‘The giving warning to one,’ he explained, ‘overthrew us all.’
But, though the inquiry concluded in almost friendly terms, Guy was not deceived. It was no surprise to him when, an hour later, he was led off to the torture.
As he walked down the stairs into the torture chamber, Guy looked into his own spirit, and found that he was not afraid. His heart was beating faster than usual and the palms of his hands were sweating: otherwise he gave no sign. He had often wondered, hearing of other men, how he would bear the torture. Well, he told himself grimly, now you are going to find out.
He said nothing as they laid him down and clamped his ankles and wrists. The grips were tight, and one pinched the skin of his wrist. You will not be noticing that in a minute, he told himself.
For a few seconds, before they began to turn the handles, he lay there, hugging to himself the last of painlessness. He looked up at the gallery above, and, seeing the tense, furtive, suffused look in some of the faces of those who were watching, felt his first chill of fear. Then it vanished, scorched in savage hatred and contempt for those who came, out of curiosity, to see a man tortured.
Ah! They had turned the handle so suddenly he had not time to take a grip on himself. Straining sideways, he got in a deep breath and set his teeth. A sick, wrenching wave of agony, twisting his whole body, swept over him. His skin went deathly cold, then seemed to burst, and sweat ran on it like raindrops. Another twist, another wave, knocking the breath out of him.
There was a creaking and a cracking, whether of the rack or his own joints he could not say. God! they did not give a man time to get ready … they did not give him TIME. …
Thrashing about in agony, trying to cry out from a silent throat, one of the dreamers in Lancaster Gate awoke, and lay on his unfamiliar bed, sweat pouring from him, his heart pounding in the stillness.
Chapter Twenty-one
A glance at Uncle Edward, as he came down, pale and troubled, to the breakfast table, was enough to convince Dick that the piece of mortar had done its work, and that he, too, had dreamed.
Mr. and Mrs. Spence both exclaimed at their guest’s looks.
‘What is it, Edward? Didn’t you sleep?’
‘Weren’t you comfortable?’
‘Perfectly, my dear, thank you.’
‘I hope,’ said Mrs. Spence, ‘that nothing we had last night disagreed with you?’
‘Certainly not.’ Uncle Edward did not like the idea that his internal economy was not capable of assimilating any food. It was a subject on which he had ideas, as on many others.
‘It was the fireworks,’ suggested Mr. Spence jocularly. ‘The excitement was too much for you. What about the children? Hullo, Dick. You don’t look too good, either.’
Dick turned scarlet, and mumbled. He was saved from answering by Uncle Edward’s indignant protest.
‘Nonsense, Geoffrey. If you want: to know, I—er—I had unpleasant dreams.’
Mr. Spence was about to make some cheerful comment, when a glance from his wife restrained him. There was something in Uncle Edward’s manner which suggested that pleasantries would be out of place.
Actually, over and above the shock of believing that he had, in dream, gone back to a past age, and the vividness of the torture chamber, Uncle Edward had had an experience which shook him profoundly. He had found himself on the opposite side from that he represented in waking life: found himself sympathizing with men he had always regarded as monsters. To a man of his set views, the discovery was of earthquake violence.
At the word ‘dreams’, Dick had started, and given his uncle a searching glance. An idea, risen in his mind, turned swiftly into certainty. He could hardly sit still. And, with the perverse way one’s elders have, Mr. Spence began to tell a rather long story, and the meal dawdled on and on till Dick was nearly frantic.
At last Mrs. Spence looked at the clock, and rose with an exclamation, interrupting her husband. He protested.
‘Off with you into the next room,’ she cried, ‘and finish your talk in there.’
So in they went, and the story was finished, and Mr. Spence went off to collect the Sunday papers, which tended to arrive rather late.
Dick seized his chance.
‘Uncle Edward.’
‘Yes?’
‘You said you had unpleasant dreams.’
‘I did.’
‘Were they—ordinary dreams? Ordinary nightmares?’
Uncle Edward stiffened.
‘No,’ he said. ‘They were not.’ He hesitated, then: ‘I’d rather not discuss them,’ he said.
‘But you must, Uncle Edward. I mean—I’m sorry. But—I had queer dreams, too.’
‘Did you?’ Uncle Edward’s face was strangely pale. A sickly smile came over it. ‘Perhaps, as your mother said, we were—er—over-excited.’
Dick shook his head impatiently.
‘I dreamed about Guy Fawkes. Did you?’
The direct question had a remarkable effect on Uncle Edward. He stared, and his mouth fell open. Then a flush came slowly into his thin cheeks.
‘Yes,’ he said, ‘I did’: and gave a violent shudder.
‘Here you are, Edward. Times or Observer? Or—er Mirror? Take your choice.’
Coming back cheerily into the room, Mr. Spence pulled up in surprise at their faces: Dick and Uncle Edward looking oddly at one another, and Margaret, completely bewildered, staring at each in turn.
‘What on earth—?’ he began.
Dick turned to him.
‘Daddy. You know what we were talking about last night. About dreams of the past, and that play, and things like that. Well—I think something of the kind has happened to us.’
And, quickly, leaving out nothing, he told his astonished hearers about the pieces of mortar, from the cell in the Tower, which he had put under Uncle Edward’s pillow and his own.
There was a silence when he had finished. Uncle Edward had turned very pale again. He passed the back of his hand over his forehead, which was wet and shining.
Mr. Spence, with a quick look at him, took charge.
‘Come on, Edward. This is important. We must go into this.’ He settled down in his chair. ‘Tell us the whole thing from the beginning. Now then. Did you both dream the same dream?’
Dick replied.
‘I don’t know,’ he said. ‘I haven’t heard Uncle Edward’s yet. I only know we both dreamed about Guy Fawkes.’
He looked inquiringly at Uncle Edward, and Mr. Spence turned to him.
‘Come on, then, Edward. Yours first.’
Uncle Edward pulled himself together with an effort. Margaret got up from her chair, went and sat on the arm of his, and, without a word, took his hand. He acknowledged her touch with a smile and a crinkle of the eyes, and slipped his arm around her waist.
‘It began in a room,’ he said. ‘A room in a house by the river. …’
And, shutting his eyes sometimes, leaning back his head to remember, he told them the whole story through except for the part that concerned Belcher, Will Hooton, and the visit to the theatre.
When he came to the tortures, he shuddered again.
‘I could feel it, Geoffrey. I can feel it now,’ he said earnestly, sitting forward in his chair. ‘It was horrible. I’m glad I woke. Yet, in a way, I felt ashamed.’
‘Ashamed?’
‘Yes. As if I was abandoning him.’
Mr. Spence nodded.
‘It was all nonsense, of course.’ Uncle Edward was still looking almost pleadingly at his brother-in-law. ‘The man deserved. …’
The words died in his throat. He shuddered again, shook his head, as if to banish the whole scene from his memory, and turned to Dick.
‘Now, Dick. I hope yours wasn’t as bad as mine?’
‘Just a moment,’ put in Mr. Spence. ‘(Sorry, Dick.) When you saw all this going on, did you know what it was? I mean, did you recognize it as the Gunpowder Plot?’
‘Yes. Oh, yes. Not at first, perhaps. But qu
ite soon.’ ‘And did you remember what had happened? Did you know the plot was going to fail?’
‘Yes. I think I did.’
‘So that you took back with you, so to speak, some knowledge of your own? You weren’t dependent on all you saw in the dream?’
‘Yes.’ Uncle Edward wriggled with the effort to remember. ‘I seemed able to move about from place to place. Sometimes I seemed to be in two places at once. For instance, I was with Guy in the Tower, and at the same time I knew what was going on outside. I saw each of the conspirators hear the news, take horse and ride away. And, when Tresham came in first, I wanted to interfere, and warn Catesby. Only, of course, I couldn’t.’
‘Why couldn’t you?’ Dick asked.
‘I wasn’t there. I mean, as a person. I only saw it. Why do you ask?’
‘Because I felt different. I seemed to be there myself.’
Mr. Spence turned to him.
‘Yes. Now tell us your story.’
So, colouring, with Margaret’s eyes fixed wonderingly on him, Dick told his story of walking down Whitehall, meeting Hooton, Belcher, and Guy, going to the theatre, and talking afterwards at the inn and in Belcher’s lodgings.
‘Then,’ he said, ‘there was a sort of gap. At least, I know I went about, and was doing a lot of things. But I don’t remember any more till they had me up and questioned me about Belcher and Johnson—that is, Guy.’
‘How much can you remember of that?’
‘Not much. I remembered it all when I woke up first: but it’s been fading ever since.’
Mr. Spence sighed.
‘Seeing a performance of Othello—probably the first. Do you realize you’ve done a thing most scholars would give ten years of their life for?’
‘It wasn’t the first,’ said Dick quickly. ‘Belcher knew about it.’
‘Well,’ said Mr. Spence, ‘we’ll soon check up on that. But tell me. …’
And he began to ask Dick a lot of technical questions about the theatre, and the way the actors delivered their lines, which the boy was only able to answer in part.
‘Were the conspirators all killed?’ Margaret asked presently.
‘I think so. Let’s get a book, and see.’ He went off to his study.
‘Well,’ Uncle Edward exclaimed. ‘It’s most extraordinary. Most extraordinary.’
‘You’re not angry with me?’ Dick asked.
‘Angry?’ Uncle Edward looked vaguely at him. ‘Oh—because you put the thing under my pillow? No. I—It’s too queer. I don’t know what to say.’
Margaret gave him a squeeze.
‘Poor Uncle Edward.’
‘Here we are.’ Mr. Spence came back, turning the pages of a book. ‘Yes. They were all killed. They stayed at Holbeach. Nothing happened to them till the 8th. Then, as they were drying some damp gunpowder, in preparation for the siege they expected, it blew up, and Catesby and Rokewood had their faces scorched. They took it for a sign that Heaven was against them, and—here’s one for you both—Robert Winter said he’d dreamed it all before.’
‘Robert—he was the one who was frightened, all along.’
‘Yes. At eleven in the morning, the Sheriff of Worcester and his forces surrounded the house, and took it by storm. Catesby and both Wrights died fighting. Percy was mortally wounded. Rokewood and Thomas Winter were badly wounded, but recovered in the Tower. Grant and Digby were taken. All were put in the Tower. The rest were caught in various places a few days afterwards.’
‘What happened to them?’
‘They were all executed, except Tresham.’
‘Why wasn’t he? Because he had written the letter?’
‘No. He died in the Tower, probably of poisoning.’
‘Did he kill himself?’
‘Not he. They think he was poisoned, because he knew too much.’
There was a silence. Dick swallowed.
‘Guy gave away the names, under torture—didn’t he?’
‘He did; but not till he had been tortured for three days. In any case, the names were all known. The Government knew all about the plot.’
‘Poor Guy,’ said Dick. ‘I liked him.’
Uncle Edward coughed, and blew his nose.
‘So did I,’ he said. ‘It’s absurd, because—I mean, it was a dastardly plot. But—’
‘“He was first suspended in the air by his thumbs”,’ Mr. Spence read out, ‘“then placed upon the rack, and, as he still refused to name his accomplices, he was stretched naked on a heated stone.”’
Margaret shuddered.
‘We saw his signature, in the Record Office,’ Uncle Edward said.
‘Yes, all shaky, after the torture.’
Mr. Spence shut the book.
‘Odd things people used to do to one another, in the name of religion,’ he said, with an attempt at lightness.
The stout Protestant in Uncle Edward rose to the surface. He drew in his chin.
‘You can hardly say that of this case, Geoffrey. After all, the man had plotted to blow up king and Parliament.’
‘I didn’t mean that only. I meant the way they treated the Catholics before, and after, the conspiracy. Have you ever read Father Gerard?’
‘No.’ Both children turned to him eagerly. ‘What about him?’
‘If you wait a minute, I’ll fetch it.’
The others were silent till his return, thinking over what had happened.
‘This is Father Gerard’s own account of how he was tortured.’
Margaret made a grimace of pain, and Uncle Edward’s arm about her tightened understandingly.
‘I don’t think we’ll have that now, Geoffrey,’ he said. ‘It’s a bit too soon afterwards.’
Mr. Spence looked up, caught his eye, and nodded.
‘Right you are. It is a bit gruesome. I’ll leave it here, in case any of you want to look at it later on.’
He closed the book, then turned to Dick.
‘One interesting thing, about your dream, doesn’t seem to have struck you,’ he said.
‘What was that?’
‘What was your name?’
‘Diccon Spens.’ Dick started up in his chair. ‘Why-!’
‘Good heavens!’ Uncle Edward spun round, almost upsetting Margaret, and stared at the boy.
Next moment they all jumped up, for Dick had turned very pale, and began to sway on his feet.
‘Hold up, old boy.’ His father looked down at him, in kindness and concern. ‘We’ve had enough of all this,’ he said. ‘Let’s go for a walk in the gardens.’
Next morning, Dick and Margaret had to go back to school. Uncle Edward went off at once to the British Museum and other places, to check up such facts as he could, and especially to find traces of Dick’s friend Belcher. Mr. Spence could find no reference to him in any of the histories of drama, and a professor of English literature, whom he rang up to inquire, was no more helpful, and seemed to suspect that he was being hoaxed.
It seemed an endless Monday to Margaret and Dick, and they could hardly contain themselves when the homeward bus was held up in a vast traffic block. When they did get home, Uncle Edward had not yet come in. They were persuaded to begin their tea, but could hardly get anything down for excitement and impatience.
He came at last, and, hearing his key in the door, they rushed from the table and almost overwhelmed him.
‘Really, really, my dears! Steady. You’ll have me over.’
‘Come in! Come in! Never mind your old hat. Come in and tell us.’
‘It is not an old hat,’ protested Uncle Edward. ‘It is almost new. I bought it the last time I was in London, and I do not wear it in the country at all.’
Margaret clasped her hands.
‘Uncle Edward—please!’
Then Mrs. Spence appeared, all solicitude lest her brother be starving. Uncle Edward admitted that he had had no tea, but, on being offered some, pulled out his watch, and made a calculation of the time remaining until dinner.
‘No,
’ he decided. ‘It would spoil my meal, Eleanor.’
‘You must have something, Edward. Just a cup of tea, at any rate.’
‘I know. I’ll have a glass of milk.’
‘Come in with us,’ Margaret cried. ‘We’re just finishing tea, and there’s plenty.’
‘Now, children, leave your uncle alone. He must have his tea in peace.’
Margaret poured out the milk, and both, holding themselves in, watched him. He sipped it dubiously, put it down, picked it up again, then, his face clearing, drank it off.
I’ve found your Belcher man,’ he announced, pulling a sheaf of papers from his breast pocket.
‘You have? Tell me—quick.’
But Uncle Edward could never be hurried. He sorted through his papers, picked out one, unfolded it carefully, and spread it on the table.
‘This must be the man, I think.’ He cleared his throat, and read: ‘“BELCHIER, DAUBRIDG-COURT, or DAW-BRIDGE-COURT. Dates 1580 (query) to 1621. Son of William Belchier, Esq., of Gillesborough, Northants. Admitted 2nd March 1597, a fellow-commoner of Corpus Christi College, Oxford. Afterwards removed to Christ Church, Oxford, where he graduated B.A., 9th February, 1600.”’
He looked up.
‘There’s a discrepancy there, Dick. You said he had just come down from Oxford in 1605.’
He spoke almost as if Dick had deliberately made it up.
‘I only told you what I dreamed,’ said Dick, flushing.
‘Of course, he may have remained in residence after his graduation. However.’ He went on reading: ‘“Settled a few years later in the Low Countries.”’
‘That would be right,’ said Dick, leaning forward eagerly.
‘“Translated from the Dutch a play called Hans Beer-Pot, which was printed in London in 1618. Was author of various other poems and translations, none of which appears to have been printed.”’
He looked up.
‘That’s all I could find about him.’
‘I’m glad he wrote a play, anyway,’ Margaret said, ‘even if he didn’t become famous, as he hoped.’
The Fifth of November Page 14