by Jean Stubbs
So now the ironmaster was in session with his peers, in the old Court House at the back of the Town Hall. He was a little pale after a heavy night, but looked all the better for it in his capacity as a magistrate. It made him seem stern and above reproach.
‘Deuce take it!’ he muttered, aghast at the length of the list. ‘We shall be here ‘til dinner-time!’
‘Did I not say it would be so?’ cried Squire Brigge. ‘Crime is on the increase. Aye, and in leaps and bounds. It is all this industry that brings the rascals to town. They should transport and hang the lot of ‘em.’
‘Come, sir,’ said William good-naturedly, ‘you cannot blame industry for offences against the game laws.’
‘No, Mr Howarth,’ drawled Lord Kersall, ‘you are in the right of it there. But though poaching and sabotage and sheep stealing used to form the bulk of our offences in this valley, they are being outnumbered these days by the more sophisticated crimes. Pickpocketing, house-breaking, swindling, and every form of begging. Indeed, if violence increases at the same rate we shall soon be forced to ask for company on the way home, after nightfall, as Londoners do. And though I do not blame industry for this new state of affairs, the prosperity brought by industry certainly attracts villains.’
‘Aye, well put, my lord,’ said Brigge, ‘and we must not be soft with ‘em.’
‘But we should be just,’ said Humphrey Kersall.
He was a cool and arrogant man but a responsible one. As feudal overlord he still felt that the offenders were his people, and should be corrected rather than annihilated. Also he was well aware that occasional pardons, generally for first offences of small importance or cases which would not stick in court, did him no harm in the eyes of the community. He was not loved but they did respect him.
‘Give ‘em a touch of the branding-iron,’ growled Brigge. ‘Flog ‘em.’
‘Fetch up the first offender, Mr Hodgkiss,’ said Lord Kersall grandly.
‘Name of Smethurst, my lord. Occupation, collier at Swarthmoor. Caught deer-stealing in your lordship’s park.’
‘That’s a hanging offence,’ said the squire with great satisfaction.
‘Weren’t you the fellow brought before me for stealing coal last winter?’ asked Lord Kersall sharply. ‘And did I not give you a pardon on condition you behaved yourself in the future?’
‘Yes, m’lord,’ the man said, and bent his head before those glacial eyes, and twisted his battered hat. ‘But we was froze to the marrow, m’lord.’
‘And now you shoot at one of my deer. What were you going to do with it? Sell it?’
‘No, m’lord. Sick wife and eight childer, m’lord. Eat it, m’ lord.’
‘Eat it?’ cried Sir Francis Clayton. ‘Good God, man. You don’t eat venison because you’re hungry. That’s a gentleman’s dish!’
‘I been out of work, your honour. Accident in the mine. We was starving.’
‘Who were your accomplices, eh?’ Kersall demanded. ‘My keeper said he saw two fellows running away. Who were they?’
The collier was doggedly silent, twisting his hat in his hands.
‘We might be inclined to clemency if you told us,’ purred the Reverend Robert Graham, leaning forward and coldly smiling.
‘You simply cannot roam the countryside, stealing coal and shooting deer just because you are out of work, you know,’ said Lord Kersall, being reasonable with him. ‘If everyone did that where would we all be? And where did you get your gun from?’
The collier was indistinct upon this point.
‘The rascals steal a gun and lend it to each other, that’s my belief,’ said Squire Brigge. ‘Take it in turns to shoot our game they do.’
‘Did we get the deer back safely, Mr Hodgkiss?’ Kersall asked. ‘Ah, good!’
They consulted together, Brigge leading the hanging faction, William tempering the wind with Humphrey Kersall.
‘Now, as we got the deer back, and you have a large family and are out of work, we are inclined to be lenient with you,’ said Kersall. ‘But if this sort of thing happens again you’ll be up before the Assizes. And you know how they would deal with you, don’t you? You’d be lucky to get away with your life. And if you think that a little hunger and cold are bad things then you know nothing about transportation. You would soon change your mind, I can tell you!’
The collier clenched his hands and nodded, dumbly.
‘A year’s imprisonment and two hours in the pillory,’ said Lord Kersall.
‘What’ll my wife do, and the childer?’ the man cried. ‘They canna eat as it is, m’lord.’
‘Well, you should have thought of that before you started poaching on my preserves,’ said Humphrey Kersall. ‘Take him away, Mr Hodgkin. Who is next?’
‘Some thieving labourer helping himself to hares,’ said Squire Brigge. ‘The keeper found one stewing in his cooking pot.’
‘Do you know,’ said Francis Clayton conversationally, ‘there was a fellow used to trap eighty hares a year on my land, and sell ‘em for three shillings apiece in Millbridge market. He was making more money by poaching than by earning an honest living!’
The offenders were many, were diverse, and as Lord Kersall had remarked their crimes were becoming more sophisticated. A vision of Millbridge at the mercy of burglars, watch-stealers and gangs of trained thieves rose before them. The more temperate magistrates stiffened their penalties, the rabid ones became more insistent. They sent up offenders to the Assizes, handed out whippings as though they had been sweetmeats, inflicted the stocks and the pillory as afterthoughts. And then Mr Hodgkiss brought in the strange being who had written threatening letters to a property owner in Medlar, and set fire to his barn and stables.
He was under-nourished and under-sized. There was a terrible sense of inadequacy about him, a hunger for recognition. His eyes lit as he approached the majesty of Wyndendale’s law, and he drew himself up as though his moment had come.
‘Name of Low,’ said Mr Hodgkiss. ‘No fixed address. No occupation. Calls hisself a freeholder though he hasn’t got no property. The letters is on your lordship’s table.’
‘Aye, and an uncommonly nasty pen he wields!’ Francis Clayton remarked, reading them. ‘Pah! What a rotten worm you are, you wretch.’
‘We have all had such letters in our time,’ said Humphrey Kersall carelessly. ‘They are no better and no worse than most. Now, you, fellow. Low. You burned down a barnful of grain and — worse still! — a stableful of horses. What sort of murdering villain are you, to destroy innocent and valuable beasts?’
‘Damned disgraceful,’ said William sincerely, and had already condemned the man in his mind.
‘Hang him,’ said Squire Brigge, and the expression on the faces of all his colleagues echoed this sentiment.
‘But it is extraordinary to me how they will destroy property,’ said Francis Clayton. ‘I can better understand stealing it.’
‘Ah, envy!’ the Reverend Robert declaimed, casting up his eyes to the ceiling. ‘What a wicked and insidious vice thou art!’
‘Come, you, fellow! What have you to say for yourself? Do you deny this charge?’ cried Kersall, in cold disgust.
‘I don’t deny it,’ said Obadiah Low, grinning. ‘I’m glad of it. It’s justice, that is. Justice, your honours.’
He had a peculiarly sibilant and unpleasant voice, and that total lack of fear that seems almost demonic. Clearly he was unbalanced, if not downright mad. Even in the security of the Court House the magistrates felt exposed. Even William, who could have crushed him like a nut, had a sensation akin to fear. Low chuckled, became confidential, garrulous.
‘Wrigley stole my land,’ said Obadiah Low, ‘and thieves should be burned. It’s a healing force is fire, your honours. I’d recommend it for almost anybody. But you got to watch and wait afore you burn down. Watch with your eyes, in the night … ’
‘Is there any evidence of Squire Wrigley stealing land?’ asked Lord Kershaw at large. ‘No, I thought not.’
And he put a dirty finger to one side of his nose and smiled at them.
‘Shut your mouth,’ said Mr Hodgkiss, outraged.
And he picked the little fellow up and shook him as if he had been a marionette.
‘Put him down, if you please,’ Lord Bersall ordered. ‘Do you confess to your abominable crime, Low?’
‘I confess to that, and to more,’ cried Low, safely on his feet again. ‘I been the Saviour of the People, I have. I’ve given bread to the hungry and done justice by fire … ’ He was hurrying to say all that he could, to make the most of his time before he was swept off to the hulks or the gallows. ‘Fire! You’ll see this valley a-fire from end to end when my people rise. There’s more than you know, thousands more. All about you, working for you, watching you. All day and all night. They never sleep for watching and waiting. And when the Day comes they’ll burn you in effigy, and burn your houses and mills, and last of all they’ll burn you. And when you’re swallowed up in fire, on earth, you’ll roar in hell after … ’
He laughed with glee as he saw their faces, and hid his own in his hands. Then he peeped through his fingers, as a child peeps, and that was most horrible of all. Mr Hodgkiss did not touch him. The magistrates sat silent, listening.
‘What do you know about the meetings in the fields at night?’ Low whispered, and giggled to himself as he saw them strain to hear him. ‘What do you know about the secret oaths, eh? Terrible oaths. Oaths that would make a man’s flesh shrivel from his bones if he broke them. What do you know about the night-watchers and the silent thieves? I know them. Nobody sees or speaks of me. They keep their eyes closed, the little ones, hearing me ride by. Have you guessed who I am, your honours? Guess the riddle, do! I’ll give a free pardon, when the Day comes, to any gentleman here who knows the answer.’
They sat, and Mr Hodgkiss stood, mesmerised. The little man’s face expressed half a dozen emotions. He hoped, coaxed, teased, sought out, encouraged and was finally disappointed in them.
‘Look!’ he demanded. ‘Who am I?’
And suddenly he flung out his arms and stiffened his legs, lolled his head to one side, like an effigy, like a scarecrow in a field, crucified.
‘Jack Straw!’ he shrieked, triumphant.
*
‘Of course, I never thought he was Jack Straw at all,’ said Lord Kersall, as they drank mulled claret to restore themselves, for the questioning had been hard and long and brutal. ‘That was the wretch’s way of claiming some beastly distinction for himself.’
‘It was a plaguey rotten experience,’ muttered Francis Clayton.
‘They might only consign him to Bedlam,’ said Brigge aghast.
‘But he had seen something, at some time,’ said the Reverend Robert.
‘Yes, that was quite evident. But, like all the evidence of Jack Straw, it will not stand up in broad daylight.’
‘I tell you one thing, gentlemen,’ said William thoughtfully. “This Jack Straw business is a running sore in our community. And though I am one of the novices here I cannot help wondering why we have not rooted him out in some — what? Ten years?’
Humphrey Kersall gave a short laugh, and helped himself to a biscuit.
‘It is not for want of trying, Mr Howarth. We have employed informers and got nowhere. These poor people stick together, you know. He feeds them, clothes them, helps them. They will not give him away. And then you heard about the secret oaths? It is an organised conspiracy, but conducted in so many different places and at such different times, and so unexpectedly, that we find no pattern to it.’
‘He will be quiet for months,’ said Squire Brigge, ‘and then, just as you think you will hear no more of him — pooft. He’s out again. And he never does the same thing twice together.’
‘Then why do we not ask the Home Secretary for help?’ William asked.
The other magistrates were deeply displeased.
‘Mr Howarth,’ said Humphrey Kersall, as spokesman, ‘only Whigs, or men with some axe to grind who wish to be noticed, tell their troubles to the Home Secretary. We prefer to deal with our own problems, and so prevent interference from London. We do not want state assistance.’
‘Then why not form a paid constabulary?’ William suggested. ‘Young, strong men who have nothing to do but hunt down, and deal with, criminals of every sort. When I see timid, middle-aged citizens creeping to do their turn at patrolling — or, which happens more often, paying someone to do it for them! — I am dismayed, gentlemen. We must fight crime, not hope that it will go away!’
‘Mr Howarth,’ said Lord Kersall again, even more displeased, ‘to create a professional constabulary could lead to the sort of trouble they have had in France!’
‘I do not see how, my lord. That was mob rule. This would be a private domestic army.’
‘Exactly!’ said Lord Kersall, very grandly indeed. ‘The Englishman, Mr Howarth, whether he be high-or low-born, cherishes his freedom.’
‘Still, my lord,’ said the Reverend Robert Graham, after a suitable silence, ‘I cannot help thinking that we should tighten our jurisdiction. Colonel Fletcher and the Reverend Thomas Bancroft of Bolton are zealous in their pursuit of conspirators. They employ informers, not as we do, but on a great scale. They rule Bolton with a rod of iron.’
‘So I have heard,’ said another magistrate, who was new to the business. ‘But then, Bolton has the reputation of being the most insurrectionary centre in the country. You could hardly give that title to Wyndendale, sir! Indeed, I fear we should be laughed at if we admitted that our Jack Straw harms nobody, and leaves what he calls “fair payment” for his thefts!’
‘Then we should bear with their amusement,’ said William firmly. ‘And, if there is some rooted objection to approaching the Home Secretary, can we not consult with some person or persons like these two gentlemen in Bolton? They will tell us how to deal with him, how to bring pressure to bear, how to infiltrate this organisation.’
Lord Kersall looked splendidly offended.
‘The Deputy Constable of Manchester, Mr Joseph Nadin,’ murmured Robert Graham, ‘has a reputation for such matters. They call him ruthless, which I often discover to mean very efficient! And is there not an attorney in Stockport, who works in a somewhat unorthodox fashion, but has excellent results?’
‘What do you mean by unorthodox, sir?’ enquired Lord Kersall.
‘Well, my lord,’ said the Reverend Robert uneasily, ‘he stretches his authority somewhat. He has been known to fetch Crown witnesses across the county borders, and to trade spies and information. He sets a thief to catch a thief, my lord.’
‘Disgraceful!’ said Lord Kersall, for he did not want to lose one jot of his entitlement to rule the valley.
‘But the Home Secretary is particularly pleased to have such an efficient servant of the peace, my lord, and he turns a blind eye to these little irregularities.’
Humphrey Kersall gauged the feeling of the meeting, and tapped the table thoughtfully with his fingers.
‘If we could track down Jack Straw … ’ said Squire Brigge, hopefully.
‘Very well, sir,’ said Lord Kersall haughtily to the clergyman. ‘If you care to enquire of these people I have no objection. But I shall not take orders, mind! We are our own government in Wyndendale. Remember that!’
He looked hard at all of them, and especially at William Howarth.
*
Like the poor man at the rich man’s table, Dorcas Howarth picked up fine crumbs, and had thus come to the notice of the Hon. Mrs Brigge, Lady Clayton and Squire Wrigley’s wife of Medlar. But it was with some surprise and anxiety that she now beheld Lord Kersall’s middle-aged heir at her garden gate, looking for a stable-lad to take his hors
e. Still, she reflected that he must want a favour of her or he would not trouble himself. So she gave her orders with great dignity, and composed herself to receive him.
Ralph Kersall had many faults, but lack of style was not one of them. His dark riding coat, his glossy boots, his white pantaloons looked as though dust would never dare alight upon them. He entered Dorcas’s parlour with a smile upon his face which did not reach his eyes. She curtseyed and he bowed.
He began by craving her pardon for his unwarrantable intrusion; complimented her upon Bracelet, but not too much or too effusively, paid flowery tribute to her influence upon her large family; hinted that the ironmaster would have got nowhere without her guidance; and arrived at the reason for his visit.
‘I am come, madam, to throw myself upon your mercy and ask your judgement, on a matter of considerable delicacy.’ He cleared his throat and consulted his nails. ‘Madam, what I have to say will be painful to both of us, and I am sorry for that, but I believe we can set matters right between us. At any rate, my wife thinks it best so.’
This latter gleam of honesty revived Dorcas, and she smiled on him.
‘Madam, I fear that my stepmother, Lady Kersall, and your son, the ironmaster, are guilty of an indiscretion.’
Here he looked straight at her, and her momentary liking vanished. He had the Kersall eyes of unarmed blue, the Kersall manner of staring through the person he was addressing. Of a sudden, Dorcas felt that she was being used. So he thinks to overwhelm me with his high station and high compliments, and give me my orders? she thought. And sat very upright.
‘Well, sir,’ she said with some spirit, ‘you are going a long way about mending the matter. Why do you not speak with Lady Kersall?’
He closed up his mouth in displeasure.