To Sleep No More

by Deryn Lake

  *

  The night was so bright that the sun had to battle for dominance in order that daylight might come. But finally the silver goddess conceded and as the sky turned mauve, Nicholas Grey left Sharnden and made his way on horseback to the place where he believed the Jarvis brothers hid out.

  To remain unobserved, he went the hidden way through Combe Wood and then, crossing Tide Brook, through Ashett’s, finally coming out into open country above Wenbans.

  The sun was just beginning to light the great house — considerably enlarged and extended some forty years earlier — and Nicholas thought it magnificent, its huge chimney and jutting wing already beginning to glow as the morning came. He found himself wishing that something other than his duties as Riding Officer had brought him to a place where the dawn gleamed crystal, and the evenings were alight with amethyst and gold.

  As he began the descent to the track below, Nicholas’s horse stopped short, neighing at an obstacle lying in its path. Reining in, Lieutenant Grey saw that it was the body of a man; a man lying horribly still. Dismounting, he ran forward and knelt beside the prostrate form, lifting it slightly so that he could see the face. He was not altogether surprised to find it was Jacob Challice.

  Lifting the body higher, Nicholas put his ear to Jacob’s chest and there, sure enough, was the beat of his heart, not as weak as Grey had feared. Yet a cursory examination revealed that Challice had sustained a severe beating and was losing blood, and it was with a groan that the injured man opened his eyes, focusing them with difficulty on the face of the Riding Officer.

  ‘Lieutenant Grey?’ The voice was little above a whisper. ‘Yes. Who did this to you? Jarvis’s gang?’

  Jacob nodded. ‘It was a fair rumble. I was sworn to shoot off his culls in revenge for stealing Emily Pearce.’

  ‘I thought she no longer concerned you. I thought you had eyes for no one but Miss Trevor since she lied to save your neck,’ answered Nicholas harshly.

  ‘That’s as may be. But I still had a score to settle. It was a matter of pride.’

  Nicholas smiled grimly. ‘Honour amongst thieves, eh?’

  ‘If you say so. But, Lieutenant, there was one there who was no common robber. Jarvis is leader in name only. Their financier was present.’

  ‘What!’ Grey could not believe his ears.

  ‘It’s true. I heard his voice. He is a gentleman.’

  ‘Did you get a look at him?’

  ‘No, he wore a mask, yet he had a familiar air. I’ve seen him somewhere before —and recently.’

  ‘Could you identify him?’ asked Nicholas, the irony of the situation not altogether escaping him.

  But Challice did not answer and the lieutenant saw that the man had lost consciousness. He toyed momentarily with the thought of leaving him to die, then his better nature won and he bundled the highwayman onto a horse and headed off in the direction of the village and the home of John Langham the surgeon, his idea of a dawn raid on Kit Jarvis laid aside as another plan formed itself in his mind.

  Thirty-eight

  In the dark, salt-filled night there was a sudden flash of light, followed rapidly by another; from a ship riding at anchor came a responding signal. After that everything was black for a moment and then a steady beam from a spout lantern was directed out to the open sea. In its pale gold glow several large rowing boats pulling towards the beach became visible, and on the shore Kit Jarvis laughed in the darkness. The run was on!

  Tonight the nucleus of the Mayfield gang — the Jarvis brothers, Francis Hammond, Thomas Bigg, John Humphrey, Francis Norwood — were supplemented by a force of fifty men, mostly local labourers anxious to earn well. For this was a big haul. One thousand tubs of spirit were to come in, to say nothing of chests of tea. It had cost Dash dearly to finance such an enterprise and now it was Kit’s responsibility to see that the operation went smoothly.

  His narrowed eyes scanned the beach and cliffs for any sign of Excise men or Riding Officers but all was apparently quiet, and as the first of the rowing boats drew onto the shingle, its wooden base crunching against the pebbles, he called out ‘Now.’ In one silent swoop his entire company of men came out of their hiding places and swarmed down to the sea, hands grabbing for the end of the rope brought in by the rowing party, attached to which were the tubs of spirit.

  The Mayfield gang prided themselves on speed. It was Kit’s boast that he could beach five hundred tubs in twenty minutes and now his minions began to haul in the casks, each one of which held half an anker or four gallons of spirit. The barrels were roped in pairs making it easier for the free-traders to carry them on their shoulders to where pack animals and carts stood waiting.

  In key position where they could see all and turn to fight the Excise men should it be necessary were Edward and Kit, armed with wooden staves which they referred to as bats, and hangers, their nickname for swords. The similarity between the brothers — even though they had not shared the same mother — was very marked when they were tense, and tonight even Francis Hammond, bouncing like a ball about the beach as he supervised the unloading of tea chests, mistook them.

  ‘Has Grey really vanished, Kit?’ he asked, only to realise his mistake as Edward answered, ‘They say he left Mayfield several days ago.’

  ‘Does anyone know where?’

  ‘No. He’s just gone.’

  ‘Well I don’t trust the bastard,’ said Francis.

  ‘I quite like him,’ Edward answered, looking out to sea.

  But there was no time for further talk. The race was on to get the goods ashore and Kit was shouting to them to hurry. Half an hour was up and only a quarter of the tubs were loaded on to the packhorses who would take them through the night to a secret depot, where the horses would be changed. If all went to plan, the cargo would reach the southern fringe of London during the following day, then be taken on to the hamlet of Stockwell, three and a half miles from the city and lying discreetly hidden between the commons of Clapham and Kennington.

  It was at Stockwell that Kit would drive his final bargains, getting the maximum price he could from the London merchants who would come to the hamlet to buy. Dash had leased a house there which was used partly as a warehouse, along with barns and storerooms. When the purchases were made the contraband would be handed over to carriers, who owned teams of horses and worked on a commission basis. Their convoys would proceed into London by night, crossing the Thames on the ferries at Lambeth or Battersea, and be out again before daybreak. Ten days later they would return with a new consignment, while Kit and his men would go back to Mayfield and plan the next run.

  But now the first stage of this one was complete. Edward and Francis were checking that all the items had come ashore. The great rope which had landed the barrels was being hauled back to the lugger, which still rode at anchor waiting for the return of the galleys — the large open boats propelled by oars.

  All was safely in and the elder Jarvis was counting out the payment to the leader of the sea-smugglers. The initial part of the exercise was successfully over and as the galleys began to row out to the waiting ship, Kit turned his convoy inland and, riding at the head, began the trek that would finally deposit the smuggled goods in London.

  *

  ‘You’ve healed well,’ said John Langham. ‘You must be a strong man, Challice.’

  ‘Aye, it’s true enough. I’ve had to be, Mr Langham.’

  ‘I’m sure,’ answered the surgeon drily, removing the last of Jacob’s dressings and feeling a certain pride in his own skills at mixing ancient remedies from herbs and achieving such success as now stood before him.

  Lieutenant Grey had brought John Langham a battered and bleeding wreck to attend to and now, a week later, Challice had little more to show for his beating than some rapidly healing cuts and a few yellowing bruises.

  ‘You’ve left me free to fight another day, Sir,’ he added now.

  ‘I wouldn’t do too much of that if I were you,’ answered Langham with a grim smil
e. ‘Next time you might not be so lucky.’

  ‘Next time I’ll move more quickly.’

  ‘You say it was the smugglers who did this to you?’

  ‘Yes. There was a score to settle. But it’s over now.’

  It was on the tip of John’s tongue to say, ‘So you are the highwayman of Pennybridge’ but he kept his counsel. He was as convinced as Nicholas Grey that the culprit and Challice were the same man; that Henrietta Trevor had lied for reasons best known to herself.

  On an impulse, John drew his watch from his pocket as if to look at the time. Then, as if he hardly knew what he did, he began to sway it back and forth saying, ‘Sit down, Jacob. You look tired. Sit in that chair and rest. Close your eyes if you want to.’

  Challice’s attention had been caught by the swaying watch and as he reluctantly took a seat, John could see that the man’s lids were already beginning to blink heavily.

  ‘Yes, you look very tired,’ the surgeon went on. ‘Just close your eyes and rest. We can continue to talk. Can you hear me, Jacob?’ Langham continued.

  ‘Yes,’ came the answer, and John knew by the tone of the man’s voice that he had passed quite easily into the dream state.

  ‘Now Jacob,’ he said, ‘I want you to tell me the truth. Do you understand?’

  There was a strange flat-voiced, ‘Yes.’

  ‘Did Miss Trevor tell a lie to protect you? Did you rob Squire Baker’s coach?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And why did she lie?’

  ‘She said she felt compelled to help me. She could not understand it herself.’

  John Langham paused, feeling guilty. He was using his power to extract information of the most confidential nature. But the scientist in him could not resist continuing the experiment. Without compunction, John went on, ‘Jacob. I want you to go back in time to when you were fourteen years old. Do you remember that? Tell me where you are.’

  Challice gave a chuckle and said, ‘With the rum coves in London. Learning how to filch. Good times these are. Not that we get a lot to eat.’

  John sat down opposite the highwayman and wondered at the miracle that always took place when he played this game with his patients. The hard granite face had taken on childish features and the grin that spread over Challice’s face was that of a naughty boy.

  ‘And now go back to when you were five, Jacob. Tell me where you are now?’

  The robber began to grub at his eyes with his knuckles. ‘I am in Norfolk with my mother. She is very cross with me because I have stolen some cakes. She hit me with her hands on my buttocks.’

  ‘So you knew then that it was wrong to steal?’

  It was said so quietly that Jacob did no more than nod his head in reply. ‘I have been a bad child,’ he said.

  It was then that John Langham had the notion to take him even further back, wondering if, as he had seen grown men do twice before, Challice would draw his knees to his chin in the foetal position.

  ‘I want you to go back before your birth,’ he said. ‘I want you to remember how you were.’

  The hard face grimaced and, just for split second, John felt a strangely paternal emotion, as if the man in the chair meant more to him than simply a patient on whom he was conducting an experiment.

  ‘Go on, Jacob,’ he said. ‘Try to remember what it was like.’

  Challice remained quite still and then suddenly and without warning let out a horrifying gurgling sound, as if he were choking to death. The blood froze in Langham’s veins as he watched the highwayman’s legs jerk and the whole of his body go into a series of convulsions. Then, as his tongue began to loll from his mouth, Jacob’s hands tore at his neck as if he were fighting to remove something from it.

  ‘My God!’ exclaimed the surgeon. ‘Jacob, be calm, be calm.’

  But the writhing figure seemed not to have heard as it continued to dance and convulse where it lay in the chair. Then it suddenly grew stiff and Langham watched with horror as Challice sat bolt upright and rasped out a ghastly cry that seemed, somehow, to be a name ‘... en ... a ... min’. Then he went limp.

  In a second the surgeon was on his feet, raising Challice in his arms and putting his ear to his chest to listen for his heart. There was nothing.

  ‘Oh God’s mercy,’ whispered John, fighting to stay in control of himself and the situation. In a commanding voice he said as calmly as he could, ‘That memory is finished, Jacob. I want you to come back from that time and move forward. I want you to be yourself again. You are Jacob Challice, aged about thirty. You are in good health and you are to come out of the dream state. Can you hear me, Jacob?’

  There was silence and John caught himself praying, ‘God, don’t let the man be dead. If these experiments can kill I must ...’

  But Jacob had let out a great sigh and colour was beginning to return to the dead white face. Listening again, John could hear the strong firm beat of his heart.

  ‘May the Lord be praised,’ he said. Then, more loudly, ‘Jacob, I am going to count from ten to one. You will feel yourself grow less and less tired and when I reach one you will wake up refreshed and well. The memory of that terrible moment will be gone from you. Do you understand?’

  There was no response but John saw the highwayman’s lids flutter and as the count of one was reached, his eyes slowly opened and Jacob Challice was staring at him with a puzzled expression on his face.

  ‘I must have slept for a moment,’ he said.

  ‘You did,’ said John hastily. ‘The herbal preparations I use sometimes have that effect.’

  ‘Strange,’ said Challice, standing up. ‘I must apologise. Now, how much do I owe you, Sir?’

  ‘One guinea. And keep out of trouble in future.’

  Jacob smiled, the deep eyes creasing at the corners. ‘I am a stormy petrel, Mr Langham. Sometimes trouble comes looking for me. But I thank you for your concern and your remedies.’

  John held out his hand wondering why he should like the villain so much, particularly in view of what he had learned. And long after Challice had gone the surgeon sat in silence, staring out of the window, thinking of all that had happened while the highwayman had been in a dream and what could be the significance of that terrible enactment of death by strangulation.

  As darkness fell over his gardens, John finally rose and went to his desk where he penned a brief letter. Then he rang for a servant, saying, ‘Deliver this to Miss Baker at the palace at once. Tell her the matter is urgent and that a reply by tonight would be appreciated.’

  As the man went out, John sat down again and poured himself a glass of wine and sat quite still, occasionally sipping, until darkness fell.

  *

  As always when he sought solace, Nicholas Grey picked up his lute and, in the lengthening shadows of his room, started to play. The tune stole out of its own accord, not planned or prepared, but simply singing its own song. He bent his head over the instrument, unaware that his expressive features had changed, that he had become transformed by the glory of the sound, that he looked like a different person.

  His father had once joked that Nicholas had been born with a lute in his hands, for he had taken to the instrument as soon as he was able to pluck the strings. And though he had had formal tuition for a while, his tutor had announced that the boy had brought the gift with him into the world and there was little more he could teach him. Yet the need to support his mother and her other impoverished children when their father had died, had ended any thoughts Nicholas might have had of taking up music. Instead he had entered the Customs Service and been appointed a Riding Officer, a force originally intended to counter owling but now used to fight smugglers generally.

  The music grew in intensity and Nicholas allowed his mind to wander over the events of the last few days. It was strange that finding Jacob Challice bruised and bleeding should have decided him to call in extra help to smash the Mayfield gang. For though he had no love for the man, that assault, together with the information that a shadowy f
igure was the gang’s true leader, had forced Nicholas to admit he needed assistance. He must combine forces with John Rogers and Lieutenant Jekyll, the most dedicated smuggler hunters in Sussex, other than the Jarretts, who were already hunting the gang down.

  Yet now that he had done it, now that he had cast the die that must inevitably lead to the destruction of Kit Jarvis and his minions, and no doubt of Jacob Challice as well, Nicholas was not happy. He took himself to task as the music changed course, sighing out a melancholy air that spoke of meetings and partings, greetings and farewells.

  ‘I know I have done the right thing,’ he thought. ‘I am a conscientious Riding Officer, sworn to do my duty, and that is the code by which I have abided.’

  Yet in a strange sort of way, Nicholas had a grudging admiration for Kit and Edward, who had the audacity to live outside the law while possessing a certain reckless charm. In fact, Nicholas thought grimly, if he had to choose between spending his life with the law-abiding John Rogers and Lieutenant Jekyll or the villainous Challice and Jarvis, he would choose the rogues.

  He had not taken to Rogers at all when he had met him on the previous day, feeling there was something cruel about the hop-grower turned Revenue man. But Jekyll, who had arrived some time later, had been a different matter. In him, Nicholas had sensed fanaticism, and one look at the piercing eyes had confirmed his suspicion. The lieutenant was conducting a personal campaign against wrong-doers and was filled with something approaching religious fervour when it came to the matter of smugglers.

  Hugging his lute even closer, Nicholas recalled the conversation of the evening before.

  The three men had met in Rogers’s house in Horsham, served supper by a sulky looking Mrs Rogers who had banged the plates down in front of them as if she resented their very presence. As soon as she had gone, Rogers had turned to Grey, his mouth full, and said, ‘There is a reward out for the Mayfield gang, you know. But that is not the only reason Jekyll and I will join forces with you. The men are a scourge and must be made an example of. They have been running amok for over five years now and all attempts to bring them to justice have failed.’