by Mary Mackie
‘I wish you had told me this before.’
‘How could I?’ she cried. ‘I was afraid of what he’d do to me. And he’s my husband. What’s going to become of us if they put him in prison? What’s going to become of the children and me? Oh, dear Lord. Oh, my dearest Lord!’ She hugged her children to her and wept.
‘To begin with, you can come and stay at the farm for as long as you need to. Please… don’t distress yourself. I’ll do everything I can. Swift, go and look down the lane. See if there’s any sign of the doctor.’
‘What about the dogs?’ the maid fretted.
‘You’re safe from them.’ But seeing that she was still afraid to go down, I started for the door. ‘Oh, very well, I’ll go myself.’
As I went down the stairs Ben Chilvers appeared from the kitchen to ask, ‘Everything all right, Miss Rose?’
‘She’s very distressed. She says…’ and I found myself repeating what Mary McDowall had told me about her husband’s activities.
The news made Ben Chilvers look grave. ‘I on’y wish as I’d paid more heed to my father last time I saw him – at Norwich gaol. He said as how you’d better watch out for an enemy close at hand. He said I should warn you. But I thought he was just ramblin’ – I thought he prob’ly meant Davy Timms was still about. And it was about that time that Mr Basil got killed. You seemed to have troubles enough without me addin’ to ’em.’
‘I would never have suspected that he meant McDowall,’ I sighed. ‘But… it was kind of him to want to warn me.’
‘He never wished you harm, Miss Rose. Not you personally. I hope you can believe that.’
As we stood there in the neat, clean hallway, hurried footsteps sounded on the path outside, ending in a heavy hammering on the door.
‘Who is it?’ the carpenter demanded.
‘Dr Hardy,’ came the reply. ‘Who do you think it is, man? Didn’t you send for me?’
While the doctor examined Mary McDowall, I sent the children to get ready for bed and Swift to put the kettle on. I remained in the bedroom, standing by while Doctor Hardy tested his patient, making sure she had no broken bones. He told her she was a lucky woman, and that another time she might not be so lucky. She should have gone to him before. Or did she want to end up on a mortuary slab, and maybe one or both of her children with her?
Seeing that his brusque manner was upsetting her, I attempted to divert his attention by asking, ‘Did Jack Huggins come back with you, doctor? Or did you send him for the constable?’
‘I sent word to the constable by a neighbour,’ he replied. ‘The boy rode back with me. But he slipped off when we arrived. Bound for the farm, I believe. Reckoned he could smell trouble. Odd chap, that one, Mrs Pooley. If he was in my employ, I wouldn’t trust him further than I could throw him.’
Many people felt the same about Jack Huggins. For myself, I had learned to trust his instincts.
‘A lad like that can find no end of excuses to slip away from his duties,’ the doctor added. ‘He made out he’d seen a light somewhere in the direction of your barnyard, but if he did he must have eyes like a cat, for I couldn’t see a glimmer.’
Feeling uneasy, I went to the window which looked out across the back yard and vegetable patch to the part of Poacher’s Wood which lay between lodge and farm. By night there was little to see, only the dark shapes of trees against a sky where clouds were shredding, letting patches of starry sky show through. A grey brightness showed where the moon rode low, veiled by racing cloud.
And then, away in the direction of my rickyards, I saw another light, flaring yellow behind black tree trunks and branches. Even as I watched, it grew and brightened, flickering from yellow to red.
There was fire at Orchards Farm.
Hurrying down the stairs, I called to Ben Chilvers, who appeared in the hall with Swift behind him.
‘The farm’s on fire!’ I gasped. ‘Swift, stay here with Mrs McDowall and the children. Keep all the doors locked and stay inside. I’m relying on you to look after them.’ And I flung the door open and ran down the path, lifting my skirts clear of puddles and shrubs.
Behind me I heard Ben Chilvers breathing hard, trying to keep pace but falling behind because of his twisted foot. I didn’t wait for him. My feet skidded and squelched in mud but I hardly noticed. All my mind was on the glow I had seen.
As I drew nearer the farm I saw the light again. Behind an old elm in the hedgeside, above the bulk of corn ricks, it showed me a wafting of brown smoke speckled with floating debris. The fire was in the stackyard!
Skirts flying about me, I raced through the open gate, sending sleepy geese scattering. We kept a bucket upturned on the pump. I grabbed it and plunged it into the water trough. Its weight dragged at my arm. Water slopped on to my skirts as I ran.
One of the corn ricks was well ablaze. Red flame and crackling yellow sparks licked up its sides. A second stack was beginning to roar, the fire building at one corner. Feeling the heat on my skin, I ran to throw my puny bucketful. The flames faltered and hissed, then licked out more strongly, seeking to awaken a response in a neighbouring stack. I backed away, an arm thrown up to shield my face from the blast of heat.
‘Miss Rose!’ The warning yell made me spin round. As I did so a gun boomed. A spatter of shot thudded into the piled sheaves behind me.
The glare showed me a man – McDowall – struggling with a slight youth – Jack – who was trying to wrest the gun from him. McDowall kicked out, loosing the lad’s hold. The gun swung viciously. The lad went sprawling. The man darted away into the shadows.
‘Jack!’ Smoke wisped out of a third stack as I ran across to where the boy lay fallen. He tried to get up, but sank down again with a cry of pain, a hand to his ribs.
‘I can’t breathe, Miss Rose. He’s done me ribs in. I can’t breathe!’
‘Breathe shallow. Breathe slow. Here, take my arm. You must move, Jack. Away from this stack.’
Fear brought a cold sweat to my brow as I helped the boy away from danger. Black smoke eddied about us, bringing the scent of heat and charring. It choked in my lungs, bit at my eyes, sent tears running down my face.
There came a shout. I paused, listening. Another shot boomed not far away. My heart thudded harder in response. Ben! I thought. Where was Ben Chilvers? But there was no time. With every second the fire was eating deeper into my precious harvest.
When Jack was safe in the lee of one of the pigsties, I went running for the bucket I had dropped and filled it again, carrying it slopping and heavy to empty it on flames that seemed to lick the harder. My efforts were hopeless.
And then I heard the commotion in the stables. Because of the chilly rain, even the carthorses had been put indoors for the night. Now they were whinnying and stamping, frightened by the smoke. If the fire spread to the stables…
Once again I picked up my skirts and ran. The stables were in darkness, full of the bitter scent of drifting smoke. Feeling my way blindly, I called out to each horse, slapping hindquarters to make it clear I was there. The horses were unsettled, stamping and shifting. More than once I found myself crushed against a partition, trapped there until by dint of cursing and pushing the great shire moved, allowing me to untie the rope. One by one I heard my old friends clatter out, hooves loud on the flagstones in the stableyard as they headed to safety. And all the time, through the windows, the glow of the fire seemed to brighten. The sound of it grew louder, crackling and roaring, spreading to devour everything we had worked for.
When at last I stumbled, coughing and tear-blinded, from the stables, I heard voices calling. People were there, running, calling instructions. I learned later that Mary McDowall had sent her son to rouse the nearest villagers. They turned out, men and women and children, all who were able.
‘There are fire buckets here!’ I called. They hung under the eaves of the stables, a dozen and a half black leather buckets painted with Father’s initials, W. J. H. I began to take them down, handing them out to my willing help
ers.
The commotion had aroused Orchards House, too. Through swirling smoke Felicity came running with the three maids – and a thin young man whom I recognised with a shock as he grabbed a bucket from me.
‘Johnny!’
He stopped, looked at me, said, ‘Later, Rose,’ and followed the others to the pond.
Felicity would have taken the last bucket, but I wanted it for myself. I sent her to look to Jack Huggins’s welfare. My task would be easier if I could be sure the boy was cared for.
More help was arriving all the time as word spread, or as people looked out and saw the glow in the sky and guessed what it meant. They came from all directions, on foot or on horseback, in traps or carts that were left haphazard about yards and lane while their occupants ran to offer whatever help was needed.
We formed a chain, swinging heavy buckets from hand to hand, passing empty buckets back. Johnny remained last in line, scooping up the water from the pond, wet to the thighs and ankle-deep in mud. The breeze that drove the fire also cleared the skies, so that stars and moon lent their pale light to the livid scene. The rickyard was alive with brilliant blazing light, with smoke that drifted and eddied in choking clouds, with a fierce noise of crackling and roaring. The stacks blazed all down one side of the yard. Dark figures of men and women moved against that awful glare, working to contain the fire.
In a burst of noise and motion, two horses raced into the yard drawing a fire appliance which bristled with men who swiftly unharnessed and dragged it into position. It came from Feltham Grange. Robert Wyatt had brought it, along with extra hands to help. A long hose was unrolled, its end thrown deep in the pond to suckle while the men began working the handles on either side, pumping up and down. Soon water spurted from the nozzle. But not enough.
‘The hose is blocked!’ someone yelled. ‘For God’s sake, men… Unblock the hose!’
Another horseman galloped into the confusion. He launched himself from the saddle and strode urgently about, grasping arms to whirl people round, demanding, ‘Where’s Mrs Pooley? Mrs Pooley! Where—’
My heart lurched with gladness. Geoffrey had come.
Someone pointed, and he saw me. For a split second we stared at each other through the livid shadows and I saw the relief that flooded through him. He had been afraid for me. But, seeing me safe, he turned to matters more urgent, going to help with the faulty hose. Our personal concerns could wait. For now it was enough that he had come.
Faint in the distance, I seemed to hear a bell. Others heard it, too. Someone said, ‘Listen,’ and for a moment we all paused with heads cocked to hear the brazen jangling that was coming closer. It passed by Wood Lodge, turning into the farm lane.
With a rumble of wheels, a clanging of bells, a furore of galloping hooves and tossing manes, four matched blacks stormed through the gateway, pulling a fire engine that gleamed with fresh paint and polished brass. I saw the royal crest on its side – it was the Sandringham fire engine, and with it ten stalwart men in black uniforms with gleaming brass helmets on their heads. An involuntary cheer went up from my weary helpers.
Soon another stream of water was pumping on to the fire, while the bucket chain resumed with an extra surge of energy. The Sandringham engine had given us hope that we might, after all, conquer the fire before it consumed all of the corn.
Streams ran down the yard where still the buckets passed. But slowly, noticeably, the fires were subsiding. Their glare was fading, leaving the glimmer of a few lanterns hazy yellow in the smoke that lingered to taint the moonlight.
I took a moment to investigate a dull pain in my forearm and found my sleeve sticky with blood. The doctor later removed three shot-gun pellets – McDowall’s murderous attack, though thwarted by the boy Jack, hadn’t quite missed. For the moment, realising it was not serious, I ignored it. There was too much else to occupy me.
Through blurred, aching eyes, I began to identify some of the figures working so hard to salvage what they could. There was Ned Plant rounding up the horses, and with him the current backus boy, a lad not more than nine years old; the local blacksmith lent his muscle to the fire engine team. Beside him, to my relief, was Ben Chilvers, safe and well, and not far away the gamekeeper Twistle and a couple of his lads; Reverend Lancaster, hatless, was among villagers, men and women, young and old, who formed the bucket chain; my brother Johnny was with them, too, and the maid Finch; Robert Wyatt was also in the thick of it, directing the pumping of the Feltham fire engine. And there – there! where I let my sore eyes dwell for a moment of weary content, was Geoffrey, tending Mrs Benstead, who seemed to have got a piece of chaff in her eye.
But when I looked further my mind played tricks; among familiar local faces I fancied I recognised the handsome, dark-haired Duke Francis of Teck.
Even as I blinked to clear my eyes of the illusion, someone called out, ‘That’s enough! Enough! It’s out.’
A great sigh went up as everyone relaxed. I found myself weeping and laughing, laughing and weeping, embracing those about me and crying incoherent thanks. Part of the corn was ruined. But part was saved. That was what mattered – that, and the fact that so many people had come to help me – people I had known all my life; people I had greeted in the streets; people I had nursed, children I had dandled, mothers I had visited, fathers I had employed…
It humbled me to think they had all turned out at my need.
Now that the struggle was ended, we became aware of the wet and the cold, our clothes soaked from pond water, our muscles aching, our eyes stinging. In glimmering darkness shot through by streaks of light from a lantern or two, the scent of charred straw came dank. I daren’t think what sight awaited me in the stackyard in the morning.
‘You all deserve a drink,’ I called to those around me. ‘Come up to the house. Finch – see to it. Get some of the men to help. There’s ale, or brandy. And tea if anyone wants it.’
A thin cheer went up as most of the crowd made a surge towards the house on its rise beyond the lane. The maids would see that everyone’s thirst was wetted. For the moment I needed to be sure the horses and the bullocks were safe. And Jack. Of course, Jack!
‘They took him up to the house,’ someone said – it was Mrs Taggart, the shepherd’s wife. ‘Miss Wyatt went with him. Mrs Benstead, too. And the doctor.’
‘Ah. Good.’ If Doctor Hardy had come from the lodge then Jack was well enough cared for and I could allow myself to think of other things.
My injured arm was aching now, still seeping blood that had soaked down to my hand and made my fingers sticky.
‘Well, Rose.’ Johnny stood before me, dishevelled and exhausted, muddied to the knees and beyond from wading into the pond.
‘Well, Johnny…’ I returned with a grimace that stretched the scorched skin on my cheek. ‘A fine homecoming. When did you arrive?’
‘I’m not sure what time it was. I got a lift on the carrier’s cart from the station. I hadn’t been here long when we saw the fire. What’s been happening?’
‘Too much.’
Not even trying to explain, I made across the yard.
Outside the stable, where the horses had been tethered back in their stalls, a knot of men had gathered, arguing and discussing. Ned Plant held aloft a lantern whose yellow light shone on the streaked and sweating faces about him. Among them were several game-keepers – some of the ones who had so rudely roused me the previous night.
In the midst of the group, Geoffrey looked grim as he listened to what Ben Chilvers was saying. The carpenter was apparently telling him the story of the night’s events. All the men were eager to have their say, to recount their own experience. I saw Johnny listening intently to it all.
At their feet, McDowall lay on his side on the ground, hands trussed behind his back, still squirming now and then as if testing the strength of his bonds. He was securely tied, both at wrists and ankles. The eye I could see was closed by a reddened swelling.
He had left his companions to go about their
own work while he came to the farm and fired my stacks. In fleeing from the yards after attempting to shoot me, he had blundered into Ben Chilvers in the darkness. The second barrel of the gun had gone off – harmlessly, thank God – and a brief struggle had ensued. Bruises from that encounter still showed when the steward was arraigned before the magistrate and sent for trial on charges which included arson and attempted murder.
His confederate Pyke was arrested that same evening while trespassing with dogs in the game preserves in Commodore Wood, and with him they captured Davy Timms. Timms won leniency because of the evidence he gave, which sent Pyke and McDowall away for a long time.
But that was yet to come.
‘What shall we do with him, sir?’ Ned Plant was asking Geoffrey.
‘If I had my way,’ Geoffrey answered darkly, ‘I’d string him from the nearest beam. But since we’re law-abiding citizens I suggest you lock him up in a secure place and keep a guard on him until the constable arrives. The constable has been sent for, I assume?’
Several voices assured him of that.
‘Let’s put him in the root shed,’ Benstead suggested with the belligerent air of one who sees a chance to redress old grievances. ‘I’ll stand guard.’
‘I’m taking charge of him,’ the keeper Twistle said, shouldering his way forward. ‘Got one or two questions to ask him about some dogs. Though some of you can stand your watch if you please.’
Several of them, including Ben Chilvers, hoisted McDowall’s struggling, cursing body on to their shoulders and bore him away.