“Oh Joseph … are you hurt? These kind people … They must come in …”
A man came out of the house. He was tall and I guessed in his mid-twenties.
“What on earth … ?” he began.
“Oh Edward, your father—he’s been robbed on the road. These kind people …”
Edward took charge of the situation.
“Are you hurt, Father?”
“No … no. They only wanted poor old Honeypot and my purse. But there I was with nothing … nothing … and a good seven miles from home.”
The young man turned to us. “We are deeply grateful for the help you gave my father.”
“They must come in,” said Mrs. Barrington. “What are we thinking of? We are just about to serve dinner …”
My father said: “We have to get to Nottingham. I have urgent business there.”
“But we have to thank you,” said Mrs. Barrington. “What would have happened to my husband if he had been left there … unable to get home.”
“No one would stop … except these kind people,” added Mr. Barrington.
“They were all scared to,” replied my father. “They know something of these knavish tricks people get up to nowadays.”
“You stopped,” said Mrs. Barrington. “Otherwise my husband would have had to walk home. That would have been too much for him in his state of health. I don’t know how to thank you.”
“You must come in and have a meal with us,” said Edward with the air of a man who is used to giving orders.
“We have to book rooms at an inn,” explained my father.
“Then you must come tomorrow night.”
My mother said we should be delighted.
“Very well, tomorrow. The name of the house is Lime Grove. Anyone will direct you here. Everyone in Nottingham will know the Barringtons.”
We said goodbye and as we drove away my mother said: “I’m glad we stopped and brought him home.”
“I have an idea,” my father reminded her, “that you tried to persuade me not to.”
“Well, those highwaymen can do such dreadful things.”
“I was terrified when you stepped into the road,” I added.
He gave me that look which I knew so well—slightly sardonic with the twitching of the lips.
“Oh, I was not in the least alarmed because I knew my daughter was there to look after me.”
“You are a rash man,” I said. “But I am glad you were tonight.”
“I look forward to dinner,” added my mother. “The family seem very agreeable.”
Then we were on the road to Nottingham.
We found a good inn in the town and my father was treated with the utmost respect. He seemed to be known, which surprised me. I had always been aware that he had a secret life which was involved in matters besides banking and his various business interests in London as well as the management of the estate. The secret life had taken him to France in the past and involved him and his son Jonathan in numerous activities. Jonathan had died because of his involvement; and Dolly was somehow caught up in the intrigue through the French spy Alberic who had loved her sister Evie. None of us could be entirely unaffected by the smallest action of those around us.
But such activities clearly had their advantages which were now borne home to me. I believed my father was a man who was capable of taking actions which might be impossible for most men.
My spirits were rising. He would use his influence to free Romany Jake.
My mother whispered to me when we were alone in that room which was to be mine and which was next to my parents’: “If anyone can save the gypsy, your father can.”
“Do you think he will?” I asked.
“He knows your feelings. My dear child, he would do anything he possibly could for you.”
That was a great comfort and I felt a good deal better than I had since that terrible moment when the door of Grasslands had opened and Romany Jake stood there while I realized that my father and the man Forby were behind me.
The very next morning my father was busy. He had discovered that the trial would not take place for a week.
“So we have some time at our disposal,” he said with gratification.
He saw several people of influence and when we met over luncheon he told us that the victim was said to be a man of unsullied virtue by his friends.
“We have to prove him otherwise,” he added.
“Would that save Romany Jake?” I asked.
“No. But it would be a step in the right direction. The girl will be represented as a person of low morals.”
“How could they prove that?”
“Easily. They’ll have friends to come forward and swear to it. I’ll tell you what I plan to do. The gypsies are encamped outside the town. They are awaiting the trial. I’ll see them tomorrow and I’ll impress on them that if we can prove the girl to be a virgin, we may have a good case.”
“Why not now?”
“My dear daughter, you are impatient. First I have to make inquiries. And have you forgotten that we have a dinner appointment for tonight?”
“Those nice Barringtons!” said my mother. “It will be interesting to get to know them.”
“We are here to save Romany Jake,” I reminded her.
“We’ll do our best,” said my father. “Now these Barringtons live in the neighbourhood. They are gentry … obviously. They might know the local squire and perhaps they were acquainted with his nephew. You have to tread cautiously in these matters. Leave no stone unturned. A little diversion this evening will do us no harm.”
So that evening we drove out to the Barringtons’, where we were most warmly welcome. Mr. and Mrs. Barrington with their son, Edward, were waiting at the door to greet us, and we were taken into an elegant drawing room on the first floor. Its long windows looked out over well-trimmed lawns and flowerbeds.
We were given wine and again effusively thanked by them all.
“We want you to meet the rest of the family,” said Mrs. Barrington. “They are all anxious to express their thanks.”
My father raised his hand. “We have had too many thanks already for what—-on our part—was a very trivial service.”
“We shall never forget it,” said Mr. Barrington solemnly.
“Oh, here is my daughter Irene,” said Mrs. Barrington. “Irene, come and meet the kind people who brought your father home yesterday.”
Irene was a fresh-faced young woman of about twenty. She shook our hands warmly and said how grateful she was to us.
“And here is Clare. Clare, come and meet Mr. and Mrs. and Miss Frenshaw and join your thanks to ours. Miss Clare Carson is our ward and a remote relation. Clare has lived with us almost for the whole of her life.”
“Since I was seven years old,” said Clare. “Thank you for what you did.”
“I think we might go in for dinner,” said Mrs. Barrington.
The dining room was as elegant as the drawing room. It was rapidly growing dark and candles were lighted.
“This is a most unexpected pleasure,” said my mother. “We did not expect to be invited out in Nottingham.”
“How long do you stay?” asked Edward.
“For a week or so, I believe. We are a little undecided at the moment.”
“It depends I suppose on how long your business lasts.”
“That is so.”
“Business is always uncertain,” said Mrs. Barrington, “as we know to our cost, don’t we, Edward?”
“That is very true,” agreed Edward.
“You are involved in the making of lace,” said my mother. “That must be quite fascinating.”
“My family has been in the business for generations,” explained Mr. Barrington. “Sons have followed sons through generations. Edward is taking over from me. Well, I would say he has taken over, wouldn’t you, Edward? I have little say in matters now.”
“My husband wants to get away from Nottingham,” Mrs. Barrington told us. “He wa
nts a place in the country somewhere, not so far away that he can’t look in on the factory now and then. But his health has not been good. Affairs like that of last night are not good for him.”
“They could happen anywhere,” I said.
“But of course. He has not been very well lately …”
Mr. Barrington said: “I’m quite all right.”
“No you are not. Bear me out, Edward. We’ve been discussing this. You come from Kent, I believe?”
“Oh yes,” said my mother. “Eversleigh has been in our family for generations. It’s Elizabethan … rather rambling … but we all love it. It’s the family home. We’re not far from the sea.”
“It sounds ideal,” said Mr. Barrington.
“Are there any pleasant houses for sale in your neighbourhood?” asked his wife.
“I don’t know of any.”
“Let us know if you do.”
“I will,” promised my mother.
“Kent would be rather a long way from Nottingham,” said Clare.
She was pale, brown-haired with hazel eyes. I thought her rather insignificant.
“Indeed not,” said Mrs. Barrington. “We should want to be a fair distance away otherwise Mr. Barrington would be running to the factory every day. It would be the only way of stopping him if there was a long journey to be made. In any case there are no houses for sale there. I think we shall look in Sussex or Surrey. I have a fancy for those areas.”
“They are beautiful counties,” said my father; and the conversation continued in this strain until Edward said: “The assizes are coming to Nottingham tomorrow. There is a trial coming up. A gypsy murdered a young man. Judge Merrivale will probably try the case.”
“Merrivale,” said my father. “I’ve heard of him. He’s quite a humane fellow, I believe.”
“He isn’t one of our hanging judges.”
I put in rather hotly: “It is wrong that there should be hanging judges. They should all be humane.”
“So should we all,” said Edward, “but, alas, we are not.”
“But when it is a matter of a man’s life …”
“My daughter is right,” said my father. “There should be one standard for all. What chance do you think the gypsy has?”
“He hasn’t a chance. He’ll go to the gibbet. No doubt about that.”
“That will be most unjust!” I cried.
My eyes were blazing and they were looking at me in some surprise.
“Perhaps I had better explain our business here,” said my father. “I have come to do what I can for this gypsy. It appears that he killed a man who was attempting to rape one of the girls on the encampment. Unfortunately the man who was murdered was the nephew of Squire Hassett who is quite a power round here.”
The Barringtons exchanged glances.
“He is not a very popular man,” said Edward. “He drinks to excess, neglects his estate and leads rather a disreputable life.”
“And what of the nephew who was killed?” asked my father.
“A chip off the old block.”
“Dissolute … drinking … a frequenter of brothels?” went on my father.
“That would be an accurate description.”
My father nodded. “You see, the gypsies encamped on my land. I met the fellow who is accused. He seemed a decent sort for a gypsy and his story is that this nephew was trying to rape the girl.”
“It’s very likely,” put in Mr. Barrington.
“Oh! Could I get some information about him? Perhaps from people who have suffered at his hands?”
“I think that might be possible. There was one family up at Martin’s Lane. They were very distressed about one of their girls.”
“Wronged by this charming fellow, I suppose,” said my father.
“No doubt of it. And there were others.”
“Perhaps I could prevail on you to give me the names of these people.”
“We shall be delighted to help.”
I was getting excited. I believed that fate had led us to the Barringtons who were going to prove of inestimable value to us.
It was in a state of euphoria that we said goodnight to the Barringtons and rode back to the inn.
“What a charming family!” said my mother. “I wish they would find a house near us. I should like to see more of them. I thought Mr. and Mrs. Barrington so pleasant, Edward and Irene too. The girl Clare was so quiet. I would say Edward is a very forceful young man.”
“He would have to be if he is running a factory,” said my father.
“Clare was like a poor relation,” I said.
“Poor relations can be a little tiresome because they find it hard to forget it,” added my mother. “Everyone else is prepared to but they seem to get a certain satisfaction in remembering.”
And so we reached the inn, talking of our pleasant evening. Mr. Barrington’s ill fortune on the road had turned out to be very diverting for us.
The next day we all went to the gypsy encampment. I could smell the fires before we reached it, and a savoury smell came from a pot which one of the women was stirring. Other women sat about splitting withy sticks to make into clothes pegs. The caravans were drawn up on a patch of land and the horses tethered to the bushes.
“Is there a Penfold Smith there?” called my father.
A man came out of one of the caravans. He was middle-aged and swarthy; he walked towards us with the panther grace of the gypsy.
“I am Penfold Smith,” he said.
“You know me,” replied my father. “You camped on my land. I have heard that a friend of yours is in trouble and I have come to help.”
“He was betrayed … near your land.”
“No, no!” I cried. “He was not betrayed. I did not know …”
“My daughter wanted to help him. It was not her fault that she was followed. I am here to do what I can for this man. If you will help me we may get somewhere.”
“What could we do … against the squire and his sort? He owns the land here. He’s a powerful man and we are only gypsies.”
“I have some evidence which may prove useful. I can prove that the victim was a man of disreputable character. It is your daughter, is it not, who was attacked by him?”
“It was.”
“May I see her?”
Penfold Smith hesitated. “She has been very upset.”
“She wants to save Romany Jake, doesn’t she?”
“Yes, indeed, she does.”
“Then she must help us.”
“Wicked things are said against her.”
“That is why we must do all we can to prove them false.”
“Who would listen to her?”
“It is possible to make people listen to her.”
“How?”
“May I see her?”
Penfold Smith hesitated a moment longer, then he called: “Leah. Come here, Leah.”
She came out of the caravan. She was very beautiful—a young girl a year or so older than myself, very slim with black hair and dark eyes. I was not surprised that such a creature caught the fancy of the lecherous young man.
My father turned to my mother. “You speak to her. Tell her that we believe her. Tell her we want to do everything to help. Explain to her.”
My mother knew what was expected of her. She laid a hand on the girl’s shoulder. “Leah,” she said, “believe me when I say we have come to help. We have already evidence of the nature of the man who would have attacked you.”
She said gently: “Jake saved me. But for him …” She shivered.
“Yes,” said my mother, “and now we must save Jake. We will do anything to save him. Will you?”
“Yes,” she answered. “I will do anything.”
“What we must do is prove that you are an innocent girl. Will you do that?”
“How? They won’t believe me.”
“There are tests. Not very pleasant but necessary. I mean … they would have to believe you if the evidence was ther
e.”
“Tests?” she asked.
“If the court is told that you are a virgin then all the stories which had been circulating about you would be proved false. We know that the man who died was a rake… a seducer, a rapist. If we could tell the court that you, on the other hand, are a virgin … Do you see?”
She nodded.
“Would you agree to this?” asked my father of Penfold Smith.
“Is it necessary?”
“I think it might be vital to our cause.”
“I would do anything to save him,” said Leah.
We went into the caravan and talked for a while. Leah told us that she had been aware of Ralph Hassett before the attack. He had tried to talk to her and she had run away. Then he had waylaid her and the attempted assault had taken place.
“I think,” said my father, “that we are getting somewhere.”
Penfold Smith, who had at first been suspicious, now accepted the fact that we wanted to help. I think that was due to my mother.
We went back to the inn and we talked continuously about the possibility of saving Romany Jake.
Fortune seemed to go our way. A panel of respectable matrons agreed to make the examination and to our great joy declared Leah to be virgo intacta.
Edward Barrington came to the inn and told us that if he could be of any use he would be delighted. He knew that influential people in Nottingham would be eager to see justice done, and they would see that the evidence in Romany Jake’s favour was brought forward and, what was more important, heard.
“All is going well,” said my father.
I wished I could have seen Romany Jake. I wanted to assure him that it was through no fault of mine that he had been caught. I wanted him to know that I had come to Grasslands to warn him, and that I had no idea that I had been seen.
Then came the day of the trial.
My father attended. My mother and I stayed in the inn. My father was going to say a word in the accused’s favour if possible. He was going to tell the court that he knew the gypsy because he had camped on his land and he was certain that he was not the young man to engage in a brawl without good reason for doing so.
He declared he would make them listen to what he had to say, and of course they could not fail to listen to my father. He was certain that when the evidence of Ralph Hassett’s dissolute behaviour was brought to light and with it the proof of Leah’s virginity, this could not be a hanging case.
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