To Sleep No More

by Deryn Lake

  Again Grey’s expressive features registered more than a passing interest and Kit could not resist a grin.

  ‘I shall have to be very careful, I can see. But surely the villain is not residing in Mayfield?’

  ‘Ah, that is where you’re wrong, sir. He’s lodging not a stone’s throw from where I live. Why, I could point out the very place to you.’

  ‘I should be very interested to see it, Mr Gibb,’ said Lieutenant Grey, this time with admirable facial control. ‘And do you also know his name?’

  ‘Aye, that I do, sir. It’s Challice. Jacob Challice.’

  ‘Well, well, well! Surely he must be new on the scene. I’ve never heard him mentioned before.’

  ‘Oh, he’s new all right,’ said Kit Jarvis, ‘but I reckon it won’t be long before he’s history. If a Riding Officer should get onto his trail ...’

  ‘Quite so,’ said Nicholas Grey.

  *

  ‘Why, dearest Grace,’ said Mrs Trevor, slitting open the seal of the letter just handed to her by a footman, ‘this is from Miss Baker, hoping that you are well.’ She scanned the contents and drew in her breath sharply, then went on, ‘She says that six dragoons have arrived in Mayfield and that there is to be an imminent arrest but no one knows quite of whom. Oh, my love, do you think they are going to apprehend that dreadful cut-throat who robbed Mr Baker?’

  Mrs Trevor prided herself on using names correctly and insisted that George Baker was not really the squire, as his elder brother the Reverend Peter Baker was the heir, and in any event their father was still alive. She also liked to call Henrietta by her given name of Grace, though she had to admit with the rest of the family that it really did not suit her.

  But for once her eldest daughter did not demur, simply rising to her feet and saying, ‘If they are, they will call me back to Mayfield to identify him and I should hate that. I would not like to be responsible for seeing a man hang.’

  ‘But he is a robber and a villain and the gallows is where he belongs.’

  ‘I know you are right, Mother. It is simply the thought I cannot abide.’

  Henrietta stood up restlessly and crossed over to her mother’s bedroom window. The room was situated in the east wing of the manor house and was one of the few family rooms in that wing. As far as her eye could see the grounds beyond the ha-ha stretched away to a magnificent parkland while in the foreground, sweet brown cows grazed contentedly beside a flock of sheep and lambs. It was all so beautiful and so alive beneath the butterfly blue late April sky, that she could not bear to think that a mere word from her might condemn a man never to see such a sight again.

  Reading everything in her daughter’s averted back, the beautiful Widow Trevor also rose to her feet and crossed to Henrietta’s side, slipping her arm about her waist.

  ‘Perhaps Mr Baker will identify him instead.’

  ‘He couldn’t, Mother. At least he couldn’t without lying. I was the only one to see his face.’

  ‘And what sort of face was it?’

  ‘Ugly. No, not really. Handsome in some ways. Very rugged. Do you know what I mean?’

  ‘No,’ said Mrs Trevor. ‘To be honest, no. Yet he must have held some fascination.’

  Henrietta shot her a quick glance. Sometimes her mother, despite all the difficulties put upon her through bringing up a family of ten children alone, was strangely perceptive.

  Mrs Trevor kissed her daughter at the point where the luxuriant honey-rich hair sprang from the forehead, noticing that her crooked dimples had vanished. ‘My dearest, if you are called upon to do your duty and identify this fascinating rogue, then you must do so. Otherwise innocent people might suffer. People who cannot afford to be robbed as well as Mr Baker can.’

  With an impulsive gesture, Henrietta threw her arms around her mother’s neck. ‘You are right, Lucy Trevor,’ she said, using the form of address that had started when she was a child and had now grown into a private joke between them. ‘I shall do what I must.’

  ‘Then come, my love, let us take the air.’

  And with that the older woman and the younger entwined fingers and went out into the large cherry garden in front of Glynde Place.

  Thirty-six

  Leaning his head out of a first-floor window, Nicholas Grey thought he had never seen anything more beautiful than first light over the moated site of Sharnden. For though this house was not the original dwelling, having been built in the fifteenth century, still the lines of the moat were quite distinct, and on the clear green water two proud swans greeted the dawn, while Sharnden itself was lit with a burnished glow.

  He leant in again, feeling light with a strange unfamiliar excitement, and left his room quietly, anxious not to wake his hosts, the Medleys, who were lodging him because he did, indeed, have a remote family connection with them. Then, not even stopping to break his fast, Nicholas left the house and crossed over the causeway and up to the heights of Rushurst Cross.

  Now he was in true valley country, seeing before and beneath him the majestic sweep of Bivelham, covered with contented, grazing beasts. And as Nicholas plunged down the hill and headed towards Coggins Mill, through the sweet green trees of Hole Wood, where bluebells were raised ready to burst forth, he decided that one day he must traverse the whole of the magic valley’s length, from Bainden across to dark Snape Wood.

  As he entered the hamlet, pretty and tree-filled, Nicholas found his eyes turning to the three attached cottages from which two nights before, accompanied by six dragoons, he had arrested Jacob Challice.

  To have also arrested Kit and Edward, who had not fooled him for a moment, would have been easy. But Lieutenant Grey had not wanted that. Hoping, instead, that by waiting he could break the entire organisation, bring charges that no magistrate, bribed or otherwise, could refuse to listen to, and finally smash the Mayfield Gang, with all its radical leanings towards Jacobitism.

  Nicholas reached the top of the steep hill leading into Mayfield and, crossing the track, passed the porter’s lodge and went into the palace grounds, following the drive put down by the Bakers.

  And then he saw the old palace for the first time. Never in his life had he had such an extraordinary experience. As he approached the door, his wonderment grew with every step, for he realised he could have found his way round with no one to guide him at all. It was like coming home.

  Almost instinctively, Lieutenant Grey found himself turning his horse towards the great hall and was horrified to see that it had been allowed to grow a little shabby, that one of the windows was broken and a bird swooped in and out.

  As he looked, a door to his right opened and, turning round, Nicholas saw a tall man with a flowing wig, large nose and beady eyes.

  ‘Lieutenant Grey?’ he called loudly, and at Nicholas’s nod said, ‘This way, this way, that’s the unlived-in part. Miss Trevor has arrived and now all we need is the prisoner.’

  Nicholas dismounted and extended his hand. ‘Squire Baker?’

  ‘My father is officially the squire, but I’m known by the name. Where’s Challice?’

  ‘Being marched up by the dragoons, sir. I thought it as well to call in their assistance with so many criminals at large.’

  ‘So many ...? Oh, you mean the smugglers. Yes, well ... Anyway, come in do. Let’s get this sorry business over.’

  It was just as Nicholas knew it would be. The great stone flight of steps leading off to his right, the door to the buttery beyond.

  ‘My father, the Justice, is waiting in the ante-room. I must warn you that he is now very elderly, but still able to give a fair hearing for all that.’

  Nicholas nodded, too overwhelmed to speak, and followed the squire’s large legs up the stone staircase. By the time he reached the first-floor chamber overlooking the palace’s front lawn, and saw the beautiful Miss Trevor standing waiting, eyes widening in recognition as he came in, he felt that he was moving through a dream.

  ‘Lieutenant Grey! So it is you. I thought it must be,’ she said.


  ‘You’ve met?’ asked George, in a surprised tone.

  ‘Only briefly and by chance, Squire Baker. It was in the Blackboys Inn on my journey from Mayfield.’

  The squire seemed about to comment but the noise of marching feet from outside silenced him.

  ‘They’re here,’ said someone, and Grey distantly heard the sergeant tell the arresting party to wait below as he took the prisoner up. Then the door opened and Jacob Challice, his hands in chains behind him, stood in the entrance, staring round the room as if he was receiving a group of petitioners.

  Briefly, his eyes met those of Grey and, seeing him in these surroundings, Nicholas suddenly realised what it was about the man that was so compulsive. He was one of those people that one felt one knew, even at first meeting.

  Remembering his duty, he said firmly to Henrietta, ‘Miss Trevor, I would like you to come with me and stand a little closer to the prisoner. Then I would like you to say whether or not this is the man you saw robbing Squire Baker’s coach. You need have no fear of him. His hands are bound and if you declare that he is the guilty party he will never leave custody again. Now will you come with me?’

  She nodded, giving him such a sweet look of gratitude that Nicholas felt himself growing a little flushed.

  ‘Don’t be afraid, my dear,’ said the squire in a loud voice. ‘The villain can’t harm you.’ While from the back of the room old Squire Baker, who was seated in a chair before a desk, wrapped in several shawls, said, ‘String ’em up. It’s the only way. Hang ’em in chains for all the world to see.’

  Nicholas offered his arm and Henrietta took it, the feel of her so close to him making him go hotter than ever, so that he scarcely knew how to conduct himself. But his years of rigid training stood him in good stead and he marched, military style, to a few feet away from Challice and then turned to Henrietta.

  ‘Is this the man?’

  She knew what she must do, knew that everything her mother said had been right and that she must protect the innocent. Henrietta opened her mouth and then closed it again, aware that every eye in the room was upon her.

  ‘Well?’

  ‘No,’ she said. ‘I have never seen this man before in my life. It was not he who robbed Squire Baker.’

  ‘But Henrietta,’ screamed George furiously, ‘he is of the same height and build. Are you sure?’

  ‘I am positive,’ she answered in a low but clear voice. ‘This is not the man.’

  All Nicholas could feel was inexplicable relief, and for a moment this must have shown on his face, for he saw Henrietta give him a curious sideways glance. Then, turning to old Squire Baker — still the local Justice of the Peace despite his great age — he said, ‘Sir, I feel there is insufficient evidence for a committal.’

  Of course there’s insufficient evidence,’ answered the old man furiously. ‘If the girl can’t identify him, that is the end of it. Release him, Grey. You have no choice.’

  ‘Sergeant,’ ordered Nicholas to the dragoon, ‘release the prisoner.’

  Challice stood for a moment, rubbing his wrists, then turned to look at Henrietta. ‘Thank you for treating me so fairly, Miss Trevor.’ He addressed Nicholas, George and the old squire. ‘Thank you too, gentlemen. Good day,’ he said, and sweeping off his hat, he gave a low bow and rapidly left the room.

  ‘Villain!’ shouted the old man, going red in the face. ‘I’ll swear he’s a villain. If he didn’t rob George he must have robbed somebody else. I feel it in my water.’

  ‘Father!’ said George reprovingly. ‘Be calm, pray. You know how a choleric mood brings on choking.’

  And indeed the old squire was beginning to cough and splutter. ‘I’ll get the arrogant rogue one day,’ he gasped. ‘Grey, keep on the watch, d’you hear?’

  ‘Indeed I do, sir. And now I must take my leave. I bid you farewell, gentlemen, and am only sorry that you were put to trouble for nothing.’ He turned to Henrietta saying, ‘May I escort you back to Glynde, Miss Trevor?’

  Avoiding his eyes, she answered, ‘No, I am staying on at the palace for a few days, Lieutenant Grey.’

  ‘Then perhaps I will have the pleasure of seeing you before your return. I will call on Miss Baker and present my compliments.’

  Henrietta curtsied but said nothing, still keeping her gaze firmly on the floor. In a very low voice, Nicholas added, ‘Challice has a great deal to be grateful for, Miss Trevor. You have given him his life.’

  At last she looked up, her clear eyes troubled. ‘I would be loath to commit a fellow creature to hang, Lieutenant. It was most fortunate that Challice was not the right man.’

  ‘Most fortunate indeed,’ he said — and with a slightly mocking bow was gone.

  *

  Just as Jacob Challice walked from the palace a free man, a cart — borrowed from a neighbour and bearing Emily Pearce — began the rough descent through the wooded hills at the top of the valley of Bivelham. To Emily’s left was the great dark cluster of Snape, brooding in ebony anger, the trees dense and unrelenting, while on her right she could glimpse Wenbans, the fifteenth-century house, now much altered and owned by the Maunser family, who also held an iron foundry on the estate’s eastern boundary.

  Skirting the mansion, Emily guided the plodding old horse downhill to the fresh brook that gurgled by Stream Farm, the remote and hidden house in which the Jarvis brothers lay low, paying newly minted silver shillings to the farmer and his wife in return for silence.

  Here she pulled the horse to a stop, securing the reins to the trunk of a tree and, removing her best shoes, bought in London, tucked up her skirt and waded across, creeping silently over the grass at the far side. Gently, Emily tried the handle of the back door. It swung open and she stepped inside, directly into the kitchen.

  The sudden coldness of a pistol against her neck frightened her so much that she froze where she stood, her eyes bolting in her head, trying to see who menaced her.

  ‘Kit, is that you?’ she gasped.

  ‘Who else, you bitch?’ he said, turning her round roughly. ‘What do you want with me?’

  ‘Revenge, that’s what,’ she shouted furiously. ‘Revenge for peaching Jacob Challice. He’s under arrest and they’ve brought the Trevor girl from Glynde to identify him. He’s as good as hanged.’

  ‘And damn good riddance. I’ll brook no rum-padder on my patch — and you know it, you two-faced doxie.’

  She flew at him, fists beating against his chest and feet flying about his shins. ‘You loathsome bastard. How I could ever have borne you near me, I’ll never know.’

  Jarvis grinned, lifting her up off her feet by the elbows and holding her suspended in the air, still punching and kicking. Then happened something so natural, so joyous, that all fighting ceased. Kit lowered Emily to the floor, where they stood straining together, lip upon lip, like lovers that had been parted for an age.

  *

  It was as the Baker coach, bearing Miss Lucy and Miss Henrietta Trevor, slowed down at the end of the drive beside the porter’s lodge, that the note was handed up. A grubby child, his feet bare, dashed from nowhere, risking life and limb beneath the wheels and, jumping precariously on the coach’s small step, stuck his dirty face through the open window and said, ‘Please Miss Baker, a gentleman gave me this for Miss Trevor. Would that be her?’

  ‘Yes,’ the two ladies chorused, startled, and Henrietta went on, ‘I am Miss Trevor. What is it?’

  Meanwhile Lucy was calling to the coachman to stop so that imminent threat of injury to the boy might be averted.

  ‘I don’t know, Miss,’ the child said, a look of relief on his face as the coach jerked to a standstill. ‘A gentleman give it me and told me to deliver it to Miss Trevor at the palace.’

  Puzzled, Henrietta gave him a coin and the boy jumped down from the step, pulling his forelock enthusiastically as the coach trundled forward once more.

  ‘Aren’t you going to open it?’ said Lucy, agog with curiosity.

  Henrietta
turned the roughly sealed paper in her gloved hands, noticing the firm manner in which the words, ‘Miss Trevor’ were written. ‘I would rather do so later unless you cannot wait to know from whom it came.’

  ‘Of course I can wait, dearest Henrietta,’ answered Lucy, somewhat chastened. ‘Keep it until we have returned from taking tea.’ Henrietta gave her a grateful smile and hid the letter in her glove.

  The coach took the eastern track out of Mayfield, going down the steep hill but not bearing left to Coggins Mill, instead going straight on passing, on its right, the track that led down to Bainden, and then climbing until it drew up finally before a pair of handsome gates that opened onto the circular drive — a lawn in its midst — of Luckhurst Hall, the home of John Langham, the surgeon.

  Henrietta thought it quite the most extraordinary house she had ever seen, for the back was old, built in Tudor times, with sloping roofs and mellow old brick; while the front was modern, put on four years ago in 1717. She had never observed two more contrasting styles, the elegant facade with its colonnaded porch and the flagstoned farmhouse behind.

  But her attention was drawn away by the great fluttering to-do that Lucy was making as she descended from the coach and saw the front door being opened by a liveried servant. Any suspicion that Henrietta might have had that Miss Baker loved Mr Langham was now confirmed. Her middle-aged spinster friend was in a positive flurry of emotion.

  The two ladies were shown into a cool and elegant hall, from which a gracious staircase rose to a landing above. Coming to meet them down these stairs was their host himself, dressed most elegantly in a deep blue coat, gold threaded waistcoat, a Steinkirk cravat and full-bottomed wig. He had made a great effort to cut a dash and Lucy, equally elegant in a green gown, open on either side to reveal a yellow petticoat, and stretched over a bell hoop, curtsied deeply to show her appreciation. John Langham raised her up and kissed her hand, his eyes looking deeply into hers. Poor Henrietta immediately felt de trop and wished she had not come.