by L. C. Tyler
‘I’ll come with you,’ says Dickon. ‘I haven’t been to Saffron Walden for a while. I need to order a new suit of clothes. This one is, as you observed, a little snug about the waist. As long as you don’t also ask for a warrant to arrest the first gentleman you see on a grey horse.’
‘Jem will give us a better description of the killer,’ I say. ‘Once we find out where he is.’
‘My guess is that Jem hasn’t gone far,’ says Dickon. ‘He has no money.’
‘Well, half a crown perhaps,’ I say.
‘I doubt he’ll be able to flee to France on that. He’ll be in the village somewhere. So, where would he hide? In somebody else’s stables? In a barn?’
‘Or the woods. With the charcoal burners perhaps. We need to think, Dickon. We’ve used almost all the local hiding places at one time or another. If we can’t find him, nobody can.’
‘Yes, we know most of them, I suppose,’ says Dickon. ‘Though I always knew a few you didn’t.’
‘Well, I’ll search the woods anyway,’ I say. ‘If he isn’t there, I’ll search the barns and outhouses – with the owners’ permissions obviously. But first I have to observe Mr Probert for the Colonel.’
‘Let me know how you get on with Probert,’ says Dickon. ‘It sounds as though your back will need watching again. Or is that Aminta Clifford’s job now?’
‘She could hardly watch my back worse than you have.’
‘Really? I wouldn’t trust her any more than I’d trust her father,’ says Dickon. ‘She just happened to be out in the meadow collecting mushrooms, did she?’
‘Yes,’ I say. Rather – it occurs to me – as her father just happened to be sitting by the stream.
‘You be careful what you tell either of them Cliffords. Now, they really are dyed-in-the-wool Royalists.’
‘I’ll bear that in mind,’ I say.
Probert has not stayed obligingly at the inn, where I might have observed him in comfort. As I ride back to the New House, I see him in the distance under the shade of the trees, strolling along the road in a leisurely manner. I negotiate with my mare, talking her into a reluctant canter, and I quickly find myself alongside the Royalist agent.
‘Good day, Mr Probert,’ I say. I am pleased to be mounted and he, for the moment, on foot. I look down on him from my saddle and nod pretty haughtily. He doesn’t know this is the slowest mare in Essex. He looks up at me, squinting into the sun.
‘Good day, Grey. That’s probably the oldest animal I’ve ever seen anyone ride. If she could talk, she’d probably tell us stories of King James’s time.’
‘She’s sound in wind and limb,’ I say. ‘And she can scarce recall King Charles.’
‘Then she has a poor memory in addition to her other faults.’
‘I mean that she was merely a foal in King Charles’s day.’
‘Never believe what the female of any species tells you about her age. I certainly wouldn’t buy her myself.’
‘I’m not selling her,’ I say.
Probert shakes his head and chuckles. ‘You wouldn’t sell? You are a wit, sir. A rare wit and not as your tutor described you . . . How was it? As dull as a cow’s backside?’
‘A dog’s arse,’ I say.
‘So it was. A dog’s arse. That was well remembered – or perhaps people often describe you thus?’
‘Have you found your friend?’ I ask.
‘I feel I am getting very close. I might perhaps be closer with your help, but for the moment I do well enough alone.’
‘I am pleased for you.’
‘Are you? I am not sure that everyone in the village shares that view. Or they all have very poor memories, like your horse. Or they are lying, like your horse. But I shall quietly prevail. And nothing shall stand in my way.’
‘Possibly,’ I say.
‘Now, Grey, a small question that even you cannot fail to answer for me: am I going the right way to find the Rector?’
‘No,’ I say. ‘You must return to the crossroads and turn left. You will find the church and the rectory on your right.’
‘Thank you, Grey. Then it would seem that yonder footpath amongst the trees must also take me there and save me some precious minutes. Fugit irreparabile tempus.’
‘Better to return to the crossroads. You may lose your way in the woods.’
‘Oh, I think not. I rarely lose my way, Grey. It’s something else I am noted for.’
‘Then be careful to take the right fork shortly after you enter the woods. The left fork only takes you to the charcoal burners’ huts.’
I watch him vanish into the trees. I hope that he has taken the right fork. But I cannot see that far.
I tie my horse up in front of the inn. Ben emerges almost immediately. He looks flustered and ill at ease. Dickon was right about one thing: it is difficult to imagine Ben having the resolve for a killing.
‘What did you say to Probert?’ he demands breathlessly.
‘He was seeking his friend Henderson,’ I say. ‘I am assuming you already know Henderson and Smith are one and the same.’
‘I thought that might be,’ he says. ‘What did you tell him?’
‘What would you expect me to tell a Royalist spy?’ I ask.
‘Nothing, I hope.’
I nod. ‘Your hopes are fulfilled.’
‘None of the others will say a word either,’ says Ben. ‘They don’t like foreigners in these parts – doesn’t signify whether they are from Suffolk or London or Tartary. Probert will go back to his master in Westminster empty-handed.’
‘Bruges,’ I say. ‘Charles Stuart is in Bruges. That debauched renegade would scarcely dare to show his face in Westminster.’
‘Bruges? Is that right?’ says Ben. ‘Well, whether Probert’s from Westminster or Bruges is all the same. He’ll get nothing out of folk here.’
I nod again and think of the Colonel. It’s true: they don’t like strangers in these parts. The Greys have been here only two generations, but my maternal ancestors have lived in the village for six hundred years – just about long enough.
‘Perhaps so, but the Rector can hardly lie about having buried a stranger in the graveyard of St Peter’s.’
‘Rector won’t say more than he has to,’ says Ben with a confidence that seems far from justified.
‘Is there any sign of Jem?’ I ask.
‘No,’ he says. ‘What concern is it of yours anyway?’
‘I’d just like to know he’s safe,’ I say.
‘He’s run off. Why shouldn’t he be safe? Have you been talking to him about the murder? I hope you haven’t done anything stupid.’
I think of Probert heading off into the woods. Nothing will stand in his way. And Jem has just the information Probert needs.
‘I have to go,’ I say to Ben. ‘There’s something I need to check. Now.’
‘So you did talk to Jem.’
‘I might have done.’
‘Lord help us,’ says Ben. ‘First her, then you. No wonder he left in a hurry.’
I scarcely register what he says as I urgently kick my horse into a very slow canter. Later, Ben’s words come back to me and I wish that I had stopped long enough to ask who ‘she’ is.
But I don’t stop. I have done something stupid, and time is no longer my friend.
At Home with the Charcoal Burners
These paths into the woods were not made for riders, and the going is slow. The family’s mare steps carefully and resentfully over tree roots while I duck low branches. She knows this is foolishness, even if I do not. We should be home by now and she in her stall. Eventually, we both emerge from the winding green tunnel into an irregularly shaped clearing a hundred yards across. In the centre of the clearing is a mound some ten feet high covered in earth, from which wisps of smoke are rising. Stacked around the edge are neat piles of coppiced hazel and ash. Under a crude shelter of planks and branches, heaps of charcoal lie waiting. The smell of new sawdust and smoke hang together in the air in equal mea
sure. But there is no sign of any human being.
‘Hello!’ I call. ‘Is anyone here?’
‘Who wants to know?’ A tall man dressed in a leather jerkin and leather apron strides purposefully into the clearing. He wears no hat, and his locks flow cleanly over his shoulders. His beard is long but carefully tended. Both hair and beard show a little grey, but not much as yet. He bears, with no visible effort, a trussed-up bundle of hazel. He drops the load with the rest of the wood and pauses, as if to take in my appearance as fully as I have just taken in his. He seems not entirely happy with what he sees. It is at this point that I notice he is also carrying a large billhook tucked into the right-hand side of his belt. I have no reason to believe that it was not freshly sharpened this morning; indeed, it would seem likely that this is what charcoal burners do. Even if I had my sword with me, I am not sure that it would help me much against the tall man. Or against his two friends who have just thrown their own loads to the ground and who seem no friendlier. I wonder whether it is worth explaining that, unlike the Colonel and Roger Pole, I am part of this country and that my mother’s grandfather once owned this wood and, indeed, probably owned many of their ancestors.
‘I’m John Grey,’ I say. ‘I’m looking for Ben Bowman’s stable lad. I fear he may be in danger for his life.’
‘John Grey . . . I recognise you now,’ he says. ‘Your face is thinner and more pinched than when I last set eyes on you. At least you’re not here to steal apples.’
‘It was Dickon Grice,’ I say instinctively. Well, he was supposed to be keeping lookout anyway. ‘But where have we met . . . ?’
The man smiles, showing a good set of white teeth. ‘You’ll have seen me around in the village, like as not. You can call me Kit.’
‘Can I? So, Kit, have you seen Jem?’
‘Yes.’
‘Is he here? Can I talk to him?’
‘That’s up to him.’
I explain why the matter is urgent and why Jem should preferably not fall into Probert’s hands. None of this appears to be news to Kit.
‘He’ll be safe here,’ he says.
‘But I found him easily enough,’ I say. ‘For anyone who knows the village, this is an obvious place to hide.’
‘But Probert’s a stranger. As a boy, he stole apples in another place entirely. He probably has no idea this clearing exists.’
‘Well . . .’ I say. Should I admit that I have just handed Probert precisely this piece of information? No. Probably best to give these good people as few reasons as possible for knifing me.
‘Where do you suggest I go then, mister?’ I turn to see Jem emerging from concealment under a heap of firewood. It is cleverly contrived – a roomy sort of tunnel with hazel branches packed tightly around. He might have stayed there safely for some time.
I could ask him how he is and whether he passed a comfortable night in the woods, but it seems better to get straight down to business.
‘Jem, if you saw who the killer was, you need to tell me,’ I say. ‘Then the Colonel will arrest him and you’ll be safe.’
Jem looks at me doubtfully. My bluntness has simply convinced him that he is far from safe now.
‘If you won’t tell me, will you tell the Colonel himself? I can take you to him, and we can keep you safe in the Big House until the murderer has been arrested and taken to the county gaol.’
Jem looks at Kit and Kit shrugs. Though he clearly knows something of my past, what he knows is not especially to my credit.
‘I want to talk to Mr Kit,’ says Jem, and together they go to the far side of the clearing, where they hold a whispered conversation just out of sight. The discussion stretches to ten minutes; then Kit returns alone. I can just hear Jem’s tuneless whistle, proving to the rest of us that he has not a care in the world.
‘Jem says he’ll go to the Big House himself tonight.’
‘But I can see him safely out of the wood,’ I say.
‘He says he’s safer on his own. He knows the paths.’
‘I know them better than he does,’ I say. ‘I played in these woods almost every day as a child.’
Kit nods. ‘So you did, John Grey. And in other places you were meant not to be. But Jem is not of a mind to trust anyone at present – even you. He’ll be at the Big House tonight – or tomorrow night at the latest. I promise he’ll come and not sneak off somewhere else. In the meantime we’ll watch over him. And you’ll tell nobody he’s here.’
‘You have my word,’ I say.
As I start to lead my mare back through the woods, Kit says to me: ‘Fear not, John Grey. Jem will keep his promise. Oh, and it was you scrumping apples by the way, for all you tried to blame Dickon Grice.’
I have arranged to meet Dickon at the inn. But first I call in at the Steward’s cottage. Dickon might not approve, but I am sure his mistrust of Aminta is ill-founded and she will be pleased to hear that Jem is safe.
‘God be praised for that,’ says Aminta. ‘Our visit to the stables frightened him. I would not wish harm to come to him as a result.’
She wipes her hands on her white linen apron. I have caught her in the middle of some domestic task. A stray lock of hair peeps out from under her lace cap. There is a rather endearing smudge of flour on her nose, which I decide not to tell her about.
‘But you were right,’ I say, ‘about the meadow. That was the route by which the body was taken. And the blood in Ben’s stable . . . You as good as told me to go there. How did you know?’
‘A lucky guess,’ she says.
‘You hadn’t already been to the stables and talked to Jem?’
‘Why would I do that?’
‘I don’t know. Ben said that a woman had been to the stables.’
She shakes her head. I wonder what it would be like to kiss her on the nose exactly where the smudge of flour is sitting.
‘Don’t tell anyone where Jem is hiding,’ I say. ‘I promised it would remain a secret.’
She nods. ‘Of course. I’d be careful who you speak to as well. This business may be more dangerous than you think.’
Once again she is right. Speaking to the wrong person could be fatal. I just wish I knew who the wrong person was. I wonder whether to tell Aminta that Henderson had been looking for me. Perhaps she can make some sense of that puzzle. But, in the same way that I know I am not going to kiss her on the nose, some instinct – or is it Dickon’s warning? – makes me hold back from giving her this information. I wish her a polite good day, pick up my hat and depart for the inn.
Though I cannot tell Ben exactly where his boy is, my oath does not, I think, stop me letting him or Dickon know that Jem is safe.
The inn is crowded on this summer afternoon. The Colonel rarely visits it, having his own brewhouse and his own cook, but he is there, sitting at a table with Roger Pole. Dickon is already there too, talking to Nell. Nell nods and hurries off.
‘Ordering ale, I hope,’ I say.
‘Ale? No, our last ham was not salted enough and has turned. I need to bring a new one.’
He acknowledges, however, the wisdom of buying me a drink and orders two tankards from Ben. When I think nobody is listening, I lower my voice and say to him: ‘I’ve found Jem.’
Dickon knows, of course, that I went to see the charcoal burners today, so I am not entirely surprised that he just nods and does not ask where. I am grateful for this. ‘But he is coming to the Big House tonight or tomorrow night,’ I add, ‘and will tell the Colonel what he saw.’
‘I thought you didn’t trust the Colonel.’
‘I am hoping that Jem’s evidence will release the Colonel from whatever enchantment Pole has placed him under,’ I say. ‘He may then finally take some action.’
‘And nobody except you knows where Jem is now?’
‘Only the people he is with,’ I say.
Dickon nods thoughtfully.
‘You didn’t tell Aminta Clifford, for example?’
‘Why do you ask?’
�
��I saw your old mare tied up outside her house when I was riding here.’
‘I just called—’ I say.
‘Her and her father – malignant Royalists, the pair of them. Did she try to get any information out of you?’
‘No,’ I say. Because, to be quite honest, she didn’t try to get anything – I just told her. Not much though. No need to mention it to Dickon.
I am looking round for Ben, because I wish to tell him the same, when Dickon grasps my shoulder.
‘Jem!’ he says. ‘I’m sure I saw Jem through the window!’
I look out into the bright sunlight but see nobody.
‘He’s changed his mind then. Something must have happened.’ I jump up from my seat. ‘I’ll go out and find him.’
I leave Dickon guarding our pots of ale on the low table and walk swiftly to the door and out into the dry heat of a June afternoon.
The road is deserted. I look both ways along the dusty highway, but nothing stirs on this sleepy summer day, except the topmost branches of the oaks in the Park. I stand for a moment, listening to their gentle hiss and swish high above me. If Jem was ever there outside the window, he has concealed himself well.
I stamp back into the inn to find that Dickon has not only misled me but has failed even to guard our ale. His chair is also empty, and both pewter pots stand unattended, though, I am pleased to see, still full.
Dickon re-enters from the door to the stable yard. ‘I wondered whether he had sneaked round the back,’ he says. ‘But there is no sign of him. I’m sure it was Jem though. Perhaps he came to collect something from the stable.’
‘He’s eluded us if so. At least nobody has drunk our ale,’ I say, lifting the tankard to my lips. Somebody has, however, slipped something under my drink. In the place where it sat until a moment ago is a folded sheet of paper. Where it has touched the tankard, it is slightly damp. I unfold it. It reads:
POLE HAZ THE RINGE IN HIZ HATTE
Well, doesn’t that change everything?
Pole’s Hat
It is fortunate that Pole is looking the other way, because at this precise moment my whole being is concentrating on his hat. It looks, you might say, much as any other hat would look. But it is possible that, concealed in the broad lace hatband or pinned somewhere inside the crown, there is a gold ring bearing the Stuart coat of arms. I could wait until he leaves the hat aside and secretly question it. But a ring found there covertly will not answer. It must be seen to be found in the hat by as many people as possible – including the Colonel. My fear, of course, is that the ring is nowhere of the sort. Perhaps I shall seize the hat from Pole’s head and, after an increasingly fevered search, be obliged to return it to him with muttered apologies. Perhaps I shall then leave the parlour with the laughter of many people ringing in my ears. Perhaps Pole will never let me forget it. This must be considered.