* * *
Jack ran back to the house with the clock and the pencils and the magnifying glass. He put them on the floor, trying to make it look as if they had accidentally fallen off the wall and the desk. He ran up to his ruined bedroom and found his emergency money. Then he ran over to the small supermarket, where he bought cookies, cold pies, sandwiches, and some Halloween ghostie chocolate bars.
As he left the supermarket, he caught sight of a figure dressed in a cloak and hat emerging from the antique shop on the other side of the square. It was Dirty Dick. Jack hurried to the graveyard.
“I did it!” Dick was explaining excitedly to the others. His eyes were lit up and he was grinning foolishly. “New money for old! I gave the shopkeeper—an ‘antique’ dealer—a shilling and he gave me seventy-five new pounds! That is a fair exchange, eh, lads? And look—there’s a queen on the throne: Elizabeth the Second. Here.” He generously handed out the notes. The others crowded around to examine them.
“Did he question your garments?” asked Lord Henry. Jack noticed that the highwaymen were growing fascinated by the ways of this new world. How long would it take for them to feel completely at home? And if they did, what then?
“Aye, so he did—but wait for it—he was dressed in some light jacket of a violent blue, with breeches that clung to his skin. A meaner cut I never did see—his tailor kept an abundance of cloth for himself, I do reckon. And what a sunlit emporium! Light! Like you are surrounded by a firmament of dazzling stars! I could see every pore on his pearly skin!”
“What did he say about your clothes?” asked Jack.
“He said for a moment he was frightened I was going to hold up the shop! Ha! And I said that would be a merry prank! Then I took out my pistols, and he turned pale and wished that he could vanish forthwith. I said that he looked like a ghost—so we were both well dressed for Halloween! And then we had a laugh and I put away the pistols and we exchanged the money.”
Jack felt queasy. He suddenly realized that he felt responsible for the highwaymen. He hadn’t thought that they would be walking around the village with pistols. Surely that was against the law? He was about to say as much when he found a little hand wriggling against his chest, tugging at the food. He turned to find Polly. “Can I have some?” she asked.
“Sure.”
A cry went up when they saw she was eating a pie, for they all wanted one. Jack watched as they tore into the pies and sandwiches. It looked as if they hadn’t been fed for weeks. Two of them began eating the plastic, not realizing that it had to be removed first.
“Chewy,” said Bernard.
“An’ not very tasty,” declared Pete.
“It’s plastic,” Jack laughed. “You’re not supposed to eat that.”
The highwaymen judged each piece of food in this new age. The pastry, they thought, was like parchment and would be good for writing a letter on but was lousy for eating.
The meat and gravy were good, though (beggin’ your pardon, Jack), it was a tiny portion that would hardly satisfy an ant.
Chips were nice and salty, though like eating air— “Nothing to get yer teeth into,” complained Tom Drum.
But the cookies: sweet and delicious! They chomped through two bags in a minute and a half. Then they each had the ghostie chocolate bar.
“Booootiful. Georgeous. Tummy-tingling,” they said. They had never tasted chocolate in this form before—in their time chocolate was only a drink and never so sweet.
Jack found himself laughing at them all. They were like children just entering a theme park—giggling excitedly at the bright new world before them. Only Henry was distracted. He lingered by the yew tree a little way off, deep in thought. When he noticed Jack watching him, he straightened his back and seemed to throw off the thoughts that had been weighing him down.
“Come on, everyone, I think it is time for us to explore the town. This is a small town, and it will be a good way to spend the day.”
Jack looked at the ragged bunch of ruffians. He wasn’t sure that it was a good way to spend the day.
Chapter Twelve
Snippers of Wittlesham
So that they attracted less attention, the highwaymen split up into three groups and set off. Jack took Henry and Polly to the main street. Henry’s mood lifted, and he behaved as if he was on vacation. He laughed and joked, and as they walked out of the churchyard and down the old lane to the main street, he doffed his hat to passers-by and behaved with excessive courtesy—until Jack pointed out that this was drawing unwanted attention to themselves.
“I was only being polite,” he said.
In the main street, Henry admired the readymade clothes, the violin-maker, and the bookstore. “A very cultured place is Wittlesham now, for sure.”
They examined the fruit and vegetable stand, the liquor store, the grocery store, and an Indian restaurant. “There is so much food!” Polly marveled. “Why has no one eaten it? And how strangely it is stored! In jars and boxes and soft glass!”
“That’s plastic,” Jack told them. “And those things are metal cans,” he explained.
“Truly this is a land of plenty,” said Henry, smiling.
And then they came to the hairdresser’s: Snippers of Wittlesham.
Lord Henry’s eyes lit up. He purred. “I am in desperate need of a coiff,” he declared, and before Jack or Polly could stop him, he had walked in and was greeting the receptionist.
“Good day to you, madam!” He bowed low. Jack and Polly hovered uneasily by the door.
“Have you known him long?” whispered Jack. He wanted to get to know Polly better, but talking to her with all the grown-up highwaymen around wasn’t easy.
“All me life,” Polly answered him. “Since when I lost Ma. He is grand. And kind. But sometimes—Nanny Manners says—he is as stupid and stubborn as a mule. She says he needs looking after.”
Jack watched as Lord Henry charmed the receptionist, who had decided to join in the fun.
“Good day, sire!” she laughed. “What can I do you for this merry Halloween?”
Henry beamed. “First, Mistress Snippers: a cut. Then a shave. Then I would have you dry and set this. I must look my best.” Taking off his hat, he whipped off his enormous wig. Underneath, he had disappointingly straight and straggly hair. “’Tis somewhat soggy, due to the abundance of rain last week.”
The lady whooped when she saw the wig and called out to her friend. “Martha! We got Dick Turpin here; requires some attention.”
“I’m not Dick Turpin. I’m Lord Henry Vane,” Lord Henry informed her pompously.
The lady whooped again. “It’s Lord Henry, Martha! Cut and blow-dry and some wig maintenance! We don’t do shaves.” She grabbed the wig and threw it to Martha, who had been sitting hunched over some magazines.
“Sleep in a hedge last night?” she asked as she washed his hair.
“Certainly not,” he replied.
“Them clothes are just perfect!” the hairdresser told Henry as she began cutting.
“I know,” Lord Henry purred. “The coat is particularly fine. Silk from the Indies and a lining of chinoiserie. Very à la mode.”
“Ohhh, you won’t stop pretending, will you?” she said. “What’s your real job, then? Eh? When you’re not being a Halloween highwayman.”
“Nothing, madam.”
“Oooo. Must be an actor, then! Ha, ha!” She had a baying nasal laugh. Jack and Polly exchanged a look. The hairdresser was just as odd as Lord Henry. Suddenly she turned on the blow-dryer and began blasting Henry with hot air. He leaped out of his chair.
“Mistress Snippers!” he exclaimed. “What in the king’s name are you doing?”
“It’s a blow-dry, love, now calm down!” She was beginning to think this client was behaving oddly. It surely wasn’t necessary to keep up the pretense of being a highwayman all the time. It was just plain weird.
In a few minutes, after Lord Henry had relaxed, she said, “All done.”
“More o
f the blow-dry, please.” Henry’s eyes were closed in pleasure.
“It’s dry, darling—you don’t need any more.”
“But I like it.”
Martha appeared with the wig. She held it at arm’s length. “I dried it off,” she said, “but it’s gross. You wouldn’t catch me wearing it.”
“Your meaning, madam?” inquired Lord Henry.
“It stinks. It’s like a hairy cheese.”
“It is the finest set of curls available. From Perkins and Chase in Bond Street, no less.” He stuffed the wig into a large inside pocket of his coat.
“That’s twenty pounds, please,” said Mistress Snippers.
“Twenty pounds!” spluttered Lord Henry. “I could buy a house for that!”
“Not around here you couldn’t!” She laughed. “’Bye, Lord Henry. Happy Halloween.”
He paid her the money. Relieved to have Lord Henry back before the hairdressers became more suspicious, Jack and Polly each took an arm and escorted him out.
“Where to now?” asked Lord Henry, admiring his new haircut in the reflection of a shop window. His hair was clean and clipped and glossy. His spirits were high. “This suits my plan very well,” he declared. “To look my most appealing.”
Ahead of them were two suspicious-looking characters in cloaks and hats. Dirty Dick and Pete the Pudding were looking in a store window. The sign above read WILCOX AND CO. JEWELERS. Jack, Polly, and Lord Henry arrived just in time to hear Dick say darkly, “Are you thinking what I’m thinking?”
In the store window before them lay a carpet of glittering stones, rings, watches, necklaces, and bracelets, all sparkling with tiny diamonds and rubies and sapphires. Treasure, only inches from their eyes. It was too tantalizing.
“NO,” said Jack firmly.
The men spun around. “Look, Henry! Feast yer eyes upon it! They is little jewels, to be sure, but what a lot of them! We could have them and in a bound be back in the old Wittlesham.”
“It certainly is a tempting sight,” said Lord Henry. He sighed. His eyes twinkled, as if caught in a trance.
“Come on,” said Jack, dragging them away.
In the street, people were looking at the highwaymen, sometimes laughing and smiling, sometimes just staring. As shoppers passed by, they made comments: “How’ye do?” “Look out—it’s the caped crusaders,” “Stand and deliver, my son!”—even “Bless you, Your Holiness,” from an elderly woman. Jack thanked his lucky stars it was Halloween.
After a while they reached the edge of the town, where they could look across the fields, toward the hills. Lord Henry was surprised to see how bare it was. The fields were huge—twenty times as big as any he had ever seen—and in the distance, electricity poles marched in a line across the horizon. So many trees had gone.
Jack felt Lord Henry’s mood become reflective. He was quiet for some time, gazing out. “How it has changed,” he said, gently now. “When I was growing up, England was covered in trees. From Vane Park we could walk for two days to within sight of the spires of London and never leave the forest.”
“Is that where you live now?” asked Jack.
“No, Jack. I was brought up in the mansion, but I left it when I was twenty-one. Ah, me. I had money and I spent it. And when it is gone, it is gone.” He let out a great and heartfelt sigh.
“Couldn’t you earn some more?” asked Jack.
“Earn?” Lord Henry looked bewildered, as if the idea of earning money was hard to grasp. He pulled his cloak around him. “Dear me, no. No, no. My mother would have bequeathed me more. Only my father was dead. And my elder brother refused me. He said I frittered it away on cards and dinners and loose living. But I had to have money because I owed it. I had borrowed so much. So I robbed. Only a little here and there, from those who have plenty. And I have never hurt a hair—never a hair—on their heads.”
“And your friend Lady Marchwell?” asked Jack.
Lord Henry looked down at his boots. His eyebrows knitted together. Jack knew he had touched on a sensitive subject.
“Ah. Emily Marchwell. She lived near Vane Park. A pretty child, whom I met at dances and country balls. I loved her from afar. Yet I never told her. I always thought she was too, too good. I never knew she loved me. I never thought for an instant that she would. Until … until yesterday.” He sighed and spoke as if it was painful. “Yesterday she said that it was me whom she loved. And she might still if … if it wasn’t for the Honorable Hogg …” He winced as he spoke the name.
“Who is he?” asked Jack gently.
Lord Henry scowled. “An ancient old walnut of a man! Dried and wrinkled and wizened with age. And warty withal. She can only be marrying him to please her father. For he is rich, and she will be his trophy.” He trembled with anger.
“Lady Marchwell did seem kind and true to me,” said Polly, shooting a worried glance at Jack.
“Aye, well, so she did. But he? Hogg! Oh! He is a scheming man, a dry stick of a man … You know I felt her first warmth, like the sun on the cold earth, bringing me to life, as forth a flower …”
Jack struggled to make sense of Lord Henry’s speech. The man seemed in turmoil, tortured by doubts, confused by passion.
“… in fact, I do believe a little love is still reserved for me,” Lord Henry declared at length, “and maybe she might love me still and … and … I might love her. Yes! If only I had seized my chance! For it is all in the timing … Instead, I … I, oh, dear! But what can I do?”
Jack stared into the distance. He didn’t know what to suggest. He glanced over at Polly. She looked alarmed, as if she had never seen a man behave like this.
“Well,” Jack began, thinking that love, like other difficulties, should be dealt with in as straightforward a way as possible. “Maybe if you told her, you know, she’d understand?”
Lord Henry put his hand on Jack’s shoulder. He turned his dark eyes on the boy and looked at him intensely. For a moment Jack wondered if he had said something wrong. Henry’s eyes were mournful, like a puppy’s. Jack knew people agonized over love, but he couldn’t understand why. Lord Henry smiled ruefully. “Maybe she would understand or maybe she would turn me in and send me to the gallows. How forgiving is her heart, Jack?”
“Er, I don’t know,” Jack admitted and just stopped himself from shrugging. “Probably quite forgiving?” he suggested, feeling out of his depth.
Chapter Thirteen
The Halloween Highwaymen
Jack went back to Granny’s for lunch, leaving the highwaymen to go to the Cap and Stockings. Now that they had some money, they could afford a good lunch. And as long as they were at the pub, Jack felt, they couldn’t get into too much trouble. Could they?
Granny had found the clock, the magnifying glass, and the pencils and declared herself puzzled.
“Must’ve fallen down,” Jack suggested.
“Hmm,” Granny wondered. “Very peculiar,” she said ominously.
Granny then told Jack that she was sorry, but she would be busy at a village committee meeting later in the afternoon, and it was bound to run long, so she had prepared supper and put it in the fridge in case he got hungry.
“Why don’t you go trick-or-treating with the Price children?” she suggested.
Jack winced. The Prices? The computer geeks? They probably did virtual trick-or-treating on their computers. He would rather swim the English Channel. In the winter. With sharks.
“Um, maybe,” he said vaguely.
“What? Should I call Mrs. Price?”
“No! Please. I’ll go and see them myself,” he told Granny loudly.
When lunch was finished, Jack went upstairs to his wrecked bedroom and watched the entrance to the Cap and Stockings pub. He had no intention of going trick-or-treating with the Price children. He’d tell Granny that he had called but there was no answer. “Price?” he called softly. There was no answer. One less lie to account for, he thought to himself.
The highwaymen spent all afternoon in the Cap
and Stockings. From up in his bedroom Jack could look down on the pub, but he could see only their breeches and black boots appearing every now and then. What were they doing? How long would they be? Surely the other customers would find out who they really were? And what then?
To his surprise, Jack found that he now felt quite protective of them. They were his friends and he wanted them for himself. He didn’t want to share this adventure. If he told someone—anyone—and they believed him, then they were bound to take the adventure away from him.
Now he wanted to get the highwaymen back to their own time, before anything went wrong. Imagine what the newspapers and TV would do if they found out. They’d go into a frenzy. Imagine the cameras and people who would surround his bedroom for the chance to quiz highwaymen from the eighteenth century. It would probably give Granny a heart attack.
As Jack sat at the window, color slowly drained out of the world and the low sun slipped over the horizon. There was a brief, spectacular sunset. Still no one came out of the Cap and Stockings. Inside, the lights were turned on and a warm and inviting glow beckoned in the gathering dusk.
What were they doing in there?
At last Polly appeared. Her rough peasant clothes looked so out of place. She glanced up at Jack’s bedroom window and saw him. She motioned with a quick nod of her head, and he ran down to meet her.
“They’re all playing cards,” she told him, walking toward the churchyard. The trees were silhouetted black against the palest yellow sky. Polly was angry. “They’re gambling. You know: win money, lose money, fight. I don’t like it. It’s stupid.”
“They fight?” asked Jack, alarmed.
“Yeah. They usually fight. ’Cause someone always cheats. They can’t stop themselves cheating. It’s in their highwayman blood!”
“Is that what you want to be, Polly? A highwayman?” Jack asked. He put his foot on a wooden post and climbed up onto the church wall.
Polly scowled. “Highwaywoman,” she corrected him. She sat next to him on the wall, looking quite fierce and dangling her legs. “I did. But I ain’t so sure now. Seems that whatever I do, it ain’t good enough. I capture you—’cause I thought you was a thief—and they laugh. I ride with them and help save them from the soldiers and he won’t even let me have a drink.”
Jack Bolt and the Highwaymen's Hideout Page 5