Gideon the Cutpurse

by Linda Buckley-Archer

  ‘Ah, those will be the stays.’

  ‘How did you know what they’re called?’ asked Kate.

  ‘Oh, everyone knows that,’ Peter replied.

  ‘Is there a mirror in here?’ asked Kate. ‘I want to see what I look like.’

  She looked about the morning room and saw a large gilded mirror above the fireplace. As she drew out a chair to stand on, Jack’s piping voice declared: ‘You look ravishing, my dear.’

  ‘Is that what your father says to your mama?’ asked Kate, trying to keep a straight face.

  ‘Yes.’ And then, to Kate’s great dismay Jack’s small face crumpled and he started to cry.

  ‘I want Papa to come home,’ he sobbed.

  Kate put her arms around his shoulders.

  ‘I understand,’ she said.

  ‘How old are you, Jack?’ asked Peter.

  ‘I am five. I am very ill.’

  ‘Are you?’ said Peter. ‘You don’t seem too ill.’

  Jack grabbed Peter’s hand and placed it one side of his throat. It was true that there was a slight swelling.

  ‘I have the King’s Evil,’ he said proudly.

  Peter quickly removed his hand and looked at Kate to see if she knew what Jack was talking about. She shook her head.

  ‘Does it hurt?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Well, that’s something,’ replied Peter.

  Kate picked up her skirts and balanced precariously on a chair to study her reflection. She wore a dress of soft green silk; pink roses were embroidered on the bodice and it was edged in ivory lace. Her hair had been piled up on top of her head and strands of hair had been curled and artfully arranged around her face. She looked beautiful.

  ‘I wish I had a camera – I’d love to show Mum, she’s always trying to get me to wear dresses.’ Kate’s voice cracked. ‘Do you think we’ll ever …’

  ‘You will see her again,’ said Peter quickly. ‘We’ll find a way.’

  Peter did not want Kate to start crying – she was actually all right when she wasn’t crying or being bossy.

  Kate nodded and tried to smile. ‘You must miss your family, too.’

  ‘I do … but my mum and dad are always away on business anyway.’

  ‘Don’t you get lonely?’ Kate asked.

  ‘I can look after myself.’

  ‘I’ve been talking to your au pair, Miss Stein,’ said Detective Inspector Wheeler. ‘She told me that Peter was extremely upset the morning he disappeared.’

  He was meeting Mr and Mrs Schock for lunch at the Peacock Hotel where they were staying. This was a mistake, he soon realised, because although he was ravenous he could hardly wolf down his steak and chips when Mr and Mrs Schock had pushed away their plates without even touching their food.

  ‘It would have been helpful if you could have mentioned the argument you had with your son. In the light of what Miss Stein said, I think we need to consider the possibility that Peter has run away.’

  Mrs Schock looked at her husband in alarm. ‘What argument?’ she asked. ‘What is all this about?’

  Peter’s father clenched his jaw in a vain effort to keep calm.

  ‘There was a meeting I couldn’t get out of. I had to cancel Peter’s birthday treat … again. There was nothing else I could do. Peter didn’t take it too well. He said he hated me … Don’t look at me like that! If you hadn’t swanned off to work in LA this wouldn’t have happened!’

  Mrs Schock dropped her hands onto her lap and let her chin sink to her chest. She closed her eyes. Then her husband put his hands over hers.

  ‘I didn’t mean that. I’m sorry. All of this is my fault. I know it is.’

  Mrs Schock shook her head and looked up at Detective Inspector Wheeler.

  ‘I know my son,’ she said. ‘I don’t believe that Peter would have run away. He gets angry, just like his father, and then he gets upset. But he doesn’t run away. It’s not his style. I don’t believe it.’

  Mrs Byng had invited Peter and Kate to join them in the gardens after lunch. It was a family custom, she explained, to plant a tree in honour of the birth of each of her children.

  Three-month-old Alexander Byng was held by his nurse to watch the ceremony. Two gardeners held a small evergreen tree level while all the children took it in turns to throw a spade of earth into the hole which had been dug to accommodate its roots.

  ‘The Colonel got Mr Powell of Holborn to send up the tree. I have never seen a full-grown cedar of Lebanon, but Mr Powell assured the Colonel that they are long-lived and grow into majestic specimens. He guarantees that this cedar tree will outlive us all.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Kate wistfully, ‘hundreds of years from now, children will still be playing in the shade of its beautiful, broad branches. They’ll eat their lunch, leaning their backs on its massive trunk. And if they can manage it without getting caught, they might even carve their initials into its thick bark. I can picture the scene quite clearly.’

  ‘A pretty speech, Mistress Kate, thank you,’ said Mrs Byng. ‘And now I must finish the preparations for your journey tomorrow. Hannah will find a change of costume for you to take with you to London. In the meantime I suggest that you take your ease in the gardens – your journey tomorrow will be long and uncomfortable.’

  As Mrs Byng returned into the house, the children saw Gideon approach her. He took off his three-cornered hat and bowed low. He seemed preoccupied and concerned. They saw Mrs Byng listening carefully to what he had to say. They could not hear Gideon’s low voice as he had his back to them but Mrs Byng’s clear, resonant voice carried towards them on the breeze.

  ‘Ah, but that is unfortunate, Mr Seymour. The harvest will soon be upon us and I was counting on your help. Can your business not be delayed?’

  Gideon shook his head and spoke again.

  ‘Then of course you must go. I would be the last person to counsel otherwise. Hurry back as soon as you are able.’

  Gideon kissed her hand.

  ‘At least,’ Mrs Byng continued, ‘I shall rest easier now there is to be another man to accompany the party. My nerves have been quite rattled with all this talk of highwaymen. Parson Ledbury is as brave as a lion, but his bluster is no match, I fear, for a gentleman of the road’s pistol. While Sidney, for all his airs, is still a child.’

  Mrs Byng disappeared into the house and Gideon turned and strode over to where Peter and Kate were sitting. There always seemed to be a calmness about Gideon; even when he was rushing he never seemed in a hurry.

  ‘I couldn’t help overhearing,’ Peter blurted out. ‘Are you coming to London with us?’

  ‘Yes, it seems we are to follow the same road once more. Mrs Byng is happy for me to accompany the party.’

  ‘Yes!’ said Peter, punching the air.

  ‘Hurrah!’ said Kate.

  Gideon seemed pleased. ‘I am happy to be travelling with you. But are you recovered, Mistress Kate?’

  ‘Yes, I feel much better, thank you.’

  ‘I am glad. Mrs Byng’s dress suits you well. And you, Peter, I scarcely recognised you. You look quite the gentleman, although a pair of decent boots might improve the picture!’

  ‘I’m glad you think so because at breakfast Sidney as good as said I wasn’t worthy to sit at the same table.’

  Gideon laughed. ‘The Byng family is old and respectable yet they would not appear on the guest lists of half the noble families I had dealings with in London. It is understandable that the eldest son takes pleasure in claiming his superiority when he believes he can.’

  ‘Don’t you think I’m a gentleman either, then?’ asked Peter. He was beginning to feel a bit put out.

  Gideon’s eyes twinkled but he would only reply: ‘A gentleman is as a gentleman does. We shall soon find out …’

  ‘Gideon,’ asked Kate, ‘who is this Tar Man who we must track down in London?’

  Gideon’s smile faded and he sighed as if just the thought of him cast a shadow over his mood.

  �
�He is a bad man. But that much you will have worked out for yourselves. Everyone who knows him fears him and for good reason. He is the henchman of … a powerful man. If someone needs to be found he will find them. And when he does, just as a cat with a mouse, it is his habit to play with them a little … And he is persistent. By heaven, he is persistent. Once set on something he never gives up. You two should have little to fear from him as long as you give him what he demands, but at all costs do not try to double-cross him.

  ‘He sounds terrifying!’ cried Kate. ‘And he’s the man we’ve got to find? What if we haven’t got what he wants? What do we do then? Oh, this is not good.’

  ‘It gives me the creeps just to think about him,’ said Peter. ‘I don’t want to see him again if I can help it.’

  ‘I know his history,’ said Gideon. ‘It is no surprise that he is angry with the world.’

  ‘Why? What happened to him?’

  ‘I do not care to dwell on such a cruel story on this fine, sunny day.’

  ‘Oh, you’ve got to tell us now!’ exclaimed Peter.

  Gideon was reluctant but Kate, who was pretty persistent herself, eventually convinced him that he might just as well tell them the truth because they’d only have nightmares imagining worse things if he didn’t.

  The three of them sat on the grass at the foot of a yew hedge and Gideon told them the Tar Man’s story.

  He had lived in a small village, the eldest of a large family, and life was not easy. In those days he had a name: Nathaniel. His father died when he was still young and thereafter the only money the family had came from his mother’s skill as a needlewoman. Nathaniel was mostly left to shift for himself and he was almost always hungry. He soon took to stealing food and, by the time he had reached his teens, he had become a petty thief. He was not greedy and was far too cunning and secretive to ever get caught – a few pennies here, an old jacket to keep out the cold, a chicken for dinner – but people were suspicious of Nathaniel and his dark, sullen looks were against him.

  One January night a stranger was attacked and robbed outside the village and left for dead. When he recovered, he accused Nathaniel of the crime. Nathaniel swore that he had never seen the man before in his entire life. However, despite the lack of evidence, Nathaniel was tried and found guilty and sentenced to be hanged. Anxious to protect his siblings from the shame and horror of such a thing, his mother stayed away from the execution. And so, at the tender age of fourteen, he was to face those last terrible moments of his life alone.

  It was a bitterly cold day in January when Nathaniel was hanged and the hangman, who had a streaming cold, did not wait the usual thirty minutes before cutting him down. Nathaniel’s body was bound and covered in tar-soaked calico, as was the custom, and was taken in a wagon to the village green where, in the early evening, he was suspended from a post to serve as a warning to other wrong-doers.

  On the other side of the green, villagers were dancing and making merry in a hall lit by candles. Outside, a fierce cold wind blew and unforgiving rain spattered against the windowpanes. A tired farmer, returning from market on horseback, heard groans as he rode past Nathaniel. The farmer peered into the darkness and when he caught sight of this ghoulish, slimy creature swaying in a strong gust of wind he let out a yelp of fright. The farmer was sorely tempted to ride on but decided that the least he could do was to cut the poor wretch down. So, with a heaving stomach, the farmer positioned his horse under Nathaniel and cut the cords that bound him. Nathaniel slithered to the ground where the farmer loosened the ropes that cut into his hands and feet. Then the farmer lost his nerve and rode home at a gallop.

  Barely conscious and half-blinded by the tar, Nathaniel managed to get to his feet. Drawn by the candlelight and the sound of feet drumming in time to a fiddler’s tune, Nathaniel made his way across the green and staggered into the hall. The music stopped abruptly as did the cheerful babble of the crowd. It was replaced by gasps and screams and finally by silence. Through streaming eyes Nathaniel saw a circle of horrified villagers, most of whom he had known all his life, each one backing away from him, expressions of horror and revulsion on their faces. Nathaniel’s neck, whilst miraculously unbroken, was severely injured, and his head drooped grotesquely to one side. To speak was agony but still he tried. He opened his mouth to beg for help and reached out to his neighbours with tar-covered arms. Not a single soul was willing to come to his aid and soon the whole gathering had retreated as fast as their legs could carry them into the wintry night, away from this monster in their midst. Nathaniel was left alone, howling in anguish at a world without pity.

  When Gideon finished his tale the children sat for some time lost in thought and shivered in the warm sunshine.

  ‘And that,’ concluded Gideon, ‘is why he is called the Tar Man. I suppose he is fearless because he has faced the worst a man can face and still survived. I have never seen him truly fear another mortal soul, nor have I seen him show pity or compassion. I do not like to recall the things I have seen him do. Most rogues’ hearts are not completely black but his heart is buried so deep I doubt it will ever see the light of day. Beware of him, children; he is always two steps ahead of you while appearing to be two steps behind, and he has powerful connections.’

  ‘You seem to know a lot about him,’ said Kate. ‘How do you know him?’

  ‘I believe we’ve had enough stories for one day,’ Gideon answered.

  ‘Some people like to be mysterious,’ said Kate.

  ‘And others like to be impertinent,’ Gideon replied.

  Kate pulled out the pins that were sticking into her scalp and shook out her long hair with relief. ‘That’s better,’ she said and stretched out on her back, tucking the full skirts of her dress around her knees. She wished she could have unlaced the stays, too. I probably shouldn’t be lying on the grass in this dress, she thought, but I don’t think I can get up now. She yawned and her eyelids closed.

  ‘Do you think the Tar Man did rob that man?’ asked Peter.

  ‘No,’ said Gideon. ‘I do not. He insists that he was innocent of the crime and I believe him. The injustice of it still gnaws away at him. It robbed him of his family and his future. But he has more than made up for it since.’

  ‘What do you—’ Peter stopped abruptly. ‘Oh no,’ he cried, ‘look at Kate!’

  Gideon swung round and both of them watched as Kate’s form dissolved in front of their eyes.

  ‘Quickly,’ said Gideon. ‘Let us sit in front of her so she cannot be seen from the house.’

  Peter and Gideon sat cross-legged next to what was left of Kate, shielding her from sight.

  ‘Kate!’ said Peter as loudly as he dared. ‘Come back!’

  For several minutes they watched the transparent, flickering form, a fluid amber spectre in the strong sunlight. Peter could see the daisies through her. Suddenly her shape shifted and, though still transparent, they realised Kate was pushing herself up on her elbows. Her eyes were open and she was shouting something in the direction of the house. She looked straight through them. Peter felt terrified and desperate.

  ‘Kate,’ he cried out, ‘don’t leave me here on my own!’

  And in an instant she was back, solid as before. She sat bolt upright and said: ‘I blurred, didn’t I?’

  Peter nodded.

  All the blood had gone from Gideon’s face but he asked: ‘How are you, Mistress Kate?’

  ‘I was back at school,’ she sobbed. ‘I was lying in between the goalposts on the soccer pitch. The cedar of Lebanon was there, much taller than the house. And there were three men running towards me as fast as they could. Two of them were in policemen’s uniforms. They could see me, I know they could. I must have looked like a ghost to them. A future ghost. I cried out to them for help. Oh, why did you call me back? I was home! I don’t want to be here! I want to go home! I just want to go home!’

  CHAPTER NINE

  The Journey Begins

  In which the redoubtable Parson Ledbury insul
ts

  Gideon and the company set off for London

  Kate’s spirits were very low after the blurring episode. She and Peter ate with the Byng children that evening. Sidney was not present, however, having been asked to dine later with his mother, Parson Ledbury and some friends invited for a farewell dinner.

  Cook had prepared a special dinner for the children, too, and the table groaned with roast meats, poached fish, baked custards, junkets, flummeries and pies. Flies crawled over everything and the dark specks in the pastry turned out to be roast flour weevils but no one seemed to mind. Kate hardly spoke. If her body was present, she was elsewhere in spirit. Peter felt he had to talk twice as much to make up for her.

  They went to bed early in preparation for their long journey. They said their goodbyes to Mrs Byng before going upstairs and Peter gave a small speech of thanks. Kate tried to join in, too, but it was so obvious how sad and distracted and homesick she felt, that Mrs Byng stopped her. ‘My dear,’ she said, ‘we need to get you to your uncle so he can dispatch you home with all haste. I believe your encounter with the highwayman has unsettled you, as well it might any young girl.’

  Mrs Byng’s tender concern almost provoked the tears that Peter hoped would not come and he stood, balancing first on one foot and then on the other, while Kate was held in the lady’s maternal embrace.

  ‘Thank you,’ said Kate to Mrs Byng and the expression of gratitude in her eyes was thanks enough.

  Why, thought Peter, must she always cry?

  Kate slept a long and dreamless sleep that night but Peter slept fitfully. Images of a monstrous, bellowing figure dripping with tar kept intruding into his dreams. The sound of voices outside woke him after an hour and he got up to look out of the window.

  It was a hot night, with scarcely a breath of wind, and the clear sky was grainy with stars. When Peter hoisted himself up onto the high window ledge of his attic room, an amazing sight met his eyes. Twenty or thirty flaming torches illuminated the garden, causing the many trees to cast giant, inky shadows behind them. A long table, placed on the lawn two floors below him, glowed with so many candles it seemed a raft of light against the dark grass. Peter could easily make out the diners’ wigs, their powdered faces and their sumptuous costumes in shades of turquoise, peach and yellow. Sidney, looking half-asleep and wearing a ridiculous long wig, sat next to his mother who gave him a sharp tap on his back with her fan every time he slouched. White-gloved footmen patrolled the table, replenishing glasses and serving the guests from silver platters piled high with roast meats of every sort.