The Ash Grove

by Margaret James

  Owen looked at Robin. ‘You, sir,’ he murmured. ‘A past master, are you not? The ladies are your favourites, I believe. But I've heard you do a very neat line in the flaying of either sex. A strip at a time, is that right? A whole day's labour? Perhaps we should begin without delay?’

  He glanced back towards Michael. ‘I'm young,’ he went on, ‘I'm healthy, and I'm strong. My heart and lungs are sound. I'd give you splendid entertainment, lasting a very long time. Surely, given that, it would not hurt you to spare Jane?’

  ‘But I think it would,’ Michael Atkins replied. ‘You see, in sparing her, I should be denied a pleasure particularly precious to me.’

  ‘But why must you have such a pleasure, when you can torment me instead?’

  ‘He does not understand.’ Michael Atkins shook his head. ‘He's a fool,’ he muttered, talking to himself. ‘A braggart, a simpleton, and a fool. In fact, he's a Welshman, through and through.’

  The master pulled on his gloves. ‘Well, my lads,’ he said, briskly. ‘It's time we were on our way.’

  Owen met Michael Atkins's colourless eyes. ‘Before we go,’ he said, ‘as you are a gentleman, at least give me a guarantee that Jane will not suffer.’

  ‘A guarantee that what?’ Michael Atkins grinned. ‘My God. You're even more of an idiot than I first believed.’

  But now, Jane spoke. ‘If Owen is to die,’ she whispered, her face pale and her eyes hollow, ‘at least let me go with him. Let me suffer your pleasure, too.’

  ‘You mean to expire in one shared breath? How lover– like. How touching in the extreme. But no. It cannot be.’ Michael Atkins picked up his whip. ‘For the present, my deceitful, dissembling lady, you stay here.’

  Chapter 23

  As Owen Morgan's sturdy little Welsh pony was cantering towards Oxwich, Rayner finished his letter, which he gave into the landlord's safe–keeping. Then, he climbed into the inn's old–fashioned, creaking chaise, shook the reins, and drove off into the warm, summer dusk.

  The moon was full, the night cloudless, and the going dry. Making much better progress than he had dared to hope, by midnight Rayner was in Swansea.

  ‘Hey, you! Yes, my good fellow, you. Come here.’ Thus accosting an elderly night watchman, who was glumly trudging up and down the High Street, Rayner enquired where the lodgings of the town's chief magistrate were to be found.

  Directed there, he hung on the bell until a maidservant in a dirty flannel wrap and a headful of curling papers finally answered the door. Apologising for disturbing her sleep, and acknowledging the dreadful lateness of the hour, Rayner asked if she would go and wake the chairman of the Swansea Bench.

  ‘Well sir, I don't know about that.’ Doubtfully, the maid eyed Rayner up and down. ‘The thing is, Mr Grandison must be up betimes tomorrow. It's the Assize, you see.’

  ‘Here.’ Rayner handed her a gleaming half crown. ‘So now, Betty — go and rouse your master. Tell him a gentleman wishes to speak to him most urgently. I shall make it worth your while, never fear.’

  The girl accepted the silver. Then, shutting the door in Rayner's face, she disappeared into the darkness of the house.

  But soon enough, the half crown worked its magic. The street door opened again, the maid ushered the visitor into the vestibule, and two minutes later Mr Grandison himself came clumping down the stairs.

  Clad in an ancient powdering gown, on which the smears and stains of many a breakfast in bed were stickily evident, his slippers flapped on the polished boards, while his smoking cap sat right on the back of his head, crazily awry. ‘If this is some stupid knavery,’ he muttered crossly, ‘I shall deal with the fellow severely. You may tell him now. It shall go hard with him!’

  But then, as Rayner came into his line of vision and he observed a fine gentleman, rather than the ruffian drawn from the ranks of the Watch whom he had confidently expected to see, he stopped grumbling. In fact, he became civil. Genial, even.

  ‘Will you come into my study, sir?’ he invited, as Rayner stood silent, trying to arrange his ideas, and wondering how he could possibly cudgel the farrago of absurdity, which he'd brought with him from Gower, into a coherent, believable narrative. ‘Sit down, sit down. Now, sir. Before you say anything, will you take a pipe of tobacco with me?’

  ‘Thank you, no.’ Motioning the proffered jar aside, Rayner sank gratefully into an easy chair. ‘Mr Grandison, I'm sorry to have woken you at such an unearthly hour, but you see — ’

  ‘Just one moment.’ Mr Grandison lit his pipe. Coughing, choking, and wheezing like a pair of rusty bellows, he grew purple in the face and wattled about the neck. But then, as the stimulant began to take effect, he relaxed. He leaned back in his chair. ‘Well, sir?’ he enquired.

  ‘Well.’ Rayner cleared his throat. Then, he made his deposition. ‘I am aware it all seems wholly preposterous,’ he concluded lamely, as the magistrate regarded him with narrowed, bloodshot eyes, through a haze of fragrant smoke. ‘Indeed, my dear sir, I can well appreciate that — to you, at any rate — this whole story must sound perfectly ridiculous, from beginning to end! But I assure you, I — ’

  ‘My dear Mr Darrow, calm yourself.’ A dragon in padded silk, the magistrate exhaled more blue fumes. ‘Your anxiety is most understandable, and I sympathise wholeheartedly. But please consider. You are tired and upset. You have unburdened yourself to me, which I hope has given you at least some relief. What you need now is a bed.’

  ‘A bed? But, sir!’

  ‘Nothing can be done until morning. Then, however, everything will be set in train.’ The magistrate rang the bell. ‘Molly will attend you, and show you the way.’

  ‘But — ’

  ‘Molly? Molly! Where is the girl?’ Mr Grandison glared all round for the maid. ‘Make up a bed in the blue room,’ he rapped, as she finally appeared. ‘See Mr Darrow has all he requires.

  ‘Sir, I wish you a very good night. We will meet again tomorrow morning, at breakfast time.’

  After seeing Rayner lighted upstairs, Mr Grandison called for a glass of brandy. He drank it down, allowed the consequent fit of coughing and choking to subside, then began to pace the floor of his study. He rubbed his hands in glee.

  At last! At long last, he had an excuse to issue a warrant. He, George Frederick Grandison, would live to see the inside of that house on the headland. To take its owner into custody.

  * * * *

  Rayner slept but fitfully. He was, however, glad of the rest. Summoned to an early breakfast, taken at the ungodly hour of seven o'clock, he ate fresh rolls and hard–boiled eggs while his host swallowed ham, cold sausage, and a fair– sized beefsteak with onions and gravy, too.

  Mr Grandison's clerk sat at his master's side. Gulping scalding coffee, he took rapid dictation in a fine, legal hand.

  For, everything had to be done properly today. Learning that back in Warwickshire, Rayner was a magistrate himself, Mr Grandison meant to show this fine gentleman from the Midlands that here in South Wales, the officers of the law understood their business as well as any university– educated, Latin–spouting Englishman.

  The paperwork seemed to take an eternity. As the clerk's quill flew like a shuttle, backwards and forwards across whole acreages of clean, white paper, Rayner's already very limited patience was even more sorely tried.

  Surely, he thought, there was no need to be quite so scrupulous?

  But it appeared there was every need. More letters were written now. Then, a whole regiment of post boys was sent off to deliver them, all around the town. Then, a minute was taken of all that had been done so far.

  Finally, however, Mr Grandison was satisfied. He dismissed the clerk. Summoning his valet, he rose to go and dress.

  This also took time. But, by eleven o'clock, Rayner and his host were booted, spurred and mounted on a pair of fine grey geldings, and ready to leave the magistrate's house. They would not travel unescorted, for a company of soldiers drawn from the local militia had been detailed to accompany them.


  When he saw the redcoats, Rayner was impressed. Calling out the militia was a serious business, in the process of which endless strings needed to be pulled, and unlimited favours promised. ‘My dear Mr Grandison!’ he cried, now ashamed of his earlier impatience, ‘I see you have worked miracles this morning! I thank you most sincerely for your trouble. I hope I shall be able to repay your care.’

  ‘My dear sir, think nothing of it.’ Complacently, the magistrate grinned. ‘The destruction of this particular nest of vipers is long overdue, believe you me.’

  ‘Indeed?’

  ‘To be sure.’ Mr Grandson shook his head. ‘You may think nothing of it in the Midlands. Indeed, why should you? But here in South Wales, your dealer in contraband was ever a lively beast.’

  Rayner frowned. ‘You believe Mr Atkins to be involved in that wicked trade?’

  ‘Sir, I know he is!’ The magistrate sniffed. ‘He's a clever fellow, certainly. He needs to be. For the coastal waters nowadays are far more effectively patrolled than they ever were during the last century.

  ‘But Oxwich is remote. The family exercises such authority there that no man, however sorely used or abused by them, would dare inform on them to the powers that be. For this would court the visitation of yet more cruelty, on him or upon his kin.’

  ‘But how can this be?’ cried Rayner, horrifed. ‘How can a man behave like a feudal baron — and get away with it, too — in this modern age?’

  ‘I doubt if he will get away with it, after today.’ Mr Grandison pursed his mottled lips. ‘Pray sir, batten down your anger. Conserve your strength. There will be time enough for indignation, when this day's work is done.’

  * * * *

  ‘Mr Grandison, sir? I think we're approaching the house.’ The captain of militia, who had ridden alongside Rayner and his host, had said nothing the whole length of the way. But now, he was anxious to have his orders. ‘Sir? I need to instruct my men.’

  ‘Please, Mr Grandison. Be circumspect!’ Catching hold of the magistrate's bridle, Rayner looked his entreaty. ‘I am already afraid for my sister. If this man is as dangerous as you suspect, a soft question — ’

  But Rayner's anxious pleading fell on deaf ears. Mr Grandison had dreamed of this day and, thanks to Mr Darrow, it had finally dawned.

  He gazed towards the house on the headland. A lady was being held there, against her will. So, he had the perfect excuse to search her gaoler's den. To ransack the hideout of a creature who had been a thorn in his flesh for half a lifetime. But whose day of reckoning was come.

  Soon, the magistrate, his companion, and the captain of militia were cantering up the rhododendron–lined drive, towards the ogre's lair. Ten minutes later, a company of armed redcoats stood easy on the neat gravel sweep.

  Dismounting, the magistrate rang the bell. When there was no response from within, he gave the order to batter down the door.

  As the wood began to splinter, there was a sound of bolts being drawn. As the soldiers hammered harder, the chain came off the hasp. The captain gave the order to shoulder muskets just as a frightened little maid put her nose round the edge of the door.

  ‘Sarah?’ Recognising her, Rayner dismounted. He walked up to the door. ‘Sarah, my dear? Don't be afraid. In spite of appearances to the contrary, these gentlemen mean you no harm. But now, I wish to speak with my sister.’

  ‘Your sister, sir?’ The maid was white–faced. She trembled like an aspen leaf. ‘I'm sorry, but I don't understand.’

  ‘There is a lady here, Miss Jane Darrow by name, who is being detained against her will.’ Mr Grandison fixed the servant with his most magisterial frown. ‘Come, child. Where is she to be found?’

  ‘There's no lady in this house!’ Sarah began to sob. ‘Please, sir! Don't cause any more damage! If you do, they're sure to have me whipped. Or worse!’

  But, as the maid pleaded, Rayner heard it. A dog barked, whimpered in distress, then barked again.

  ‘Blanchette!’ Elbowing the servant aside, Rayner ran into the darkness of the hall. His fear for his sister generating a surge of energy most uncharacteristic of this heavy, ungainly young man, he tore up one flight of stairs, up another, then up another still.

  As he reached the landing from which a dozen attic rooms led off in all directions, he saw the dog. Blanchette was beside herself. Crying like a human baby, she nosed helplessly at a firmly closed door.

  A key hung on a hook nearby. Seizing it, Rayner pushed it into the lock, turned it, then flung the door open wide.

  ‘Rayner!’ The creature who started up from the bare wooden floorboards looked like something from the nether world. It was a ghost, perhaps, which had lost its way, one dark Hallowe'en. Its hair undressed and tangled into a mass of elf–locks, its face blanched far whiter than its gown, it was hollow–eyed, staring and bloodless.

  As Rayner gazed in horror, Jane sprang to her feet. She threw herself into his arms. ‘They've taken Owen!’ she cried, as she burst into floods of tears. ‘They mean to kill him! Oh, Rayner! You must make haste!’

  ‘Must I?’ Relieved beyond expression that his sister appeared to be unharmed, Rayner was not in the least inclined to risk his hide in any more madcap escapades. Especially not in an attempt to rescue his cousin from what was probably a richly–deserved fate.

  Observing his sister was clad only in a thin cambric nightgown and a hardly more substantial wrap, he was more concerned to shield her from the impertinent gawping of the soldiers, who were now milling around on the stairs. ‘My dearest Jane, had you not better get dressed?’ he enquired, somewhat testily.

  ‘Oh, God!’ Disengaging herself from her brother's embrace, Jane turned to the window. Gazing blankly out, she fought to compose herself. To stem the flow of her tears.

  Then, turning back to Rayner, she took him by the shoulders. She looked deep into his eyes. ‘He offered to die,’ she said, her voice now calm and controlled. ‘Do you understand me? He told them that, if they would only spare me, they could do as they pleased with him.’

  ‘Indeed?’ Rayner shrugged. ‘Well, perhaps the creature has found his conscience at last.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘He repents of his sins, and is prepared to accept the punishment he deserves.’

  ‘Rayner, those villains mean to kill him! Slowly and painfully, too. How can you stand there, muttering of sins and repentance, when a man is — ’

  But then, Mr Grandison intervened. ‘Excuse me, Miss Darrow,’ he began. ‘I am sorry to interrupt this tender interview between brother and sister, but I have the King's business to transact here. I wish to speak to Mr Atkins. Do you know where he is to be found?’

  ‘I do not.’ Mistress of herself once again, Jane met the magistrate's gaze. ‘I therefore suggest you begin a search, without delay.’

  ‘Madam, I mean to do exactly that.’ But then, observing the state of undress Miss Darrow was in, Mr Grandison looked politely away. ‘Take the lady to an inn,’ he said, to no one in particular. ‘See she is breakfasted, then put to bed.’

  ‘I'm coming with you!’ Drawing her wrap close about her, Jane tied the belt. ‘Only find me a pony, a nag — a mule or donkey, even — and I shall join you without more ado.’

  ‘Madam, you are not dressed!’ Shocked, the magistrate gaped at her. ‘In any case, the roads are bad. We mean to search the whole of Gower, and will doubtless be traversing marsh and moorland. Mountain and valley, fen and fell. We — ’

  ‘This is of no account whatever.’ Jane's eyes flashed blue fire. ‘I wish to accompany your party. In fact, I am firmly resolved to do so, whether you say aye, or nay.’

  Thus challenged — thus defied, in fact — by a wild–haired, wild–eyed termagant, Mr Grandison considered his options. ‘Do you ride, madam?’ he enquired, somewhat nervously.

  ‘Of course I ride! As well as any man here, I dare say. Better than many, I expect.’

  ‘That's as maybe. But you see, we have no lady's tack. We have no side sa
ddle, no — ’

  ‘I can ride astride. I will go bare–backed, if need be.’ Finding a ribbon in one of her pockets, Jane tied back her hair. ‘Mr Grandison, I shall not be denied. When you leave this place, I am coming with you.’

  Mr Grandison sighed. His wife had a mind of her own. His two daughters were as obstinate as their mother. So, he was expert in determining at what point discretion became the better part of valour, particularly when there was a lady in the case. ‘Find Miss Darrow a pony,’ he muttered, to the captain of militia. ‘Do so now.’

  * * * *

  Mounted on a pretty bay mare, which she had ridden several times before, Jane took her place in the column which now wound its way down the drive, then fanned out into the open countryside. The search for Michael Atkins began.

  The day wore on. A lovely morning gave way to a deliciously golden afternoon. It seemed no creature stirred. Even the soft whispering of the light summer wind was hushed. The whole of Gower lay in slumber, under a benign summer sun.

  Escaping from its ribbon, Jane's fair hair tumbled down and lay upon her shoulders. In order to ride astride, she had tucked her voluminous nightgown up to her knees. So now, clad only in the flimsiest of night attire, her sleeves rolled up to the elbows and her ankles on public display, she looked like the most abandoned, most forward sort of hoyden imaginable.

  Rayner was embarrassed for her. The glances of the soldiers, who were evidently considering the merits of her calves, would have been offensive to any woman — but were doubly insulting to a lady of his sister's rank. When all this was over, he meant to report the creatures to their captain, and demand that they be flogged.

  ‘I hope there is some method in this peripatetic madness,’ he muttered to Mr Grandison as, hot and perspiring, but too much the gentleman even to consider taking off his coat, Rayner sought to relieve his irritation by grumbling. ‘In spite of appearances to the contrary, I trust you have some scheme for the apprehension of this villain in mind?’