by Joan Aiken
Five minutes of somewhat uneasy silence went by. At last one figure, two figures, suddenly and softly appeared round the corner of the building.
‘It’s us!’ whispered Yan. ‘Came out the back door – dang me, it wasn’t even locked.’
‘But where’s Tobit?’ Dido asked anxiously, for Yan’s companion was a grown man.
‘That be the mishief of it, ducky – he ain’t there.’
‘Are you sure?’ Dido made a movement towards the jail, but Yan grabbed her arm.
‘Sure as Sunday – we went over the whole place, there’s not another soul inside. But Pimp here, who was in the next cell, says that not half an hour agone he heard some chaps come along, mouching and mumchance, have a word wi’ the watchman, open up the boy’s cell, and take him off wi’ them. What d’you make o’ that?’
‘Oh my stars!’ said Dido. ‘I reckon that there Mystery’s gone and kidnapped him!’
7
TOBIT HAD BEEN horribly bored in jail. He was shut into a little upstairs room that looked out on to a pigsty with three pigs in it. Beyond that lay a grassgrown yard in which there was a well. The well appeared to be disused: it was covered by a millstone with moss on it; the well-head was weatherworn, the handle and chain rusty. A pile of old farm implements lay in a corner of the yard, half grown over with brambles. On the other side of the yard was a windmill with some doves on its roof.
Tobit had plenty of time to study all these details.
For a while he tried to amuse himself by firing Joobie nuts through his pea-shooter at the pigs, but their hides were so thick that they didn’t notice; it was very poor sport and he presently gave up. For a while, too, he tried to cheer himself by hoping that his grandmother would send to have him released, or that some witness would come forward to say that he had been wrongfully arrested, but time passed and his hopes sank lower and lower. Night fell. When he had been sitting in the dark for a couple of hours somebody opened his door and thrust in a rush dip, a loaf of brown bread and a mug of weak beer. He had no more visitors that evening. It took him a long time to go to sleep. He made up dozens of different stories about how he was rescued by highwaymen, by Hanoverians, by outlaws; how he managed to escape by tearing his sheets into strips and climbing out of the window. But nobody rescued him, there were no sheets, it was a long drop to the ground, and then there were pigs underneath; Tobit had a great dislike of pigs.
He thought of swallowing a Joobie nut. When he was little, Sannie had given him Joobie nuts to suck for toothache and there had been a fearful fascination about the things they made him see: trolls, giant bats, griffins. Then Sannie had forbidden Joobie nuts, which of course added to the excitement of sucking them. But now Sannie was not here to provoke, and he didn’t fancy the kind of visions that Joobie nuts might produce in the little dark prison room. He counted sheep instead and at last fell asleep.
Next morning, not particularly early, the door opened and he was surprised to see Pelmett, who brought a loaf of brown bread and a cup of watery milk. Tobit’s heart leapt up.
‘Has Grandmother sent to have me let out?’
Pelmett dumped the cup and loaf on the floor, then stood regarding Tobit with folded arms and a scornful smile.
‘Old Lady T? Not middling likely! You’ve cooked your goose with her my boy – she’ve cut you off. There’ll be no more airs-and-graces, Mas’r Tobit, now! Yes, Sir Tobit, no, Sir Tobit, what can I fetch for you, Sir Tobit – ugh, you spoilt young twort! You’ll be pulled afore the Beak this morning and you’ll be given a lifer in Botany Bay, and serve you right. All for a couple of fourpenny shubunkins!’ He laughed in a sneering manner as if he knew more than he was prepared to say, picked up the empty beer mug, spat into it and retired, slamming the door.
Presently two constables appeared and hustled Tobit into a downstairs room. Three gentlemen were already seated there, behind a table. He recognized the Tegleaze family lawyers, and hope rose in him again. But the two old gentlemen, Pickwick and Fitz-Pickwick, stared vacantly about as if they had not noticed him come in, while young Mr Wily flipped through a bunch of papers, stood up, and proceeded to read aloud in a rapid gabble:
‘Accused was seen to steal two shubunkin fish, worth fourpence-three-farthings, property of Miss Betsy Smith. Fish were subsequently discovered in accused’s pocket.’
‘Shocking, shocking,’ mumbled the two old gentlemen. One of them asked, ‘Where is Miss Smith now?’
‘She has left town.’
‘Names of witnesses?’ croaked the other old gentleman. They seemed half asleep, and as if they were unable to distinguish objects more than two or three feet away.
‘Mrs Aker, Mrs Baker, Mr Caker, Miss Daker, Mrs Eaker, Mr Faker – all ratepayers; a Mr Twite and a Mr Mystery, who happened to be passing through the town; and Amos Frill, footman at Tegleaze Manor.’
‘Ah yes, mumble mumble; very respectable, Tegleaze Manor. Mumble mumble,’ said one of the two old men.
‘And the culprit’s name?’
As the younger lawyer read out Tobit’s name, both constables fell into such a fit of coughing that it seemed almost impossible the old gentlemen should have heard it, but this did not seem to make any difference.
‘Guilt clearly proved then,’ said one. ‘I think we are all agreed on that? Mumble mumble.’
‘Indeed yes, mumble,’ said the other. ‘And the sentence? Are we agreed on that?’
‘Ten years in Botany Bay, I think we decided before coming in?’
Here it was young Mr Wily’s turn to cough in a reproving way.
‘Did you hear, young man?’ said old Sir Fitz-Pickwick, blinking in Tobit’s direction. ‘You are sentenced to ten years’ transportation, and we hope you are duly grateful for the leniency of your sentence.’
Tobit’s mouth was so dry with astonishment and dismay that he was incapable of making any reply, but nobody noticed. Young Wily snapped out, ‘Constables, remove him!’ and he was hustled back to his cell.
‘You’ll be taken off on Tuesday, when a gang goes down to the convict ships at Pompey,’ one of the constables told him. ‘Ah, and am I thankful I’m not in your shoes!’
They dumped down his dinner – more brown bread and a bowl of weak pea soup. After that, nothing happened for a number of hours and Tobit was left to his own miserable reflections. He tried to tell himself stories about how he escaped on the way to Portsmouth; how he was rescued by smugglers, by French privateers, by pirates from the convict ship – but none of the stories rang particularly true, and even if they had, still they left a lot of time ahead of him which would have to be spent in a very disagreeable manner. By five o’clock that evening it is probable that he was the most unhappy boy in Petworth.
He was sunk in a sort of melancholy daze when he became aware of low voices having a conversation just outside his door, and the sound of coins chinking. Then the door was softly opened. Tobit, who had been staring gloomily out at the pigs, turned his head, but before he could see who had come in a neckerchief was whipped over his eyes and a noose was drawn tight over his hands. Something pricked him between the shoulder-blades.
‘D’you feel that?’ inquired a voice in his ear. ‘If you want it to go another six inches in, just holler! It’d go in as easy as a knitting-needle into a ball o’ yarn.’
Tobit prudently remained silent and was half pulled, half pushed, very rapidly and, as far as he could make out, by at least two men, downstairs, out into the frosty night, a short distance over cobbles, a shorter distance over grass, and into a building that seemed large – to judge by the echoes – and had a strong, not unpleasant odour of bran, sacking and grain. He could hear a regular creaking, and the mutter of distant voices. A door slammed behind him and a bolt rattled. The cloth was removed from his face and he discovered that he was in a large, round, dimly lit room. Sacks, some full, some empty, were piled against the walls. In the centre was an arrangement of ropes and pulleys leading up through a hole in the high ceiling. The floor was t
hick with dust or flour. He realized that he must be in the windmill: the creak was the regular noise of the great sails as they went round.
A small oil lamp burned on a trestle table about ten feet from where he stood. Beyond the table sat a man whose face could not at the moment be seen because he was leaning forward, looking down intently at a small object that lay between him and the light. Presently the man raised his eyes from their gloating scrutiny and peered past the lamp. Tobit recognised the puppet-master.
He spoke harshly and abruptly.
‘Where’s your sister, b-boy?’ he demanded.
Tobit remained silent, thinking the question could not have been addressed to him.
But the man repeated impatiently,
‘You have a tongue – use it, or b-by the powers I’ll d-drag it out of you. Where’s your sister? Where will she have hidden herself?’
‘I – I haven’t got a sister!’ gulped Tobit.
Here another man, who had been standing in the shadows, moved forward. So low were Tobit’s spirits that he was not particularly surprised to recognize Colonel FitzPickwick. The Colonel remonstrated.
‘What difference does it make where the girl is, Tegleaze – since you have the Heirloom?’
These words made Tobit start forward, but he was dragged sharply back by the cord round his wrists. Pelmett and another man still stood behind him.
‘I tell you, I’ll have no contenders for the title!’ said the man addressed as Tegleaze. ‘When the Hanoverians come to power I want my claim clear. The boy is to be transported – very well, he’s out of the running. But where’s the g-girl? Where has she run off t-to?’ he snarled at Tobit.
‘I don’t know what you are talking about!’
‘He never met his sister,’ interposed FitzPickwick again. ‘He did not even know she existed. But doubtless we can soon track her down. She was friendly with the pair who have just decamped from Dogkennel Cottages – she may be with them. They’ll not have gone far.’
‘She m-must be found.’
‘What will you do then?’ the Colonel asked uneasily.
‘Ship her overseas t-too, perhaps – back to Tiburon. Or m-marry her, maybe! How can I tell till I find her?’
‘I don’t understand you, Tegleaze!’ the Colonel exclaimed. ‘You are so changeable. First you were going to wait till the boy came of age, so that his grandmother would get her hands on the Heirloom; I could easily have persuaded her to part with it, as with all her other geegaws, for gambling money. But no, you must switch over to this plan of discrediting the boy. Why?’
‘Perhaps I do not altogether t-trust you, Fitz-Pickwick! You might have kept the Luck-piece for yourself! After all, those two old hags of yours were playing a fine double g-game. If it had not been for their suddenly producing this precious girl, I could have made my claim as heir, once Tobit was out for the count. B-but that won’t be so s-simple now – even if we get rid of the g-girl, people might ask awkward questions; you can d-dispatch one rival heir without arousing suspicion, but if there are two you have to be more c-careful! Until King George is on the throne and our c-cause has triumphed I’ll stay in the b-background – now I have the Luck-piece I c-can afford to wait. Our f-friends will see I have my rights after we have dealt with the Wren’s N-Nest.’
‘Well – very well. Shall I deliver the Luck-piece to the Margrave of Bad Fallingoff? He will give all the jewels in his crown to see it safe!’
‘Thankee, FitzPickwick,’ the other man said drily, ‘I’ll take care of that little m-matter myself!’
‘What about Godwit – what about payment for moving the Wren’s Nest?’
‘Have no fear – you can trust me! Tell him to set his wits to work on the matter – he will receive f-funds within, the w-week.’
The seated man picked up the little object that lay before him; it was slung on a thin black cord which he proceeded to tie in a knot. His hands, while doing this, shook so violently that two or three times he nearly dropped it; it swung crazily from side to side and Tobit could not get a clear view of it, though he could guess what it was.
‘I wonder you care to part with it – since it is the family treasure?’ Colonel FitzPickwick said inquisitively.
‘The family? The family that does not even know of my existence? Pah! I should like to c-crush it to dust!’ the other man said with such violent anger in his voice that the Colonel took an instinctive step forward. ‘S-set your mind at rest, however – I shall n-not do so! After all, this little t-trifle is going to pay for our t-triumph – it will set your humble servant back in his rightful place as well as K-King George. But, C-Colonel, I detain you – you have other engagements, I am s-sure. Pray don’t let me incinconvenience you.’
The Colonel seemed reluctant to leave.
‘What about the boy – you’ll not harm him?’
‘Pelmett and Twite shall take him back to jail – ready for export. I see you were right. He c-can tell us nothing useful. G-good night, my dear sir.’
He stood up and stepped to escort Colonel Fitz-Pickwick from the place, carelessly slinging the black cord round his neck as he did so. But the cord, insecurely tied, came unknotted, and the pendant slipped off it and fell without a sound on to the dusty floor. The men exchanged a few last words at the door, then the Colonel went out and mounted a horse which could be heard trotting away.
‘Now,’ Tegleaze said briskly returning. ‘Give Fitz-Pickwick a few minutes to get clear, then dispose of the b-boy.’
‘Back to the lock-up, eh?’ Pelmett said with a meaning wink.
Tegleaze did not reply; Tobit felt a sudden oddness in the atmosphere.
‘Who are you?’ he blurted out.
‘Found your tongue, eh?’ Mr Mystery gave Tobit a long, strange, chill stare. ‘Well, it won’t do you much good now. And it won’t do you much good to know who I am. But I’ll tell you – I’m your cousin – your cousin Miles Tegleaze. Our great-great-great-grandfathers were brothers, back in Cromwell’s day. Yours fought on the king’s side and prospered; mine went overseas to the Americas and f-fell on hard times. So did his son and his son’s son. But n-now it is my turn to crow.’
He swung away as if the sight of Tobit fidgeted him, and studied some plans that lay on the table. ‘Right,’ he said presently, without looking round, ‘t-take him out.’
Pelmett and the man called Twite grabbed Tobit’s arms again and urged him towards the door. But he tripped over an iron bolt that fastened a trap entrance in the floor and, unable to keep his balance with his arms behind him, fell flat on his face.
Just before he hit the floor he saw something to his left in the thick, floury dust: a small, round, brightly coloured object – The Tegleaze Luck-piece. By pushing himself sidways, as if struggling to get up, Tobit was just able to gulp it into his mouth – along with a lot of dust – before the two men dragged him upright again.
Once outside the mill they did not, as he had expected, take him back towards the jail. Instead Twite held him, while Pelmett moved a few feet away.
‘Dark as the inside of a cow,’ Tobit heard him mutter. ‘Where is the plaguy thing – Ah – ’ There came a strange grinding creak as if heavy metal or stone had been slowly opened or dragged to one side. With an indescribable pang of terror Tobit remembered the disused well in the windmill yard.
‘Too bad about this, young feller-me-lad,’ muttered the man called Twite. ‘But orders is orders – that Mystery knows enough about me to have me strung up by the heels from Temple Bar. I’ll undo your hands though – you can swim if you’ve a mind to.’
Tobit felt the noose gently slipped from his wrists. Next minute he was pushed violently forward – trod on nothing – and fell, gasping with shock and fright. The Luck-piece flew out of his mouth as he fell. Something struck his arm and he made an instinctive clutch at it, first with one hand, then with the other. It was the well-rope, which burnt and scraped his palms as he shot helplessly downwards. Another loud grinding creak overhead told hi
m that the well’s lid had been shut above him. At the same moment his fall was checked; he came to rest on something cold and sharp that cut and bruised his shins: the bucket. Tobit and the bucket dropped a few more feet; then, apparently, the rope caught, or came to the end of its length.
Dangling in the dark, Tobit reached out with one hand. He could feel the circular brick wall of the well around him, nothing above or below. He found a Joobie nut in his pocket and dropped it, but could hear no splash: either the well was dry, or the water was too far down for the sound to be audible. Up above, he could see a tiny circle of night sky, about the size of a button, with a single star in it. This must be the round hole in the middle of the millstone.
I am hanging on a bucket in a well, thought Tobit very slowly and carefully. I don’t know how deep it is, but it may be very deep. I daren’t shout for help because the nearest person is probably that man who says he is my cousin, and he wants me to die – I suppose so he can be sure of getting Tegleaze Manor. I have lost the Luck-piece which is at the bottom of the well. The only other people who know where I am are Pelmett and that man who undid the rope. Everybody else will think I have escaped from the jail. Grandmother has cut me off. No one will care what has happened to me.
With a tremendous effort he managed to wriggle up so that he was half kneeling on the bucket. It was difficult because the bucket swung about and tipped, and when he had changed his position the metal rim hurt his legs; but at least some of the weight was off his arms. He wondered if the rope would break.
After a while he tried to make up a story about how he was rescued from the well, but no possible story seemed to meet the case.
He began to feel painful cramp in his arms and legs, but there was no easy way that he could move to ease them; he could find no comfort, either for mind or body.
He had thought himself miserable in jail, but in comparison with his present situation the jail seemed quite a cosy, home-like place. He wondered if he could be dreaming – having a nightmare – but it was all so unlikely that he was sure it must be real. The dreams from Joobie nuts were nothing like as frightening as this.