Chapter Thirty-three: A crisis

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

  

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

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

 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

   “Why; did you see him?”

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

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

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

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

   “Aye, that’s what I thought!”

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

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

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

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