by Deryn Lake
Now she said, ‘I will see Philadelphia before I leave.’
‘Must you go so soon?’ answered Lucy, and that one sentence spoke eloquently of her troubles.
‘I am afraid I must. My mother was expecting me last night. She has come to rely on me rather a good deal since my father died.’
‘Oh I do understand,’ sighed Lucy with feeling.
And she sighed all the more when, an hour later, Mr Langham’s horse and the Baker coach which was to carry Henrietta home, were brought to the front of the palace.
‘I shall miss you,’ she said, and Henrietta could not help but notice that the surgeon’s fingers gripped the maiden lady’s hand tightly as he bent to kiss it. Feeling an intruder, Henrietta looked away. When she glanced up again, John Langham had mounted his horse and was riding off.
‘Come to see us soon, dearest Henrietta,’ said Lucy. ‘And give my warmest regards to your dear mother, and all your sisters and little brother.’
Henrietta hugged her, momentarily feeling the sadness which always swept her when she had to leave the palace.
‘I will try.’
‘It may be sooner than you think. If they catch that robber, you’ll have to identify him.’
‘I hope not,’ answered Henrietta, before she could stop herself. Lucy looked astounded but, unwilling to explain, Miss Trevor climbed into the coach, Sarah clambered up behind, and they were off to Glynde with a quick wave and a blown kiss.
But Lucy’s words played on Henrietta’s mind. If the highwayman were caught and she was sent for, it would be her duty to tell the truth. For all he had returned her jewels, it was a fact that he and his fellows were a scourge to the countryside, the worst kind of criminal who attacked the innocent and defenceless under cover of darkness. Yet how loath she would be to condemn a man to die. She abominated hanging and even now still had to avert her eyes from a gibbet lest she faint. She feared that death so much yet, cruelly, thoughts of it came to plague her at night. Time and again she dreamed that she was being forced to witness an execution, an execution of someone she loved and yet was powerless to help. Always she would wake up crying and sweating, her hands on her neck, and now the very thought of it made her choke.
Sarah looked at her curiously.
‘Are you all right, mistress?’
‘A tickle in my throat, that is all. Where are we?’
‘At Cross in Hand. Shall we stop before we reach Glynde?’
‘Yes, we shall.’ Henrietta put her head out of the window and called to the coachman, ‘I would like to rest at the Blackboys Inn for a while.’
‘Very good, Miss Trevor.’
Sarah grinned, wriggling in her seat in a most uncomfortable manner, and it was with some relief that Miss Trevor drew up before the ancient coaching inn and saw her servant dive off into the bushes. With the Baker coachman preceding her as escort, Henrietta went inside.
The inn was fairly empty and she was shown to a small snug with only one other occupant. He stood up politely as she came in, seeing that she was a woman of position, and asked, ‘Does my presence embarrass you, Madam? Would you prefer me to go?’
Very charmingly Henrietta smiled and said, ‘No. Do stay. I shall not be here long.’
The man bowed, sweeping off his hat. Henrietta noticed that, a little unfashionably, he wore a tie wig, the queue woven with a black ribbon. She wondered at once who he was, for this was a wig that though considered undress was worn by every social class.
Curious, she asked, ‘Are you travelling far?’ and when he replied, ‘To Mayfield,’ was all attention.
‘I have just come from there,’ she volunteered, studying him closely.
He was reasonably tall, rather slender in build, his features mobile and expressive. Predominant in his face were a serious pair of eyes, pewter in shade and very well shaped. Henrietta noticed, too, that he had beautiful hands, long-fingered, almost feminine looking.
He was speaking. ‘... and don’t know the area at all. I am going there to visit.’
‘The Bakers?’
The man suddenly looked cautious. ‘No. To renew acquaintance with an elderly aunt.’
‘I see.’
There was silence as they stared at one another. Right at the back of Henrietta’s brain came the thought that she had met him before. Much to her surprise he said at that exact moment, ‘Forgive me, but do I know you?’
She laughed. ‘I was thinking the same thing.’
‘Hastings? Could it be there? I have lived in the vicinity some while.’
‘I doubt it. I very rarely go there.’
‘Then it is a mystery.’ He stood up again and bowed. ‘Allow me to introduce myself. Nicholas Grey. Lieutenant Nicholas Grey.’
‘Henrietta Trevor of Glynde.’ She inclined her head. ‘So you are an army man, Lieutenant?’
Grey hesitated and a shadow crossed his face. Then his eyes became even graver as he said in a lowered tone, ‘No, actually not. I am attached to the Excise Service.’
‘You are a Riding Officer?’ asked Henrietta wide-eyed.
‘Yes.’
‘And bound for Mayfield? May I ask for what purpose?’
‘To catch Kit Jarvis.’
‘Kit Jarvis!’ said Henrietta, swamped with relief. ‘Then I wish you luck, sir.’
‘I shall need it,’ said Nicholas Grey grimly, ‘because I swear to God I’ll have him before this year is out — or die.’ He straightened himself. ‘I must take my leave. I have said too much already. I do trust that you will keep my confidence, Miss Trevor.’
‘You may rely on that.’
‘Thank you.’ He picked up his things and went to the door, then turned to give her a smile. Henrietta noticed that, of all the inappropriate things, the Riding Officer carried a lute.
Thirty-five
A spring night with a fine light breeze blowing the racing clouds over the face of a high young moon. Everything still, and then a faint whistle in the darkness, followed by a low chuckle. From the secret pathway through the fields and woods, coming out at Coggins Mill, two figures detached themselves from the dense shadows. Kit and Edward Jarvis had left the smugglers’ road and were calmly walking towards the public highway.
In silence, Edward mounted the horse that had been left tethered to a tree; while Kit went on foot to the three attached cottages overlooking the sweep of countryside leading to the twisting road at Pennybridge. He knocked on the door of the central one, smiling to himself, then when Lizzie Pearce answered it, candle held high, an anxious expression on her face, he broke into a laugh.
‘Lizzie, you old witch. How are you?’
She quailed before him. ‘Kit! I never thought to see you here.’
‘I’m sure you didn’t,’ he answered, still grinning. ‘May I step inside?’
Reluctantly she drew back, allowing him just enough room to walk past her, watching while Kit went straight to the fire in the inglenook, holding his hands out to it.
‘It’s still cold for all it’s the end of April.’
‘Aye, it is. Will you stay for a jug of ale?’
‘I’ll stay longer than that. I believe you have certain information for me, Lizzie.’
The woman went pale and said feebly, ‘What information would that be, Kit?’
‘What indeed?’ He turned from the fire to look at her. ‘I’m told that Emmy is back.’
Lizzie hesitated, wondering whether to tell the truth or feign ignorance. Finally she said, ‘She’s visiting, yes.’
‘Visiting is it? That’s not what I was told. I heard she was back from London with a fancy man. A gentleman outer who lives here as well. So you’re harbouring criminals now, eh Lizzie?’
The woman rallied a little. ‘Who are you to talk, Kit Jarvis? Why, if the names of all who give you safe house and whose cellars you stock were to be revealed, then most of Mayfield is harbouring a criminal.’
He laughed more gently. ‘Don’t be riled. I spoke in jest. But you know how it was
with me and Emmy.’
‘I know that she found you in bed with a London doxie and left you flat.’
‘That was just another female. But I had feelings for Emmy. Always did, from the moment I set eyes on her. I dare say in time I would have married her.’
The atmosphere between them had relaxed and now they sat down on either side of the fire, smiling at each other.
‘So who is her new lover? What’s his name?’
Lizzie looked cautious again. ‘Why do you want to know?’
‘Because he’s on my patch, that’s why.’
‘But he’s not doing you any harm. You’re not in the same line of trade.’
‘He’ll attract attention to Mayfield.’
Lizzie laughed scornfully. ‘Mayfield is the centre of attention already. It is hardly likely to gain more through him. What’s the real reason, Kit? Are you jealous?’
He looked uncomfortable. ‘A little, yes. I’ll brook no challenge to my leadership.’
There was a companionable silence while the two listened to the song of the fire; the spit of logs and the lick of flames, and the puff of the blackened kettle that stood on the grate. Kit, following an obvious line of thought, asked ‘Are you all right for tea?’
‘I could do with some more.’
‘Then you shall have it. Anything else?’
‘I can’t afford it.’
Kit leaned forward, putting his elbows on his knees and cupping his face in his hands. ‘Then you shall have a gift. Perhaps some lace. If you will give me one piece of information.’
‘The gentleman’s outer name, I suppose.’
‘Correct. Who is he?’
‘Jacob,’ answered Lizzie slowly, suddenly relishing the betrayal. ‘Jacob Challice from Norfolk.’
*
When Edward left Kit at Coggins Mill, he rode swiftly up the eastern track to the village, passing a cottage that looked like a ship on his right and, amongst others, one of his safe houses with a concealed cellar. But tonight he had no wish to stop and instead hurried to the brow of the hill and, as always, cast his eyes in the direction of the palace.
He loved the place; loved its old warm lines and glorious history. In fact he liked nothing better than to dwell on its past; on archbishops strong and weak, pious and plotting; and on the private citizens who had owned it — Sir Thomas Gresham, courtier to Queen Elizabeth; Sir Henry Neville; Sir Thomas May and his brilliant son Tom, who had become both poet and historian and who, after losing favour with Charles I, had turned against the king and taken the side of the Commonwealth in the Civil War.
Edward thought of Tom’s death, alone and unmarried, strangled by his nightcap. It was said that from being a handsome youth, Tom had gained weight in middle life and on going ‘well to bed’ was found dead next morning, the tragedy apparently caused by Tom tying the strings of his nightcap too tightly beneath his fat cheeks and chin. Edward had once discovered a little rhyme about his hero which read, ‘As one put drunk into the packet-boat, Tom May was hurried hence and did not know’t.’
Thinking about it always made him smile and he wondered why he should have such a soft spot for this tragicomic figure from history. He thought that possibly it was they had something in common. Deep down in Edward, though he would rather have died than let it be found out by anyone — particularly Kit — was a yearning for handsome young men.
The thought made him shudder and he hurried on, passing the Middle House and the Star Inn and all the many cottages that huddled on either side of the track and about the church, until he came to the Royal Oak, where he tethered his horse to a post and went inside.
He was greeted with enthusiasm — the Oak being not only a safe house but a local distribution point — for rubbing shoulders with the agricultural workers were several members of Kit’s gang, and some present were both. These were hard times and men could receive more for a single night’s work with the free-traders than they had a hope of earning during a week’s labouring.
Detaching himself from the others, a man came to join the new arrival. It was the infamous Francis Hammond, recounting with glee the story of how he had been arrested by the Jaretts — a father and son still swearing revenge against the smugglers for a beating they had once received — and of how Justice Selby, the magistrate, had refused to commit him and had, instead, ordered the Jarretts to accept Hammond’s fine as recompense.
‘It was a triumph,’ he said now, rubbing his hands in glee. ‘You should have seen their stupid faces, like a pair of cheeses on the sweat, Edward.’
He was a jolly little man, round as a ball and quite as bouncy; his principal preoccupation, other than his function as a free-trader and Jacobite, being women, a fact that Edward found faintly distasteful and Kit amusing.
‘Oh, I met a lovely dolly-mop in London last run. Oh, oh, oh could she jig Moll Peatley’s,’ said Francis now.
Edward pulled a face. ‘I have no wish to hear the details of your sordid life, thank you.’
‘Not a rum puff are you?’ asked Hammond, and then screamed with laughter.
The question hit Edward’s weak spot and he answered angrily, ‘No. Nor a rum dell lover either. Be off!’
Their voices had risen without them knowing and there was a sudden hush in the long room, its walls and beams blackened with pipe-smoke and its stone floor worn with the centuries of feet that had trodden it. Into this silence, rather as if he was making an entrance in a play, a newcomer walked in from outside and, as every head wheeled round to look at him, gave a nervous smile.
The landlord, a swarthy pock-marked man known as Unkle to free-traders and villagers alike, hissed, ‘Now lads,’ and then stepped forward. ‘Can I help you, Sir?’ he asked in a different voice.
‘Er, yes,’ the man answered diffidently. ‘I was hoping to find a room for the night. I am here visiting relations but discover there is no place for me to stay at the moment.’
‘Well, it might be possible,’ Unkle said slowly, aware of every eye upon him and not wanting to make a mistake before Kit Jarvis’s brother.
‘I’ll pay well,’ put in the other.
‘Perhaps for one night. We’re a busy coaching inn and I don’t like to fill the rooms for too long.’
‘I’d be most grateful. Perhaps I should introduce myself. I am Nicholas Grey from London. A student of flora.’
‘Who’s she?’ asked someone — and there was a general rumbling laugh.
‘Wild flowers,’ answered Grey, blushing a little. ‘I hope to compile and illustrate a book.’
There was another snigger and then attention turned away from the stranger, who was considered by those present to be a regular pinkum and not worth looking at. Edward was the only one who went forward, knowing that his reason for joining the slender young man was not entirely to glean information.
Saying, ‘Can I sit with you?’ he did so, adding, ‘I’m quite interested in wild flowers myself and could show you where a few rare species grow.’
The stranger’s arresting eyes looked at him gratefully. ‘Would you really? How very kind. Please do join me. May I get you some ale?’
‘I’ll take a jug,’ said Edward, wondering which of his many aliases he should use. He decided on Rawlins, a pseudonym the brothers had often adopted in the past.
‘I’m Rawlins,’ he said. ‘Roger Rawlins.’
Was it his imagination or was there a momentary flicker of interest on Grey’s face? But if so, the explanation came at once for Nicholas said, ‘That was my mother’s maiden name, you know. Do you come from round here? We might be connected.’
Edward blundered on, his guard somewhat lowered by the stranger’s manner.
‘Well, I do and I don’t. I was born in Tunbridge Wells but moved to Mayfield some years ago.’
‘Really? I wonder if I have any connections in Tunbridge Wells. I cannot recall my mother mentioning any. But it is possible I suppose.’
‘And your relatives in Mayfield. Are they Rawlins?’
This was Edward’s attempt at a trap. However, Nicholas Grey answered smoothly, ‘No, they are the Medleys of Sharnden.’
‘And they had no room for you to stay?’
‘Not tonight,’ continued Nicholas, unruffled. ‘They were not expecting me. All will be prepared by tomorrow.’
Satisfied, Edward leaned back and consumed his ale in a single draught, allowing Nicholas to replenish it for him. And it was at this precise moment that Kit walked in and came straight to the table where his brother sat.
Instinctively, the smuggler knew at once that the man with whom Edward was so obviously entranced was a Riding Officer, despite his slender appearance and attractive face. For Kit knew better than most that the Excise were not without cunning, that the men they employed to listen to rumours, yet keep their own identity secret, were often the most unlikely. He also knew poor Edward’s weakness, suppressed and supposedly secret for so many years, and thought to himself, ‘If he continues like this, he’ll have to go.’
Taking the only remaining seat on the settle, right beside Grey, Kit said, ‘I don’t know you, Sir, but would like to make your acquaintance. I’m John Gibb of Coggins Mill, a fish hawker by trade. And you?’
‘Nicholas Grey, Master Gibb. An author — or hopefully to be so when my book on flowers is complete.’
‘Flowers, eh? Well, if you’re roaming the woods in search of your subject I’d advise you to be in before dusk.’
Grey looked nonplussed and then his brow cleared. ‘Because of the smugglers, you mean?’
Kit roared with laughter. ‘Smugglers? Dear me no. They’d not harm an innocent gentleman like yourself. No, there’s a far greater menace in Mayfield nowadays.’
‘And what would that be?’
‘A rum-padder, sir. A highwayman, properly equipped with pistols and horse. He held up the Baker coach last week and got away with the money-box, to say nothing of Squire Baker’s personal effects. And since then he’s been on the same road, higher up, and taken another picking.’