(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!
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