Chapter Thirty-four: A daring plan

(Charles Huntingdon needs to recover papers that Mr Bunbridge has stolen and is intending to carry to London)

   If I had informed Clifford of my plan, he would have considered it “a hanging matter”, and he would, of course, have been correct. As it was, I dared not even explain its full details to Ned Timmis, though I needed his assistance. I asked him whether he still had the pistol that we took from Black George when he had rescued me from the highwayman.

  “That I do, sir”, he replied, “and a very fine pistol it is! I keeps it safely locked away, sir, for it wouldn’t be right for the likes of me to be caught with such a weapon.” While he departed to collect it from his cottage, I wrote a letter which I had been contemplating for much of the previous night.

  Ned soon returned with the gun carefully concealed under his coat. It was indeed a beautiful and valuable weapon, made of the finest wood and steel and chased in silver. Black George, I thought, must have stolen it from some nobleman. I placed the letter with it, wrapped them in cloth and securely tied the package with string. I now asked Ned if he would accompany me on my mission. I did not explain my plan in detail: I warned him that it was probably illegal and possibly dangerous, but he only laughed. Then we made our way on horseback past Mulchester to the Hollybush inn.

  We parted out of sight of the inn, since we did not wish to be seen in each other’s company. I left my horse in the yard and withdrew. Ned Timmis then spent some time there, chatting to the boys there about the price of hay and other matters while I waited. Eventually he was allowed to inspect the stables, where he congratulated them on their work and rejoined me.

   “I’ve seen his horse, sir!” he informed me in a whisper, “And he’s inside: the boys didn’t admit to knowing who he was, and I didn’t press them. What do we do now, sir?”

   I instructed Ned to enter the inn first. He ordered for beer and food and took a seat in a corner, to await my call if needed. After a brief interval I too entered, carrying my package. Ignoring my companion, I approached the surly-looking innkeeper and ordered a pot of his ale. I took no more than a sip, for the quality had not improved. I hoped I was not recognised from by previous visit. After some casual conversation with old Joseph, I said that I wished to talk to a man known by the name of George.

  “I do not know his surname,” I said, “but I believe he is sometimes known as Black George, and by some as King George. I was led to believe that he is sometimes to be found here.”

   “Never heard of him!” he replied firmly. He turned to the skeletal waiter and asked, “Don’t know anyone of that name, do we?” The servant shook his head in confirmation.

   Only one other guest was present, seated under a window. His back was to the light, and his broad hat pulled down to his eyebrows left his face in shadow. He had been listening to our conversation, and when I glanced in his direction he summoned me over with a slight inclination of his head. I went to sit opposite him. I was anxious to see his left hand, looking for the broken finger, but he kept it under the table.

 “I have heard of this man George”, he said in a low voice, “Though I have never met him. You must talk with great care about such matters: walls may have ears. But tell me, why have you come here seeking this George, whoever he might be?”

   I said, “I have this package which I was asked to deliver to Mr George. I believe it contains some token of goodwill, and also a letter. I understood that he was sometimes to be found here, but perhaps I was wrong. I shall leave it with old Joseph, in the hope that Mr George might at some time visit the inn. If he does not appear, it would seem that my mission was without purpose, and in that case you may keep it for yourself.”

   I then placed the package, together with a few coins, on a nearby table that a servant was engaged in wiping with a dirty rag. I bowed to the company, collected Alexander from the yard and rode away.

   When Black George opened the package, he would discover that it contained the pistol I had struck from his hand at our previous encounter. The letter, which was in disguised handwriting and unsigned, read: “There will be passing this way on the Thursday coach from Mulchester a cleric. He is the Rector of Bereton, a very stout man, and he will be carrying a leather satchel containing certain papers. There are people who will pay in gold if these papers can be removed and left with the innkeeper here.”

 

   Later, Timmis finished his meal and joined me on the road outside. “I won’t be eating there again in a hurry!” he complained, “They gets better food in our Bridewell! That bacon: I reckon the pig must have died of old age, and not recently, neither!” He reported that Joseph had taken away my package, and that soon afterwards the gentleman I had talked with had followed into the back room.

   “And I seen his hand!” he added, “Finger all broke, just like you said! That’s the man all right!”

   So far, our mission had succeeded, but what if Black George suspected a trap, and did nothing? What if he did take the satchel but then, thinking it might be worth more if offered to someone else, refused to hand it over? He might even enquire how much the Rector might pay to have it returned!

 

   I could now only wait and hope. I was in Mulchester while the coach was preparing to depart: Mr Bunbridge was there, cursing the servants’ clumsiness as they loaded his box, and I could not fail to observe that he carried the leather satchel on board himself and would not allow anyone to touch it. Curiosity then overcame my better judgement, for I mounted Alexander and rode ahead to the Hollybush, where I hid in the thickets on the far side of the road, and watched while the coach stopped to water the horses. Bunbridge alighted briefly, still clutching his satchel. I then returned home and waited impatiently for news.   

  

   A few days later all Bereton was excitedly telling the story of how the London coach had been met by highwaymen in the forest south of Mulchester and the passengers robbed. The Rector had resisted surrendering his satchel, and in consequence was pulled from the coach and rolled in the mud, though he suffered no injury except to his dignity. He had then demanded that the coach should return him to Mulchester, but the coachman had refused, and the other passengers, anxious to escape from such a dangerous place, had echoed this. Mr Bunbridge was obliged to find a farmer’s cart to carry him home. It was reported that his appearance, covered with mud, attracted a following of urchins all jeering at him, and that, far from enduring his misfortune with Christian patience, he was blaspheming fit to raise the devil.

   Opinion in Bereton was divided. The Dissenters especially were most amused by the Rector’s sufferings, and some even regarded it as an example of Divine justice. Others were shocked by this insult to a man of the cloth, whatever they might have thought of Mr Bunbridge as a person. I did not intend to enlighten anyone as to my part in the episode.

   So we could presume that the satchel and its contents would now be at the inn, and that we might travel there to collect them and pay as promised. I called my friends together to explain how to proceed. It was only at this stage that I revealed to Mr Clifford what had passed, and he was deeply shocked.

   “I must beg you, sir, not to go anywhere near the inn”, he pleaded. “Your actions were not only illegal, but most dangerous. What if this highwayman betrays you? What if he takes your money and gives you nothing in return? Or robs you before you get there? And why take all these risks? As Mr Jarrett told you, the will means nothing. And as for these other papers; you have told us nothing about them, and why you consider them so important”.

   I saw that I would have to explain to them that they included letters from Sir James that would indict him of treasonable correspondence with the Jacobites. I did not mention his doubts about Louisa’s parentage

   Clifford continued in his resolution not to be involved, and begged me to do the same, saying that neither the King nor his ministers cared about Jacobitism nowadays. But Ned Timmis, contemptuously brushing aside such counsels of cowardice, volunteered himself to collect the goods from old Joseph at the Hollybush. “I reckon I’m in it up to my neck already, sir. If we swing, we’ll swing. I’ll take some of my lads, and we’ll go armed. I’d like to see any highwayman try to rob us!” he seemed to relish the prospect of such an adventure.

  To my great surprise, Mr Chamberlain, the young curate of Bearsclough who was now my household chaplain, said, “If you permit, I will go in your place, sir; for I am not known there, and my clergyman’s bands may serve to lull any suspicions. And I shall examine the documents carefully before any money is paid, for, with all due respect to Timmis here, I am more likely than he to discern whether what we are given are the ones you want.” To this, Timmis readily agreed.

  The party gathered at the Priory early the next morning. Ned Timmis had assembled half a dozen or so of what he called his “lads”, though they appeared to range in age from about sixteen to twenty-five. All carried stout sticks and looked ready and eager for the fray, especially if ale should be involved. Mr Chamberlain, by contrast, had taken pains to dress in his best clothes, which caused Mrs Timmis to fuss about him giving his coat an extra brush. I gave him a purse of gold and silver and wished them well. They then all piled into my carriage, whilst we attempted to suppress our impatience until they should return.

 

              *************************

 

   It was late in the evening when Ned Timmis’s party returned, gleefully recounting their adventure in a babble of voices. Mr Chamberlain produced a bundle of papers from under his coat and gave it to me, and they sat down to a lavish supper with copious supplies of beer. I begged them to eat and drink their fill first, and only then give me a full account of what had occurred. At length, when the young men were fully sated and ready to return to their cottages, I rewarded them with silver, but Ned Timmis addressed them sternly.

   “Now then,” he said, “you’ve done well today, but you mustn’t never tell no-one about it. Not your mothers nor your sweethearts; understand? If I find you’ve been talking, you’ll have me to reckon with. But you keep quiet and the master here’ll be your friend for life.  Right? Off you go then.” Singing lustily, they departed into the night.

    It was only then that we were told the full story of the day’s adventures, with Ned Timmis and Mr Chamberlain constantly adding to each other’s accounts. Near Mulchester they had borrowed a covered cart from farmer Brownlow, in the hope of reaching the Hollybush unrecognised.

   “So one of the lads drove, and the rest of us hid under cover behind,” said Chamberlain, “And then near the inn we were stopped by a party of surly-looking men, who were perhaps the ambush party that Mr Clifford had feared, but we drove them off.”

   “We threw off the covers,” Ned Timmis took up the story, “And they saw us all armed and ready for them! They weren’t half surprised! Made them think twice, it did!”

  “I wish you could have seen Ned then!” Mr Chamberlain intervened, “He seized one of the ruffians by the collar, and he said: I know you, Sam Telward: a low sneak-thief who skulks around Mulchester marketplace hoping to snatch purses. You be off be off sharpish now, if you don’t want to feel my old blackthorn on your head!”

   “And be off he did, and so did the rest of the varmints!” said Timmis with immense satisfaction.

   “And then we reached the inn, and of Black George, as you described him, there was no sign; though doubtless he was observing the scene from somewhere”, Chamberlain continued the story. “I approached the innkeeper and announced that I understood that he had a satchel and papers that I wished to purchase. At first he denied all knowledge of the subject, though he could not take his eyes off a half guinea which I placed on the table before him. I told him that this and more was his if he produced the satchel, and there would be no need to tell Black George about it; and that it was his choice, for if he did not instantly produce the satchel, then we would search the inn ourselves until we found it. Then there was a clatter behind me…”

   “That was my lads overturning a few chairs and tables, to make our point clear”, Timmis interjected.

   “… and then, with great reluctance and sundry muttered oaths, the waiter was sent shuffling away into a back room and returned with the satchel. I gave the papers a brief examination: there was indeed a will, and other documents that appeared to be letters written by Sir James Wilbrahim. So I gave the landlord the purse, which he emptied on the table. You could see his lips slavering with greed as he counted through the gold!”

    “And well he might”, Timmis added, “for a fair sum it was to give to those two villains, Old Joseph and Black George, and to my mind they both deserves hanging, they do, but no doubt you knows best, sir."

   “And so we drove back to Mulchester, meeting no more trouble, and here we are!”

   “I notice that, while you have the papers, you do not have the satchel”, I observed.

   “No,” Mr Chamberlain replied, “It occurred to me that if Mr Bunbridge chose to pursue the matter, he could have identified it as property stolen from him. So I told the landlord he could keep it. Nothing can now be traced to us”.

   I heard Clifford breathe a sigh of relief at this news.

   “What should you now do with the papers?” he asked.

   What indeed? was the question I now asked myself. I said I would decide on that in the morning. And so we parted, for all of us were by now very tired.

 

  The night brought no solution to a problem that was troubling me, and the morning found me picking irresolutely at my breakfast whilst shuffling the papers that we had recovered. No doubt my face wore a troubled frown and I must have occasionally muttered to myself or uttered a sigh. Mrs Timmis stood by watching me, and was eventually moved to ask respectfully if anything was wrong.

   “Yes, Mrs Timmis”, I replied, “I’m greatly perplexed!”

   “I can tell that, sir. It’s them papers, ain't it? You’ve got them back, but you don’t know what to do with them.”

   I looked up in astonishment. How did she know anything about what had passed? But then it occurred to me that, although she had not been invited to our meeting, she had constantly bustled in and out, bringing food and drink and clearing away plates, and must have acquired a fair knowledge of our discussions. I suddenly decided that any further concealment would be pointless, and that it would greatly unburden me to reveal my problems to someone.

   “Mrs Timmis”, I said, “May I presume that I can trust you absolutely?”

   She nodded.

   “Well then. The papers are of three kinds. The first is the will, which appoints Mr Bunbridge as Miss Wilbrahim’s guardian for many years ahead. I am sure you will agree that this is a most undesirable outcome? All that needs to be done there is to write out a new will, though it might be more difficult to persuade Sir James to sign it. Secondly, there are letters, written in Sir James’s own hand, indicating treasonable correspondence with the Jacobites, and I am assured that the King and his ministers would hold these in no account now. It is the third class of documents that is the most problematic to me.

   “You may recall that when I first came here, a few years ago, you mentioned that there had been local gossip concerning the fact that Sir James was not in residence when the Highland rebels marched through in December 1745, and the Prince stopped at Stanegate for the night, and that Miss Louisa, Sir James’s only child, was born the following September? Well, Sir James reveals in his papers that he himself had doubts about his daughter’s parentage, and drafted letters to the Prince concerning this matter, though I do not think any were actually sent.

   “So, Mrs Timmis, what am I to do with them? Should I simply burn the whole lot, and do my best to forget about it? But then, what if Sir James should recover his health and wish to see his private papers again? Or suppose Miss Wilbrahim comes to learn of how we obtained the papers: what should I tell her?

   “Oh, and I must tell you that not long ago a certain lady (I shall not tell you her name, or how I met her) testified to me that  it was impossible that the Prince could have been Miss Louisa’s father, and I have no reason to doubt her word. So tell me, Mrs Timmis, what am I to do?”

   She considered for a moment, and then, instead of answering, asked, “Well, sir, I know as how you’d asked Miss Wilbrahim for her hand in marriage, and she accepted you, though you never told me in so many words. Now Becky tells me that her mistress truly loves you, but that she won’t commit herself to anything at present, what with her father being so sick. That’s all true, ain’t it, sir?”

   “It is true, Mrs Timmis: but what now? Should I confess to Sir James Wilbrahim that I know his secrets? Or tell Miss Wilbrahim what I have discovered about her father? I fear that would cause her great distress. But, on the other hand, how could I bear to deceive her? I ask again: what should I do?”

   Mrs Timmis considered before replying.

   “I fancy, sir, that you will discover Miss Louisa to be stronger and braver than you imagine. With all that she’s been through, she’s a child no longer. If you wish, sir, I’ll speak to her myself. I could tell Becky that I have an important message for her mistress, so she can take me into Stanegate, and to Miss Louisa”.

   “And what would you propose to tell her?”

   “The truth, sir. The entire truth. She trusts me and knows I mean her nothing but good. And I’ll ask her what she wants done with them letters and things: you to bring them for her to read, or burn them, or hide them away again.”

   I sat back in my chair and breathed heavily. “Well, Mrs Timmis”, I said eventually, “This would appear to be the only plan we have, so you may proceed. I can only hope and pray that you are right”.

   “Oh, I am, sir.”

 

   But before this plan could be put in operation, there was a most unforeseen development. Mr Bunbridge the Rector sent me a message demanding an interview!

 

Chapter Thirty-three: A crisis

(Charles Huntingdon has returned to his home in Bereton after his adventures in London)

  

After these memorable events in London, I returned to the country. All was well at the Priory, but over at Stanegate Sir James’s health remained perilous, despite the bleedings, cuppings and purges of Doctor Stump. In warm weather he sometimes requested to be wheeled round the garden in a chair, or even ventured a few steps himself, but at other times he would spend all day dozing in bed. On those occasions Louisa nursed him devotedly, only leaving his bedside when she could be persuaded to go to bed herself, leaving William or one of the other servants to keep watch in her place. Louisa was also very busy managing the affairs of the estate, in which her father now took little interest, and we were able to snatch only a few private moments together. I did not tell her what I had learnt from Danielle: I wished to tell her father first, when his health permitted, and thought that perhaps it might perhaps be best if she never knew of Sir James’s doubts about her parentage.

  I was told that the Rector had returned from Leicestershire and that he had visited Stanegate, but that Louisa had been careful to avoid meeting him. I was still deeply worried about what would happen if Sir James died, leaving Bunbridge as Louisa’s guardian for several years ahead, as dictated by the terms of the will.

 

   We now had an unexpected visitor to Bereton in the person of Oswald Jarrett, Lord Teesdale’s man of business, who had come to inspect his lordship’s lands that lay nearby. When I knew of this, I invited him to stay at the Priory, but he said he preferred to base himself at the Queen’s Head in the town. He did, however, wish to discuss with me a new Canal Bill, shortly to come before Parliament, in which his patron had a substantial interest; and also, I suspected, though this was not stated openly, to discuss with me who should be the new Member for Bereton in the event of Sir James’s death. I accordingly invited him to dinner.

   The day before this was to take place, Ned Timmis approached me. “There’s one or two things that I’ve seen what you ought to know, sir.”

   “Well then, one at a time! Which one comes first?” I replied, knowing Ned’s habit of talking at great length around a story.  

   “I was in the market the other day,” he told me, “and I saw that Mr Jarrett talking with Tom Warren from over by Mulchester. Now I wouldn’t trust Tom Warren an inch, that I wouldn’t; and all the folks around here know he’s a bad’un; but with Mr Jarrett being a stranger round here, maybe he doesn’t know no better. So, seeing as how he was a friend of yours, I thought I’d have a word in his ear, to warn him, like. But before I could get to him, who should appear but Mr Bunbridge the Rector; and he took Mr Jarrett aside, saying he wanted his advice on summat very important. And I thought, that’s strange, so I got in as close as I could to hear what they was saying, meaning no harm, like. It was about keeping some papers safe; but then the Rector, he noticed I was listening, and he pulled Mr Jarrett away. Now what business about papers might the likes of him have with Mr Jarrett, d’you think?”

    I did not know, but I was prepared to hazard a guess. With sudden alarm in my heart I galloped Alexander over to Stanegate, where after the most perfunctory request to old William the manservant I rushed up the stairs to the room with ancient carving. William had followed me, and looked on in amazement as I opened the old priest’s hole. It was as I feared! The box and its contents were gone!

   I was certain that Louisa knew nothing of the box. Becky, her maid, witnessed how I had found it, but I had told her nothing of its contents. Only the Rector, I thought, could have taken it, and Willliam confirmed that he had indeed visited that room, under the excuse that he wished to consult certain books of church history.

   I remembered that I had removed the key to the box and had given it to William.

   “Do you keep your keys safe, William?” I asked, “Especially that little one I gave you?”

   “I do indeed sir; it never leaves my sight, sir. Here it is.”

   So when Bunbridge took the box from its hiding-place he would at once have noticed that the key was missing, and I was sure he would have suspected me of having taken it. What he would not have known, however, was whether I had also removed the treasonous papers, perhaps to destroy them. I relished the thought of how furious Bunbridge must have been to find the box locked, and how desperate to find whether the papers were still inside it, but at the same time I cursed myself for leaving them in the box. He must have taken the box back to the rectory, where he would attempt to open it, by violence if necessary. But what should I do now?

   I decided to take William into my confidence, at least in part. I explained that the box had contained certain papers of immense importance to Sir James Wilbrahim and his daughter (I was not more specific), that Mr Bunbridge had taken them, and that it was vital to recover them as quickly as possible. The aged manservant was silent for a while.

   “Sir,” he eventually asked, in a trembling voice, “Did Mr Bunbridge, the Rector, remove his honour’s property without his honour’s permission?” I observed that he had avoided using the word ‘stolen’. I nodded my head.

  If this had been played out in a theatre, the old retainer would no doubt have launched into a lengthy Jeremiad on the wickedness and degeneracy of the age, but William was more brief.

   “I have served his honour all my life,” he told me, “and my father served his father. It is shaming to me that this happened in my time. Tell me what I can do, sir, to help his honour and the young mistress.”

   There were tears in the old man’s eyes, and I was filled with pity. I put my hand on his shoulder and looked him full in the face.

   “William,” I told him, “There is much you can do. You know all the servants at the rectory. Find out from them if Bunbridge does indeed have the box, and what he proposes to do now. I know you may find this a dishonourable way to proceed, and so do I; but remember that Sir James is too ill to help himself, and Miss Wilbrahim’s future happiness may depend upon your actions. Then tell me what you have discovered.”

   I could not do more than guess what Bunbridge proposed to do next, but I hoped that Oswald Jarrett might persuaded to reveal something. I accordingly made my plans for when he came to dine at the Priory. I invited Clifford to attend, and gave him certain instructions.

   I stressed to Mrs Timmis the importance of the occasion, and that she should spare no expense in preparing the meal she could. She and her kitchen women did indeed excel themselves, while I supplied the very best wine and brandy that could be obtained, and made sure that Jarrett’s glasses were always full. Finally, when the last of the food had been removed and the servants had left us, I deemed that the time was right to confront and question him. I began by asking him politely, as if in casual conversation, whether he had done good business with Tom Warren.

   He looked surprised at hearing the name, and hesitated momentarily before venturing a reply that told me nothing. I noted this, but let the matter drop, as if it was of no importance. I then changed the subject by saying that I had heard that he had also met our Rector, whom I understood had sought his advice on a matter of law.   Jarrett replied that Mr Bunbridge appeared a most learned gentleman, but their conversation would have to remain confidential. I asked him straight whether it had concerned Sir James Wilbrahim’s will, but he said nothing.

   Taking his silence for an affirmative. I informed him that Sir James Wilbrahim’s will had been kept in a large box which I had reason to believe had been stolen from Stanegate by Mr Bunbridge. I outlined what I knew of the will, and of the Rector’s character and past behaviour, and attempted to rouse his sympathy by describing Louisa’s probable plight under the Rector’s guardianship. I mentioned that there were other documents involved, though I was careful not to give more details. When this emotional appeal had apparently failed to move him, I decided to apply harsher tactics.

   “Does Lord Teesdale know that you have been trading on your own account with goods that are rightfully his?" I asked. “We also have witnesses to your dealings with the smugglers!” This was only a wild allegation, based on what Lord Staines and Ned Timmis had told me. Jarrett said nothing, but by the way he shuffled in his seat, I knew the random shot had hit home. He attempted to rise and leave, but at a signal from me Ned Timmis, who had entered the room unobserved by our guest, came and stood close behind him and placed his large farmer’s hands on Jarrett’s shoulders, holding him down in the chair. Simultaneously, Mrs Timmis entered from the other side and fixed Jarrett with a beady gaze, such as she might have given to an idle or disobedient kitchen-maid. Clifford produced a sheaf of papers and an inkstand, and sat with a pen poised and an expectant look on his face. I could not imagine what Jarrett expected to happen to him, but his demeanour told me what I had anticipated: that he was a coward.  

    “Now look here, Jarrett”, I said sternly, pressing home my advantage, “I do not care in the slightest whether you have been defrauding your master. It means nothing whatsoever to me. Perhaps your salary is well in arrears, as I have found is common with his other servants, and you are only taking what you regard as being rightfully no more than your due. But what I have to say is this.

   “As I have said, I fear that an innocent young girl, whose past history you know well, would be placed in further peril, but if you are prepared to help me, this can be averted. In return, I am prepared to make you an offer. Not only will I give full support to Lord Teesdale’s Canal Bill, but I promise that at the next General Election I will do my best to ensure that a friend of his will be chosen as Member of Parliament for Bereton. If necessary, I am even prepared to vacate my own seat, and recommend my friends to support his lordship’s candidate. And why should that candidate not be you, Jarrett, assuming his lordship would approve of such a step? There: that tells you how much importance I attach to the matter of Mr Bunbridge and the will. What do you say?” 

   He wrestled with his conscience, but not for long. The combination of promise and implied threat soon made up his mind for him.

   “I advised the Rector as follows,” he told us, in a low voice, “That if he feared the will might be destroyed, he should remove it and lodge it with the Court of Chancery in London for safety; and that he should contest the validity of any future will, on the grounds that it would have been forced on Sir James Wilbrahim, he being senile and incapable and unable to understand what is taking place. I understand from you that there might be other papers too, though Mr Bunbridge told me nothing about them.”

   “I see,” I replied, “and what now would be your advice to us?”

    “Nothing is easier. You should present Sir James Wilbrahim with a new will, which would of course supersede the earlier one. You can, if you wish, say that the old one had unaccountably gone missing. Then you must persuade Sir James to accept the changes: how you contrive that is your affair. If Mr Bunbridge argues that Sir James is senile and incapable, I would suggest that witnesses of a suitable respectability should be procured, to certify that he was indeed fully able to understand the aforesaid document when he signs it. As for a new guardian for his daughter: might I suggest your friend Mr Braithwaite? He is a lifelong Tory, widely respected, and might prove acceptable to Sir James”.

   “Thank you for advice on the will”, I replied, “You may take it that my promises for the next election will stand. Mr Clifford can make a note of it before these witnesses, if you so desire.”

   But Oswald Jarrett had been thinking. He waited until the others had left the room, and then took me aside for a quiet word.

   “Of course, the question of the will presents no problems,” he said, “I am puzzled as to why you need my advice on the subject, for Mr Clifford could have told you exactly the same. Would I perhaps be correct in guessing that other documents which might be involved, and which both you and the Rector have carefully refrained from describing, are such that their release might present some difficulty to Sir James and his family? You need not answer, for the look on your face is enough to tell me! I wish to stress that in the eyes of the law, I know nothing whatsoever of the allegedly stolen box and its supposed contents.”

   I allowed him to depart. The man may have lacked courage, but he was clever!

 

 The very next morning a boy arrived from Stanegate, bearing a message in careful painstaking handwriting with some unusual spelling, which must have come from the pen of old William. He had learned from servants at the rectory that there was no sign of any box, but that Mr Bunbridge had a leather satchel which he would allow no-one to touch, and that he had issued orders to be driven to Mulchester next Thursday, from where he would take the coach to London. So that was his plan: to remove the incriminating Jacobite letters to safety, from which he would have a complete hold over Sir James and his daughter, obliging both of them to follow his every wish; for a public release of them, even if it did not result in Sir James being indicted for treason, would undoubtedly cause them both to be the subject of universal ridicule. And we had so little time! What should we do?    

    I felt obliged to reveal to my friends the full extent of our difficulties. Ned Timmis at once proposed a solution: namely, that he and some of his lads should break into the Rectory at night and seize the papers. “We’ll blacken our faces so we won’t be recognised!” he said, clearly relishing the prospect of such an adventure. Clifford was horrified, telling him that he would certainly be hanged if caught. “No jury in this parish’ll ever convict me!” Timmis replied stoutly.

  I reflected that it was no doubt to avoid this eventuality that Bunbridge intended to take the papers to London; but I vetoed the idea of burglary. Ned appeared disappointed, and his sister became seriously worried when he disappeared later that day. Fortunately, however, he did not sink to housebreaking, but on returning he proudly asked me, “Is this what you were looking for, sir?”

   It was indeed Sir James’s box, but it was in a sad condition, for the lock had been violently forced open. It was, needless to say, empty. I asked him how he had acquired it.

   “I saw a young beggar-brat carrying it. He tried to run away, but I caught him. He swore he’d found it, all broken like this, in a heap of rubbish. He didn’t know who’d put it there. He don’t often tell the truth, that lad, but I knew I’d get nowt more out of him, so I took the box off him, gave him a couple of pennies and told him to speak to nobody about it, and off he ran”.

   So the Rector, lacking the keys to the box, had forced it open and then discarded it; and the papers were now in his satchel to be taken to London. But Ned Timmis had more to say.

  “I’ve just now remembered as how, sir, I said I’d a second piece of news, what I clean forgot to tell you. I don’t know as how it helps us here and now, but …”

   I could see he was dying to tell me, so I told him to go ahead with his story.

   His voice dropped to a whisper, as if he feared being overheard. “It’s that Black George! The highwayman what tried to rob you, before we came up and he galloped off. He’s come back!”

   “Why; did you see him?”

   “That I did not, sir; but when I was over by Mulchester I called in at Jack the farrier’s, him being an old friend, and there he was shoeing this chestnut stallion with white socks. I’d swear I’d seed it afore. “Yon’s a grand beast,” I said, “there’s no gentleman around here as has a horse like that.” “Aye”, says Jack, “He’s a fine horse, that’s for sure. His master’s staying at the Hollybush, though why any gentleman should want to stop at that place, I canna say, but it’s no business of mine to go asking questions of the gentry. But he’s a rum ‘un, him!” he says, meaning the gentleman, not the horse, that is.”

   “How d’you mean, a rum ‘un?” I asks.

   “He wasn’t from these parts. He kept his face buried in his cloak and a big hat, like he didn’t want to be recognised. And his left hand had a finger all broke and crooked. He’s just round the corner. Dost want to meet him?”

   I had been listening patiently, and now intervened to say, “That’s Black George, for sure!”

   “Aye, that’s what I thought!”

   “And at the Hollybush too! How long will he be there though?”

  Ned Timmis looked very pleased with himself as he continued his narrative. “He’ll be there for a bit yet, sir, that I’m sure! For Jack let me take a good look at the horse, and he, that’s the horse, gave a cough, and I shook my head and said, “This beast’s got a touch of colic for sure, and if the gentleman was present, I’d warn him not to ride any distance for a few days yet, lest he takes badly ill! And Jack agreed with me. And I said, “I must be off now, but wouldst pass the message on, our Jack?” “That I will,” he says, and then I left him, but I hid nearby to watch till Black Geoge came back, for I feared he might recognise me, and it was him, right enough.”

   “So you see, sir, Black George is back, but if he takes my advice he should be still at the Hollybush. That’s the news I wanted to give you, sir. Now, should you gather some men and go and arrest him?” Ned was clearly eager to be the first volunteer for this task. 

    I considered the suggestion, and then came to a sudden decision. “Yes, I will go to the Hollybush, and you can accompany me. We shall talk to Black George, but not arrest him”. I had conceived a plan, albeit a desperate one.

 

Chapter Thirty-two: I come before the magistrates

(Following the destruction of Coldharbour gaol, Charles Huntingdon has been arrested as a suspected rioter, but has managed to send a message to his friend Henry Darnwell begging for help)

    Justice Oldminton was a short gentleman with a protruding stomach that suggested a history of gluttony; and this impression was confirmed by his bandaged and gout-ridden feet, the pain of which would not have improved his temper. He wore an old-fashioned wig and a coat stained with snuff, and his mouth contained badly fitting false teeth, which made his speech indistinct. He regarded me with ill-concealed dislike. It was explained to him that I insisted that I was a Member of Parliament, by name Charles Huntingdon, to which he responded by commenting scornfully that I scarcely looked the part. In this he was right, for in addition to the dirt of yesterday I was unshaven and had slept in my clothes, which were now very crumpled. My prospects indeed appeared dismal, and I was close to despair as I heard the worst possible interpretations placed upon my presence at the Coldharbour riot.

   Then my hopes suddenly rose. Henry Darnwell entered the court, and by his side was none other than Lord Staines! Darnwell caught my eye and smiled and winked at me, but Staines looked stern. They came forward and conferred briefly with the clerk, who then passed on the message that they had important information regarding me, the prisoner.  

   Justice Oldminton regarded them without pleasure. Perhaps he had encountered them before in consequence of some of their night-time adventures; but he could scarcely deny audience to the son and heir of the Earl of Teesdale. “Well? Can you identify the defendant?” he asked brusquely.

  “I can indeed!” Staines exclaimed with great glee, “But, sir, what I shall tell you is so extraordinary that I must crave your indulgence in recounting the story at length. For as soon as I set eyes on this fellow I thought: Why; this is none other than Harry Orton, a thorough rascal who intrigued his way into my father’s service before getting a kitchen maid with child and then decamping with the best silver! I must congratulate the justices on having taken him, and I trust he will now pay the full penalty for his crimes!”

  He continued to speak in this vein for some time, making more and more extraordinary allegations. I glanced at Henry Darnwell and saw that his jaw had dropped open with astonishment and horror. No doubt my face displayed similar emotions. What on earth was Staines doing? Various idle fellows who had been watching the proceedings now drew near to listen. Staines had the audience he always craved.

   “But stay a moment! I looked again,” he resumed, “and then I made the most remarkable discovery! If you washed the scoundrel’s dirty face, and placed a wig on his head and a decent coat on his back, then indeed I would take him for my old friend Charles Huntingdon, the respected and independent Member of Parliament for the loyal borough of Bereton!

   “Is not that extraordinary? Can this be a mere coincidence? Is it possible that Harry Orton the thief and Charles Huntingdon, a gentleman and Member of the most honourable House of Commons, might be one and the same person? Did Orton live a double life? Did he perhaps steal my father’s plate in order to fund his campaign for election in Bereton? Surely that cannot be true! It would be a story worthy of a popular novel, would it not? Or perhaps there are twin brothers; one wicked and the other virtuous; one a housebreaker, the other a respected Member of Parliament? Indeed, sir, stranger things have happened. Mr Huntingdon never mentioned any brother to me, I admit; but that is understandable, for what gentleman would ever willingly confess to so disgraceful a fact as having a brother who was a common thief?”

   By this time some of the idlers were laughing, and Oldminton was stirring in his seat as it gradually dawned on his sluggish brain that he was perhaps being made to look a fool. He did not enjoy the thought, and signalled to Lord Staines to cease speaking. Staines obeyed him, though with much feigned reluctance, muttering that there was a great deal more that he wished to say.

   “Are you trying to tell me”, the magistrate asked in severe yet puzzled tones, “That the accused here is indeed Charles Huntingdon, Member of Parliament, as he claims?”

   “That is perhaps the case”, Staines admitted, after a pause and with an air of uncertainty, “But, sir, as I was attempting to explain, there are other possibilities that need to be considered”. Darnwell could contain himself no longer, and exploded in a great bellow of laughter. Staines turned towards him and coldly informed him that this was no laughing matter, but a question of the greatest importance.

   Mr Oldminton was by now very angry indeed. His loose teeth caused him to splutter so violently that he was quite incoherent, and I feared they might shoot out of his mouth at any moment. But he was in his turn cut short by the intervention of Oswald Jarrett, Lord Teesdale’s man of business, who must have entered unobserved. He now produced on my behalf a writ of habeas corpus, a document claiming a Member of Parliament’s privilege of freedom from arrest and I know not what other papers in addition.

   Oldminton barely bothered to look at them. Instead he turned to Jarrett, whom he must have known from previous trials, and grumbled, “I can’t make any sense of what these young fools are saying! Can you understand them?”

   Jarrett appeared sympathetic. “I believe I can, sir. The accused is undoubtedly Charles Huntingdon, the Member of Parliament for Bereton. He is well-known to me and to my master, the Earl of Teesdale. If needed, I can stand bail for him."

   “It will not be necessary. The prisoner is discharged. Now get them out of my court!” Mr Oldminton spluttered. I am sure he would have taken great pleasure in sentencing all three of us to transportation, had this been within his power.

  We left the court together, Lord Staines bidding farewell to the infuriated magistrate with an exaggerated bow of respect.

  “Was I not brilliant? Did I not speak well?” Staines exclaimed once we were safely out in the street. “Oh, the expressions on your faces! And Oldminton too; the stupidest man ever to sit on a London magistrate’s bench! Have I not entertained you royally? You must buy me a dinner in return!”

 

(Three judges, by Hogarth)

After the dinner Henry Darnwell left us, and Staines and I walked round to Brown’s club together. As we drank our coffee, I asked about his mother, whom I had heard was in poor health.

   “She is recovering, I am glad to say”, he told me. “My mother is the kindest and most generous lady who ever lived. She would always exert herself to aid another female in difficulties; and I admire her for the pains she took to help the Wilbrahim child; though I would have to acknowledge that it was imprudent, for it was certain to anger my father when he found out, as he surely would. My father considers her weak and pliable, apt to be exploited by the wicked.

   “He first discovered what had happened when his friends mocked him on having seen his carriage draw up outside Wilkes’s house, and they asked whether he was intending to contribute to the North Briton! So he confronted my mother, and she admitted what she had done; with tears on her part, I am sorry to say. My father was angry with you for requesting her help in taking the Wilbrahim child home, and angry with her for acceding to the request without first asking his permission. My mother was much distressed by his anger. And as for you: my father blamed you for taking advantage of her good nature.”

“But what else could I have done, Staines?”

   “Oh, there was nothing else you could have done! You were honour bound to save the daughter of a neighbour and friend. No gentleman could have failed to act there. My father is an unforgiving man, but in the end, he acknowledged this and his anger abated. Your position in Parliament should be secure, but do not expect an invitation to Maybury this year!

  “Anyway, my father told his man Jarrett to make enquiries into the affair of Miss Wilbrahim. Jarrett has ways of finding things out. Little escapes him, like a mongrel dog in the back streets, sniffing through heaps of filth in the hope of finding a bone.”

   “And what bones did he unearth from this sniffing?”

   “He discovered that the silly child had run away to London on her own. There she had been lured into a notorious brothel, from which she was freed by none other than my old foe John Wilkes! It is becoming the talk of the town! Now you must tell me the full story of how was the rescue was contrived!”

   I gave him an account of our adventure at Mother Rawton’s establishment, with the parts played by Wilkes and his friends. This caused him to laugh out loud and clap his hands in glee.

   “Oh, what fun it must have been! I wish I could have been there too! Why, it must be the only time in his life that that scoundrel Wilkes has performed a wholly disinterested good deed! Normally I doubt if any young maiden would be safe from his attentions!

 “But what a fool the Wilbrahim chit must be! To come to London, with all its perils, alone and unaccompanied! As I always suspected, she knows nothing of the world!”

   “She came to London to see you, Staines!”

   “Did she indeed! Then she must be even more of a fool than I thought!”

   “Can you swear you did not invite her?”

   “Well, I may have declared somewhere in a letter that it would be delightful if the two of us could be in London together, but surely anyone of sense would have been aware that this was no more than rhetoric?”

   “Did the Rector, Mr Bunbridge, offer to take your letters to Louisa?”

   “Yes he did, and made me pay handsomely for the service, the villain!”

   It was obvious that Staines did not see himself as being in any way responsible for the tragedy that had resulted from his thoughtless letters, and I thought it pointless to pursue the subject any further.

   “Anyway, there was one good outcome”, he continued, “Under these circumstances, my father decided it was quite impossible for our betrothal to proceed. I am excused from having to marry Miss Wilbrahim. I understand that my father wrote to Wilbrahim to say this."

   “Yes, he did. I have read the letter”.

   Staines nodded. “I have not seen it, but knowing my father, I can guess its tone. Was it brutal? My father can be very brutal, as I know only too well”.

   “Very brutal. The shock of it almost killed the old man”.

   Staines was silent for and then said, “Oh well. But father and daughter are both alive and recovering? That is good. I wish no harm to either of them, but I am glad I shall never need to see them again”.

   “But, Staines,” I said, “I do not see any reason for such a letter. I could have assured your father, as I do you, that Miss Wilbrahim’s virtue is unsullied. She was foolish, but happily escaped the worst consequences of her folly. In the end the tale will be forgotten, and the Wilbrahim estates are still there to be inherited.”

   “You miss the point. My father was deeply insulted by old Wilbrahim’s letter saying that I was not good enough for his precious daughter, so he took great delight in replying that that Miss Wilbrahim was not good enough for me. He saw it as a most satisfying revenge. No, Charles, in the end family pride took precedence over mere land. And for my part, I am pleased that the whole sorry adventure is concluded.”

   There was silence for a while, and then I asked, “What would you hope to do now, Staines? What do you seek in life?”

   “I have no doubt that even as we speak, my father is working to find some other bride for me, though I do not believe his negotiations have met with success so far. When a choice has finally been made, and a suitably splendid dowry agreed, I suppose I will be obliged to follow his wishes in the matter. At least his expertise as far as money is concerned will ensure she is rich, and I must hope that the exquisite good taste of my mother ensures that she is not too coarse or ugly. I also hope that on this occasion I shall be spared any tedious pretence of wooing the girl. And then I shall be expected to beget an heir. Such a duty would be distasteful to me, but at least it will keep the inheritance from falling into the hands of my stupid sister and her utterly vile brood of children. How angry that will make them! And when this is done and my bride’s estates are joined with ours, I shall leave the management of them to that rogue Jarrett, and then…..”

   “Yes?”

   “Italy! Now that this cursed war is over, I shall travel! To the sun! I have always longed to see Italy! Venice and Florence and Rome, perhaps even Naples! In Italy a gentleman can live as he pleases. I shall take a house in one of these cities, perhaps in all of them, and reside there as often as I can. Farewell, England! To the sunshine, the art, and the music and the great buildings, and all the men and boys so handsome!”   

   After this untoward display of emotion he fell silent, perhaps fearing that he had revealed too much. I changed the subject by asking, “Do you consider Jarrett a rogue, then? You father appears to trust him”.

   “My father trusts him far too much! I am neither blind nor stupid, and I know what is happening. Jarrett enriches himself every day from his management of our estates! I was puzzled why my father did not also see it, and decided it must be because Jarrett uses some of the stolen money to supply Maybury with the finest French wines through his dealings with the smugglers. Why should I care? As long as enough remains to support me in Italy, I shall be happy. And you should be happy too, for the way is now clear for you to take the Wilbrahim child for yourself, should you want her. Then you can unite old Wilbrahim’s lands to your own and become a gentleman of real substance in the county!”

   I observed that he did not mention the subject of love. That was a sentiment unknown to him, at least as far as ladies were concerned.

   After we had drunk our coffee, I left Lord Staines luxuriating in his Italian dream. This was to be the last long conversation I would ever hold with him.

 

    So ended my brief career as a suspected captain rioter, and it was the end of Coldharbour too, for the troops had been unable to prevent the prison being ransacked and burnt to the ground. The rioters discovered large quantities of gin and brandy on the premises, with the consequence that numbers of them were found the next day dead, or drunk and insensible and horribly burnt. And I realised that I myself was extraordinarily lucky to escape with my life, for at least a dozen rioters were shot by the soldiers, and others were afterwards hanged. But Redman of the fiery locks was not among them: he had disappeared.

   And Joseph Byrne also escaped from the gaol; I know not by what means. To tell his story I must jump ahead a few weeks to a time when I was not in London.

   A royal proclamation ordered the escaped prisoners to surrender themselves or be guilty of a capital felony, and Byrne gave himself up. There was then a hearing before a London Grand Jury, where he had to answer the charge of handling stolen property; to wit, Elizabeth Newstead’s ruby. But to everyone’s astonishment she refused to give evidence against him, and the jewel found in his possession had turned out to a mere lump of coloured glass and not her missing ruby. Elizabeth apologised very prettily for having inadvertently misled the authorities, blaming feminine weakness and worry over the continued absence of her beloved husband. She put up a fine performance, even contriving to shed a few tears. The jury had no option but to acquit the defendant of all charges, and Byrne returned to the safety of his suburban bailiwick, where he could continue his depredations as before; though no doubt resolved never again to venture within the city boundaries. The helpless rage of the magistrates, and of the mayor and corporation of London, was evident. The only people more disappointed by this escape from justice were the unfortunate literary hacks of Grub Street, who would already have been busy composing long sentimental accounts of Byrne’s last words, ready to be hawked by ballad-sellers around the Tyburn gallows.  

   Grumbling Jack, the porter of Coldharbour, suspected of firing the fatal shot, was struck down by the rioters and left for dead. But Bennet the Cracker was never to be seen again. Did he perish amidst the ruins of his gaol, or escape the resume his wickedness in another calling? No-one knows. All that can be said for certain is that his notoriety lives on in London, where his name survives as a threat used by mothers and nurserymaids to terrify the children in their care: “If you don’t eat your gruel, the Cracker will come and get you!”

Chapter Thirty-one: Riot, rescue and arrest

(Charles Huntingdon urgently needs to ask Danielle d'Autun, facing sentence of death, questions about the Jacobite rising)

   I could not rest until I had spoken to Danielle again, but when I reached the gates of the Coldharbour, I found the sums I had to pay her gaolers for the privilege of a brief visit had become even more extortionate. I urged her not to abandon hope: my friends and I would surely find a way of saving her life; that even now a petition for mercy was being signed by many gentlemen of influence. To my surprise, she showed no interest whatsoever to this news: almost as if she had accepted her fate. I asked her if I should procure for her the services of a priest of her persuasion, but she shook her head, and said it would not be necessary. Then I asked the question that most preyed upon Sir James’s mind, and, since reading his papers, on my mind too.

   “Sir James Wilbrahim has been haunted, ever since the great rebellion, by the suspicion that Miss Louisa Wibrahim is not his daughter, but had been fathered by the Prince on that night at Stanegate in 1745. Now pray tell me: is there likely to have been any truth in this belief?”

  Danielle was silent for a while. There was a faraway look in her eyes, as if she was recalling happier times. Then she laughed, and said, “No, that could not be true, for the Prince spent the whole night with me!” It was the only time I heard her laugh.

 

  It was fortunate indeed that Danielle was able to tell me this, because it proved to be the last time I was permitted to visit her. The next time I called at the main gate of the Coldharbour I was turned away with the information that Danielle no longer wished to see me! I absolutely refused to believe this, and naturally thought it was merely a ruse to extract larger bribes from me, and accordingly increased the silver I offered, but without result. Did the odious Bennet, I wondered, guess that my ultimate aim was to free her? He would, of course, have been entirely correct!

  I wrote a letter, carefully composed to be of the most innocuous and harmless wording, which I bribed one of the servants to deliver to her, with the promise of a substantial reward if he could return with an answer, but even this brought no response. I began to wonder if Danielle was still alive. What if she had succumbed to gaol fever, but this fact was being concealed in the expectation of extorting yet more money from me?

  Henry Darnwell now came to me with the grave news that our petition had been rejected, just as Mr Braithwaite had foreseen. Danielle had now less than two weeks to live before she was to be taken to Tyburn to be hanged!

   “I have promised to save her life. What is to be done?” I asked Darnwell. “I doubt whether even a bag of gold would induce Bennet to allow the escape of someone sentenced to death.”

   Darnwell considered for a while before ruminating, “If she could somehow be broken out of prison …. That would be a great adventure, would it not? And I would have sweet revenge on the Cracker, for his treatment of me ….”

  I knew then I could count on his help.

 

   Henry Darnwell might have been an enthusiast for the gallant adventure of saving a lady from the gallows, and so were others of my friends, but when it came to practical schemes for achieving this, they were singularly lacking. It would clearly be a far more difficult problem than the rescue of Louisa had been, when we had simply marched into the brothel and demanded her released. I could not even ask for the advice of John Wilkes, who was now enmeshed in his own problems. George Davies, who had recently obtained an officer’s commission in the army, proposed a wild scheme of waylaying the hangman’s cart at the church of St Giles, where the condemned were traditionally given a drink of wine on the route to Tyburn, and fleeing with Danielle into the notorious slum that lay nearby. Davies volunteered to lead such a desperate venture himself, assured that his great size and officer’s uniform would intimidate the guards. It was no doubt for the best that at this point he was ordered to America with his regiment, and his hopes were abandoned.

   Another suggestion came from Darnwell himself: “You should familiarise yourself with the servants’ entrance to Bennet’s residence and distribute a little money among the scullery-maids. You know where Danielle is kept, and it might be possible to obtain some keys. If all goes well, you may perhaps gain access to her while Bennet’s attention is distracted.”

  To my mind this scheme was scarcely less fanciful than that of storming the hangman’s cart. “And how do you propose that Bennet should be so distracted as to allow this?” I asked.

   “Ah, there I have some ideas. Make yourself known there, and wait for a signal from me!”

 

  I had scant confidence in Darnwell’s plan, but in the absence of any other, I felt obliged to follow it. Accordingly, I dressed myself in the plain clothes of a city tradesman and posed as the assistant to a prosperous victualler who was interested in supplying the prison; and in this guise I hoped to talk to Bennet’s servants and find out what I could.

   It was not easy to find the kitchen entrance to the Coldharbour, which was hidden away in the back streets. When I appeared at the door, I found it was expected that I should distribute a quantity of coin to gain entrance. The cook departed to summon the steward to discuss my proposals, leaving me alone with the lesser servants. While waiting, I talked to them lightly and in a friendly manner, but they did not respond. I suspected that their lives were governed by fear of their master.   

   The steward then appeared: a surly man. He asked detailed questions about my supposed employer, in answering which I feared that my impersonation of a victualler did not carry much conviction. When I hinted that I had heard that the prison contained a French lady who might be prepared to pay more for better food, he became immediately suspicious; abruptly closed the conversation, insolently turned his back and departed. Of course, I thought, it might well be that he was merely seeking a substantial bribe for himself, so I was not discouraged and resolved to try again another day. This idea was amplified when a kitchen maid, told to show me out, whispered that “the other gentleman” had paid far more to gain entry. I patted her on the head and rewarded her with sixpence, with the promise of more if she would help me in future. She accepted the money, though she added that “the other gentleman” had promised her a full shilling, but “he spoke funny” and “she didn’t like him."

   One of the cooks who had overheard our conversation, added, “He’s a foreigner, dressed as a gentleman, but it’s my belief he’s a Popish priest, come to see that French hussy and confess her, or whatever them folks do, before she’s hanged. I don’t hold with none of that Popish nonsense myself, but one man’s silver is as good as any other, in’t it?”

   “He’s seeing her right now!” she added, after I had responded to her hint by a suitable donation.

  These attempts to corrupt servants were proving expensive, I reflected. But I was anxious to see who this mysterious “other gentleman” might be, so I waited outside.

 

   I had stood there for some time, and was beginning to doubt whether such a person ever existed, rather than being merely a fictitious being created in an attempt to extort more money from me, when my patience was suddenly rewarded.

  A man in dark cloak and hat left through the kitchen door. I was certain I had never seen him before. In my character of a tradesman I bade him good-day and ventured a polite enquiry as to whether he was doing business in the Coldharbour gaol. He uttered not a word in reply, but instead treated me to a stare of the utmost haughtiness before turning on his heel and striding away. I had never before met a French popish priest, but was surprised that, if he was such, he should have behaved in such an uncivil fashion even to an English heretic. The London mob, I was sure, would have hooted him had they known, and if I had been dressed as a gentleman I might have challenged him; but I wore the garb of a tradesman, and as a quarrel in the street was the last thing I wanted, I did not respond. The episode made me very uneasy. The only thing that was certain was that it would be difficult to gain access to Danielle d’Autun.

 

……………………………………………………

A few days later I found Henry Darnwell waiting for me at the club, so excited that he began to gush forth his news before I was even seated.

   “Have you heard? Have you heard? People here are talking of nothing else! The great and terrible Joseph Byrne has been arrested! He foolishly came within the boundaries of the City, and someone must have informed the magistrates that he would be there, for constables were waiting for him with a warrant, and he was immediately seized, and charged with being in possession of stolen goods!”

  My other pressing concerns had meant that I had not thought of Byrne for some time, but memories of my meeting with him now came flooding back .

  “Tell me more!” I said, unnecessarily, since he was clearly dying to tell me anyway.

   “According to what they say, a lady wrote to him to discuss a matter of business, and employed all her wiles to persuade him to come to her home, which was in one of the best parts of London”.

   “And was he immediately arrested?”
  “Ah, she was cleverer than that. He was suspicious of a betrayal, and so he agreed to meet her, but at a coffee-house just outside the city limits, where he was well-guarded. All went well, but she must have hinted that if he wished to attain a full enjoyment of her charms, he must come alone, to her home, bringing certain goods with him. It was at this second meeting that he was arrested, and was found to be in possession of a stolen jewel. Oh, how amazing that he should fall for such a transparent stratagem!”

   I reflected that the lady in question must surely have been my sometime friend and lover Mrs Elizabeth Newstead. So had she now recovered her lost ruby? I could not but respect her cunning and boldness in hatching such a scheme; but other matters were at the moment more pressing.

  “This is all most interesting,” I said, "but it does nothing to help our plan to rescue Danielle.”

   “Wait, and I will tell you! Now I must rely on the peculiar tastes of our old friend Bartley Wandescote. I met him yesterday and he was eager to tell me his news. He had heard of Byrne’s arrest, and scoured the gaols to discover where Byrne was held. And can you guess where he found him? Why, in the Coldharbour!”

   “The Coldharbour?”

   “Yes indeed, the Coldharbour, no less; under the tender care of our old friend Mister Bennet, otherwise known as the Cracker! So, of course, Bartley had to go and seek an audience with so notorious a villain”.

   “How did he contrive to gain entry? Bennet has refused me any further admission!”

   “Oh, maybe the Cracker recognised a kindred spirit in our friend Bartley Wandescote. Or maybe Wandescote, to slake his twisted lusts, simply paid him more”.

   “Did he speak to Danielle?”

   “Who?  Byrne or our friend Bartley?”

   “Either of them!”

   “Bartley only spoke to Byrne, and he did not ask whether Byrne had spoken to Danielle; for Byrne had much to say for himself, and was glad to have an audience. He was full of bitterness, and berated his own foolishness; betrayed by the wiles of a woman!”

   “I still do not see how that helps us. Will not the Coldharbour be even more closely guarded, now that this famous robber is held there?”

   “Why man, do you not see the possibilities? Byrne is one of the most hated men in England! The money he has extorted from all grades of society is infinite! A few may consider him a latter-day Robin Hood, but they are fools. Now that he has rashly ventured out from the safety of his own bailiwick I think he is happy to remain in gaol, for his own protection against the vengeance of the mob.

  “The only man who might challenge him in the hatred of the public is Bennet the Cracker. His cruelty is a matter of legend. Countless of our citizens have had friends and family members who have suffered from his depredations. And now the two villains are in the same building; a veritable Bastille here in our midst.

   “Now: what if it came to be believed that Byrne had bribed Bennet to release him? Or that, even better, our ministers had themselves been corrupted? And that, in consequence, Byrne would soon appear outside the gates of the Coldharbour? What if John Wilkes’s pupils now decide to attempt a few projects of their own, and can be persuaded to discover in that hated building a new subject for their rage? These are hard times for many in our city; discontent runs deep and may boil over, for trade continued to be in decline and no remedies had yet been effected. Artisans and apprentices of all kinds are suffering. What if a riot outside the gates of the Coldharbour should take place? And maybe the gates will be stormed? I have contacts who could be useful there. Would not that provide us with an opportunity? Be ready!”

   Having said this, Darnwell raced away to commence his new role as captain rioter.

 

   I was sceptical of his chances, but just three days later a boy came running with a hastily-scrawled message from Henry Darnwell informing me that a crowd was assembling and he felt sure that they could be led to the gates of the prison that very evening. “I have assiduously spread the rumour that Byrne is to be pardoned and released this very night! We may anticipate trouble! Make your way there at speed, and we may use the turmoil of a riot to our advantage!”

  I had still no clear plan of how I might affect the release of Danielle from her captivity, but I donned my tradesman’s garb again and made my way towards the celebrated gaol.

   I found that a crowd was already gathering. A variety of cries were being shouted: “Wilkes and liberty!” “No Scots!” “No Popery!” and I know not what else; but it was a different sort of crowd from those who had gathered in support of Wilkes. Some were easily recognisable by the tools of their trade, such as the weavers with their heavy iron-shod shuttles that made useful weapons, or the begrimed coal-heavers with their shovels, but intermingled with the tradesmen there were others who must have come from the darkest holes of St. Giles: dangerous-looking men, slatternly harpies of women and ragged children of both sexes. Many were drunk and eager for trouble, and some carried lighted torches. Scuffles were breaking out, but all were united in their hatred of the Coldharbour.

   They gathered outside the doors of the gaol, where a young man in a hat stood on a mounting-block and shouted words that I was too far away to hear clearly. He appeared to be urging them on, and was met with cheers.

   The mob surged forward in a great wave. Stones were thrown against the windows and doors, which were of course locked and barred, but then suddenly there rang out from one of the upper windows the crash of a musket shot, together with a puff of smoke. A man at the front of the crowd fell to the ground with a yell and a curse.

   The shouts of the mob, which had been increasing in volume, were silenced, but then a great howl of rage followed. Soon every window was smashed by stones and torches thrown through where glass had been. Directed by the young man in the hat, wood was piled up against the door and set on fire. More shots were fired. At any moment, I thought, either the mob will burst through into the prison, and murder will be done, or else the whole building will burn! Already I could see smoke arising from within. 

   I hastened from the scene and ran round to the servants’ door, which I found already open, with the servants out and running for their lives. Then, to my astonishment, who should follow them but Danielle, accompanied by the mysterious stranger!

   She did not seem in the least surprised to find me there. “Ah, Monsieur ‘Untingdon! We thought we might find you here! This is Monsieur Dupont”, she said, as her companion bowed gravely to me. I doubted whether this was his true name, for something about him suggested that he was an aristocrat. He announced, in a very strong accent, how grateful his monarch, Louis XV, was for my efforts on behalf of his trusted agent; to which praise I was unable to venture any reply.

   “So you will learn”, Danielle continued, “that French gold buys much. As soon as Monsieur Dupont discovered where I was confined (and for that knowledge we must thank your friend Monsieur Darnwell, who is so not able to keep a secret!) he set to work. And though your friend tried hard to raise a mob, it was our money that proved more effectual in that, and also in bribing servants. It is a disgrace that they are not more loyal to their masters!"

   A thought occurred to me. “And were the riots in support of John Wilkes also purchased with French gold?” I asked.

  “Our ministers vould be fools not to offer gold to Monsieur Vilkes”, her companion replied scornfully, “And he vould be a fool not to accept it!”

   This, I reflected, was no reply at all.

  “And now I am safe at last”, Danielle resumed, “For tonight I stay at the home of our ambassador; and after that I journey to Bristol, to take a ship bound for Spain. So we shall meet no more, Monsieur; though I shall always be grateful to you for the help you gave me when I lay under sentence of death, and cherish the memory of our time together. I am sorry that I had to tell the gaoler that I did not wish to see you again; but you will understand, Monsieur ‘Untingdon, that we had our own plans, and did not wish for any interference.

   “But let us leave this place, before the canaille find us!” And with that, she leaned forward and kissed me on the cheek. The two of them then walked away into the gloom and vanished from my sight. I never saw either of them again. 

   If I had listened to the voice of prudence, I would also have departed at this point, and saved myself a great deal of trouble, but I lingered to watch the destruction of the prison. I saw furniture and bundles of documents hurled into the street as the building was ransacked, and thick smoke curled out of other windows as the fires spread. Any remaining inmates; servants, gaolors and prisoners alike; fled through the kitchen door and passed where I was standing, and soon afterwards a mob of angry rioters appeared round the corner in search of any of Bennet’s men who might still be lurking there. I was quickly surrounded and my name and business demanded. Some accused me of having fired the fatal shot; a few simply seemed intent on taking vengeance upon my person, whether I was guilty or not. The prevailing sentiment, however, was that I should instantly give money for the support of “the poor mob”, with the implication that only a very generous donation to this cause would prove acceptable.

   There appeared no means of preserving my safety. I had, of course, come without my sword, and did not know what to do. But while I hesitated, the mob leader I had observed earlier appeared and pulled off the hat he was wearing. I was astonished and relieved to behold a familiar mop of flames-coloured hair, distinguishable even in the gathering gloom. It was Alf Redman.

   “He’s all right!” he proclaimed to his followers, “I know him! He’s a friend of Mr Wilkes: ain’t you, sir?”

   I confirmed that this was indeed the case; that I knew Mr Wilkes well, that I always read and supported the “North Briton” and that I had voted against Wilkes’s expulsion from Parliament. At this information they gave me a cheer, which was redoubled when I produced my purse, preparing to give Redman and his friends the wherewithal for them to drink my health.

  But at moment a cry went up, “The soldiers! The soldiers!” A party of redcoats was approaching. The rioters turned and fled; Redman snatching some coins from my purse as he did so, and spilling others on the ground. Feeling secure in my privileged position as a Member of Parliament, I saw no reason to join them, and instead stooped to gather up the spilled money. 

   “Here’s another rioter! Take him!” ordered a corporal. I protested that I was no rioter, but a Member of Parliament who had just chanced to be on the scene. The soldiers, uncertain of what to do, marched me to an officer who now appeared. The corporal explained that he had observed me giving money to the fleeing rioter with the red hair, and that I claimed to be a Member of Parliament.   

  The officer treated this with a sneer. “Oh, I should think so!” he scoffed. “Look at the fellow! Does he look like a gentleman?” And indeed I did not, for I was dressed as a common tradesman and was now dirty and smelling of smoke.

 

                                                       (Eighteenth century rioters)

   “Giving money to that red-headed devil, was he? This fellow’s a captain rioter, I warrant!” He then bowed very low to me, in mock deference. “Well, my noble sir, you may now consider yourself the Right Honourable Member for Newgate, and shortly to be elevated in the borough of Tyburn! Take him away!” Having pronounced this witticism, which evidently pleased him greatly, he turned his back. While he was speaking I had had the distinct feeling that I had met him before, but could neither recall his name nor place him. It was only as he walked away that I remembered him as the officer who had recruited young Jimmy Thatcher back in Bereton. Too late! Too late!

   So, less than an hour after the escape of Danielle, I was now a prisoner myself! At least my treatment was not as harsh as hers, perhaps because of a lingering suspicion that I might indeed be a gentleman. I was taken, not to Newgate, but to a private house somewhere in London, where I was not chained in a dungeon, but locked in a room on my own: a miserable garret with barred windows and holes in the ceiling. Here I was to be held until I could be brought before the justices. It was well that I had recovered some of my money, because I was obliged to pay for a bed with a thin straw mattress and no sheets, pay more for a loaf of bread and a mug of sour ale, and yet more for pen and paper. 

   The only friend whom I knew for certain to be in London was Henry Darnwell.  I scribbled a letter begging him to come before the magistrates and swear to my identity, preferably bringing with him some other gentleman whose word would carry respect, and then I used what remained of my money to bribe the gaoler’s ugly brat of a son to deliver it into Darnwell’s hand. I could do no more, and I lay back on the unclean mattress, still dressed in the clothes I was wearing when arrested, and attempted to sleep.