To Sleep No More

by Deryn Lake

  John looked mildy surprised but nevertheless answered, ‘Of course, of course, Lieutenant. After your outstanding music nothing could be too much trouble.’

  Thanking him, Nicholas waited in the saloon as his host waved off the guests, calling out cheerily until all the carriages had swept round the circular drive and disappeared through the wrought-iron gates. Then a few moments elapsed before Mr Langham appeared in the doorway with a decanter of port and two glasses, saying, ‘Now, Lieutenant Grey, in what way may I help you?’

  Nicholas decided to come straight to the point. ‘Sir, I believe that you conduct experiments whereby it is possible for you to take a patient back to what appears to be a life before this one.’

  Langham looked rather cross and said, ‘Who told you that?’

  ‘I dined with Mrs Trevor at Glynde a few days ago. It was Henrietta who spoke of your work. But pray do not be angry with her. We were speaking of another matter and she was in some distress. It was then that she told me of it.’

  ‘I see,’ answered John, but said nothing further.

  ‘I will confess,’ Nicholas went on, ‘that I was extremely sceptical — except for one thing.’

  ‘And that is?’

  ‘My music-teacher once said that I had brought the gift of playing the lute into the world with me. I have always puzzled as to what he meant by that — now I am wondering if you might hold the key, Mr Langham.’

  ‘You want me to try and find your past, Lieutenant?’

  ‘Indeed I do, Sir. On one condition.’

  ‘And that is?’

  ‘That you let me remember it all, holding back nothing.’

  ‘But you could learn things that might shock you, Lieutenant Grey.’

  ‘Oh no,’ said Nicholas. ‘I am past shocking, Mr Langham. Too much has happened recently to allow me to ever be shocked again.’

  *

  ‘There they go,’ said John Rogers. ‘Look!’

  He pointed with a finger that trembled slightly and Lieutenant Jekyll following the line of it, gave a muted shout of triumph.

  ‘So that little bawd has managed it! Jarvis has succumbed. Dinnage said he would ride past with him tonight if the plan succeeded.’

  John Rogers gave a large-mouthed grin. ‘Well done, Jekyll. What’s the next move?’

  ‘We call up a group and follow them to West Chiltington, and in the darkness surround the house. Tomorrow morning when the bastard has got his breeches down ...’ Jekyll cracked with laughter and slapped his thigh, the cold eyes for once looking amused. ‘We call on him to surrender. What do you think?’

  ‘It’s foolproof. Can you imagine Kit Jarvis’s face when he hears his brother has been caught in a pretty boy’s bed?’ Jekyll wiped his eyes with the back of his sleeve. ‘He’ll come to rescue him and that will be the end of him as well.’

  ‘Not if we don’t hurry,’ said Rogers nervously. ‘I’ll go and get the others.’

  ‘Don’t forget the constables.’

  ‘No.’ Rogers looked through the window at the descending sun. ‘I’ll meet you in an hour on the Storrington Road.’

  ‘Excellent,’ answered Jekyll, his face composed once more. ‘This night sees the beginning of the end of the Mayfield gang.’

  *

  Beyond the window of John Langham’s study the sun was beginning to lower itself in a splendour of scarlet ribbons and, as the surgeon turned away from the casement to look at Nicholas Grey — who lay on the couch in what appeared to be a calm and dreamless sleep — a splash of colour lit his face making it rubicund and kind. It fell on the face of the sleeper, too, smoothing out his anxious expression and giving him a boyish, untroubled air. John Langham sighed. The moment had arrived and, if he kept his promise, Nicholas would be left to carry the burden of what he remembered for the rest of his life. Small wonder indeed that John hesitated before saying, ‘Nicholas, can you hear me?’

  ‘Yes.’ The flatness of the reply told Langham everything. He was in the presence of another excellent subject, one just as good as Jacob Challice had been.

  ‘Nicholas, I want you to go back in time. Back before you lay in your mother’s womb. Back before you swirled in darkness. Back to the last time you were alive. Back to when you were fifty years old in that life. Where are you?’ There was a pause. ‘Where are you?’ John repeated.

  ‘In London with my husband,’ said a remote voice.

  ‘Your husband?’ John exclaimed.

  ‘Yes — but no one knows of it because we are married secretly. All the world believes I am his housekeeper.’

  ‘And why is that?’

  ‘Because he is famous and highborn and educated — and he also likes men as well as women.’

  Breaking his promise without hesitation, John said, ‘Nicholas, you will remember none of this when you wake. Do you understand?’

  ‘I understand.’

  ‘Then tell me your name. Who are you?’

  ‘I am Agnes May,’ answered Nicholas. ‘Known as Agnes Casselowe because of my husband’s deceit. When I was a girl I dreamed of marrying him but I was so ugly and simple I knew I had no hope. But when my sister was hanged for witchcraft ...’

  A million trumpets sounded in John Langham’s brain as all the pieces of the puzzle began to fit into place.

  ‘... he took pity on me because I was left to bring up my little nephew. He told me that if I could accept him as he was, he would marry me.’

  ‘What is his name?’ asked John.

  ‘Tom May, the poet. He was a favourite of King Charles but has turned against him and joined the Parliamentarians.’

  So Nicholas had been alive at the time of the Civil War. John would have asked another question but the Lieutenant was continuing to speak.

  ‘We have two sons — he always pretended to the other servants that they were bastards.’

  Nicholas smiled and just for a fraction of a second his features seemed to melt away, and John caught a glimpse of Agnes May, fat and jolly and comfortable, and just the sort of wife for a poet of doubtful sexual inclination.

  ‘I want you to go back to the life before that of Agnes May, born Casselowe. I want you to go back to, shall we say, the summer of 1335 ...’ He had picked that date because of the notes taken on Lucy Baker and Jacob. ‘Were you alive then?’

  ‘Oh yes,’ came the eager reply, and the surgeon saw that Nicholas’s face had changed again, looking now both vulnerable and pathetic.

  ‘Then who are you?’

  ‘Colin. Colin de Stratford. My brother is the Archbishop of Canterbury. He is very kind to me and brings me sweetmeats. And he finds people for me to play with. First there was Wevere and now I have Marcus. And soon I am to marry Oriel who loves me so much.’

  ‘Thank you, Colin. Now I will say goodbye to you for good. Nicholas, I am going to count from one to twenty. When I reach twenty you will wake up feeling refreshed and well. You will remember nothing of your life as Agnes whatsoever. You will remember everything about Colin. Do you understand?’

  ‘I do.’

  ‘Good. I will begin to count now. One, two, three, four, five ...’

  The surgeon’s voice droned on as darkness finally fell over Luckhurst Hall and those within its walls who had, at last, learned the final truth.

  *

  A long night that night; a night in which Nicholas Grey, after talking most earnestly with John Langham, left the surgeon’s house and headed straight for a village near Blackheath, and to the poor and seedy cottage in which Henrietta Trevor had told him Jacob Challice could be found. A night in which John Rogers and his men — Lieutenant Jekyll having unexpectedly been called to duty elsewhere — surrounded Dido’s house in West Chiltington and lay in wait. A night in which Henrietta Trevor wept into her pillow knowing that no further flux had visited her body, and that there could now be no doubt left that Challice’s child dwelt within her.

  *

  Edward woke early to see John Dinnage’s golden head beside him on the p
illow, and at last recognized what had always been in his nature. In many ways, it was an enormous relief to be able to admit that he was not born as others.

  He sat up, looking at the sea of clothes that lay upon the floor and remembering last night with a delirious happiness. Very slowly and lazily he rose, stretched, looked down at his nakedness and, still smiling, pulled on a pair of rough old breeks. Then he went downstairs.

  It was unnervingly quiet, not even a bird seeming to sing. Slightly suspicious, Edward opened the door that led into the garden and looked outside. A voice that appeared to come from nowhere said, ‘All right, Jarvis. This is it. I call on you to surrender.’

  ‘Christ!’ shouted Edward, bolting back up the stairs.

  Dido was stretching enticingly as he fled back into the bedroom. Seeing his expression the younger man called in alarm, ‘God’s head, what is it?’

  But Edward did not stop to reply. Grabbing his sword and pistol he hurled back downstairs and went out running, screaming an oath at the top of his voice, and heading straight for the human cordon that surrounded the house. There was the sound of a groan as he cut his way through and headed, barefoot and naked from the waist up, to the open countryside beyond. Then a shot rang out and Edward went down in a spurt of raw red blood.

  ‘I’ve got him,’ shouted Rogers in triumph. ‘I’ve got the bastard. Now Kit Jarvis, it’s your turn to go.’

  *

  He reached Blackheath at dawning, full of awareness and knowledge, and stood for a long time looking at the humble house in which Jacob Challice was lying asleep.

  Then, taking his lute from his saddle-bag, Nicholas sat upon the dew drenched ground and played a tune from England’s past.

  Much as he had expected, within ten minutes the bolts on the door were shot back and Challice appeared, wearing a shirt and breeches thrown on to cover his nudity.

  On seeing Nicholas, his hand flew to his pistol and he shouted, ‘Grey! What the Devil are you doing here?’

  Ignoring the barrel pointing straight at him, Nicholas ran forward. ‘Shoot if you will, Challice,’ he called. ‘But realise one thing if you do. There is no threat to you. Knowing what I do it would be impossible to kill you.’

  Jacob turned on him a look of doubt. ‘Colin?’ he asked uncertainly.

  Nicholas nodded his head. ‘I’ve come to find you at last,’ he said.

  Forty-four

  The last days of August continued as hot and fierce as the rest of that extraordinary summer and Lucy Baker, sitting in the shade of the oak-tree planted by Tom May and wearing a large-brimmed hat, wondered if her family’s minds were beginning to be affected by the heat: Philadelphia did nothing all day but sigh, George spoke to no one, Nizel vanished for hours on end, while Thomas spent most of his time wearing far too many clothes and looking thoroughly miserable as a result. Furthermore, there was a strange atmosphere in the village itself, as if the attacks against the smuggling gang had thrown the local people into an ill humour.

  Yet what had caused Lucy most consternation was a letter from Henrietta, mysteriously worded and begging Miss Baker to come to Glynde and see her. Lucy had duly arrived and had been quite shocked by what she found. A pale-faced Henrietta had whispered that her entire future relied on Miss Baker inviting her to stay at the palace for one final occasion before the grand ball, planned for September, which was to place Henrietta firmly on the marriage market. Lucy had been thoroughly embarrassed by the whole situation, especially as Mrs Trevor had looked far from pleased at the idea.

  ‘But Miss Baker,’ she had said, ‘that would be Grace’s fourth visit to Mayfield this year.’

  Lucy had smiled, hoping that her consternation did not show. ‘But two of the occasions were not planned, Mrs Trevor. One was when Henrietta stayed after the robbery, if you remember, and the other was to identify the villain. Before the summer is over and travelling becomes bad, it would give us all so much pleasure if you could agree to one more visit.’

  Mrs Trevor had handed Lucy tea in a bone china cup. ‘But I need her here to plan the ball, Miss Baker. I do not wish to be unhelpful nor, indeed, churlish, but I do rely on Henrietta so much since the death of my husband.’

  Lucy had sighed. ‘Yes, I sympathise. I became mother to my family before I had even entered my teens.’

  Mrs Trevor’s face had softened. ‘And you are still at their head, Miss Baker, or so my daughter tells me.’

  Lucy had sighed again. ‘Yes. I do believe that there will be no chance to pursue my personal happiness until my father has died and my sister-in-law expects a child. She is very young for her age, you know, and between ourselves, Mrs Trevor, often behaves like a spoiled little girl.’

  ‘Then the sooner she has a baby, the better.’

  ‘I agree with you, but at the moment there seems absolutely no sign of it. I do believe she has a fear of the whole procedure.’

  Mrs Trevor, who had given birth to Henrietta when she had been only nineteen, had made a disapproving noise. Then she had said, ‘Miss Baker, I can see that you do lack amusing female company, and I have all my other daughters. I am being very selfish. If it would give pleasure to both you and Henrietta for her to stay, then I agree to a short visit.’

  The victory had been won and two days later one of the Trevor coaches, followed by another full of luggage, had set off for Mayfield, and for the first time in weeks Henrietta had smiled. A secret message from Nicholas Grey had told her that Challice had returned and was once more lodging with Lizzie Pearce at Coggins Mill. At last she would be able to discuss the future with the father of her child.

  Now she sat reading aloud to old Squire Baker who was, as usual, fast asleep, wishing that the hours would pass until it was dark, when it was the plan that she would slip quietly out after pretending to retire early, and go at once to where Challice lodged. She stopped reading at her thoughts and the old man promptly woke up, poking his neck forward like a tortoise in the sun.

  ‘Go on, gel, go on,’ he said.

  ‘I’m sorry, Squire Baker. I thought you were asleep.’

  ‘And so I was. But I can’t sleep unless you read. That makes sense, don’t it?’

  ‘Perfect sense,’ answered Henrietta, and gallantly continued to drone on until at last the call came to dine and she could go into the palace and change her gown before the repast.

  Fortunately for such a hot day, Lucy had chosen lighter foods, concentrating on locally caught fish and the more delicate meats and fowl. But even though the dishes were tempting, Henrietta found herself hardly able to eat, longing for the moment when the meal would be over and she could be reunited with Challice.

  When finally she rose from the table, her plan to go in secret was thwarted by Thomas, who challenged her to a game of backgammon, declaring that she owed him the opportunity of getting his revenge and refusing to be denied. Reluctantly, Henrietta started to play, though it struck her that Thomas was more interested in conversing because he said, almost at once, ‘Has it reached your ears at Glynde that one of the Jarvis brothers was caught?’

  ‘No,’ she answered, ‘we are rather sheltered from the news there. What happened?’

  ‘He was badly wounded and then captured. But when he was brought before the Horsham justice, Mr Lindfield, the magistrate found that John Rogers — the bounty hunter who arrested him — had no right to do so and promptly put Rogers in prison for making an unlawful arrest. Jarvis was placed in the charge of the constable but escaped, my dear Henrietta, disguised as a woman. La la la!’

  He waved his lace handkerchief in the air while Henrietta looked astounded. ‘But how is it they manage to get off so lightly?’

  Thomas looked wise and laid his finger alongside his nose. ‘Ah? Who knows?’

  ‘Do you think the magistrates are being bribed by someone?’

  Thomas looked noncommittal and raised one shoulder. He went on, ‘But that is not all. Eight days later Rogers made another attempt, this time backed up by Lieutenant Jekyll and a
party of Grenadiers. They surrounded an inn at West Chiltington — quite a haunt of Edward Jarvis these days — and captured five smugglers and thirty-four horses on their way to make a run.’

  ‘And were they imprisoned this time?’

  ‘On the contrary, my dear. It happened again. One man was committed but the Horsham magistrate released the rest for want of evidence. Want of evidence with the horses already equipped for carrying tubs!’

  ‘It is beyond belief,’ said Henrietta. She paused then added, ‘Somebody in a very high place must be behind the Mayfield smugglers. Don’t you think so, Thomas?’

  ‘Indubitably. All gangs must have their financier — and their brains. I expect there is some rascal nearby laughing at us all.’

  ‘Yes,’ answered Henrietta slowly. ‘I wouldn’t be surprised if you are right.’

  *

  Dash left the palace by way of his personal tunnel and, walking swiftly though somewhat crouched, within a few minutes had emerged into the cellar of the Royal Oak. There, in the stables, his horse awaited him and, just as dusk fell on that late August day, he headed off through the woods on the long way round to Stream Farm.

  It was a glorious evening, the sky the colour of wine and the air as warm and sweet as the taste of it. The jewel tones of the valley of Bivelham struck Dash afresh and, even though his business was urgent, he stopped for a moment to look at the purple hills, where they swept down to clover fields, and up again to the bright harsh emerald of the trees. The thread of the river was ruby in that dying light and soon, Dash thought, skeins of silver would lie over all, as darkness brought peace and silence to the sleeping landscape.

  The candles of Stream Farm were already lit when he arrived, and the door was opened to him by Emmy, looking suspiciously as if she might be expecting a child. She smiled nervously and bobbed a curtsey, a little timid in the presence of Dash himself. He smiled at her.