Chapter twenty-nine: The most important day of my life

 (Charles Huntingdon has been secretly brought to Stanegate to talk with Sir James Wilbrahim, who is very ill)

We approached the parlour where Sir James lay. Becky put her ear to the keyhole, and indicated to me that there were no voices within, so he was probably alone. As she knocked on the door, my courage failed me to the extent that with half of my mind I hoped that he would be asleep and my mission would be abandoned; but instead a feeble voice from within bade her enter.

   I heard her say, “If you please, sir, there’s a gentleman here wishes to speak with you.” I pictured her giving a little curtsey as she did so.

   “Indeed?” Sir James replied, “And why do you, not William, show him in?”

   “If you please, sir, I met the gentleman as I was coming back from town, and William must have been round at the stables, so I let him in. He didn’t give no name, sir, but he said it was very important that he spoke to you.”

   “Oh, very well then.” His voice sounded resigned.

    Sir James was lying on a couch with his head propped up on cushions. He wore a long buff-coloured gown, with slippers on his feet and a cotton turban on his head. His face was thin and heavily lined, making him appear ten years older than when I last saw him. There was no-one else in the room.

   “Mr Huntingdon!” he exclaimed in a weary voice, “I did not expect to see you, sir, coming here uninvited in this fashion. What is more, I do not wish to see you. Before you go, I shall take the opportunity to say that your conduct has been disgraceful! You have filled Miss Louisa's head with foolish ideas and encouraged her in disobedience. I have been informed that you secretly brought her back from the fireworks display, which I had specifically forbidden her to attend. This was not the behaviour of a gentleman! Now we have witnessed the disastrous consequences of your influence.  Good day to you, sir!”

   He turned his face away from me, but I was not deterred, and spoke the words I had been rehearsing in my head.

   “I have come here, sir, to speak to you," I said. “As for myself, I apologise most sincerely if I have offended you, for that was never my intention: I have always held you in the deepest respect. I shall not attempt to defend myself except by saying that at the time I believed I was acting for the best. But I earnestly request that you hear what I have to say concerning the allegations against your daughter, who has been grossly misjudged. She is entirely innocent, and is now greatly distressed and desires only to be reconciled with you.”

   “I would have you ejected from my house, sir,” he replied angrily, “but I am weak with illness, and it seems my servants have deserted me. Where is Mr Bunbridge? He was here but a minute past!”

   “The Rector is not here, sir, and I shall speak!”

   I told him how Louisa, arriving in London but not knowing where to find Lord Staines, had been entrapped and imprisoned by Mother Rawton, from whose premises we rescued her.

   “And how did you find her there? Are you in the habit of frequenting brothels?” he asked in a scornful tone.

   “No, sir: friends of mine were able, at my request, to discover her whereabouts, and then we acted to free her.”

   I described the rescue, omitting the names of Mr Wilkes and the others, who were unlikely to have met with his approval. I then began to recount my appeal to the Countess for help, intending to stress that her great kindness would not have been forthcoming had she not entirely believed in Louisa’s innocence; but at this point I was interrupted by the door opening to admit Mr Bunbridge. He regarded my presence with such astonishment that he was briefly silent.

   “How dare you invade this house and weary Sir James with this chatter!” he eventually burst forth. “You, and no-one else, are solely responsible for the disaster that has overtaken us! Leave immediately, and never return!”

   “No, sir, I shall not leave! I am here to tell Sir James the truth of his daughter’s misfortune, and to counter the lies that you, sir, have been spreading!”

   Sir James looked on in stupefaction as we conversed angrily in this fashion. Mr Bunbridge’s face was purple with rage, and I believe that he might even have assaulted me, but at that moment Becky reappeared, through the door that the Rector had left open. She curtsied first to her master and then to Mr Bunbridge, and it was him whom she now addressed.

   “If you please, sir, the young mistress would like to speak with you. She asks could you come up immediate, sir.” 

(The costume of an 18th century maid)

    My astonishment at this invitation could scarcely have been less that of the reverend gentleman, to judge by the expression on his face. What the deuce could she intend to say to him? But Bunbridge did not hesitate, and after delivering a somewhat perfunctory apology to his host he followed Becky out of the room.

   Sir James was no less baffled. “Why has he gone? Why has he gone?” he kept repeating.  

    “I cannot tell you, sir, but it seems that he is otherwise engaged; so before he returns, I shall continue my story.”

   Very soon, however, loud cries, first from one female voice and then from another, echoed through the house; doors slammed and heavy footsteps were heard running down the stairs. Moments later, Louisa and her maid rushed into the parlour. Both were out of breath: Becky’s dress and hair were much disordered and Louisa’s her eyes now blazed with anger. She ran to father’s side and knelt down, taking her father’s hand in both of hers while Becky stood by.

      “What’s this? What’s this?” he exclaimed.

   When she had recovered her breath, Louisa described how she had been in her apartment when she heard Becky scream. She ran out to find the Rector in a nearby room with Becky on his knee, fondling her, while she was shouting at him to desist and beating him on the chest with her fists. On seeing Louisa, he had thrown Becky to the floor and fled. Sir James, greatly to my surprise, appeared suddenly revitalised on hearing this.

   “The old rogue!” he chuckled, “And at his age too!”

   After Louisa had finished speaking, he said, “Well, I wonder if the maid is as much to blame as him, with her flirtatious ways. But even so ….  No, I do not approve of him misbehaving with my servants under my roof, and he must write me an apology before I admit him here again.”

   Louisa now told her father of the kisses the Rector had demanded for the delivery of letters, which Becky confirmed. Sir James closed his eyes and showed no reaction. We wondered whether he had fallen asleep, but then suddenly he spoke again, not to his daughter but to me.

   “What you have told me has come as a shock, and I must have time to think on it. I cannot help but think that you may have misunderstood Mr Bunbridge’s conduct towards you. I am an old man and in poor health, and it is too late for me to change my friends now. I have known Mr Bunbridge for many years: he has his faults, as we all do, but I believe these are more than matched by his virtues. He was a great scholar at Oxford, and has never concealed his devotion to the House of Stuart, in consequence of which he has suffered persecution and been denied the preferment that his talents deserve. The advice he has given me has always been good. For these reasons, I have named his as executor in my will, and, if God should soon call me away from this life, he will be guardian of Louisa until she comes of age. These I shall not change. I believe he has her best interests at heart, and after what has passed, I consider her more than ever in need of a strong guardian.”

   All this time, Louisa had remained kneeling beside Sir James, with his left hand in both of hers. She now kissed that hand, told him in the sweetest tones of her love for him and begged his forgiveness for all the distress which her disobedience had caused him. He hesitated for a while, then with a sigh disengaged the hand and placed it on her head, announcing that he did indeed forgive her. Louisa flung herself across to embrace him and kissed him on both cheeks. It was a reconciliation that answered all our prayers.

   Sir James smiled, then he lay back and closed his eyes and was silent for a while. We thought he wished to end the conversation, and were about to leave quietly when he suddenly spoke again.

   “Mr Huntingdon, it would seem I cannot keep you out of my house. Even my servants thwart my wishes. Very well, now you are here, you can help me. I am informed that my accounts are in confusion, and I am too weary to inspect them myself. Your man Clifford is said to be honest, and you may send him here for the task until Bagley is found." 

   I noted that he had not invited me, though neither had he absolutely forbidden me to come. 

   There was a long pause before he continued, though now he spoke as if he was musing out loud to himself rather than addressing us,

  “As for Miss Louisa: even if her conduct has been, as I have been told, entirely innocent, I fear that the world will condemn her. No doubt the upstart nobleman who wrote me that disgraceful letter has jested of it to his friends. Her reputation is ruined. I shall never have a son-in-law: our line has come to an end. That fellow Staines is no loss, for he is a ridiculous and degenerate young puppy. But who would marry her now?”

   Acting on sudden impulse, I took Louisa’s hand in mine. “I will marry her, sir!” I answered boldly.

   “You, sir?” he gasped, “You!” Again he closed his eyes and lay still. Louisa said nothing, but gripped my hand tightly. After a while he began to snore.

   We left the parlour and entered the library, where we found ourselves alone. I turned her to face me and took her by both hands, and looking her in the eyes I declared my undying love for her, my desire to marry her and promised always to support and protect her whatever might befall. I cannot now recall my exact words, which were no doubt as hackneyed as in a scene on stage in a comedy, and spoken much too fast, but which were perfectly sincere for all that. She blushed, and waited a while before venturing a reply, as if choosing her words with extreme care.

   “Sir”, she replied, “I shall ever be in your debt for the manner in which you and your friends rescued me, and I do not doubt that you are speaking from the heart. But all this is very …” she paused to search for a suitable word, “… sudden”, she concluded. She kept hold of my hands.

  “But at least you are not utterly rejecting me?” I protested.

  “Oh no, sir, by no means!” she exclaimed softly.

   I took her in my arms and kissed her full on the lips. For what seemed a blissful eternity I held her close. Then she drew back her face to speak, though she did not disengage herself.

   “My dear Mr Huntingdon – Charles – I am yours and you are mine forever. But for the moment we can do nothing, and I must beg you to keep what has passed between us a secret. After all the distress I have caused my poor father, my plain duty is to stay here and watch over him. I shall remain at his bedside, and I think it would be best if you did not talk to him for a while. I must beg you to tell no-one of what has passed between us. We must be patient, until he recovers, or until …..” She turned her head aside in an attempt to hide the tears in her eyes. I kissed her again.

  “But now you must go”, she said. She rang a little bell that stood on the table, and Becky immediately appeared to show me out. I suspected she had been listening from behind the door, and had heard every word.

 

   When we had left the house, I paused and asked the young maid, who was now smiling happily, “Tell me what really happened to cause that scream.”

   Becky recounted the story. “I told Mr Bunbridge that my mistress wished to talk to him, but when we were near her door I stopped, and took him by the sleeve, and brought my face close to his and whispered, “’It’s me that wants to see you, sir!’ And I led him into a room nearby, and he was in such a hurry that he didn’t lock the door but sat me on his knee and started to kiss me, and he stuck his hand inside my dress. Then I screamed as loudly as I could, which brought the mistress out, and when she saw what was happening she screamed too, and he ran away as fast as he could. You should have seen the look on his face! So then we came down here to tell the master.”

   She told me all this without the least trace of shame. She really was a most pert servant girl!

   “I see. But I have more questions: did you plan all this in advance? Perhaps you summoned me here today with this in mind? And if so, did your mistress know?”

   Becky's only response was to grin and drop a most demure curtsey before retiring into the house. I could well understand why the Rector lusted after her, and in different circumstances I would have felt the same way myself. But my affections had now been given elsewhere: I vowed to myself that henceforth I would foreswear all other women: no-one but Louisa should be in my heart or my mind! This thought made me feel deliriously happy.

 

Chapter Twenty-eight: Sir James Wilbrahim's life in danger while doctors differ

(Charles Huntingdon is in London, having spoken with Danielle d'Autun in prison)

     I was seated reading at my lodgings one spring morning of rain when a messenger arrived with a most urgent letter from Martin Clifford. Sir James Wilbrahim, he wrote, had suffered an apoplectic seizure, his life was in danger, and I must return home without delay. I set out immediately and was there in less than two days, though the weather continued bad and the roads were foul.

 

   When I arrived at the Priory, Clifford and Mrs Timmis between them told me what they had learned from the talk in the town:

    A messenger had arrived with a letter and old William the manservant had taken it to the library and delivered it to Sir James. He had then left the room, and some time later heard a great cry and a crash, and found Sir James lying on the floor, barely breathing. Miss Louisa, Tom the gardener and others had carried him to the parlour where they made up a bed. Doctor Stump was summoned and had bled Sir James, and the Rector had also come. That was all that was known for sure. Everyone naturally suspected that the letter might have caused Sir James’s collapse, but it had not been amongst them.

  The weather being somewhat improved, I rode Alexander to Stanegate and was met at the door by William, only to be told, politely but firmly, that I was not to be admitted. I enquired about the mysterious letter which was perhaps the cause of Sir James’s collapse: no, he did not know who the letter was from, but he presumed it was from some great lord, for the wax seal on the back bore a crest. His honour, he said, had not opened the letter immediately, but had directed him to leave it on the table. After his honour had been carried away, there were papers scattered over the library floor, but the letter had not been among them.

   His honour, he continued, had now recovered the power of speech, and his first action had been to call for his daughter to see him in private. They had had a brief conversation, following which Miss Louisa, weeping bitterly, had retired to her room. Her father had not spoken to her since. I next asked him if I might write to Louisa to express my sympathy and offer any help I could provide, but was told that this was impossible, for his honour’s instructions, conveyed by the Rector, were that she was not to receive either letters or visitors. William had tears in his own eyes as he spoke, which he vainly attempted to conceal. There seemed little I could do beyond requesting William to keep me informed of whatever might pass, and so I left, puzzled and apprehensive.

 

    Wishing to learn more, I next proceeded into Bereton to search out Doctor Stump. I had never consulted him myself, having had so far the great good fortune to suffer neither illness nor injury while living at the Priory, but I knew him by sight: a man of strange appearance that scarcely inspired confidence, for he was short and crouching in posture, his eyes were never still and his face bore a dark pustule above his right eyebrow. He had but two teeth in his mouth, and they were very yellow and very long, giving him a carnivorous appearance when he spoke. He smelt constantly of snuff, which stained his coat. 

  He worked, I discovered, from a small, dingy shop in a side street, situated, perhaps appropriately, next to a butcher. A sign proudly announced him as Theodore Stump: physician and apothecary. The window displayed bottles of coloured liquids, but their faded labels could barely be read through the dirty glass.

   An ancient female conducted me through to a back parlour, where I found Doctor Stump in conversation with another man who was the exact opposite in appearance, being tall and cadaverous, with a motionless face that was as white as chalk. He was dressed entirely in black, like a cleric. Had he been lying prostrate, I could have taken him for a corpse.

   Doctor Stump welcomed me to his home and hastened to introduce me to the other man, who it transpired was a most eminent physician from Mulchester, by name Doctor Lawton. Stump was unusually effusive in his manner, as if boastfully proud that a Member of Parliament should be paying him a visit.

  I explained that I was concerned about Sir James Wilbrahim’s state of health, and wished to know what could be done to cure him.

   “And you were quite right to come, sir,” said the visiting doctor, speaking in a voice so soft that I could barely hear him, “for we were indeed discussing his case as you entered. I shall allow my esteemed colleague here to state his opinion first.”

   Doctor Stump, evidently eager to impress both me and his visitor, now embarked on a lengthy discourse on the four humours. He attributed Sir James’s collapse to an excess of Black Bile in his blood, leading to an imbalance which needed to be remedied by bleeding; and should the symptoms persist, the treatment should be repeated until the correct balance had been restored. If he, the doctor, was unable to be present, then a number of leeches might suffice. In that eventuality, he said, a treatment favoured by some authorities was to counter the Black Bile with a Red Cure, which could include replacing the green bed-hangings with scarlet ones and feeding the patient only red food and drink. He also recommended a certain elixir that he could supply, involving snails and millipedes plus other secret ingredients, bruised to a paste and mixed with claret wine, which was certain to produce what he described as “a plentiful evacuation”.

   Doctor Lawson shook his skull-like head firmly, with a frown on his face. “Your diagnosis is incorrect,” he pronounced in condemnation, his voice now rising to take on a harsh tone. “Even if your patient’s affliction had indeed resulted from an imbalance of the humours, then in my opinion he suffered from an excess of Red Choler, in which case your Red Cure would only make his affliction worse. And your elixir too contains red wine! Make it Moselle, sir: Moselle! Otherwise you will infallibly kill your unfortunate patient! No, sir: the unhappy gentleman has plainly suffered an attack of the flying gout.”

   When I asked him for the meaning of this strange term, he explained, in a most superior and patronising tone, that whereas the proper focus of gout was, of course, the feet, but in the case of Sir James the affliction appeared to have suddenly transferred to his brain; and for this he proposed a treatment of the application of hot mustard-plasters to the feet, in order to attract the gout back to its proper home.

  The expression on Doctor Stump’s face suggested that he strongly disagreed, but did not dare contradict his more eminent colleague. I said that for my part I agreed with Doctor Stump’s treatment, for good quantities of claret would at least put Sir James in good heart, whereas I believed that he did not like Moselle wine. I then asked whether, in furtherance of the Red Cure the room should perhaps be lined with red roses and poppies, gathered when Mars, the red planet, was in the ascendant?

   I had intended this comment to be light-hearted, but the learned Doctor Lawton took it with the utmost seriousness. He shook his head impatiently, dismissed the use of flowers as a mere superstition of the uneducated, and informed me, in the lofty tone of a schoolmaster addressing a recalcitrant pupil, that I, as a mere layman, was lamentably ignorant of the astrological sciences. His investigations, he said, had revealed that Sir James was under the influence of Saturn, and could not expect a full recovery until that planet appeared in the constellation of Virgo.

   “Mars has nothing to do with the matter, sir! Nothing at all!” He pronounced with contempt. His voice was like iron scraped over gravel. I felt I had nothing more to contribute to the discussion, and so we parted.  I was still without any ideas as to how I could help the good people of Stanegate, for it appeared unlikely that I would be admitted to the house.

 

                                      (The quack doctor, by Hogarth)

  

   However, two days later I was at work in the library on another cold and wet morning when Ellie the little servant girl appeared with surprising news.

  “Sir, there’s a strange girl arrived! She says her name’s Becky and that she’s Miss Wilbrahim’s maid; she’s in the kitchen. She must have walked here from town, and in this weather too: she’s all soaked! Mrs Timmis is out in the village, so I’ve sat her down in front of the fire, but she says she needs to speak to you urgent-like, in private.”

   I found it was indeed Becky, but she was far from being the pert lass I had encountered before: she was spattered all over with mud and was plainly exhausted and much distressed. I ordered Ellie to produce some mulled ale to warm her.

   “Oh, sir!” she cried, directly Ellie had left the room, “You’ve got to help us! I’ve run all the way here to show you this!”

   “What; all the way from Stanegate? And in the rain? But that’s more than five miles!”

   She nodded and searched in her clothing to find a sheet of paper, much crumpled and torn and now wet from the rain. She explained that she had found it in the coat that Sir James had been wearing when he collapsed, and knew from the wax seal that it must be from someone important.

   Ellie now returned with a mug of ale that she had warmed. As Becky sipped it, I carefully straightened out the paper. Enough of the seal remained to show it was a letter from Lord Teesdale.   

   “Have you read it?” I asked.

   “There were some words there I didn’t know.” I realised that Becky could scarcely read at all.

  “I haven’t shown it to no-one else; not even the mistress. I brought it straight to you. Oh sir, you must come! The mistress, she cries all the time, and she don’t hardly touch her food! And all of us in the house, we’re that frightened!”

   I read the letter. Some parts were now illegible, but I was able to guess these. It had probably been written by Lord Teesdale’s secretary, and the wording was very harsh.

 

   “The Rt. Hon. the Earl of Teesdale presents his compliments to Sir James Wilbrahim, Bart.

   “It has been reported to his lordship that, while she was in London, Sir James Wilbrahim’s daughter Miss Louisa Wilbrahim resided for several days at a house owned by a notorious bawd. His lordship is prepared to believe that the child was merely foolish rather than vicious, but wishes to state that it is surely obvious that, even if she is innocent of any wrongdoing, it is impossible that there could ever now be a match between Sir James Wilbrahim’s daughter and Lord Staines. All discussion of this matter is therefore at an end.”

   So it was by this means that Sir James had discovered the truth about his daughter’s adventure in London! No wonder he was struck down with apoplexy! I wondered how word of it had come to Lord Teesdale’s ears. He made no reference to his Countess’s part in Louisa’s rescue, but he would have been informed of it, and would surely have made some further enquiries. Who then might have revealed details about Mother Rawton?  Could it have come from Churchill, in an unguarded moment? Or Boswell, who loved gossip? Or perhaps Mother Rawton herself, out of sheer mischief and desire for revenge?

   “And did your mistress tell you the full story?” I asked Becky.

   “Not until yesterday, she didn’t, sir. But when the master told her as how he knew the truth, and sent her to her room, and she was left crying her eyes out; then she told me. And now the Rector’s there all the time, spreading his poison in the master’s ears! He makes out that it was your fault, and it was you what lured her down to London, and that he’ll watch over her now that the master’s ill. Please come up there now, sir! You’ll find a way of speaking to the master, and telling him as how Miss Louisa isn’t in no way to blame: that you will, sir! And tell him not to take no notice of what that wicked Rector says! Otherwise I don’t know what might happen! We trust you, sir: all of us do!”  The poor girl began to cry herself.

   “But you must know that I have been refused admission to the house!”

   “Just come with me, sir; please! We’ll find a way of getting you in, that we will; and then you’ll tell the master the truth!”

   How could I resist such an appeal? I raised Becky to her feet and assured her that of course I would come with her. Then I called Henry and ordered the trap to be ready for immediate use, with him to drive us. While we waited she told me what had occurred at Stanegate.

   “I was sweeping the hall, and the door to the master’s room, it wasn’t fully closed so I couldn’t help but hear what was going on in there. I hope you don’t think I was snooping, sir; that’s not my way; but I l do love the young mistress, we all of us do. The master’s voice is very quiet since his illness, but the Rector, he’s got a loud voice. He was talking to the master about the young mistress, and I didn’t like what he was saying at all, that I didn’t. He said she'd become a most wilful girl  since she first met you, for you'd encouraged her to be disobedient, and that in Mulchester she had run away for no reason, and it wasn’t the first time she’d behaved like that, for he'd found out how it was you and Mr Clifford that brought us home from the fireworks last year, and so he blamed all the nonsense she’d learnt from the young men (meaning you and Lord Staines, begging your pardon, sir) for making her want to run away to London, and that it was you as invited her to go there!”

   “But that’s not true!” I interposed, “She ran away to London to meet Lord Staines, though I doubt if he actually invited her. He didn’t love her at all, you know!”

   Becky continued with her narrative. “And then the master says that he feared that what she had done would be the talk of London by now, and she had brought disgrace on the family; and Mr Bunbridge says that the best that can be done is that she’s kept under close guard and never let out until it’s all been forgotten; and that he promised to look after her while the master was ill.”

   Becky then described how Bunbridge had demanded kisses in return for passing on letters. I said that I knew of it too, but that I understood that he had soon desisted.

   “That’s true, sir, but that’s because he took to kissing me instead! He said he’d beat me if I told anyone! He tries it on with all the young girls. You should hear the stories they tell about him in the town!”

 

     The rain slackened and eventually ceased. When we reached Stanegate we did not drive up to the main entrance, but instead left the trap some distance away, instructing Henry to wait till my return; and then walked round to a narrow gate leading to the servants’ entrance. Becky went inside to check that no-one was about and returned to summon me in. We tiptoed up some narrow backstairs to Louisa’s apartment.

    I had not met Louisa since our return from London, and she was much changed: her sorrows had rendered her face thinner and her cheeks were stained with tears. She took my hand and said how glad she was that I had come. I asked about her father, but this led to more tears.

 “It is all my fault!” she sobbed, “I would rather have remained forever unknown at Mother Rawton’s place, than cause him such pain! What if he should die?” She then wept uncontrollably while Becky hugged her. I explained that I intended to go to Sir James and tell him the truth. Louisa was reluctant to agree, fearing that any more shocks might be fatal to his health, but after much whispering, Becky persuaded her and, having established that the coast was still clear, led me quietly down to where I would find Sir James in the parlour, for he was not yet strong enough to reach his bedroom even with assistance. But what should I say to him? And what if I found the Rector there?

Chapter Twenty-seven: Danielle's story

(It is spring 1763. Charles Huntingdon and his friends have discovered that Danielle d'Autun, a French lady whom they know, and who may know some important information, has been sentenced to death for theft. They decide to visit her in prison)

    A few days later, the pair joined me again, Wandescote having discovered that Danielle was held in a prison known as the Coldharbour.

   “It is greatly feared by Londoners,” he reported with a certain relish, “The gaoler is a certain Hugh Bennet, but is known as ‘the Cracker’. He is a far greater villain than those unlucky enough to be entrusted to his tender care. These wretches, or their relatives, have to pay for everything: for food, for bedding, for candles. Those who refuse may find themselves chained in some noisome dungeon until they see reason. Happily, the man is infinitely corruptible. I know the place: would you wish me to introduce you to the famous Mr Cracker?”

   Darnwell intervened to say, “I had the honour to be the guest of this man not so long ago, following a regrettable incident in the street, and my father left me in his care for a few days, in order to teach me a lesson, I suppose, before bailing me. But others I met there did not have such good fortune. During my brief spell under his roof, I met unfortunates who had served their sentences, or had even been acquitted at their trial, but whom he refused to release unless they paid him for the privilege! I tell you: should I ever be elected to Parliament, I would demand a full enquiry into the state of the nation’s prisons!” 

   We decided to pay the Coldharbour a visit that very day.

  

 The first thing I noticed as we approached the notorious establishment, which sat like a grim fortress from an earlier age, was not the gates, strong and oppressive though they were, but the number of little bags and baskets dangling on strings from the upper windows. My companions explained that the unhappy inmates were not provided with sufficient to sustain life, but a lucky few were permitted to employ this means to beg from any benevolent persons who might pass by, and could then purchase food or bedding from the gaoler. By these means the great Hugh Bennet was believed to have accumulated no little wealth.

  I distributed a few small coins among the hanging receptacles, which were immediately hauled up, to the accompaniment of blessings and cries of gratitude from the windows above. Then we rang a bell at the gate, doing this several times before we managed to rouse the porter. He was a surly fellow, who deeply resented our disturbing his repose. He carried a club, and a timorous person might well have turned and fled, for he looked indeed as if he might attack at the least provocation, but he hesitated when he saw that we were all gentlemen.

   Wandescote was undaunted.  “Greetings, Grumbling Jack!” he said cheerfully. “Just be a good-natured fellow and let us in without delay, will you? We desire to speak to your lord and master. Here’s silver for your troubles!”   The porter pocketed the proffered money, but continued with his muttered comments as he locked the door behind us and led us down a corridor and into a courtyard which was crowded with both men and women. Some were seated carousing on the dirty cobbles, with bottles being passed around, and many were obviously drunk. My friends whispered that it was very easy to obtain gin from the gaolers, provided the necessary money was forthcoming. Some shouted from a safe distance obscene insults at our guide, who kicked out of his path those who were prostrate and insensible. Then we were taken to the mighty tyrant of this kingdom: the famous Hugh Bennet, the Cracker.

 

  The face of the tyrant who ruled this fortress would have struck immediate fear into his unwilling subjects. An old wound on his left cheek caused his upper lip to curl into a permanent sneer. He wore no wig, and his hair was cut so short that he appeared almost bald. His chin was unshaven and dark, and his blue eyes malevolent and cunning. He was short and squat, but with powerful-looking forearms and shoulders. His clothes were of the cheapest, and none too clean. Ignoring the porter entirely, he demanded of us what we wanted. He recognised Wandescote as a frequent and no doubt well-paying visitor, and listened while he explained our request to interview Danielle d’Autun. Darnwell added that I was a Member of Parliament and thus a person of influence.

   Bennet did not bother to ask why, but instead named his terms, which were not for silver, but for a golden guinea! When I gave him one, the rogue weighed it in his hand, examined it closely and even bit it, as if he suspected that I might have passed him a forgery! But no doubt he had dealt with many forged coins in his time.

   He did not deign to accompany us to the cell himself, but instead clapped his hands to summon one of his menials. This fellow, in contrast with his master, was as thin as a lath and walked with a long, loping step; his mouth bore but a single tooth, long and yellow like a fang, and his eyes had an evil glint to them. I instinctively felt pity for any defenceless wretch who came under his care. He was given a few brief instructions, too low for us to overhear, and then he lit a lantern and led us on our way into the nether depths of the celebrated Bastille.

   We approached a heavy door, which the disgusting turnkey, having selected a key from an immense, jangling ring that he carried, proceeded with evident reluctance to unlock. The door emitted an ominous groan as he pushed it open.

    At first I could see nothing, for inside it was almost lightless. I drew breath, and almost choked, for the air was putrid and foul. I heard voices and the movement of bodies, and discovered that the cell, though small, contained many prisoners. Some of these now came crawling on their knees towards us. But the turnkey ignored them, except when they got in his way or clawed at his breeches, begging for succour, when he pushed them aside with a curse. He led us to a corner where we found Danielle lying on filthy straw, with a chain on her leg. She sat up with a start, and the lantern caused her to shade her eyes from the sudden glow.

   “You want to be alone with her?” the turnkey asked, giving us a lascivious wink.

   “This place will do for the present”, I answered, “But first, be good enough to unchain her, and bring us sufficient food and wine, and candles too, and a chair to sit on”.

   He demurred at this, and I was obliged to part with yet more coin before he would agree to my requests.

“And I shall go too”, said Darnwell, “and guard the door, lest this rogue should dare to lock us in, and then demand money to release us. And if I find that he fails to bring us sufficient victuals on his return, then he shall answer to my boot!”

   After the turnkey had departed, still cursing, I regarded the unfortunate woman before me. Wandescote stood watching and said nothing. The light was very dim, and had I not known it was Danielle, I doubt if I would ever have recognised her, for the passing years, added to her present miserable situation, sat hard upon her features. Ever since our night together I had often, when I was alone, remembered what we had done together and lusted after her in my imagination; but seeing her now haggard, dirty and half-starved I could feel only pity mingled with disgust. I doubted whether she would remember me at all, for she had no doubt had many lovers after our encounter. She had the expression of a frightened hunted animal as she looked at me: who was this stranger, and was he here to inflict yet more sufferings?  

   “Pray do not be alarmed”, I said, “We shall help you if we can”.

   “I am innocent!” she wailed, “It was an unjust accusation, by my wicked landlord!”

   “That does not concern me now”, I replied, “I merely wish you to answer some questions about another matter. My name is Charles Huntingdon. I met you once, a few years ago. I am a friend of Sir James Wilbrahim, and I am a Member of Parliament, but I have no connexion with the present ministry, and anything you say I shall treat in strictest confidence. Let us wait until the gaoler returns to free you from your chains and bring you food, after which we can talk. And if it is my power to save your life, I shall do so”.

   We waited, the silence broken only by a few sobs from her. At last the turnkey appeared with a younger assistant, bearing a broken-backed chair together with a basket and a bottle. With much muttered grumbling he lit two candles and then unlocked the chain from her ankle, which she proceeded to rub vigorously, and then seated herself on the chair. When the man had left I opened the bag, which contained a loaf, a mutton pie and a black bottle of cheap wine. Nothing was clean; but neither this nor the dubious smell of the wine prevented Danielle from gobbling at great speed. She was ravenous with hunger, though she shared some of the food with a miserable-looking old lady who lay near her.

   When they had finished every crumb and every drop, I requested that she recount to me everything she knew concerning Sir James Wilbrahim and the Jacobites. I soon discovered she was understandably suspicious of me, and would not tell me anything of interest. After much fruitless questioning I decided I had had more than enough of the noisome dungeon, so I rose from my chair and prepared to leave.

   I hoped that, given time, Danielle might be willing to reveal more, so I told her, “I am leaving now, but I shall return. Until then, please reflect. If you tell me truthfully what you know, I shall do my utmost to help you, and save you from the gallows if I can.” She had a wild look in her eyes, but said nothing.

  We found Darnwell waiting for us outside. “Well?” he asked me, “What did she tell you concerning old Wilbrahim?”

  “Nothing”, I told him, “I suspect she thought I might be a government spy. But I’ll try to get her moved to a better cell, where she can live on her own, and eventually she may come to trust me”.

  “As your legal advisor, I would have to caution you against believing a single word she said!” he laughed.

   As I prepared to depart that dreadful building, I told Bennet, “I shall return soon, by which time I shall expect to find her in a decent room with proper bedding. If you do this, and allow me to speak to her again, you will be paid. If not, I promise to make life exceedingly difficult for you.” He made no reply, though I heard him spit on the ground once my back was turned.

  I wondered whether I could trust Bennet at all. Wandescote advised me that I could, provided I paid him enough to satisfy his cupidity, and, more importantly, let him expect even larger payment in the future. This proved correct at least for the moment, for next day I was informed that Danielle was now being held in his best room, part of his own quarters in the prison, and fed from his own table, and all at a rent, payable by me, not significantly less than what I paid for my own London lodgings.

 

   I was eventually able to have many conversations with Danielle. At the start she revealed nothing, and I believe that she never fully trusted me. I did not raise the question of my night with her which ended with the theft of my belongings, but eventually she must have remembered the incident herself, for without any prompting she told me, “I am sorry that I abandoned you that night. I had another urgent task to fulfil before morning. But I never stole from you. That villain Yarrow, whose house it was, must have crept into the room when you were asleep. Later he learnt my secret and vowed he would expose me unless I followed his orders, and when I would not satisfy his filthy lusts, he informed on me to a magistrate. What could I do?”

   I told her that this incident was no longer of any importance to me, and that I had entirely forgiven her for the part she had played there. Instead I wanted to know about her links with the English Jacobites, and especially what she knew of events in Brereton when the Scots Jacobite rebels had passed through there in 1745.

  She told me many stories about her adventurous life, whether truthful or not I could not say. She denied ever having met Sir James Wilbrahim, of which fact I was already certain, and I stressed that he was a friend; that I meant neither him nor any other inhabitants of the town any harm, but that I was asking out of curiosity only, as concerning the place where I now lived.

 

    I did not attempt to write anything down in Danielle’s presence, lest she become suspicious, but instead attempted to piece her accounts together back at my lodgings. But I was not always able to do this until the day after, or even later, for I had other claims. Here, therefore, is my attempt to reduce everything she told me to a continuousnarrative, whilst correcting the occasional mistakes and strange phrases in her English. Even if only partially true, what a novel of adventure and romance it would make!

 

             ………………………… ………………… 

                                   Danielle’s story

 

   “My father was French, but my mother was a Scot, from an ancient family driven into exile for their support for the Stuart cause, and she taught me to speak English. They both died when I was young, and I was left under the care of my uncle, who was a friend of the Comte de Maurepas, the Minister of Marine. When war was looming with England after 1742, he sent me to England to contact Jacobites there and prepare for a rising and a French invasion. I was little more than twenty years old, and eager for adventure.

   “I was sent to the English Midlands, taking letters  from your friend Sir James Wilbrahim and many Jacobite gentlemen in Staffordshire and Shropshire and other counties, and passed them on to our chief agent: Butler was his name. When the Prince advanced through Lancashire, I travelled to meet him, and we became lovers. Oh, he was so handsome, and so charming in his manner!

   “When we reached Stanegate in December, Wibrahim was not there, but we were received by his wife. She was a proud lady and a lifelong supporter our cause. She knelt on the icy ground before the Prince and kissed his hand, welcoming him to her house as the representative of her true sovereign; and he most gallantly raised to her feet and thanked her with all his heart. Then the next morning we marched onwards.

   “I was present at the meeting in Derby a few days later, when all the Scottish chieftains told him he must retreat, since he had received no letters from France and not a single English lord or gentleman had joined them. And that was true, for many, like Wilbrahim, had run away to London, Sir Watkin Williams Wynn in Wales made not a move, and in Staffordshire Lord Gower committed the greatest betrayal, for he changed sides and joined the government!

   “The Prince was very angry, but could do nothing. If we had continued to London, who knows what would have befallen? I joined him in the retreat. His mood changed: he became morose, with bursts of anger. I do not think he ever again spoke to Lord Murray, who was his best commander.

   “When a garrison was left at Carlisle to cover the return into Scotland, I felt sure they would all be caught and hanged, so I fled. I knew of nowhere safe to go, and I almost starved in the snow as I walked, but near Penrith a kind farmer found me and took me in. Ralph Patterson was his name, a Catholic, and I lived in his home for a while, paying for my living by teaching his children. Eventually I was able to make my way back to France.

   “Years later, I was in Rome, and there I met the Prince again. But oh, how he had changed! He looked an old man now, he was often drunk, and then he would beat his wife and his mistresses. When I mentioned Scotland to him, he burst into tears. I felt sad for him.

   “Of my life in those years I shall say nothing. But then, a few years ago, with the war against your country going badly for us, monsieur le Duc de Choiseul, our chief minister, thought he should try for a new Jacobite revolt and invasion, so I was sent to England again, with the promise of money, to see what could be done. For this purpose I would approach the noblemen and gentlemen, like yourself, to see what I could discover concerning their thoughts about the war and the restoration of the true king. But I soon found that my mission was futile, and M. de Choiseul knew it too, and the money I was promised never came, and I was left in London, penniless and friendless! And now I am in the prison, with nothing to look forward to but the gallows!”

                     ............................................................. 

   I begged her to have confidence; that my friends and I would do our utmost to gain her a reprieve. Henry Darnwell had drawn up his petition, in what he said was proper legal form, respectfully begging His Majesty to exercise his Royal prerogative of mercy. I persuaded Sir Anthony Pardington to head the list of signatories. Those of my friends who were currently in London signed, and so did Mr Boswell and Charles Churchill. Lord Staines signed, but warned me on no account to approach his father for a signature. Finally, with some caution, I sought Mr Braithwaite. He read the petition and sighed.

  “Do you not know”, he said, “that His Majesty is resolved to suppress vice and immorality? His very first proclamation from the throne was to that effect. A woman with this kind of reputation is exactly the sort of person he wishes to eradicate from his capital. Even his tender-hearted Queen might draw the line here. And the fact that the woman is French does nothing to help her cause.

  “Why should you and your friends be exerting yourselves on her behalf?”

I told him that I had spoken to Danielle, and that I believed she held important information on the late Jacobite revolt in my part of the country, that I wished to discover.

    “And what would be the purpose of such an enquiry, pray?” he asked. “Such regrettable episodes should not be raked over: it does no good. We live in a new reign now, and may, I hope, look forward to happier times. As far as His Majesty is concerned, the Jacobite troubles are buried in the past and best forgotten; and I must say that I am in full agreement with him there.

  “May I suspect that your reasons are more personal?” he continued, “You surely do not believe she is a lady of spotless virtue, do you? Has she in fact performed certain services for you, which you prefer not to describe?”

   I did not reply. Mr Braithwaite’s voice had faded away to nothing, his eyes bore a faraway look and there was the ghost of a smile on his usually austere face. It was as if his mind was recalling the adventures of his youth, thirty or forty years ago. He was silent for a while and then sighed before speaking.

   “Well, I shall sign your petition. Proceed with your attempt if you wish, but do not live in any great hope of its success. I have some influence with the new ministers: I shall see if I can contrive to obtain for this woman of yours at least a stay of execution for the moment; or I can recommend her for transportation to the American colonies. But do not expect any more than that!”

    He added his signature, and it appeared I could only hope that he was wrong in his predictions. There were further questions I wished to ask Danielle, but I found these must wait, for I now received news of a most alarming nature from back home.

Chapter Twenty-six: Riots in London, and some amazing news

(It is May 1763, and Charles Huntingdon is having to divide his attention between events in London and at home) 

The next few weeks were full of confusion, as I was obliged to travel from Bereton to London and then home again on many occasions, so that even now, a decade later, I find it hard to make sense of it all. I shall therefore attempt to describe events in the capital first.

  I reached London to find the capital engulfed in a political storm. People were talking about nothing but politics, about the sudden fall of Lord Bute and the arrest of my friend John Wilkes by order of the Secretaries of State. Everyone appeared to hold different views of these great matters, and debate was fierce.   

   Since I knew nothing about these matters, I called first at Teesdale House, hoping to receive the benefit of the Earl’s advice and to assure his Countess that, thanks to her kindness, Louisa Wilbrahim was now safe. But it appeared that I was not welcome, for at the mansion’s door the servants fobbed me off with the most transparent falsehood that neither master nor mistress was at home. I now recalled, with surprise, that Lord Teesdale, my erstwhile patron and guide, had not bothered to write to me recently, despite all the work I had performed in forwarding his Enclosure and Canal bills. Why should this be?

    Sir Anthony Pardington was more forthcoming. He had recently returned from Bath, and described how the West Country had been up in revolt, with riots where bonfires were lit on which effigies of Sir Francis Dashwood, the Chancellor of the Exchequer, were burnt; this being in consequence of his proposed excise on cider, which was denounced as a tyrannous imposition. He wondered whether it was this violence that had caused Lord Bute to retreat from high office.  

  Sir Anthony then described the famous case of John Wilkes. Just two weeks after Lord Bute’s resignation, the now-famous Number 45 of the “North Briton” was published, which accused the King’s speech to Parliament of including a direct lie concerning the treaty with France. Although it was clearly stated that everyone knew that the speech was written by the ministers, not by the King personally, this was thought to be a criminal libel of the Crown. Wilkes had never acknowledged that he was the author of the “North Briton”, but ministers felt it was imperative to take some action, and accordingly Wilkes was arrested at his home in Great George Street under a General Warrant, which did not name the persons to be arrested. He was confined in the Tower, where his friends were not permitted to visit him. Sir Anthony feared riots and disorder on the streets of London, since Wilkes had many supporters.

   Mr Horace Walpole, whom I saw next, had been observing events with much amusement. 

   “Lord Bute is a timid soul, and sensitive to insults,” was his verdict, “The cartoons and the libels of Wilkes, pouring abuse on him and on the Princess Dowager, distressed him. A man in public life should be able to rise above the ravings of the mob. Why, I believe he is as fearful as the old Duke of Newcastle!” He shook his head sadly. “What a pair to have the running of our poor country! what a pair!

   “My father knew these starveling scribblers well enough. All these men have their price: offer them sufficient and they will turn their coats soon enough and direct their vituperation wherever you may direct them. Wilkes himself is in the pay of Lord Temple. But the ministers can buy the pens of any number of hacks by paying them pensions out of the Secret Service fund. That is the way to proceed.”

   He laughed and continued, “I am told that a few weeks ago, Lord Bute approached your friend Lord Teesdale, begging for his support, without which, he said, he was doomed. That patriotic senator dutifully promised support, provided there was in return a position on the Treasury board for his man Jarrett and the Garter for himself! But the King would not allow the latter. I do not think His Majesty likes the noble lord. Perhaps you should consider seeking a new patron?”

   “Have we seen the last of Lord Bute?” I asked.

    "I very much doubt it! I am certain that he intends to remain as the ‘minister behind the curtain’, advising the King in private. That was his position before his wholly unjustified elevation to high office, and he hopes to return to ruling by secret influence. Did you see the cartoon showing the Princess Augusta leading a blindfolded King by the nose, with a Scotchman in Highland dress lurking behind a tree? That would be Lord Bute’s preferred position – without the tartan plaid, of course, which we know he never wears”.

   “So we now have Mr. Grenville as Prime Minister.” 

   “ Grenville is indeed now First Lord of the Treasury, but even that transition was mishandled. I have been told that the position was offered first to Mr Fox, but he, knowing how universally he is hated, very wisely refused the poisoned chalice and has instead retreated to Essex, there to enjoy the unaccounted millions he has stolen from the country - unless, that is, his sons have already lost the money at the faro tables.

   “As for Grenville ….. you have seen him, you have heard him speak? Well, then, you know that he could out-talk the entire diplomatic corps, and the King will very soon weary of having to listen to him. Grenville is a man of absolutely no imagination, and I cannot see him lasting long. I foresee more turmoil, perhaps continuing for years.”

   The prospect did not seem to alarm him.

   At the Court of Common Pleas Wilkes delivered a strong speech, portraying himself the victim of persecution by a tyrannical ministry, denouncing General Warrants as illegal, proclaiming the freedom of the press, and “The liberty of all peers and gentlemen, and, what touches me more sensibly, that of the middling and inferior class of people who stand most in need of protection.” Lord Chief Justice Pratt ruled Wilkes’s arrest a breach of Parliamentary privilege and released him. I wondered what Sir James Wilbrahim, had he been present, would have made of this.

  Sir Anthony’s fears of riots then quickly came true. I was seated in a tavern one evening soon afterwards, and when I heard the shouts of “Wilkes and Liberty” in the street outside I ventured forth and was soon swept up in a mob of several hundred angry Londoners.

   Many of the poorer sort were assembled: grimy coal-heavers from Wapping, Spitalfields silk-weavers brandishing their shuttles, and butchers making a fearsome noise clashing their cleavers and steels together. This was a time of hardship and fierce disputes in many of the trades of London, and all these people now took Wilkes as their hero and champion. There were women too, shouting as loudly as their menfolk. Everywhere sticks and other weapons were brandished, and I feared murder might be done, but I saw no violence against any persons beyond some pushing and jostling. Prominent among the rioters was a youth whose head was adorned with hair the colour of flame: I was certain I had seen him before, but where?

   As the mob marched through the streets, a gentleman appeared on a balcony and harangued them, urging the marchers to strike a blow for English liberty. I was astonished to recognise my old friend Henry Darnwell, and wondered whether he was inspired less by sympathy with Mr Wilkes’s cause than by an irresistible love of causing mischief.

    That night the mob demanded that all householders must illuminate their homes to show support for Wilkes, and those that neglected to do so had their windows smashed. Disturbances continued for some hours before eventually the authorities restored some kind of order. I witnessed several arrests being made. Suddenly I heard my name being shouted, and turned to behold the flame-haired young man being taken into custody.

   “There!” he called, “That’s my master, Mr Huntingdon! He’s a Member of Parliament! He’ll vouch for me!” I now remembered him as the appropriately-named Redman, servant to Mr Braithwaite, who I had encountered at the great cricket match last summer. The disbelieving officer marched the culprit in my direction, where I confirmed my identity and committed perjury by vouching that that Redman was indeed my servant. As was customary, the gift of a silver coin assisted matters: the officer released Redman into my charge and departed, muttering some comments about gentlemen who could not keep their servants under better control.

   Redman thanked me for extracting him from a dangerous situation, and then impudently promised to return the favour some time. I was tempted to give him a stern talk on the recklessness of his behaviour, but decided it would have but little effect, and instead I merely advised him to stay close to his real master in future. 

   When I later reported the incident to Mr Braithwaite, he told me that he had been obliged to dismiss Redman from his service, for he had got a neighbour’s serving-maid with child! He shook his head sadly at Redman’s part in the riot, saying that it came to him as no surprise, and he only hoped that Redman could escape eventual hanging.

   Later, Wilkes was awarded substantial damages against the agents who had arrested him, and had the satisfaction of General Warrants declared to be illegal, but this was to be the end of his triumphs. A raid on his premises unearthed a copy of an obscene poem entitled “An Essay on Woman”, which was now widely circulated by agents of the ministry. I glanced at it myself and found it disgusting, though perhaps too crude to have come from Wilkes’s pen.

   I must jump ahead in my narrative to a debate in November, when even Pitt denounced Wilkes as “A blasphemer of his God and a libeller of his King”, and the House of Commons voted that Number 45 of the “North Briton” was “A false, scandalous and seditious libel”. Lord Staines delivered a most intemperate denunciation of Wilkes: he had not forgiven the offending remarks written about him, or what he regarded as the unsatisfactory outcome of the subsequent duel. Remembering the great debt I owed to Wilkes, I considered using the occasion to make a speech explaining that although I deplored the “Essay on Woman” as much as anyone, that I owed Mr Wilkes such a great personal debt that I felt an obligation to support him: but in the end I thought it best to maintain my silence as I voted with the minority.

   Wilkes himself was not present, for he had fought one duel too many and had been severely wounded. He fled to France; and when he did not appear at his trial for criminal libel, he was declared an outlaw.

   It was ordered that the “North Briton” and the “Essay on Woman” should be burnt by the common hangman at the Royal Exchange, and an attempt was made to carry this out in early December. But again a great mob assembled: they pelted the sheriffs, destroyed the windows of their coach and rescued the “North Briton” from the bonfire. The House of Commons later voted thanks to the sheriffs for attempting to do their duty, but the Common Council of London pointedly refused to do so.

   John Wilkes was not to return to England for several years, but now he is back in London again and the cry of “Wilkes and liberty” is once more heard on the streets of the city, where he is more popular with the mob than ever.

   The afternoon after the riot I sought out Henry Darnwell at a coffee-house he was known to frequent. I found him exhilarated by the night’s events: when I told him how surprised I had been to see him encouraging the Wilkite mob, he replied that he sincerely believed that English liberty was under the gravest of threats from the present ministers. I then reminded him of how he had recently written mentioning information he had discovered that would be of great importance to me. He admitted that this had quite slipped his mind, and said I must await the arrival of Bartley Wandescote, who would in all probability appear soon, and would tell me the whole story.

   “What? The man who takes delight in attending executions and visiting the poor souls in Bedlam? I have no desire to meet him again.”

   “Oh, but you must, for he has the most extraordinary tale to tell, which might be of great importance to you! While we wait, I shall explain the circumstances.  

      “I am reading for the Bar, and to this end I have attended a series of trials in Westminster Hall. They were mostly for theft, and since none of the defendants had counsel to assist them, the hearings lasted no more than a few minutes, and were inclined to be monotonous and repetitive. But on this particular day I found our friend Bartley there already. I fancy he enjoys studying the faces of the defendants when they are sentenced to death.”

   “No doubt he does. We all know his tastes, and I for one find his talk of such matters disgusting. Pray tell me why I should be forced to listen to him now?”

   “That is because of what he had seen before I arrived. One of the defendants ... But I shall let him tell the story himself: here he comes!”

    Bartley Wandescote had grown much fatter since I last met him. He was dressed with great opulence, but the powder on his rotund face failed to conceal the strange greenish colour of his skin. He greeted me warmly, while I forced myself to smile as I shook his soft damp hand. In response to Henry Darnwell’s request he began his account, but in a peculiarly circuitous way that was all his own.

   “There were several accused that day, mostly drawn from the poorest and most degraded parts of our great city. The judge was Armstrong, an old fool who enjoys making sententious longwinded speeches about wickedness when sentencing wretches to death for low crimes, and today he excelled himself. He even quoted Cicero at them, but so inaccurately and with so many false quantities that I concluded his teachers could not have flogged him sufficiently when he was at school. Of course, most of his victims could not understand a word he said, but I was torn between shuddering and bursting out laughing …”

   “But what did you want to tell us?” I interrupted him, with no little impatience.

   “Oh, yes. Now, one of his victims, a woman condemned for theft on the evidence of her landlord – a thorough villain if ever I saw one, who richly deserves to swing himself – felt obliged to answer him back. Possibly she was so disgusted by the display of crass and inept moralising that she could not abide listening to him a moment longer without interrupting. I felt much the same way myself. And who do you think she was?”  

  I could make no suggestion. Wandescote halted his discourse for a moment to let the excitement build up before continuing.

   “Why, it was none other than the fair Danielle, with whom we have had such interesting and instructive conversations! Her full name, it appears, is Danielle d’Autun – that is, of course presuming that she is telling the truth, which can by no means be guaranteed.”

   I had not thought of Danielle since she had initiated me into the mysteries of love one night on my first time in London. It all seemed many years ago.

   “What happened to her? Was she convicted?”

   “Naturally. All the defendants were convicted, and with great speed. Knowing her as we used to do, we can surely have little doubt that she was surely guilty of something! But her accuser, as I said, was the most arrant knave you could conceive. He swore she had stolen from him, though to my mind it was quite apparent that he kept a common house of assignation, and took tribute from her. If there was any justice, it should have been he who stood in the dock. I anticipate seeing him on the cart to Tyburn ere long.”

   “But tell Charles here what she said to the judge,” Darnwell intervened, “For I think it concerns him greatly.”

   “Have patience! She told the judge that if she was pardoned, she would supply details of Jacobite treason committed by certain prominent persons. She mentioned several names, one of which was that of Wilmington, or Wilburton, or something like that, who resided at Bereton.”

  “Sir James Wilbrahim!” I said in hushed tones.

   “Ah yes, that was it. I did not catch the name properly. But I remembered that you had inherited property in Bereton, and so did Henry here, when I recounted my simple story to him.”

   “What happened to her?”

   “Oh, she was sentenced to be hanged, of course. The ridiculous Armstrong swept her allegations aside and instead uttered yet more pompous pronouncements on vice and depravity, this time with special reference to females.”

   “And is she still alive? Where is she now?”

   “No doubt she is confined in a squalid dungeon somewhere, awaiting execution. I can find out, if you wish. But why? Do you want to talk to her?”

   “Yes, I do,” I replied. It occurred to me that she might be able to cast light on certain matters concerning Jacobitism in Bereton that had been worrying me.

   Henry Darnwell agreed. “I suppose we are honour bound to try to save her life,” he said, “for we have affectionate memories of Mam’selle Danielle, do we not? She gave much truly interesting tuition to us all – though not to Staines, of course - for all that we paid for it unknowingly with some of our possessions! So pray find out where she is held, and how we may visit her. In the meantime, I shall draw up a petition to the King, in proper legal form, humbly begging His Majesty to exercise his prerogative of mercy and grant a reprieve; and we can get all our friends to sign it.”

  “Very well, I shall make enquiries,” said Wandescote, “Though for my part I must say that she absolutely refused to perform what I requested of her, even though I offered to pay her a considerable sum of money.”

  “I am not surprised. I think only the lowest of whores could abide you!”

   “There, sir, you are wrong!” Wandescote replied, vastly amused. “You would be amazed at the tricks that the wives of some of our most respectable citizens are willing to attempt, merely to alleviate the tedium of their lives!” He chuckled. I had no idea whether he was reliving a memory or laughing at our reaction.