he talks about Harbord, they’re to shout out about the man’s treachery with the French.’

  ‘Will that work?’

  ‘Probably not, by itself. It’s too far removed from what people think they know about him, as you pointed out. But now we have something much better to go on.’

  ‘And what shall I do?’

  Tom paused, pinching his lower lip.

  ‘Your sidekick, Robshaw. He’s well known in the town?’

  ‘Very.’

  ‘Get him to stand in the middle of the crowd when College gets on his hind legs. Tell him to confirm what people say about Harbord.’

  ‘Very well.’

  ‘It’ll sink Harbord’s reputation, ’tis certain – posthumously, of course. More to the point, if it’s timed right, it’ll blow a great big hole in College’s, as well. And that, my dear fellow, will make this whole trip to Oxford worthwhile. Now, I must get to work.’ And, with that, he was gone.

  Chapter 63

  A Night of Tension

  The Sandys brothers exchanged glances as Robshaw noisily finished off the snacks Tom Lucy had spirited out of the officers’ mess at Christ Church – the captain’s last contribution to the night’s endeavours before turning in for some rest. The sky was now lightening.

  ‘Where in God’s name are they?’

  ‘You’re quite sure they’re still in Oxford, Luke?’ Ed asked for what felt like the twentieth time.

  ‘Have to be. No one saw them leave – the city gates are guarded round the clock. And Settle will have to get that wallet back.’ It had become an article of faith.

  ‘Can’t see us in here, can they?’ Robshaw asked, between mouthfuls. As dawn was breaking, they checked the lines of sight from their hide.

  ‘We’d see them first, I’m sure.’ Ed rested his fists on his angled thighs, while Robshaw picked his teeth, and
Luke – unable to sit still any longer – got up from the high stool and peered through the crack made by the little door in the great oaken gates, as if looking hard enough would cause the quarry to materialise before his eyes.

  *

  Slumped in the corner of her walled-in prison at the end of New Inn Yard, Cate passed an interminable night. Through the miasma of despair and dread, the men’s occasional movements registered but dimly. Over and over, she upbraided herself. What if she had not looked back at the very moment of escape? Surely then, she could have sidestepped Armstrong as he advanced, and relied on her nimble feet to keep her out of reach? Why hadn’t she simply bitten the hand that clamped itself around her upper arm, and shocked him into letting go? Her penitence mingled with bitter recollections of Father Morris’s scolding, and the scorn of Lady Weston. Surely, it seemed now, they were right about her shortcomings. If only she could have seen them for herself.

  Cate had often looked at the framed picture on her windowsill and wondered what it must have been like for poor St Catherine, all those centuries ago, to be slain in that cruel and agonising way. She clamped her hands on the sides of the chair in an effort to control her shivering. Would men really, truly do that, now, in England? Surely they would be unable to bring themselves to follow through on the purpose she had attributed to them? Francis had called it a ‘spectacular’ – a sectarian ritual too grisly and perverted for him to be a willing participant, at any rate; though that had not prevented him from snatching and holding her in the first place.

  Did she dream it, or did the ex-military man get up, at some point when clouds were scudding across the moon; step, with that surprising delicacy of his, around the snoring Settle, and make his way to the other end of the yard to kneel by her chair?

  ‘You know, don’t you?’ he seemed to say – to which she responded by nodding in mute despair. ‘Well, keep your chin up and your wits about you. It might never happen.’ In this dream, she must have looked at him in wonderment, for she could recall saying nothing, but he seemed to go on to explain.