Eppie

by Robertson, Janice

Startled by Jaggery’s fierce voice, Eppie and Gabriel glanced at one another, horrified.

  Eppie’s lips barely moved. ‘I’ll tackle him.’

  ‘No, he’s dangerous!’

  Forcing him between pegs, she thrust a robe over his face. ‘Once I’ve got him on the run, you head to Bridge House. Mam’s waiting.’

  She leapt into the nave.

  Jaggery trod steadily towards her. ‘If it ain’t that ill-tempered Eppie Dunham, or should I be addressing you as my lady? I can’t begin to wonder what you’re doing here, all alone at this time o’ the night. O’t nasty might befall you.’

  ‘Or you!’ she cried, hurling a hassock at his sneering face.

  Pelting between rows of benches, she headed towards an open stone doorway which led to the roof. Her eyes burning through sepulchre blackness, she hastened up the curving stairway. Feeling her way with her hands, she yearned for a handrail to speed her flight.

  Jaggery’s muffled footsteps were not far behind; his cursing indicating that he was experiencing the same difficulty.

  Thankfully, she felt the door with her hands before her head crashed into it.

  Bats soared in the bell tower, their velvet bodies wheeling above her.

  At her feet lay a broken weathercock. Grabbing it, she rammed it between the bottom of the door and a drainage pipe which spanned the flat roof. Just in time. Jaggery thundered on the timbers with his fists as though trying to punch a hole through the door.

  A stone parapet, designed like the rampart of a fortress, ran around the rooftop. She leapt to the edge. Viewed from this height, the yew trees appeared minuscule.

  Hoping to find a way down, she hitched up her skirts and stepped into a recess. All around fiendish gargoyles leered, their wings sharp against the violet sky. She gaped in trepidation at the sickening drop. There was nothing else for it, she would have to hide from Jaggery and make him believe that she had found a way down. Throwing her shoes off the roof she took a firm grip on the stone and, turning her body, shifted along the outside sill. Clutching onto each of the square blocks of the ramparts, she felt with her bare toes until she stood upon the hunched back of a gargoyle.

  There was a clang and clatter of yielding metal. Jaggery was through.

  Eppie gasped in alarm, so unnerved that she almost lost her balance. Sinking to her knees, she manoeuvred herself until she was able to straddle the beast’s back, her hands clasped around its stony neck.

  Riding the nightmare creature across the sullen skies, she experienced a heady stillness. The expanse of emptiness above and below was exhilarating, sickening. In her mind, she became the carefree child she had once been, soaring upon her swing over the stream. ‘This must be what it feels like to sail across an ocean,’ she thought. In her fancy she imagined the church soaring, a char-blackened ship, crashing and rolling upon waves of graveyard flotsam.

  An owl, disturbed from its perch, swished past, its wings creating a gust of warm air as it brushed close to her face.

  The man stepped close. Tap-tap went the hobnails on his boots. ‘I know you’re out here,’ he drawled. ‘I can smell your fear.’

  From the corner of her eye she saw his head appear above the parapet. If he looked down now she was done for.

  A bell clanged. Inwardly, Eppie groaned. ‘Surely that’s not Gabriel trying to follow?’ Stumbling, he must have grasped a bell rope to steady himself.

  Jaggery presumed it was her and drew back. ‘Thought ya’d give me the slip, did ya?’

  Listening to his retreating footsteps, she prayed Gabriel would realise Jaggery was on his way down, and hide.

  Yawning silence.

  Stealthily, she clambered back. Terrified of falling from the rooftop, her legs shook.

  Tiptoeing to the door, she was reaching for the knob when, from behind, came a grating noise. A creeping sensation travelled up her spine to the back of her neck. Now she was spooking herself, imagining leaden footsteps treading through the gloom. Daring herself, she glanced back.

  Roaring from the pit of his stomach, Jaggery hurtled towards her and cast the remains of the weathervane at her head.

  Yelping, she ducked.

  The weapon smashed into the door, its echo reverberating in the void of the church.

  Fleeing along the rooftop, she soon reached the opposite end.

  If she was to die, she did not want him to know that she was afraid. Turning to face him, she willed her thudding heart to calm, but knew her panic must be evident in her pounding breath.

  He advanced, his murderous eyes starting from behind a wilt of grizzled locks. Seeing her awaiting death, the look of doom etched upon her numb features, Jaggery sneered jubilantly, revelling in her terror before the kill. He laughed through his yellow rat’s teeth. ‘This serves ya right for never givin’ me a slice o’ shortbread.’

  Something inside her, the stubbornness in her nature, cried out, ‘I mustn’t give in this easily!’

  There was only one place left to run; the church spire. Swiftly avoiding his clutches, she tore towards it, the man’s curses ringing in her ear as he pursued her.

  Stubbing her toes between stone petals, she hurriedly crept along the decorative arch.

  Gargoyles spiralled above. The lowest creature loomed, was within arm’s reach. Grasping its wing, she dragged herself up. Weathered through centuries, the stone grazed her skin like coarse sand. With her feet upon the back of the creature, she lunged for the next. Thus she made her ascent, circling the spire, always just out of Jaggery’s reach. Less light-footed he was finding the scramble gruelling.

  Glancing back, she saw his grimace of concentration, determined that he would not be outwitted.

  She struggled on, getting higher, the warm night breeze tugging at her skirts.

  The spire narrowing, the gap between them was closing, fast.

  Reaching the loftiest gargoyle, she realised that all her efforts had been in vain. Giddy, filled with a sense of despair, she lay upon the beast and clutched its horns, the icy stone burning her blazing cheek. Unwillingly, she recalled the ghastly sight in the burial pit. Once Jaggery had killed her that was where he would, no doubt, conceal her body.

  Around her, scattered in brilliant clusters, the shimmering multitude of stars hung in the vast bowl of the night sky. ‘If I am to die,’ she prayed to God, ‘let me be one with the stars, the wind, and the rain.’

  As though in answer to her supplication, she inexplicably felt the beast’s horny hide palpitate beneath her legs.

  Sitting bolt upright in shock, she swallowed hard.

  Beneath her fingertips she felt a movement, accompanied by a sound like quern stones grinding wheat-grains.

  Jaggery’s eyes enlarged in terror as the gargoyle briskly twisted its neck and glared at him, a spray of water flying from its knotted fringe of thatched hair.

  Buffeted by the immense power of the beast’s wings, which it had unfurled in one swift movement, Jaggery was sent, shrieking, over the parapet.

  Before it metamorphosed to rock, the creature glanced back at Eppie, behind its veneer of stone Talia’s exultant expression.

  CHAPTER SIXTY-NINE

  THE ARMY OF REDRESSERS

  ‘I tried to come after you,’ Gabriel said limply.

  ‘I know. I heard the bell.’

  ‘I should’ve helped. I feel bad.’

  ‘It’s all right. I understand.’

  ‘I got scared thinking about climbing those stairs in the dark, and then my knees gave way. What happened?’

  Eppie shuddered, recalling the dull thud of Jaggery’s body landing far below. ‘He fell off the roof. I’ll explain later, when we’re not in such a hurry.’

  They stepped along the stone-flags, the surface worn smooth by centuries of shuffling feet.

  Before them the door swept back. By the look of Jaggery, blanketed from head to foot in dust, he had landed in the gravediggers’ cart of lime. ‘You don’t get rid of me that easy, Lady du Quesne.’

  Tr
eading backwards along the nave, brother and sister swapped pained grimaces.

  Jaggery tramped relentlessly towards them, fists clenched, powder puffing around his boots. His gaze drifting over the prison stripes, noticeable beneath the hem of Gabriel’s cassock, he stopped dead in his tracks. ‘What’ve we here? A fugitive?’

  Glancing up, Eppie nudged Gabriel.

  Distraught at being abandoned, he watched her race off. ‘Don’t leave me!’

  Jaggery smirked. ‘I’ll get a good reward for taking you back to jail.’

  ‘I am no prisoner,’ Gabriel replied indignantly. ‘If you must know, I have been unlawfully accused of a felony. I am Gabriel du Quesne.’

  From somewhere beyond a row of pews, Eppie groaned. ‘Why did you have to tell him that, muttonhead?’ Above the aisle hung a massive iron ring attached to a chain, by means of which it was lowered to light a circle of thick candles. Swiftly, she released the pulley. ‘Duck!’

  Jaggery had one moment to glance up, none to retreat. Hurtling down, the ring plunged over his shoulders like the fallen halo of an angel lost from grace. He toppled into the vault.

  Scurrying back, Eppie grabbed Gabriel by the hand and tugged him along the nave. ‘When Jaggery climbs out he’ll go straight to Thurstan and tell him about you. This time we really need to get going, fast.’

  ‘I don’t do fast.’

  Dumped at the side of the church was a coffin, used for the burial of paupers. It was laid upon a rusty, movable frame on which it was wheeled to a graveside, whereupon the body was tipped into the earth.

  A roguish look flitted across Eppie’s face.

  Gabriel’s heart sank. ‘I flatly refuse.’

  ‘Remember what I told you in the mill office about imagining something so hard that it happens? For example, if you imagine never climbing into this coffin it will make it certain that you never will scramble in here.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘It doesn’t always work.’

  Shunting the hand-bier through town, she tapped on the lid. ‘Imagine Thurstan’s face when he learns you’re alive.’

  The timbers in which he was encased slightly deadened his reply. ‘Not a pretty sight. Do you have to run? I’m feeling queasy, and you’re bound to draw attention. Another thing, it’s hot in here. I’m running out of air.’

  Lurching from a seedy tavern, a drunken man cast a wondering glance at the pallbearer sprinting past, quite believing he had supped too much ale.

  Reaching the top of the lane, Eppie cast a backward glance to check no one was in pursuit. Having pulled the hood of the robe low over her forehead she paced sedately.

  It was not long before they reached Bridge House. Although she hammered so hard on the door that it shook on its hinges, the men yelling in the kitchen drowned the sound. Desperate that they should gain admittance before Thurstan or any of his men seized them, she ran to a bowed window and knocked insistently.

  Lottie unbolted the door and came hesitantly to the top of the steps. ‘Who’s there?’

  Pitted with age and worm infestation, the coffin lid creaked open and clattered onto the bridge. A face peered over the rim.

  Lottie squealed. ‘There’s a dead body in a coffin! It’s crawling out!’

  Startled by her words, Mr Grimley came at once and stared aghast at Gabriel’s pale face. ‘What a blessed relief!’

  Eppie and Gabriel could not refrain from grins, relieved after their narrow escape.

  ‘Come and see the biggest rat I’ve ever caught,’ Loafer entreated, giving Gabriel a hand out. ‘Last night me and Redgy Dipper plied Hix with so much gin at The Barrel that he spewed the truth.’

  Wilbert was lashed to a kitchen chair, guarded by Loafer’s terrier, and Ezra. Turnips bounded enthusiastically round and round the chair.

  ‘Tell Master Gabriel what you blabbed to Fortune,’ Redgy demanded.

  Wilbert was so intoxicated that his head hung over his chest as though it were as heavy as a block of wood. ‘A forgotted.’

  Grasping Wilbert by the hair, Loafer dragged his head back and brought the blade of a dagger close to his throat. ‘Spit it out, or you’ll be floating down the river.’

  ‘Aw right!’ Wilbert bawled, scarcely able to keep his eyes open. ‘It were Thurstan what did fer du Quesne. Now let me go!’

  ‘I don’t think so,’ Mr Grimley said. ‘You will be wanted as a witness. Mr Dipper, be so good as to request Judge Baulke’s attendance.’

  ‘Is Rowan abed?’ Gabriel asked.

  Mr Grimley had not slept properly since Rowan’s disappearance. His eyes burning with tiredness, he despairingly related the facts of her disappearance. ‘Never fear,’ he said, aware of Gabriel’s distress. ‘I am sure it will only be a matter of time before she is found.’ He did not look convinced by his own words.

  He cast a look of consternation over Gabriel’s scant attire. ‘I had better find you something to wear.’

  After a much-needed freshen-up, Gabriel reappeared. Mr Grimley being short and stocky, the striped silk waistcoat hung on Gabriel like a curtain, whilst the waist of the buckskin breeches was so spacious that the belt went round him twice.

  Priscilla arrived, carrying a laden tray. ‘My, it’s sticky weather. You’re bound to be feeling peckish, Master Gabriel. I’ve rustled up some savouries and tarts. Nice cup of tea, Mrs Dunham? Lottie lovey, what’ll you have?’

  Eppie was familiar with the crumbly white cubes. ‘Umm, what sort of cheese is this?’

  Mr Grimley raided the drinks cabinet. ‘I should imagine you would prefer a noggin of brandy, Gabriel?’

  ‘That I would.’ He groaned, stretching out his hand to take the drink.

  A rain of blows fell upon the front door.

  ‘That’ll be the judge,’ Priscilla said, scurrying to answer it. ‘I’ve never known such a night of flap and flurry.’

  Soldiers burst in, their scarlet uniforms and black cockade hats bright against the lemon painted walls. Eppie recognised their faces; they were the men who had accompanied Thurstan to the tavern, the night she was warned against plotting a Combination.

  ‘Gabriel du Quesne, we are here to arrest you on the charge of murder.’

  Eppie sprang to her feet. ‘You shan’t have him!’

  Mr Grimley stood to address the men. ‘Everything is in hand. Judge Baulke has been sent for. Gabriel can prove his innocence.’

  Eppie eyed the soldiers suspiciously. ‘How did you know Gabriel was alive?’

  The judge strode in. ‘This had better be good, Jeremiah; I don’t like being dragged from my bed. Gabriel du Quesne! Thurstan informed me that you were dead.’

  ‘Please, sir, you have to do something!’ Eppie pleaded with the judge. ‘It was Thurstan who killed my father, not Gabriel.’

  Judge Baulke took in her bedraggled, dusty appearance. ‘Woken from my slumbers in the early hours I fear I am becoming feverish. I could have sworn that you said your father?’

  ‘This is Lady Genevieve du Quesne,’ Mr Grimley said. ‘Poached from her cradle. The matter has only recently come to light.’

  Having listened in at the doorway, Loafer spoke respectfully. ‘Your worship, reverence, sir, we have a witness who saw Thurstan murder Lord Robert du Quesne. We’ve had to gag him, seeing as his swearing and cussing was offensive to the ladies.’

  The soldiers followed the judge out of the parlour.

  Whilst the others sat in pensive thought, Mr Grimley drew back the curtains. Pink and mauve streaked the sky, heralding another hot day.

  Not long afterwards, the judge re-entered, his palms pressed together as though in prayer. ‘Gabriel du Quesne, it would seem that your innocence is assured. For the present consider yourself at liberty, though, Jeremiah, until the end of the trial, I place Gabriel in your custody. Where is Kenelm, and his men?’

  ‘Kenelm?’ Eppie said, bewildered. ‘That was the name Jaggery called one of the Resurrectionists.’

  Flames seemed to leap from the judge’s eyes. ‘Resur
rectionists, did you say? And Kenelm is involved?’

  ‘Would you care for a cheese savoury?’ Priscilla asked the judge, who took his place beside Eppie on the couch, keen to hear everything.

  Swiftly, she recounted the tale of what had occurred at the church, though she was careful to say nothing about Wakelin. ‘Reverend Clinch must have discovered Jaggery in the vault,’ she finished. ‘And Jaggery, having found that Gabriel had escaped from jail, must’ve ordered the soldiers to seize him.’

  A horse galloped before the house, its hooves ringing loud and hollow on the bridge. Something smashed through a window.

  Already in a jumpy state, Priscilla yelped and dropped her replenished tray of savouries.

  Loafer crept to the study and returned with a parcel.

  Mr Grimley sliced the string that secured the blue wrapping to a black stone. ‘It’s from the mill wreckers. Robert du Quesne received a threatening letter, somewhat similar, a few weeks prior to his death.’

  When Mr Grimley had shown her the original letter, Eppie recognised Wakelin’s penmanship, though she had kept this knowledge to herself. Clearly under the influence of drink, he had scrawled the smudgy message: This is a Warnin to De Quesne. Yew gorra pull down em steim mashines, else use wana be a Dedman. Leader o the Reckers.

  Mr Grimley read aloud the latest, perfectly spelt, message: ‘You have not heeded our warning. Today we smash the machines. Blood will be spilt. Yours. Signed, The General of the Army of Redressers.’

  ‘Why would this General write to you, making it clear what he’s planning?’ Eppie asked, bemused. ‘By doing so, he has lost the element of surprise.’

  ‘Leave everything to me, Jeremiah,’ the judge said, making a swift exit. ‘I only hope there is time.’

  CHAPTER SEVENTY

  THE WRECKERS

  In the mill yard, a wagoner untied the holding ropes from the pikes and axes that had been sent from the armoury store at Litcombe Castle. Seamen of the royal navy ship The Conquest swelled the ranks of redcoat soldiers.

  Eppie felt driven to protest. ‘Judge Baulke should never have ordered this. People might be killed.’