To Sleep No More

by Deryn Lake

  ‘They have been very successful,’ Nicholas had answered carefully.

  ‘They are evil,’ Jekyll had put in coldly. ‘They are a drain on our society and obviously have allies in high places to have gone on so long and so well.’

  ‘Obviously,’ Rogers had echoed. ‘But that is not the point at issue. With Grey’s help I now think we have the best chance of all. He has studied their movements and hideouts and through him we might catch them on a run.’

  ‘That is precisely what we must do,’ Jekyll answered. ‘Otherwise we can never get the evidence to convict. All of them have been arrested yet each one has slipped through the net. What we want is a case so watertight that even a bribed magistrate has no choice but to send them down.’ Jekyll turned his cool gaze on Nicholas. ‘I hear there’s a highway robber working the London road in Mayfield. What about him?’

  ‘What do you mean?’ answered Nicholas, feeling himself grow uncomfortable, yet not understanding why.

  ‘Surely Kit Jarvis has declared war on him. Might the highwayman not lead us to the smugglers?’

  Nicholas feigned a blank expression. ‘I don’t follow, Lieutenant Jekyll.’

  A look of impatience crossed Jekyll’s face but he continued in an even tone, ‘Let dog eat dog. Let the robber tell us when and where there is to be a run.’

  ‘It’s too far-fetched,’ answered Grey, standing up but not having the nerve to look the lieutenant full in the eye. ‘How would he know?’

  ‘Because the criminal classes know everything. They pick up information as the rest of us pick up food.’

  ‘I don’t think this man is typically criminal class,’ answered Nicholas, regretting it immediately.

  Jekyll’s eyes were beads of light as he said smoothly, ‘So you know his identity?’

  Nicholas felt he was being dragged before a headmaster, a commanding officer, an elder brother. ‘No,’ he stuttered, ‘I base my surmise on reports I have heard of his robberies.’

  ‘Such as?’

  ‘That he lets some ladies keep their jewels.’

  Lieutenant Jekyll gave a snort of indignation. ‘Lieutenant Grey, you cannot be so naive! A pretty face might turn a man’s head for a moment but you can take it from me that he is as low as the rest. The gentlemen of the road, as they so picturesquely term themselves, are nothing short of vermin and they should be destroyed similarly.’

  Raising his wineglass to his lips, Nicholas realised that his hand was shaking. He put the vessel down again and said, ‘What do you suggest?’

  ‘That we bribe the highwayman to give us details of the next run. You can surely track him down, Grey. Then when you do so offer him a pardon if he will work with us.’

  ‘But I have no authority to do that.’

  ‘That is beside the point. What matters is that the Mayfield gang are finished for good. Tricking a highwayman is of little consequence in comparison with the welfare of the majority.’

  Nicholas Grey did not know what to say, fixed as he was with that glassy stare.

  ‘You make no reply?’

  ‘I find it difficult to do so, Lieutenant Jekyll. You are right of course but it goes against the grain with me to lie to anyone on an issue so vital.’

  Now he sat with his lute, wishing that the clock could go back and he had stuck to his original plan to tackle the Mayfield gang single-handed. But it was too late for that now. Rogers and Jekyll were on the trail and would never leave it. He, Nicholas Grey, had betrayed them all and could not comprehend why the thought of this should so profoundly upset him.

  *

  ‘But my dear,’ said Lucy Baker. ‘I am afraid I do not fully understand. Tell me again what happened.’

  She was sitting in John Langham’s salon, looking out over the distant hills and at the colour of the early evening sky. The place was as delicate as the inside of a seashell and, in fact, the whole house with its gracious staircase and beautifully proportioned rooms at the front, and quaintly beamed Tudor farmhouse beyond, enclosed her with such loving warmth that her tender heart longed for the day — heaven alone knew how distant — when she and John would live there together in harmonious and contented married life.

  Her dear friend made no answer but merely shook his head, an expression of bewilderment and anxiety on his face.

  ‘That is the point, Lucy,’ he said. ‘I do not know what happened myself. All I can tell you is that Challice died for a moment or two. His heart actually stopped beating. Or at least that is how it seemed to me.’

  ‘And this happened in the dream state?’

  ‘Yes. I know it was wrong of me but I was experimenting with him. I have told you that twice I have made grown men adopt the position of a foetus. I could not help but think it would be amusing to see such a hatchet-face as Challice do likewise.’

  ‘And then he died?’

  ‘Yes. I said to him, “I want you to go back before your birth. I want you to remember how you were,” and at that instruction he started to choke.’

  Lucy stood up and crossed to the window, her back turned to John. ‘But that would mean he died before he was born. It would mean that he had known death before this life.’

  Langham stood up and went to stand beside her, slipping a loving arm about her shoulder. ‘What are you saying?’

  Lucy turned to look at him, her eyes suddenly abrim with wonder. ‘That perhaps this life is not the only one we experience. That perhaps you took Challice back to the death he had before his present birth.’

  John shook his head, looking frightened. ‘But that goes against the teaching of our Lord.’

  ‘Does it? Did He not say, “In my Father’s house are many mansions.” Could the mansions not be lives?’

  Langham looked totally perplexed. ‘I cannot credit it, Lucy. It is utterly beyond belief.’

  Miss Baker tilted her chin, something of the look about her that had once been on the face of an eleven-year-old girl suddenly faced with sole control of an enormous family. ‘There is only one way to find out.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘You must do it to me, John. You must take me back before my birth.’

  He shook his head violently. ‘I would not risk it. Supposing ...’

  ‘Suppose nothing. You know what caused that. You told Challice to go back and remember how he was just before his birth. Do not use those words with me. Tell me to go back many years. Tell me not to relive my death. Oh John you must! It is in the interests of science.’

  Langham wrestled with himself. His fascination with the dream state was so great that he was tempted. Yet if anything should happen to Lucy ...

  She guessed what he was thinking, saying, ‘But, dearest, Challice did not die. You told me yourself he walked out of here unaided. John, we will never know the answer if we don’t try.’

  He gave in, more than half willing to do so. ‘Then we shall try, but be assured that if you are in any danger I will bring you back to the present immediately.’

  As Lucy settled herself, her hooped dress as she lay down turning her into the shape of a swan, John Langham pulled the heavy curtains across the windows. Then he sat in a small chair by her side.

  ‘Close your eyes, Lucy. There is no need for you to look at my watch. Now I am going to count from one to ten and as I do so you will begin to get heavier. Each part of your body so heavy that you feel you would like to sink into a deep sleep.’

  He looked at her, seeing her only as a patient and noticing how already her hands had gone limp and her breathing become measured. With her willingness not to resist the dream state she was an ideal subject for any experiment he cared to conduct.

  ‘Now Lucy, I want you to go back. Back and back and back again. Beyond your birth but much further back than that. Not to anything remotely like death. Back to —’ John hesitated, the un-Christian words sticking in his throat, ‘a life, perhaps before this one.’ How could he dare utter such blasphemy? And yet he must go on. ‘Back, my sweetheart, back to a mu
ch earlier time.’

  John sat still, watching Lucy’s face over which a radiant smile was now slowly beginning to spread.

  ‘Are you there, Lucy?’

  In the dream state she nodded her head.

  ‘Where are you, darling? And —’ He was almost too afraid to say it but he forced himself, ‘who are you?’

  She laughed aloud, but instead of answering his question said, ‘He’s chosen me! He’s chosen me!’

  ‘Who has chosen you?’ asked John, shaking his head in disbelief.

  ‘Robert. His father gave him free choice between two and he has decided to marry me.’ In her dream Lucy laughed again, and it was the happy sound of a young girl.

  John Langham could not believe what was happening. Surely, if ever such a thing were possible, here was proof of more lives than one.

  ‘And are you going to marry him?’

  ‘Oh yes. I love him, and besides I will one day be mistress of Sharndene.’

  ‘Sharnden?’ exclaimed John, his calm manner vanishing and his voice taking on a note of utter amazement. ‘Then who are you, Lucy? Who are you?’

  ‘Why, I’m Margaret of Ewhurst,’ she said with a smile. ‘Future bride of Robert de Sharndene, heir to the Lord of the Manor who lives in a great moated house in the valley of Byvelham. They call that valley magic, did you know?’

  ‘Yes,’ answered John slowly, hardly able to credit that this was actually taking place. ‘Yes, I am beginning to believe they might be right.’

  Thirty-nine

  His mother kept running away from him and when Jacob finally caught her up, it was to see that she had subtly changed, that the dark eyes which had stared at him for such a long time after she had died, had changed to long green ones with flecks of gold in their centre. She laughed at him a little and then pinned a ring to his hat. ‘That will keep you safe, my son,’ she said, and then she began to walk away. Terrified, Jacob started after her and woke to find that he had crossed to the window in his sleep. Shaking his head to wake himself, he leaned on the sill and looked out.

  From the tall London house, Challice had a view that was dominated by St Paul’s Cathedral, for he was in the City, disposing of his latest haul to his fence. It had been a rich picking because two nights before he had been lucky enough to chance on the coach of Thomas Pelham, Duke of Newcastle. The duchess’s jewels alone had been worth a fortune and Jacob had quickly rid himself of those with the exception of one piece, an emerald necklace that reminded him of Henrietta’s eyes. It had sparkled green fire when he had turned it in his fingers in the safety of the cottage at Coggins Mill, and though he had known it was damning evidence against him, had decided to keep it.

  He crossed back to the bed and lay down upon it, trying to sleep but unable to put Henrietta from his mind. He had not seen her for three weeks, though twice he had ridden through the night to Glynde and stayed concealed amongst the trees, looking at the house where she lay asleep.

  Jacob got up again, hot with passion and wild imaginings. Then the unpredictable streak in him flared and, despite the fact it was the middle of the night, he drew on his breeches, boots and riding coat. He would go to Henrietta now, make some excuse to see her, pose as a gentleman, anything! Anything at all, as long as he could see those funny dimples warm into a smile and clasp the duchess’s necklace round the curve of that delicate throat.

  *

  ‘Another letter from Miss Baker,’ said Mrs Trevor, looking over her tea-cup, which she held in one hand, the letter in the other. ‘Why, Henrietta, she has asked if you may stay again. She says that her household are clamouring for your presence because you make them so gay and lighthearted.’

  ‘But she does that here,’ said Arabella, who at seven years old was the youngest of the nine Miss Trevors and an ardent admirer of her eldest sister.

  ‘And besides we need her to help with our embroidery,’ said Elizabeth, nearest to Henrietta in age and forced to take on her duties when her sister was absent.

  ‘But Mother could do that,’ answered Henrietta serenely.

  ‘Oh no she couldn’t. This is to be a coverlet and cushions worked by the nine Miss Trevors and them alone. It would spoil it if anyone else did a stitch.’

  ‘Elizabeth, please,’ put in their mother, ‘it is not seemly to raise your voice in that manner. And in any case your opinion has not been sought. I and I alone will decide whether Henrietta may go on a visit.’

  There was a brief silence during which Elizabeth addressed herself sulkily to the taking of tea, while Henrietta and her mother studied one another.

  ‘She’s growing so beautiful,’ thought Mrs Trevor. ‘I must give a ball. It is high time she was married and with her generous dowry I know she can attract a title.’

  She sighed a little. The complex business of arranging a marriage and treading a delicate path through the maze of dowry, jointure, pin-money, portions, trusts and remainders with the bridegroom’s father, was not one that Lucy Trevor relished. But it was a necessary evil — and something that she would have to repeat eight times more if she were to see her girls successfully wed. She gazed fondly at her little boy, who sat beside her silently eating a cake. No such problems with him. As Squire of Glynde he could be assured of a good match with any heiress of his choice.

  Henrietta’s voice brought her back to the present. ‘May I go, Mother?’

  Mrs Trevor hesitated. It occurred to her that one of the Baker bachelors might be behind these constant invitations and the thought did not please her. Wealthy though the family might be, she felt certain that Henrietta could do better.

  ‘I — I’m not sure. You have only just come back from Mayfield.’

  ‘Yes, but then I had to go and identify that man. This would be a proper visit.’

  ‘Umm. I hope it is not that you are bored here at Glynde.’

  ‘No, Mother, it is not that,’ said Henrietta, her eyes steadfast. ‘It is just that at the palace I can be myself without interruption. Do you understand?’

  Looking at the nine other children sitting round the room, Mrs Trevor understood at once.

  ‘Very well, my darling, you may go this time. But I shall expect you to be home for a while after that. We have preparations to make.’

  ‘Preparations?’ Henrietta looked blank.

  ‘A year from now I would like to see you married, Grace. When you return from Mayfield it is my intention that we set the wheels in motion by giving a grand dance.’

  ‘But, Mother ...’

  Lucy Trevor smiled. ‘Be assured you will not have anyone displeasing forced upon you, dearest. Though wealth and position are important they will not be allowed to take over-riding preference. Within social limitations you may marry the man of your choice.’

  ‘Oh dear,’ said Henrietta.

  *

  Jacob Challice only stopped once on his journey from London to Glynde, resting himself and his horse for a few hours before he plunged on through the heat of the day until he came to Mayfield, where he turned off towards the Downs just as the shadows of the trees began to lengthen.

  He had formed no definite plan, only aware of such a burning desire to see Henrietta again that it brought in its train a sense of elation. Jacob felt as he rode that nothing could stop him, that he was master of the situation, that obstacles would crumble in the path of such fervour. And so it was that when he saw a coach bearing the Trevor coat of arms rumbling towards him on the evilly bad road from Blackboys to London, he thought for a moment that it was an image that his extraordinary state of mind had conjured up. Nonetheless, he took the precaution of disappearing into a clump of trees and watching narrowly.

  It was her! His longing for Henrietta had actually wrested round circumstance and sent her to him. Throwing caution to the winds, Jacob pulled his neckerchief up over his face and with only the dusk as protection, lurched across the coach’s oncoming wake, a cocked pistol in either hand.

  ‘Stand fast,’ he shouted, and as the coachman’s hand
went for his gun, growled, ‘Don’t — or by God I’ll kill you.’

  A scream from within told Jacob that Sarah the maid was aboard and a second later her terrified face appeared at the window.

  ‘Oh God’s wounds,’ she shrieked. ‘It’s the same one, Miss. The one who held us up at Pennybridge.’

  ‘It can’t be,’ said Henrietta impatiently, and the maid’s head leaning out was replaced by that of the mistress. Jacob swept off his hat, forgetful of the fact that in his haste to leave London he had omitted to put on his wig. He saw Henrietta’s eyes go straight to the mass of red hair which grew in thick and luxuriant curls about his head.

  ‘As red as a fox,’ she said. ‘So it is you.’

  He leant forward in the saddle, lowering his voice to the merest whisper. ‘Yes, and I must talk to you. I am going to tie these two up, Henrietta, but I promise I will not harm them.’

  ‘And what of me?’

  In an even lower tone, Jacob said, ‘I would not lay a finger upon you unless you wanted it.’ Out loud he shouted, ‘You, get down from the box. And you —’ He waved his pistol in the direction of Sarah. ‘Get out.’

  She burst into tears. ‘I can’t bear it, Miss. Twice in a month. What will become of me?’

  ‘Just do what he says, Sarah, and no harm will result. Go along.’

  The weeping girl reluctantly stepped down and was joined a moment later by the glowering coachman. Henrietta bit her lip anxiously as she watched the two of them marched into the trees at pistol point. But before she could call out, Challice was back and had got up into the coach beside her, his hard face softened by emotion, as he gently bent his mouth to hers. Unable to help herself, Henrietta opened her lips and all the longing between them flowed.