Cheating the Hangman

by Judith Cutler

  Despatching Susan, who declared herself reluctant to be alone in the rectory, to an aunt in the village for the afternoon, Mrs Trent, Robert and I continued our visits to Clavercote with items for the Tump family. By now Sarey and Joseph were well enough to sit in the warm spring sun, so all the village could, if they wished, chaperone my visits, and more found themselves willing to share Mrs Trent’s largesse. To families whose idea of a nourishing meal was dry toast soaked in cold tea, cuts of ham and slabs of cheese were luxury indeed. Fearing, however, that all would find its way on to the plate of the man of the house, we discussed, as we packed the once overflowing baskets prior to our return home, the possibility of ensuring that the children had a share. We agreed that a visit to Mr Lawton was called for, with the bonus that Mrs Trent was first cousin to his housekeeper and might be able to engage her co-operation in the plan.

  ‘Curates? Waste of time. Stuttering and stumbling – can’t put together a decent sermon like you, Parson Campion,’ Lawton declared.

  ‘Could they teach children their Bible stories?’ I asked.

  Lawton snorted. ‘Those feckless brats? We can’t even drag their parents to church.’

  ‘The children might be persuaded if they knew they would have a square meal there,’ I said, watching his face turn an alarming hue. ‘Very well, let us start on a small scale. Let us promise every child who presents itself for an hour before divine service a portion of bread and cheese. What you and your fellow warden cannot provide, and I fear you would not need much at the start, I will endeavour to supply. The rest is up to your curates. I will write to the bishop myself to tell him of your largesse.’

  It would be wrong to say I was delighted to be summoned to a deathbed in Clavercote, but I felt a certain satisfaction that at last I was trusted. So confident was I of my welcome, that I did not summon Jem and his dog, now known as Cribb, because of his habit of knocking down anyone with whom he had a chance encounter.

  It was deep dusk when I left the village, having stayed with the old man until he went quietly and penitently to meet his Maker. Titus was inclined to flinch at every snap of a twig, and soon his nervousness conveyed itself to me, bringing home to me my folly. I strained my eyes against the darkness. But I sensed, rather than saw, a man lying by the side of the road. I approached cautiously.

  My sense of smell returned first. I was lying under a coat that smelt of sweat and dirt. There was also the worrying odour of a suppurating wound. Nearby was a man who had clearly not washed for many a day. I forced my eyes open. Standing over me, cudgel raised, was a footpad. To my amazement, however, he had his back to me and was yelling at people I could not see. At last he bent down to me, using his cudgel as an old man might use a walking stick as a support.

  ‘Cowards,’ he said, his breath as foul as the rest of him. ‘Three of them. Oldest trick in the book, Your Honour. One lies himself down, groans a bit, up turns a good Samaritan and the others lay about him and rob him. Only I spoils their game.’

  Was he telling the truth?

  ‘Can you help me up?’

  ‘Doubt if I should. You might have something broke. And, Lord love you, sir, it’s all I can do to stand myself. Carry you I cannot.’

  ‘Did they take my horse?’

  ‘Him? It’d take old Hookey’s army to capture him. Made himself scarce, but I reckon he’s over there – hear him cropping?’

  I whistled. Over he came, wanting, it was clear, to nuzzle me but not keen on making the acquaintance of my rescuer.

  ‘Nice bit of horseflesh,’ he said.

  ‘Strong, too. He’ll carry both of us back to his stable. Can you help me on to his back? Then I’ll haul you up behind me.’

  Neither was achieved without a struggle, but at last Titus had us both safe and we were on our slow way. Dimly I realised that I should have had the man in front of me – had he been ill-inclined he could have cut my throat with ease. But he held on as if in genuine fear of slipping off. As we entered Moreton St Jude’s, we passed Jem and his Cribb. Jem was by our side in an instant.

  ‘Would you come with us to the rectory?’ I asked feebly. ‘I doubt if either of us can dismount without help. I was attacked – so stupid, to travel by night without a companion.’

  ‘Not to Clavercote – Toby, what a fool you are to be sure. Nearly there,’ he said reassuringly – though whether to me, the man clinging to me for dear life, to Titus or even Cribb I had no idea. ‘I’ll run ahead and warn Mrs Trent. You’ll need Hansard for sure. But how may I send for him?’ he pondered.

  ‘Send Robert. Yes, on Titus. They have an understanding.’ Possibly that was what I said. I tried harder with the next sentences. ‘Look after this man. He saved my life and needs Edmund far more than I do.’

  How I reached my bedchamber, I knew not – nor how I came to find myself clean and in my nightshirt. And in daylight? Maria was seated beside me, reading a leatherbound volume that provoked her to silent laughter from time to time. I must remember to ask her why. But then it dawned on me that there was something – someone! – I needed far more urgently to remember.

  ‘The man who rescued me?’ I asked, only to be surprised how hoarse and thin my voice sounded.

  She put down her book and plied me with water. ‘Your throat is very bruised. Someone tried to strangle you. Was it that man?’

  ‘The one I brought home? Far from it. He saved me. Titus carried us both.’

  ‘More than that – he let Robert ride him to Langley Park. And can you believe it – Robert told us you had been hurt and needed us urgently. A lot of words, Tobias, all at once! I think your sad injuries have occasioned a miracle.’

  ‘But what of the man who saved me?’ I insisted. ‘Pray do not tell me he is dead.’

  ‘The word is that he is the man responsible for all the burglaries. The villagers want to haul him before a magistrate – he is threatened already with the noose or with transportation. Were Lord Chase at home I think his hours would be numbered but they are shy of approaching Lord Hasbury.’

  ‘You must not let them. Not till I have spoken to the man.’

  She pressed me firmly back on to my pillow. ‘He will speak to no one at the moment, rest assured. Admittedly he is guarded by two sturdy villagers, but Edmund tells me he is very ill. Far worse than you. The man is starving and has a very bad wound. He may not survive the day. Now what are you doing?’

  ‘Pass me my dressing gown and slippers, I beg you. I must see him. I will pray for him – pray with him!’

  He did indeed look very ill. They had installed him in the bedchamber intended for Robert, but hardly ever used. Kind hands had washed him and dressed him in what I recognised as my oldest nightshirt – it hung about him as if he was a child. His hair had been cut very short, so he almost looked like a convict. But they had shaved his face and trimmed his nails too. He was so still he might almost have been laid out. But someone had made a little cage over his legs, like those Edmund favoured for his gout patients. He was being treated like a living man, at least.

  I found my legs too sore to kneel but could sit beside him, holding one of the poor thin hands as I prayed.

  Edmund soon appeared, every inch the authoritative physician, to shoo me back to my chamber. ‘You need sleep, my friend – that’s the best drug I can prescribe. And so does this poor starving creature. Damn it, there’s not enough of him for me to risk bleeding him. I am relying on poultices for his leg. In a few moments I will endeavour to persuade him to sip a little milk mixed with water. No, not brandy – his constitution is too weak – but I have prepared a restorative draught. And Mrs Trent is preparing chicken broth even as we speak.’ We exchanged a grimace. ‘But Maria tells me no one can ruin chicken broth. Or thin gruel.’

  ‘I will wait here while you feed him – if only we knew his name, Edmund!’

  ‘It may be several days before we do. Go back to bed to rest and pray: that is my advice both as your doctor and as your friend. And I promise you that should he b
e capable of speaking, I will summon you instanter.’ He smiled. ‘Toone is dealing with all my other patients – him and his coloured water …’

  I was well enough to demand something other than gruel and chicken broth the following morning, and was greeted by the good news that my rescuer was still alive, with a much stronger pulse. I insisted on donning my day clothes, though I consented to being propped up in my rarely used drawing room in a chair by the window with a pile of my favourite volumes beside me. Truly my head felt as if it was stuffed with horsehair: I could not follow the words of a sermon or even a poem. It was hard to recall the name of a daffodil or of the robin that Robert had been training to take crumbs from his hands. Maria had told me something important about Robert: what was it? And what was the much more important thing that was hopping round my horsehair brain like a flea in the upholstery of a cheap hackney carriage?

  My usual means of summoning things to my memory was to occupy my mind in other ways – even by taking a turn in the garden. However, I was by no means sure I could trust my legs. Then I believe I smiled: there was one thing I could always trust, the power of prayer – even if, to my shame, I verily believe I dozed before I had finished.

  But as I slept, the question – and, more importantly, the answer – came to me. Where had I come across my rescuer before? The answer came like a beam of light: when I was daydreaming on the road to Radway Park – when he had signally failed to rob me. Then I had rescued him from a certain encounter with the hangman. Now he had amply repaid his debt.

  Or so I hoped. What if it had been he who had attacked me but found himself too weak to sustain the attempt?

  Even my quavering power of reason soon dismissed that idea: Titus was a strong animal, capable of outrunning most pursuers, and definitely not likely to dawdle along while some pedestrian tried to pull his master from the saddle. Someone must have been agile enough to climb a wayside tree and drop on top of me from it, thus dislodging me and bringing me down. Then – without a doubt – someone had tried to strangle me. Would this man have had the strength to do that?

  To my surprise it was Toone who looked in on me in the early afternoon. He forbade me the wine I offered to him, but then relented, mixing it with a little water. When Mrs Trent, bobbing one of her deepest curtsies, came in to ask if he might fancy a nuncheon, he pleased her enormously by saying he would, if I could fancy a morsel too. Fearing gruel, I was inclined to demur, but it seemed that from somewhere had sprung a beautifully cooked chicken, which would go perfectly with some of Mrs Tufnell’s best bread. It transpired that Mrs Mead had prepared the chicken. As if excusing herself, Mrs Trent said her neighbours had feared she would be too occupied with two invalids to spare time in her kitchen.

  As we finished our repasts, his by far the more impressive, I glanced at Toone. ‘Might I ask you a favour? It concerns the attack.’

  He paused, the decanter over his glass. ‘Ask away.’

  ‘Toone, there will be those who wish to accuse and convict my fellow patient of assaulting me. What I would beg you to do is return to the place where he found me and see what you see there. Broken branches, hoof marks – anything.’

  He poured swiftly and drank with equal speed. ‘In other words, Tobias, you do not want that rapscallion to be your assailant. Well, we shall see. The only problem would be finding the exact place.’

  Stammering and starting, I tried without particular success to tell him where to go.

  He threw his head back and laughed, not unkindly. ‘Look, the day is as fine as any in high summer. Hansard will not be pleased, but would you care for a spin in my curricle?’

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  ‘There – over there, I think. Toone, this may be a fool’s errand, for which I am truly sorry.’

  He overshot the site by some furlongs, and then turned his curricle beautifully before bringing his horses to a halt some twenty yards from the copse I had indicated. As he jumped down, he bade his groom stay and guard me.

  ‘Guard?’

  ‘My innocent young friend, do you believe that having been unable to kill you once, they will give up the notion? I think not. For that reason Binns will keep his pistol to hand, and you will find yourself provided with another if you can bend sufficiently – well done – to locate it. You will find it throws a little to the right. I am already armed.’ He put the reins in my hand as the groom hopped down and took the horses’ heads. ‘Binns, if you hear me whistle, have Dr Campion spring the horses and come to my rescue.’

  What had seemed a pleasurable alternative to lying at the rectory feeling sorry for myself was rapidly assuming the seriousness of a military expedition. I felt unwontedly vulnerable, and grateful that Binns, standing at the horses’ heads, should be gazing around him, his eyes wide and his head constantly on the move, reminding me of an owl on the lookout for a field-mouse.

  Before my increasingly heavy eyes drifted me into sleep, Toone returned, pulling himself easily up beside me. Binns returned to his position and Toone set us briskly on our way. None of us spoke – Binns almost certainly acting on instructions and I because I was trying not to call out in pain each time the wheels hit a rut.

  Binns helped me down – I cursed my invalidish ways in a most unecclesiastical way, much to Toones’ amusement – and helped his master escort me back into the rectory. He established me in my window chair, poured his master some wine, and withdrew, closing the door very firmly. Only then did Toone speak, as he downed the wine. It seemed there was none for me this time.

  ‘At least one horse besides Titus – a big one, probably more used to pulling a trap than carrying a rider. Several sets of hobnail boots. Your guest’s boots were so worn it is a wonder they would carry him – they were bound about with twine of some sort in an effort to keep them together. One explanation is that he was part of the gang; another is that he did indeed risk life and limb to rescue you. Sadly I suspect he will be in no state to be questioned for a day or so yet.’ He paused to ring the bell, summoning Binns, who reappeared instantly. ‘Binns will see you back to your room and ensure that you are reposing in your bed in time for Hansard’s visit. Come: lean on Binns. This is no time for false pride.’

  I nodded wearily, but found enough energy to say, ‘We must not lose that evidence. Could you – I know not how I ask this – could you take some paper from my study and rescue some charcoal from the range and make crude rubbings of the boot prints?’

  His eyes opened wide.

  ‘A trick Jem taught me when I was a child.’

  ‘A trick worth trying, then. Very well. I will ride out, Binns, but since you will be occupied here, I will take young Robert. He needs some fresh air: did you know, Tobias, that the boy mounted a vigil outside your room these last nights, sleeping on the drugget as if it were the softest bed? No?’ He smiled, but looked at me closely, feeling my wrist. ‘Indeed I should not have taken you out, but Mrs Trent assures me it will rain tonight and tomorrow and I did not wish to lose any evidence. Rubbing the marks with charcoal, eh? I would have liked to have sketches, of course, but Snowdon is not to hand and I fear that Mrs Hansard would positively revile me if she heard in detail of my doings. And I suspect that she is very much a woman for details …’

  Assuredly she was. Though I am sure she registered Toone’s absence and my extreme weariness, however, she said nothing. Binns had removed any trace of mud from my clothes and boots, and, after casting a disparaging glance at my bands and my neckcloths had seized the lot and decamped to the kitchen to discuss with Mrs Trent the best way to launder and iron them, as if the poor woman did not have enough to worry about.

  Maria seated herself beside me. ‘You are very pale.’

  ‘Indeed, I am much recovered. Were Mrs Trent able to cater for so many at such short notice, I would insist that I am well enough to come downstairs to dine with you. As it is, I am inured to the idea of remaining here in my bedchamber to consume more broth and more appalling gruel.’

  ‘I can tell her t
hat Edmund has forbidden gruel, and that a little cold chicken would be more healthful. Binns, well on the way to driving her insane, has announced that he will remain here tonight and act as your valet, leaving Toone to the tender mercies of Edmund’s saintly Marsh. No, no one has told him that in addition to dancing attendance on Edmund at all hours of the night, though of course he is expressly forbidden to do any such thing, he has a probably more exacting master to serve. Apparently he and Binns have had an exchange about the height of Edmund’s collar points. As if a country gentleman ever gave such a thing a thought …’ She broke off to smile up at Edmund, ominously carrying his medical bag. ‘I have exhausted him by my chatter, my love. Before we leave, I will just see if Mrs Trent is in need of any assistance.’

  I endured a few minutes’ prodding and pulling from my good friend, who pronounced himself satisfied. On the other hand he submitted me to a long stare: ‘You seem surprisingly fatigued for one who has lain on a sofa all day – I had expected you to be arguing with me about my recommending you keep your room this evening. And I have to observe that when I passed Toone, who was returning to Langley Park, he appeared to be filthy dirty. Black, like a sweep’s boy. What the distinguished Binns would make of his cuffs goodness knows. It is a good thing that Marsh is more tolerant. And when I come here and find Robert in a similar state just about to submit to a session under the pump I am quite baffled.’