Chapter 30: The search for the will
On returning from Stanegate, I found Martin Clifford at my house, and took the opportunity of telling him how Sir James Wilbrahim believed his household accounts were in a state of confusion after the disappearance of both his steward and his housekeeper. He shook his head sadly.
“I never trusted that man Bagley,” he reflected, “or Mrs Piddock either. I warrant they were putting his money into their own pockets, and fled when they feared they might be discovered!”
I passed on Sir James’s request that he might visit Stanegate to examine the books. Somewhat to my surprise, he readily agreed. I said I would accompany him; for it had occurred to me that this would provide an excellent opportunity to find Sir James’s will, and discover exactly what arrangements he had made for Louisa’s future, in the event of his early death.
Mrs Timmis was present in our conversation, and after Clifford had left us, asked about Sir James’s health. I replied that he was still very weak, but not, I thought, in any immediate danger; and that he was now reconciled with Miss Louisa, who was now much happier.
Mrs Timmis regarded me shrewdly. “And may I be bold enough to ask, sir, do you have a particular interest there?” she asked “With Miss Louisa, that is?”
I did not answer, and there was no need, for she could read sufficient in my eyes. She smiled.
“You needn’t say nothing, sir! Maybe you want to keep it a secret? I shan’t ask further. Well, sir, if it’s what I’m thinking it is, then we’re all very glad for you both, that we are! It’s what we’ve been hoping for, ever since you first set foot here. Rescuing Miss Louisa from that lonely house, and dreadful people like the Rector! But don’t worry, sir; I’m telling nobody till you give me permission.”
“Mrs Timmis”, I said, “I promise that henceforth I shall devote myself entirely to Miss Louisa. I cannot pretend that up to now I have led a particularly good life, but …” I was conscious that I was sounding absurdly solemn, and fortunately she interrupted me.
“Lor’ sir, nobody expects a young gentleman in your position to behave like some saint or holy hermit! It just wouldn’t be natural! But now you’re a-changing, and that’s good: it means you’re all growed up!”
I thought it most regrettable that my housekeeper had no children of her own, for she would have been a marvellous mother to them. I also tried to imagine how Lord Staines might have reacted on receiving similar remarks from his own adored mother the Countess, but the concept defeated me.
The Rector, incidentally, was not seen around Bereton for some time after this. His servants reported that he had departed to visit his sister and her family in Leicestershire, but had fallen ill there. It appeared we would be spared his presence for the moment!
Martin Clifford accompanied me when I next visited Stanegate. We found Louisa in the library with a pile of papers on the table in front of her. She looked greatly worried.
“Some tradesmen came with bills, and William and I had to look for money to pay them, but we couldn’t find any. I took them to my father, who denied any knowledge of the bills, and they became very angry.
“Then I tried looking at the account-books, but I couldn’t make sense of them. I am sure father never paid sixty pounds for a new watch, for I have never set eyes on any such a thing. Neither did he ever buy me twelve new pairs of shoes! And there’s more: the food ordered for the kitchen seems very expensive. And I am certain that we sold much of our grain last autumn, but I cannot find any record of it. I think there is a great deal of money missing. Do you think Mr Bagley and Mrs Piddock had been robbing us and ran off together?
“My poor father! It was very wrong of me to tell him: the shock was too great. He was getting better, but now he just lies there and keeps repeating, “I trusted that man for twenty years! I trusted him!” He eats and drinks nothing. I really don’t know what to do! Please can you help us?”
Clifford volunteered to examine the account-books, while Louisa departed to sit beside her father, relieving old William in that duty. I asked the faithful old servant about Sir James’s health, and he shook his head sadly.
Clifford spent two days in his investigations. “Sir James’s accounts are indeed in a most parlous state,” he told me. “Miss Wilbrahim was quite correct in her suppositions. She is a clever young lady, and would make someone an admirable wife. And Becky, her maid, who helped us, may be unschooled but she is as bright and sharp as a new pin where arithmetic is concerned. I have also questioned William the manservant, but he has revealed nothing, as no doubt he assumes to be his duty to his master”.
“So what are your conclusions?”
“Over a hundred pounds is missing, and that is just in recent times, for I cannot find any older account-books. There are also mysterious payments and receipts involving persons with plainly fictitious names. My suspicion is that Bagley was using income from Sir James’s estate to finance Clewlow’s smuggling activities, and that much of the money stuck to his own fingers, and to Mrs Piddock’s. I fear that Sir James’s trust has indeed been grossly abused. It may be that Alderman Stout and others are also involved. But until Bagley or Piddock are found, or until Harry Clewlow tells what he knows, I doubt if we shall ever discover the truth”.
He shook his head sadly. I recalled that when I had explored the old quarry on the hill, one of the men I had heard talking there, and whom I took to be smugglers, had been called Harry. I wondered if this was Clewlow and the other, who seemed to be his superior, had been Bagley.
“So what is to be done?” I asked.
“In view of Sir James’s delicate state of health, my advice would be that he should be disturbed as little as is possible. I believe that Miss Wilbrahim, with Becky to assist her, is fully competent to control the household accounts; and she may call upon my assistance whenever she feels a need. Would such a solution meet with your approval?” I agreed. I was amused by his praise of Becky, recalling what he had said about her on the night of the fireworks.
So Louisa was now the mistress of Stanegate, with Becky acting as housekeeper. Sir James, insofar as he could comprehend it, appeared happy with these new arrangements. Clifford and I stood by to be called upon for advice if needed, but in fact our assistance was hardly ever requested, for the two young ladies coped admirably with their new responsibilities.
Clewlow, as I have previously mentioned, was arrested as a smuggler, only to be eventually released without charge, but Bagley was never seen again; at least, not seen alive. Some weeks later the body of a man, completely naked, was found hidden in the woods beyond Mulchester. He had been shot. Numerous people positively identified the body as being that of Bagley, though as it had been partially consumed by foxes and other scavengers there could be no certainty. I asked Ned Timmis what he thought might have happened, and what people were saying. Had the unfortunate man been killed by Black George or some other robber, and the corpse then stripped of its clothing by the villagers?
“It don’t sound like Black George’s work to me”, he mused, “killing’s not his way. He’s never killed nobody; leastways, not in these parts.” He avoided any speculation as to who else might have committed the murder. Investigations into the death of Bagley ran into an impenetrable wall of silence, and the matter remains an unsolved mystery. As for Mrs Piddock, she simply vanished, unlamented.
While Clifford and the two young ladies were cutting their way through the tangled thickets of the Stanegate accounts, I had another mission to undertake, which was to find Sir James’s will. I wished to discover precisely what instructions he had laid down should he die before his daughter came of age. But nowhere could I find this document, which was not with the other papers. After much fruitless searching, I approached Sir James’s trusted old manservant.
“William, we fear that your master may well die before long.”
“Let us pray that he be spared, sir”.
“We all say amen to that indeed! But were he to die, which heaven forefend, what would follow? Do you love your young mistress?”
“I do indeed, sir! Why, sir, I worship the very ground she walks on, sir, as does everyone who knows her!”
“And what of Mr Bunbridge, the Rector?”
William hesitated before venturing a reply. “Well, sir,” he eventually admitted, “It’s not my place to judge the doings of my betters, him being a man of God and all; but I can’t say he’s well liked. He’s tight with his money, and then there’s all those stories about him ….” His voice tailed off.
“I see. So what would you say if I told you that somewhere in this house there is a will, drawn up by your master before he fell ill, that names the Rector as Miss Louisa’s guardian, should your master die while she is still a child?”
William said nothing, but his look told me all that I needed to know about his feelings.
“Well then," I continued, “I wish to find the will and examine it to discover the precise terms. Please understand that I shall not attempt to damage or change it, which would not be proper; and when I have read it, I shall replace it. But the will was not anywhere in the library. Was there anywhere else where would your master have kept important papers?”
He considered long. “Well, sir”, he said eventually, “Sometimes I saw his honour with a large box. Dark wood it was, with brass at the corners, and kept locked. I do not know what it held, for he always dismissed me from the room before he opened it, but I think it was papers, for he always had pen and ink prepared, and his spectacles polished. And where the box was taken afterwards, I never found out. It is not here, nor is it in any of the other principal rooms”.
“Where, then?”
William again pondered before replying. “My father was in service here before me, and I remember him once saying that the talk was that back in the old days there was a secret hiding place in the room upstairs: the one with the carving that used to frighten the young mistress. But I know nothing about that, sir.”
I suddenly remembered what Mrs Waring had once told me: how my aunt had suspected there might be a priest’s hole in Stanegate, to hide the sacred vessels of the Popish mass, from the time when the Wilbrahim family had been papists.
“William”, I said, “I shall go there immediately in search of that box. Will you give me your keys in case it is locked?”
“Oh no, sir; that wouldn’t be at all right, not without his honour’s permission!”
“I entirely understand, of course. But supposing you happen to leave your keys by mistake on the desk here, and then come back in a few hours to find them? Remember, this is all for the sake of your young mistress!”
William hesitated for only a moment before removing a massive bunch of keys, both large and small, from his belt and placing it carefully on the table beside him, after which he walked unsteadily out of the room without a backward glance.
I snatched up the keys, and, filled with a sudden hope, raced up the stairs to the room with the grotesque carvings, which I had never entered since being shown it by Louisa. I discovered Becky was there, seated on a bench and drinking something from a cup. I doubted that it was tea! As soon as I appeared, she leapt to her feet, curtsied and quickly began dusting, as if to convince me that she had been hard at work. I laughed.
“Pray don’t bother!” I said. “I don’t expect you thought to see me up here.”
“That I didn’t, sir! It’s normally just us servants as come here: none of the gentlemen. Except Mr Bunbridge, that is”.
“Oh, really? He comes here, does he?”
“Yes he does sometimes, sir. Once I come in and found him down on his knees like he was praying, looking at them old books next to that thing over the fireplace. ‘Why, sir’, I says, ‘You’ll be getting all dirty! Let me dust for you, sir.' But he wasn’t having none of it: he ordered me to go away right sharpish: told me to leave the room and mind my own business."
“Did he now? Well, well. Let’s have a close look ourselves, should we? We’ll start with the carving itself, and then turn our attention to the books”.
I examined the carved overmantel very closely, tapping it here and there, especially the grotesque faces. The nose of one of these appeared to have been carved separately, and was loose. I tried turning it and pressing it inwards and then pulling it out again, but nothing resulted.
Next I examined the books on the shelves to the right of the fireplace. They proved to be mostly decaying volumes of sermons from the days of Queen Elizabeth or even earlier, of little interest today.
When I pulled one off the shelf, the binding promptly disintegrated in my hands. The calfskin had been covering a stiffening of pieces of old parchment cut to shape, and the glue holding them together had failed through old age. One sheet fell out and fluttered to the floor, and Becky stooped to gather it up.
“Oh, look!” she exclaimed, “In’t that pretty!”
The parchment was a fragment of an illuminated manuscript, the work of some monk in earlier times, depicting angels playing instruments and singing around a giant letter I, which took the form of a budding tree. I supposed it to be from the spoils of some monastery, dissolved under Henry the Eighth,with its books seized and sold as scrap to a printer. It was indeed very pretty.
“Don’t you think this would make a lovely present for your mistress?” I said. “I’ll have it framed by a London bookbinder and then we’ll present it to her. Won’t she be surprised to hear where we found it!” Becky nodded in agreement, but then, reverting to her domestic duties, she exclaimed with some annoyance, “The floor’s all scratched here. It’s like someone’s been pushing the furniture about."
I looked, and saw that it was indeed the case. Why should that be, I wondered, when there was neither table nor chair nearby? Then, whilst still looking downwards, I noticed that some of the books on the bottom shelf were upside down. I pulled them out, and found a panel of wood behind. When I tapped, it sounded hollow.
A sudden hope came to me. “Becky!” I exclaimed in an excited whisper, “Go and turn that face, the loose one, and push it and twist it; try anything!” She hurried to do so, and after a few trials, a catch somewhere clicked open and I was able to drag out the shelf and the panel behind! It made a grating noise as I pulled it across the floor out of the way. There remained only a black gulf that extended behind the old carving. A secret cupboard!
Was this indeed the refuge to hide a priest and his superstitious equipment? Looking back on my discovery, I cannot imagine it would have deceived an experienced priest-hunter for long; but at the time I was merely eager to find whether this place of concealment still contained anything. I reached in, and my fingers located something large, which I pulled out and carried to the table. It was a mahogany box, brassbound at the corners, just as William had described! Surprisingly, a key was in the lock.
“Now, Becky,” I ordered, “This could be very important for your mistress’s future. Fetch me a candle and then stand guard at the other side of the door! Don’t let anyone in! If someone comes, find some means of keeping them out! And you must promise never to breathe a word of what we have found here. Can I rely on you to do this?”
“I’ll allus do anything you asks of me, sir!” She replied, looking me full in the face before dropping her gaze modestly and leaving the room.
I turned out the contents of the box. There was a mass of papers and a few other small items. My first search was for the will; and I quickly found a likely document, folded and sealed with Sir James’s seal. The wax was already broken, so I had no compunction in unfolding it. Yes, it was indeed the will!
I discovered that under its terms Mr Bunbridge was to receive a most generous legacy, a not inconsiderable sum was to be laid aside to support the indigent poor of the parish, and there were donations to servants and other people of whom I knew nothing, with the bulk of the property to be left in trust to Louisa. However, there was a proviso that she should not come of age until the age of twenty-five; and that until that time the Rector was to be her legal guardian, and she was on no account to marry without his express permission. The possible consequences of this I scarcely dared contemplate!
I turned to the other papers, and read them with increasing astonishment, for what I discovered was treason! There were letters to and from a French agent, a certain James Butler, conspiring for the French army to land in England to support a Jacobite rebellion and restore the Stuart dynasty, together with a copy of the “Declaration of King James” (that is, the Pretender) from that year, denouncing the Whig government for corruption and other offences, and promising that “restoring their rightful Prince” would remedy these. So what Lord Teesdale had told me about Sir James’s Jacobite treason was true! There were references to a certain “D”, who was not identified, but who appeared to have been involved in this traitorous correspondence. Could this be none other than Danielle, I wondered? Then, following the rebels’ stay at Stanegate in December 1745, there was letter in French from the Prince himself, thanking Sir James for the hospitality provided by his wife and servants in Sir James’s absence; this being accompanied by a medal of the Prince.
Most startling, however, were several drafts of a letter, in Sir James's own hand, to Charles Edward Stuart himself, dated a year later, by which time the Young Pretender had escaped to France, Louisa had been born and Lady Wilbrahim had died. There were a great many crossings-out and emendations in the margins. The gist of the letter was to ask whether Charles had lain with Lady Wilbrahim during his stay at Stanegate, and might therefore be the true father of Louisa. The arguments were confused and overlapping, reflecting the state of Sir James's own mind on the subject. He wrote that he knew that the Prince had the reputation of desiring the love of women, and that it was rumoured that the highland clans would entertain him by giving him their prettiest girls; but that was not the custom in England, and that he deplored the old custom of Kings to cuckold their courtiers. He furthermore lamented that Lady Wilbrahim had become increasingly distant from him by the 1740s, so that they were rarely intimate any more, and that the birth of Louisa in early September of 1746 had been a surprise. His wife’s health had never recovered from the birth, he wrote, and she had died a few weeks later without ever speaking to him on the subject. In these drafts, the Prince was addressed as “Your Royal Highness” (abbreviated in the draft to “yr. RH”) and the tone of the writing fluctuated between accusation and obsequiousness, and as a result achieved neither.
I wondered whether such a letter had been sent, or whether indeed it had ever been intended to be sent. Perhaps it had been drafted merely to clear Sir James’s mind? I pondered the thought that Sir James Wilbrahim, rather than being a ridiculous and foolish old man, was perhaps a tragic figure, worthy of our Shakespeare or the ancient Greek dramatists, haunted for many years past by the dark suspicion that his wife had betrayed him and that the child he was rearing was not truly his daughter. But on the other hand, could he bear the heavy responsibility of caring for a child who might be of royal blood, and who, if the Stuart dynasty were to be restored, might be recognised as the offspring of the reigning monarch! It was no wonder that Sir James’s behaviour towards Louisa appeared so strange: for all her life he must have been hoping to marry her to a foreign prince, or at least to some great British Jacobite lord. No wonder he had scornfully rejected Lord Staines and me as suitors!
I furthermore wondered how much the Rector might know of all this? And if he did know, did that explain his hold over Sir James Wilbrahim?
But what should I do now? Should I destroy the incriminating letters, or should I take them into my own keeping? In retrospect, I can see that either would have been a better course of action than the one I took. I can only plead that, filled with excitement at what I had discovered, I did not give the matter sufficient thought. I replaced all the documents, including the will, in the box, which I locked and took away the key. I then returned the box to its hiding place and closed the secret cupboard. Reiterating to Becky the need for absolute secrecy, I descended the stairs to find the aged William.
“Now, William!” I hailed him with mock solemnity. “I have found a set of keys which you must have dropped. What is more, I have discovered another key that should be added to your collection. You must be more careful in the future!”
“I shall indeed, sir.” He then paused, with the expression of someone wrestling with his conscience, before venturing, “I did once, sir, not long ago, lose the keys, and searched a very long time before I found them in the master’s desk; which was strange, sir, because I had already looked there. And I know all my keys well, but this little key that you have given me was not there among them.”
“I see. And who else might have been in the house at the time to pick them up? The Rector? Or Bagley?”
“I really cannot say, sir”.
And there the matter had to rest for the moment. The consequences would only become apparent later. In the meantime, I hurried back to London. There was a vital question that I now needed to ask Danielle, and I would save her life, if I could.
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Chapter 31: Riot and arrest
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.
“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.
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Chapter 32: I come before the magistrates
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 plate! 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!”
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 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 go 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. She swore that he had brought it to her in good faith, not seeking a reward, and that the real jewel was still lost. She then 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!"
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Chapter 33: Crisis!
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 was visibly 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.
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