The Hidden Man

by Robin Blake

  ‘I don’t know. But he was there.’

  ‘Was it him that damaged Mr Jackson’s face?’

  ‘I don’t know. It happened inside … over there.’

  She gestured towards Barton’s cottage, which stood across the far end of the yard, linking together the two rows of stable boxes.

  ‘That one that rode away just now – do you know him?’

  ‘Yes Sir, he was one of those that took the body up to the wild place.’

  ‘Do you know his name?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘It’s John Barton. Did your master ever utter the name to you?’

  ‘No Sir. I’ve never heard that name before.’

  I turned to Canavan.

  ‘This girl states that she saw you taking the body of Tybalt Jackson away from here at dead of night, with John Barton and another. Have you anything to say?’

  Canavan glowered. It had been discomfiting to hear himself accused but he had evidently decided that his best course was to keep his counsel.

  A skinny youth, with greasy black hair and a face peppered with pockmarks, now wandered into the yard carrying a rake. I recognized Bobby, the boy that I had seen exercising a horse along with Barton just after the body of Jackson was discovered. I strode over to him and took the rake from his hand.

  ‘Bobby is it? Are you stable boy here?’

  His mouth twitched and he grunted in a way I took to be yes.

  ‘And what is your full name?’

  This time he opened his mouth but another burst of thunder, like a distant cannonade, rendered his reply inaudible.

  ‘What was that, boy?’

  ‘’S Robert Roberts.’

  ‘And do you know me, Robert Roberts? Do you know what I do?’

  ‘I reckon so. You find out about the dead people. What happened to them.’

  ‘That’s right. Now, I want you to come over here and look at this man. I want you to tell me what you know about him.’

  Roberts looked dispassionately towards Canavan.

  ‘’S been here since end of last week. Mr Barton’s guest, like. ’S all I know ’bout him.’

  ‘Not even his name?’

  ‘No. What’s this about?’

  ‘Have there been any other guests here at the same time as him?’

  ‘Yer, other chap went, though. ’S morning.’

  ‘Do you know his name?’

  ‘Never heard it. Is this about that body on the Stone?’

  I ignored the question.

  ‘Do you know where this other man has gone? Which direction he rode in, for instance?’

  ‘North, he went.’

  Robert nodded his head in the direction he meant.

  ‘Up the great road. Left some time this morning, early.’

  ‘What was his horse like?’

  ‘Grey gelding with a braided tail.’

  I went across to Barton’s cottage to find some writing materials, and there composed a note to James Shuttleworth Esq of Barton Lodge, the nearest county magistrate. I requested that a hue and cry be raised after one Zadok Moon that had headed northward towards Lancaster on a grey gelding and was suspected of murder. However, as there are magistrates who hold the office of Coroner in a degree of contempt, I called in Oswald Mallender to sign the note. One can never play it too safe when dealing with the gentry magistrates, who on the one hand resent Coroners and on the other rarely put themselves to the trouble of acquainting themselves with the minutiae of the law. I heated the sealing wax while the Sergeant applied his name in a cramped, painstaking script, then seized the paper, folded it and dripped the wax.

  * * *

  What, all this time, had been happening to Fidelis?

  He had given hot pursuit across the Moor in the direction of Cadley. Barton was an excellent horseman but even he could not keep a horse going at full pace with no saddle or stirrups, and Fidelis had little difficulty in holding him largely in view. But then, like a chased fox, the quarry went to ground.

  It happened when a sharp bend in the way ahead had temporarily made Fidelis lose sight of Barton. He kept up a canter along the road, just as it snaked past Cadley Place, and it was another few minutes before, reaching a straight stretch and seeing no horseman, he understood what had happened. He wheeled around and trotted back.

  Barton, it would appear, had seen his opportunity at – of all places – the house of the late Pimbo. He had turned in at the gate, ridden up the carriageway and hammered on the front door. They took him into the house willingly enough, knowing Barton and having little reason to think him anything but a friendly visitor. But no sooner was he inside than he frightened the women with loud shouts, and eventually took one of the maids by the throat until she fetched the keys to the gun room and the saddle room.

  By now Fidelis had looked in at the gate of Cadley Place and recognized Barton’s lathered and tethered horse. He scanned the house, and saw no figure in any of the windows, but he knew Barton must be inside. What, though, was he doing?

  Fidelis hesitated. Rain was falling in larger drops now, but the air was otherwise still so that spatters of water on the shrubbery leaves could be individually heard. He was weighing up the advisability of a frontal approach to the house, and deciding against as he would be at a disadvantage if Barton were looking out. It was better, he thought, to remain on watch.

  * * *

  Wintly had cracked his whip and driven his cart out of the yard. Moreton Canavan, Elijah and Amy were aboard with Esau Parkin who was still in attendance on Amy. Meanwhile his brother rode the luggage-laden horse belonging to Canavan, which before our arrival had been on the point of conveying him away, presumably to Liverpool. The brothers were deputed by Mallender to deliver the two prisoners back to town – Amy at the Biggses’ and Canavan to be lodged in the cells below Moot Hall, with an appointment to go before the Bench in the morning, as Mallender and I, with Suez careering dangerously around my horse’s feet, followed the cart as far as the main road, where I suggested to Elijah that he go back to Fidelis’s house and await developments. The Sergeant, however, was not for going back. He was red in the face and breathing excitedly from the knowledge that he was still in the heat of the action, and in pursuit of murderers and desperate men.

  ‘I shall ride with you, Mr Cragg,’ he said.

  At this meeting of lanes, a faint track across the Moor branched off towards the race course and from fresh hoof prints in the ground I saw that this was the way Barton, followed by Fidelis, had taken. According to my promise, I must take it myself – but not, I preferred, in the company of Mallender. I said:

  ‘Between us, Dr Fidelis and I will comfortably catch him and take him, Sergeant. You may rely on it. Meanwhile hadn’t you best join the hue and cry up the north road and make sure in your own person that Zadok Moon is arrested?’

  Mallender considered the question, then fell in eagerly with my suggestion. Of course, as the hue and cry had been raised at his own formal request, he certainly ought to be present at any taking up – and receive the credit for it. So he bade me farewell and urged his poor mount into a shambling trot up the road that led to Lancaster. A little relieved I turned my own hack into the branching lane, and set off at a fast trot to catch up with Fidelis. Suez, recovered from his kick and full of alacrity, bounded along in my wake.

  We soon joined the racecourse and were heading towards the Bale Stone, when the dog started to bark and shot ahead towards the monument itself. At the course’s nearest point to the Stone I pulled the horse up and listened. Suez was barking furiously but beneath his shrill yaps I could hear the calls of a human voice strangely stifled, and not a little desperate. I walked the horse up the bank and across the open ground towards the Stone. From its other side I could hear the noises of a struggle, mixed with oaths. Then, coming to the brambly outgrowth that concealed the place where I had found the sack of Pimbo’s silver, I was surprised to see the feet, legs and wriggling rear end of a human being. The forward part of his body
was thrust deep into the bush, not in a comfortable way, for he was struggling to get himself out, and signalling his distress with cries and curses. As if to help him out, Suez had now got a mouthful of his breeches and was tugging at them. I immediately dismounted and, pulling the dog away, lightly kicked the calf of the stuck man’s leg with my boot. His writhing ceased instantly.

  ‘Who are you?’ I asked.

  I interpreted the muffled response to be, for God’s sake, let me be hauled out. I therefore took hold of his legs and began to pull. At first nothing happened. The fellow was – as I later learned – stuck fast by his coat and waistcoat on thorns and protruding roots. His head was inside the narrow rabbit burrow and he had thrust his arms further inside, so that he was quite unable to get elbow purchase or bend his arms to push himself out. As Suez danced and yelped around me, I braced my legs, took the strain into my back and heaved. Slowly at first, and bringing most of the bramble bush with him, he came sliding out.

  It was a young man, who climbed stiffly to his feet. He had a scratched, blood-streaked face and heavily soiled clothes. I knew him instantly. So indeed did Suez, who wagged his tail and thrust his nose familiarly into the man’s crotch, being used to seeing him every day: his late master’s craftsman-jeweller.

  ‘Mr Ambler!’ I exclaimed as he struggled sheepishly to his feet. ‘What a surprise.’

  He avoided my gaze, shifting his feet and mumbling something about trapping rabbits.

  ‘Rabbits, is it?’ I enquired. ‘That’s a tasty dish in the hands of a good cook, which I believe your mother is.’

  I had already seen the truth, though I did not want Ambler to know that. I told him instead that I was pressed for time and must go on, but there was a matter respecting the goldsmithing business, and the future of Pimbo’s shop, that I would like to discuss with him. Would he, I asked, be kind enough to attend me in the morning at my office? He brightened up at this and said he would. Then I sent him on his way.

  * * *

  As Suez and I picked up the trail of Fidelis and Barton, lightning flashed across the sky, followed by a smack of thunder and a rumbling chain of reverberations. The air, which all day had been so heavy, was charged now with energy and excitement. On my part, too, I felt a sense of relief as I kicked my horse to pick up its speed. The collection of silver from Pimbo’s strong room that I had found under the Stone – why it was there and what I should do about it – had been weighing a little on the back of my mind all day. Now quite unexpectedly I felt sure of the truth.

  I drove the horse as hard as possible along the lane that wound its way across the Moor to Cadley. Coming to the inward gate of Cadley Place, I saw a horse secured to its post: Fidelis’s sleek and distinctive animal. I dismounted, attaching my own mount in the same way, and tying Suez similarly by a length of rope from the saddlebag. The gate itself was closed and secured to the post with baling twine in a complicated manner, so I vaulted over it and ventured into the carriageway.

  I had advanced no more than a few steps when Fidelis’s arm shot out from a thick clump of bushes and hooked me into his hiding place. The rain was falling steadily now, but the storm for the moment held its peace.

  ‘See there?’ whispered my friend.

  He pointed to Barton’s horse, standing close to the front door of the house with its reins tied to a climbing plant. The animal, I noticed, was now furnished with a saddle.

  ‘He’s in the house and he’s armed,’ Fidelis went on. ‘I was just on the point of walking up to the house when a maid came out with the saddle. He sent her to put it on the horse while he pointed a gun at her from inside the door. I saw the gun-barrel. He’s getting ready to fly.’

  ‘Does he know you’re here?’

  ‘He knows someone’s here: he was aware of being followed. He’s been shouting out, making threats against the women inside and calling on me to show myself. I’ve shut both gates and tied them with some baling twine that I found. I put in some complicated knots: he will not undo them easily.’

  Now the front door of the house opened and two figures edged into sight: they were Barton and a woman that he was pushing before him like a shield. He held a hunting gun in one hand while gripping his hostage tightly above the elbow with the other. The hostage was Ruth Peel. He was aiming to get behind the horse, but she was making it difficult, struggling and giving out cries of indignation. The rain, falling harder now, blurred our vision but it seemed that suddenly the horse-coper clubbed the woman viciously over the head, for she ceased to resist. He lifted and deposited her face down over the crupper, checked the girth straps and swung himself into the saddle.

  The horse wheeled and I touched Fidelis’s arm in warning: we were not well placed to stop him, having no firearms, and being a little too far from our own horses. In a moment, as we watched helplessly, Barton had ridden towards the out-gate but instead of trying to open it he simply put his horse at it and leapt into the lane. It was an easy jump for such a horse but one which nevertheless nearly jolted the girl off. Barton, though he still gripped the musket, managed to haul her back into position across the crupper, and immediately made towards our own horses tethered to the in-gate. Running up, we saw him begin loosening the horses from the gate-post, intending no doubt to take them with him far enough to make a clean escape. He had not, however, reckoned with the temperament of Grimshaw’s mare – nor with the tenacity of Suez.

  No doubt remembering that earlier kick, the dog was enraged by John Barton’s appearance and he let fly a furious volley of growls and barks, leaping on his hind legs at the end of the rope that restrained him. In a couple of seconds the rope came loose and, free to move, he dived at the feet of Barton’s high-strung horse, nipping at the fetlocks and hooves so that the animal, who was already unnerved by her proximity to two geldings, spooked and finally kicked out. A crack of thunder added to the confusion and all three horses suddenly bucked and reared, and I saw one of Barton’s feet slip from the stirrup, causing him to cant sideways and let go the weapon in his hand. As it clattered to the ground, the woman was also finally dislodged from her place athwart the horse, and landed in an untidy heap on the ground.

  We broke from our cover and ran forward. Fidelis got hold of Miss Peel and plucked her from further danger while I seized hold of the gun. Barton was still trying to bring his horse under control.

  ‘Dismount, Sir!’ I shouted, ‘or I shall blow your damnable brains out.’

  I put my finger to the trigger and levelled the weapon until it was pointing to a spot exactly between his eyes. I was shaking furiously but, at that range, I could hardly have missed. Barton, having regained control of his mount, looked down at me, his wormy lips apart, his face muscles drawn tight and his eyes narrowed. There was a moment in which he considered his chances, but it was a very short one. Then he kicked one leg up and over the horse’s head and descended to earth.

  Chapter Twenty-nine

  DAY WAS BECOMING evening as Fidelis and I made our way back across the Moor towards Preston, with a sullen John Barton tightly roped around the wrists and riding between us. Before our departure we had brought Miss Peel into the house and revived her with the help of a smelling-bottle. She was weak and unsteady, though Fidelis found the bodily harm to be superficial. He bandaged her injured head, then settled her at the parlour fireside, with an order to the servants to give her a Jamaica ginger infusion, or a ginger posset with white bread for her shock. He promised to return on the morrow.

  The storm clouds cleared as quickly as they had gathered and now warm, watery sunlight made the land glisten. Abreast once more of the Bale Stone, I turned to Barton and said,

  ‘So tell me, Barton: why did you mutilate Jackson’s face? And why did you stab him with the wooden stake?’

  Barton’s habitual expression was sullen, but now it was a good deal sullener.

  ‘I know nothing about it,’ he uttered. ‘I’ll say no more.’

  And, for the time being, he didn’t. In thirty minutes’ ti
me we had come up Friar Gate, crossed Market Place and dismounted at Moot Hall where I asked for the Mayor to be sent for, or any member of the magistrates’ Bench that happened to be in the building. A few minutes later Grimshaw himself came hurrying out to us.

  ‘I hope this is not one of your trivialities, Cragg. I have grave matters in hand. I am writing letters to London about the issue of my bond by which we shall finance the Guild.’

  ‘I have brought John Barton to you, Mr Grimshaw.’

  ‘Hello, Barton. Good God, man, is that my Molly you’re riding? You have her in the devil of a lather.’

  The enquiry elicited nothing but a scowl. I said:

  ‘I am delivering this man a prisoner into your hands.’

  Grimshaw looked at Barton in surprise, noticing for the first time his bound wrists.

  ‘What on earth? A prisoner? What is this, Cragg?’

  ‘It is murder, Mr Grimshaw. He is suspected of killing Tybalt Jackson.’

  ‘Great heavens! But we have already had a fellow brought in today on that charge. What has John Barton to do with it?’

  ‘A joint enterprise is suspected. He should appear before you tomorrow with Moreton Canavan to answer. There is also a third man.’

  ‘A third man? This is a gang, then?’

  ‘The third is Zadok Moon.’

  ‘Moon! The one Pimbo accused of – what was it? Fraud?’

  ‘Yes, the same. He’s fled along the northern road, and is perhaps making for Scotland. I hope by now that Mallender has taken him, and that he too will be brought before you.’

  ‘Well, I look forward to meeting the fellow at last, as he appears to be certainly a villain. But I have no time to discuss this now.’

  He looked at the prisoner severely.

  ‘Well, Barton, I am appalled at your treatment of my mare. Do you presume to use her as a mere riding horse?’

  The horse-coper would not look at the Mayor, but shuffled his feet with his eyes cast down.

  ‘Very well,’ said Grimshaw, ‘if you will say nothing in your defence: I mandate your committal to the cells, and order you to appear before the Bench tomorrow morning.’