The Alarming Career of Sir Richard Blackstone

by Lisa Doan

  Henry climbed out and the duchess followed behind.

  The valley was empty. Henry scanned the area where he had last seen Mary. The grass was still packed down from where she had sat, but there was no sign of her. He examined the steep valley walls. Every wall but the one leading to the cave was impossible to climb. Had she reverted to her original size? Henry had not thought of that possibility, but the effects of the lupuna powder certainly could be temporary.

  “You’re certain there actually was a giant tarantula?” the duchess said. “It wasn’t something you imagined? It would be entirely understandable in a boy your age. You might have seen that white substance in the cave and attributed it to the silk of a giant spider, when it could be from something else entirely.”

  “Not my imagination. She was here,” Henry said. “Look, you can still see the outline where she sat.”

  The duchess squinted her eyes at the opposite end of the valley. “Then that means she could be anywhere. I don’t know how your Mary, Queen of Scots, has escaped, but she is well and truly gone.”

  As Henry scanned the sides of the valley and thought about where they might search for the tarantula, pressure slammed into his temples and he was lifted off his feet.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  Henry clutched at the fangs on either side of his head. The spider loomed over him. She had been lying in wait, crouched above the entrance.

  “Hold on, Henry,” the duchess cried, grasping at his swinging legs.

  Henry let go of a fang and reached into his pocket. The pressure was immense; he felt his skull could shatter at any moment. He yanked out the packet of powder.

  The duchess grabbed it from his hands and crawled up the slope toward the tarantula.

  “The glove,” Henry cried and threw it to her.

  She caught the glove and wrestled it on. The duchess reached into the sack, clutched a handful of powder and threw it on the spider. “Recite the poem!” she cried.

  Henry shouted, “Mother Earth and Brother Tree, I love thee well, watch over me!”

  Mary released her grip and Henry fell to the ground. The duchess helped him to his feet. He felt a soft plop on the top of his head.

  The duchess pulled the spider from his hair. She held it in the palm of her gloved hand. “Listen here, Queen of the Scots, that is quite enough mayhem from you, madam.”

  Henry peered at the spider. Mary sat docile in the duchess’s hand, her eight eyes looking somewhat perplexed.

  He retrieved his satchel from the cave and brought out the box Sir Richard had used to transport her from London. The duchess slipped the tarantula in and Henry secured the lid. “Good work,” she said.

  Henry flushed. He had done it. His plan had actually worked. Nobody could discover a giant spider and blame it on Sir Richard.

  “Now,” the duchess said, “we just have to do the same to that blasted fly.”

  The duchess examined Henry’s temples. “The skin is not broken, but bruises are coming up already,” she said. “You’ll need a likely story about how you got them.”

  Henry thought for a moment. “I could say I was kicked in the head by my horse,” he said.

  “Twice?” the duchess asked. “On either side?”

  “Twice. His name is Cantankerous. Everybody who knows him will believe it.”

  The duchess and Henry rode back to the manor at a leisurely pace. The duchess told Henry she had not had as much fun in a long time. She said being a duchess was mostly boring and she would have packed up and gone to America to pioneer the West years ago, if it weren’t for holding the dukedom for her son.

  At the mention of America, Henry flinched. During the excitement of testing out his theory on Mary, he had been able to forget what was ahead of him. Once Sir Richard was free, Henry would have to run. He would have to make his way to a port and slip onto a ship bound for America. He would stow away as long as he could, but would no doubt be found out before the seven weeks’ journey was through. Then he would be indentured to pay off the passage and he was not at all sure how long that would take. But after that, he would be free. All of that was assuming the ship didn’t sink in a storm or get taken by pirates. The journey was a terrifying prospect, but it was the only way he knew to be rid of his parents forever.

  They reached Sir Richard’s drive and the duchess said, “I’ll step inside and see how far those men have come in their conference. Whatever they have been jabbering about, it’s time for a real plan.”

  Henry and the duchess entered the library. Fitzwilliam was alone and told them that Mr. Candlewick had taken himself upstairs to compose his closing argument. They had still not agreed on what course of action to take after the trial.

  “The problem with you and that solicitor,” the duchess said to Fitzwilliam, “is that you are pessimists. You are entirely too focused on what to do when Sir Richard is found guilty. Henry and I have been focused on what to do before he is found guilty.”

  Henry pulled the box from his satchel and showed Fitzwilliam the tarantula.

  “By my life, that’s good news,” Fitzwilliam said, peering into the box. “How did you do it?”

  “Henry was very clever in working it all out,” the duchess said. “He deduced that the lupuna tree cured you because you honored it with a poem, and it might just cure the spider by doing the same.”

  “Clever, indeed!” Fitzwilliam paused. “You’re certain she’s permanently small? She won’t suddenly decide to grow again in the middle of the night?”

  Henry had not thought of that. “Uh, I hope not.”

  “No time to worry about that now,” the duchess said. “On the morrow, you’re to convince Mr. Candlewick to demand to see the evidence, meaning of course, the fly. Once it’s produced, you and Henry will walk up with him to examine the thing. Circle round it, blocking the onlookers’ view. Throw the powder on it and recite the poem.”

  “Your Grace,” Henry said, “the one problem I see is that the villagers have already viewed the fly in its bigger state. How will we explain the change?”

  “The facts in front of them will be what they rely on,” Fitzwilliam said. “Candlewick’s proposal that there must be a scientific reason will seem the most likely thing. It can be done, I should think. On my sail to South America, some of the crew took a terrible fright in the predawn hours of the morning. They claimed to have seen a kraken. Whether they did or did not, I never knew. But what I did know was a frightened crew is a dangerous crew. Later that day, I spotted a mass of seaweed floating atop the sea and said, ‘Gentlemen, there’s your kraken.’ They were only too happy to believe it.”

  The church was packed in anticipation of Sir Richard’s verdict. Henry’s stomach had been twisting in knots all morning. He would have one chance to transform the fly. He had to get it right.

  The duchess caught his eye and winked at him. She wore her best jewels and sparkled with emeralds and diamonds in the dim church. She laid her hand on Sir Richard’s arm and they put their heads together. Henry guessed she was telling him of yesterday’s adventure as he watched Sir Richard’s face turn from alarm to happiness.

  The magistrate entered the courtroom and called for order. He directed Mr. Joswell to proceed with his closing argument.

  Joswell, as he had done the day before, read from a parchment that Henry was sure had been written by Snidefellow.

  Henry turned to see what effect Joswell’s fear-mongering had on the villagers. They were silent and grave. Some pulled their children close, as if a padfoot might even now be at the church doors. Henry strained his neck to see to the very back.

  His breath caught. His father’s tall frame loomed over the men standing in front of the doors. His mother sat in the last pew, staring at him. She wore an expression Henry was familiar with. She was furious.

  Henry turned to face the front of the church as Joswell droned on. It was over for him now. If his parents had hoped to pry some money out of Sir Richard’s hands, they must have decided that was
hopeless. They would seize him before he could leave the church. He would not even have a chance to stow away to America.

  His future rolled out before him. He would be sent to work for the chimney sweep. Or if that fell through, he would be sent down into the mines. Wherever he was forced to go, he could count on long hours, little food, ill treatment, and an early death.

  Joswell was ending his speech. Henry had no time to think about his own predicament now. If the only good thing he ever did was help save Sir Richard, at least he would have that memory to carry with him.

  “In conclusion,” Joswell said, “we ask that Your Honor confer protection on the good people of Barton Commons by rendering a verdict of guilty.”

  Mr. Candlewick stood up. He glanced at Fitzwilliam, who nodded his head. “Your Honor,” Mr. Candlewick said, “before I begin my closing argument, I would ask to view the evidence once more.”

  The magistrate leaned forward. “You want to see the fly?”

  “I do, sir.”

  The magistrate shrugged and sent a constable to fetch the carcass.

  Mr. Candlewick, Fitzwilliam, and Henry moved to block the view of it as it came into the courtroom. As Henry watched the constable carry it in, he realized they needn’t have worried. As much as the audience leaned forward to get a look, they wouldn’t be able to see over the high rim of the box.

  Henry had tucked a small sack of the powder and a glove into the pocket of his breeches. He would casually slip the glove on and reach into the sack without attracting attention.

  They leaned over the top of the box and stared at the dead creature. “What now?” Candlewick whispered.

  “It’s merely a fly,” Fitzwilliam said loudly. “What kind of court admits a fly as evidence?”

  Henry reached in his pocket and wiggled his fingers into the glove. He opened the sack and brought out a handful of the lupuna powder, sprinkling it over the carcass while he murmured the poem. The carcass shook and shivered, then shrunk in on itself.

  “What the devil,” Candlewick said.

  Fitzwilliam leaned toward the solicitor and whispered, “Keep your wits, man.”

  Candlewick paused for a moment, then held up the box and tilted it for all to see. “Your Honor, Mr. Fitzwilliam is correct. There is nothing unusual here.”

  Snidefellow leapt to his feet and ran to the box. He stared down at the now normal-sized housefly. “It’s a trick! I saw them do it! They’re all in league together. That boy threw something on the creature.”

  Henry’s hands trembled.

  “Search his pockets,” Snidefellow demanded.

  A constable grabbed hold of Henry and dragged him to the altar.

  Henry glanced at Sir Richard. The knight’s brows were knit, as if he were trying to work out what had happened. The duchess had not told Sir Richard of the plan to shrink the fly. She laid her head on his shoulder.

  The constable stared at Henry’s gloved hand, then ordered him to turn out his pockets. Henry slowly reached in, and powder sprinkled to the floor.

  The church erupted in shouts. “He did throw something on the creature. It must be witchcraft!”

  Snidefellow smiled.

  The magistrate banged his gavel. “I believe this court has seen enough.”

  Henry had failed. Sir Richard would be found guilty and Henry would end up right back with his parents, for sale to the first comer. He should never have tried to stay in England. He should have boarded the first boat to America that he could find.

  Henry paused. Did Sir Richard really need to be found guilty? Might he not take Sir Richard’s place on the scaffold? It would be kinder to all—Sir Richard could marry the duchess, and Henry would escape his miserable future.

  He flinched as he imagined the rope being put over his head, and then the fall and the snap of his neck.

  But it would be quick. He probably wouldn’t even feel it. Or if he did, it would only be for a moment. Then, Sir Richard would be safe forever. Henry had one chance to make that happen.

  “Sir!” Henry shouted to the magistrate over the din in the church. “It is true that I threw powder on that creature and returned it to its original size. It is I, not Sir Richard, who must be accused of witchcraft.”

  “Nonsense,” Snidefellow said. “They are a pair.”

  “No,” Henry said. “It was not until I arrived that evil befell Barton Commons. Sir Richard did not know who he dealt with.”

  Sir Richard shook his head no. Henry ignored him.

  “We need not take the word of a boy,” Snidefellow said. “He has no proof to back up his claims.”

  “But I do,” Henry said. “I do have proof. I have the very mark of the devil upon me. You will find no such mark on Sir Richard.”

  Henry leaned down. It seemed incomprehensible that he was about to show the world his toes, when he had spent his entire life hiding them. He pulled off a boot.

  His father pushed men out of the way and charged down the aisle. A constable restrained him as he neared the front of the church. “The boy talks nonsense!” he cried. “I am Bartholomew Hewitt, his father. Turn him over to me this instant. He does not know what he says—he’s queer in the head.”

  The duchess and Sir Richard turned to look at the man. Sir Richard looked confused, which did not surprise Henry since he had claimed to be an orphan.

  “It’s true,” Henry said. “That man is my father and well aware of the mark I carry.”

  Henry yanked off one of his stockings and wiggled his six toes.

  All in the front pews stared down at his feet. “He’s got six,” a woman said.

  “By my life,” a man cried. “It’s true! He’s got six toes!”

  From the back of the church, Henry’s mother shouted, “Run!”

  At first Henry didn’t understand who his mother was shouting to. Did she want him to run? Then he saw Snidefellow dash toward the back of the church, leaping over pews and ducking outstretched hands. The councilman burst out of the doors and disappeared.

  Henry’s father attempted to follow him, but a constable held him back. Henry’s mother fought off a pair of farmers who held her securely.

  Henry had always been undecided about how evil his toes really made him. He had hoped that maybe it was just an old wives’ tale. But considering that Snidefellow was so terrified that he ran away, Henry had to admit it was true. It really was the mark of the devil.

  Sir Richard stood up and pointed to Bartholomew Hewitt. “You are not that boy’s father.”

  Henry’s father struggled with the constable who held him.

  Sir Richard addressed the onlookers. “It is impossible that man is the boy’s father. Henry Hewitt carries the mark of St. John!”

  Henry looked back down at his toes. The mark of what?

  “That can only mean,” Sir Richard continued, pointing at Henry’s father, “that you and your wife are the kidnappers, and judging from Snidefellow’s hasty exit I should think he had something to do with it too.”

  Henry stared at his toes. What did Sir Richard mean, Bartholomew Hewitt was not his father?

  Quite suddenly, Henry was swept into yards of silk. “Don’t you see, Henry?” the duchess whispered in his ear. “Your six toes. That is the mark of a St. John. Not another family line in England carries it. Did you not know the truth when Sir Richard recovered the footprint?”

  “N-no,” Henry stuttered.

  Sir Richard had come to stand next to the duchess. “I never showed it to him, Darla.”

  “Good grief,” she said, “we might never have discovered it.”

  “Ah, I must argue that,” Sir Richard said. “We might never have discovered it had Henry been less the boy than he is. He might have left me to my fate, you know. Instead, he sought to take my place on the scaffold. I imagine the duke would be proud.”

  Mr. Candlewick approached. “Well, well,” he said, rubbing his hands together. “This is indeed an unexpected development. Fortunately, I know just what to do with it.�
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  Mr. Candlewick addressed the magistrate in a loud voice. “Your Honor, the evidence will show the following: That the boy merely threw lime on the fly in a youthful attempt to help his benefactor. That the boy, unknown to anyone including himself, is the missing Lord William St. John. That the man posing as the boy’s father is one of the kidnappers. The woman posing as his mother was also there on that horrific day and mistaken to be the shorter man. That Mr. Snidefellow is the third member of the conspiracy. And finally, that it would be most unfortunate if anyone else was suspected of being involved in the plot, due to their close relationship with the councilman.”

  The magistrate had a sickly look on his face. “I wasn’t!” the magistrate cried. “I didn’t know anything about it. I don’t even like Snidefellow that much!”

  “Very good,” Mr. Candlewick said. “The best way for you to divorce yourself from this whole ugly business is to deliver a verdict. Quickly, man.”

  “Yes, quite right,” the magistrate said. He jumped to his feet and banged his gavel. “This court finds that the boy is absolved from tampering with evidence, as it was only lime, and he is only a boy after all and … it turns out he is also the Duke of St. John. The defendant, Sir Richard Blackstone, is pronounced not guilty and further commended for returning the duchess’s son.” The magistrate pointed to the man and woman Henry had always known as his parents. “Lock those two up and go arrest Snidefellow while you’re at it. This court is adjourned!”

  The circuit prosecutor threw up his hands. “What just happened?”

  Henry thought the same. What just happened?

  It took Henry quite some time to fully comprehend what had occurred. Snidefellow had eluded the constable’s pursuit and no one knew where he had gone. But the man and woman who had been the only parents Henry had ever known escaped the noose by making a full confession. Afterwards, they were put on a boat to Botany Bay. They would spend the rest of their lives as unpaid laborers in Australia.

  The man who had posed as Henry’s father was in truth named Bartholomew Hewitt and he was Snidefellow’s brother-in-law. His wife, Druscilla Hewitt, was Snidefellow’s sister. They all were very poor, but through some remote connection in the family, Snidefellow had been recommended for the councilman’s position at Barton Commons. This gave all three of them high hopes of improving their lot in life. When Snidefellow arrived and saw that things were not to improve by much, he was furious. He had assumed he could make himself rich by issuing fines or demanding various kinds of payments. As it turned out, the villagers had little to give and it had been impossible to squeeze much out of them.