Authors: Jean Rowden
Sir Martin gave her a wintry smile as he rose to his feet, ‘we’ve already heard of Miss Stoppen’s many admirers; we shall be speaking to them all in due course. Thank you, Lady Pickhurst. Perhaps you’ll be kind enough to mention our visit to his lordship, and ask him to contact me if he has any useful information. Oh, and there’s this. With your permission I’ll give a copy to your butler. I need it to be seen by all your staff, and as far as possible by tradesmen calling at the house.’ He gestured to Tremayle who took a piece of paper from his pocket. It was a handbill, asking for information about a vagrant who was wanted for questioning in connection with the robberies.
Lucille looked at it without interest. ‘Whatever you wish. I’m sorry I couldn’t help you further.’
Once the men had gone, Lucille rose to her feet and paced the floor for a few minutes, thinking hard. Biting on her lip, she rang the bell to summon the butler, and requested him to bring all the recent newspapers he could find.
Respite came for Beddowes only when he dropped to the ground through sheer exhaustion. Hours passed in a daze; he was transported to half-remembered marches through distant lands, unaware of any clear distinction between past and present. At times the sharp-spined gorse and rough heather flaying his legs became shifting sand, and at others it was deep clinging mud. His old sergeant major marched alongside him, and Beddowes was glad of the companionship, even though the man’s orders made no sense, and he shimmered in a very disconcerting manner from time to time.
The day was coming to an end. He stumbled through yet another patch of bog, and as he dragged himself back to drier ground he thought he heard the sound of bells, brought to him on the breeze. Some part of his mind wondered if it might be Sunday. The idea pleased him for a second or two; it was the day of rest, he thought. Surely, even if he was no saint, he wouldn’t die while the rest of the world was busy at their prayers. Suspecting there was something wrong with his logic, he soon forgot about it and slipped back into a daze.
When darkness fell Beddowes kept moving for a while, until he lost his footing, stumbling over a clump of heather and measuring his length on the ground. It seemed too much trouble to rise to his feet, so he allowed his eyes to drift shut. It would have been easy, he thought dreamily, to simply lie there and die. But that would mean he would never know who had been so intent on killing him. He felt an illogical need to discover the identity of the man whose body had been tipped into the makeshift grave before him. Had he been friend or foe? The thoughts spiralled until they vanished into darkness. For a long time he knew no more.
P
hoebe Drake splashed water on her aching eyes. Jonah was constantly on her mind and she’d hardly slept. Despite her best intentions she had gone to the window often during the night but this time she saw no stealthy prowlers, nor did she hear any quiet footsteps passing the nursery door.
Looking out into the cool morning light, she saw her cousin, his two assistants following behind, walking briskly towards the ruin to start their week’s work. She thought the young mason looked as if he too had gone short of sleep; there were furrows on his forehead she’d never seen before.
Suddenly angry, Phoebe hurried back to her own room to dress; until Jonah came to his senses there was nothing she could do. She would spend all her energy on the two children under her care. Rodney in particular was unhappy and, although he didn’t speak of the reason she could guess it; Lady Pickhurst did all she could to keep the children away from their uncle, and talked frequently about the benefits of their being sent away to school. Before their marriage, his lordship had indulged the boy, taking him around the estate. Sometimes Rodney had even been allowed to join his uncle at dinner, when there was no other company.
Once the children were having breakfast and safely in Annie’s charge, Phoebe hurried downstairs to the dining
room, where she guessed she would find Lord Pickhurst alone. Coper was on duty. His eyebrows lifted a little in surprise as she asked to be announced.
‘Miss Drake.’ His lordship put down his newspaper and beckoned her closer. ‘I trust nothing is wrong?’
‘No, your lordship, but I have a small request to ask of you. I was wondering if I might take Master Rodney on a little excursion. We are studying the history of Knytte, and have started with the monastery system. Would you give us permission to visit the ruins at Gretlyn this morning?’
‘I don’t see why not,’ Lord Pickhurst said. ‘The journey shouldn’t take more than an hour if I order the bays, they’ve had little exercise lately, and they’ll take you at a fair clip. You don’t intend to take little Eliza?’
‘I thought she would find the outing too tiring. Annie can look after her, just this once, unless you would prefer some other arrangement.’ Phoebe felt suddenly light-hearted; she hadn’t been away from Knytte since she took up the post of governess, and depending upon who was sent to drive, she might be allowed to take the reins of the two fine horses for part of the way.
‘No, that will do.’ Lord Pickhurst picked up the paper again, giving her a half-smile. ‘Tell Rodney I shall try to find time to take him out myself sometime next week, Miss Drake, as I used to. I quite miss the boy’s company.’
She almost ran to take this message back upstairs. Half an hour later she and the boy were seated behind Nunnings, with a stableboy perched behind, and the matching bays pulling hard, as eager as she was to leave Knytte for a few hours.
A bright sun shone on his back and warmed him. It would have been easy, the sergeant thought hazily, never to make another move. He could simply lie there until death took him;
he had a feeling it might not take too long. But then he’d never discover who had tried to kill him, or why. It would be annoying to leave such a mystery unsolved, and the offence unpunished.
It must have been halfway through the morning by the time Beddowes dragged himself to his feet once more. The spectre of his old sergeant stood grinning at him. ‘One last day, lad,’ the familiar voice was jovial. Beddowes tried to reply, but could make no sound. His lips were dry and cracked, his tongue felt too large for his mouth, and there was a nagging pain in his belly to add to the aches left by the beating he’d taken, but still he set himself into motion. He’d long since forgotten why he’d been heading west, but he saw no reason to change direction. His imaginary companion nodded approvingly and promptly vanished.
Beddowes had been following the track for some time before he noticed it. It had simply appeared under his feet. Looking back he saw his own footprints in a wet patch, but there were others, and the marks of shod hoofs, quite fresh. People came here.
Despite this discovery he couldn’t pick up speed; he was close to the end of his strength. The track became wider. It lead downhill, and stopped where it encountered a dusty lane. He halted for a long moment, unwilling to make a choice between left and right. He looked to the south. The sun felt too hot and bright on his face, so he turned north instead, and plodded on.
Barely conscious, he saw the gang of road-menders before him as a group of moving trees. One of them, a lad of about eight, employed to gather stones while his older brothers dug out ditches, picked up a pebble and threw it at the tramp, jeering at the ragged scarecrow as he staggered by, and capering in delight when he scored a hit. This brought a laugh
from some of the men, welcoming the brief diversion from their labours, and very soon they had all entered the game, scooping small stones from the road.
Shouts rang in Beddowes ears, but his addled brain made no sense of them, and he slouched on, head down and shoulders hunched. Hits on his head and face were met with roars of delight, and an increasingly heavy barrage. Losing his balance, he fell to all fours. Shouting enthusiastically, the road gang crowded closer. Beddowes tried to regain his feet, but the world was slowly tilting and the sky above him darkened. Without making a sound, he dropped insensible to the ground.
The excursion to the ruins of Gretlyn monastery was a great success. Many of the walls still stood and they spread over a large area, making an exciting roofless maze to be explored. ‘Take care, Master Rodney,’ Phoebe warned, as the boy climbed the remains of a spiral staircase which vanished into the darkness of a narrow tower.
‘It’s quite safe,’ came the reply, ‘I’m holding onto the wall.’ He went on climbing, his voice echoing as he went higher. ‘I can see the top now. Why don’t you come up?’ A gleeful laugh drifted down to her. ‘I’m on the roof, Miss Drake!’
With some trepidation she followed him, and found the climb easier than she expected. She was rewarded by a fine view over fields, villages and scattered farms, with a glimpse of the sea in the distance. ‘How lovely! I would never have thought you could see so far.’
‘I wish my uncle had come. He knows the name of every place from Hagstock to Clow Bay, he told me so.’ The boy’s face clouded. ‘I never see him now.’
‘He misses your company too,’ Phoebe said. ‘I believe he means to try to find some time for you. Maybe one day Lady
Pickhurst will come to know you and your sister better, and be a little kinder.’
The child shook his head. ‘I hate her, and she hates us. Knytte was supposed to be mine when my uncle dies, but now she’s to have it.’
Phoebe bit her lip; she should reprimand the boy for saying such things, yet she suspected he was right about Lady Pickhurst. ‘Surely that cannot be true. Everyone knows you’re the heir.’
‘I’ll be Lord Pickhurst perhaps, if she doesn’t have a boy, but I shan’t have Knytte. My uncle told me, the first time she came here. I’m sure he was sorry, but she was smiling behind his back. She wants him to send me away to school.’
‘Even if that happened, Knytte will be your home until you’re grown up,’ Phoebe said. ‘And going to school might not be so bad. It might be quite an adventure. There would be lots of other boys, and you’d soon make friends.’
‘Would I?’ He looked doubtful.
‘Of course. Anyway, let’s forget that for now. We’re here to work. Make the map first, with as many things labelled as you can manage. Once that’s done we’ll have some fun.’ She looked at the view again. ‘While you’re busy I might bring my sketch book up here.’
‘I’ll fetch it, shall I?’ Without waiting for a reply he was gone, coming back a few minutes later with Nunnings, who gave her a shy smile. ‘I thought you’d like something to sit on, Miss Drake,’ he said, putting one of the cushions from the dog cart on the stone ledge that ran around the inside of the wall. ‘Don’t worry about the young master, I’ll keep an eye on him for you while he’s poking about down below.’
‘Thank you, that’s very kind. Don’t forget, Rodney, the map first, and see you make a good job of it.’
The two hours they had scheduled soon passed. Once his
task was done Phoebe rewarded the boy with a game of hide and seek among the ruins. Flushed and laughing, they returned to the dogcart. Nunnings didn’t object when Phoebe asked to take the reins for a while; she had often driven her father when he was visiting his parishioners although it was a challenge, managing a pair of blood horses rather than a staid pony. She was concentrating hard as they trotted briskly along the moorland road; Nunnings seemed happy to have her seated beside him, although he remained properly respectful, speaking only when it was necessary.
Phoebe was happier than she had been in months, lifting her face to feel the warmth of the sun and letting her eyes close, just for a moment. A startled sound from Nunnings jolted them open again. There was a swirl of dust ahead, and a strangely disturbing sound.
As they drew closer the dark moving mass turned into a knot of men and boys, intent on something that lay in their midst on the road. The sound of their shouts and laughter became more plainly audible above the rattle of the wheels, and Phoebe slowed the horses.
‘Have they caught some poor animal? I believe they’re throwing stones at it.’ She hated to see senseless cruelty. Her father had been a compassionate man; in this situation she knew exactly what he would have done. She slowed the horses, fired with his crusading spirit.
Nunnings shrugged. ‘Pull around them, Miss, it’s none of our business.’
Ignoring him, she brought the bays to a smart halt. ‘What do you think you’re doing?’ she called. ‘What’s going on here?’
The group opened up a little, and she saw to her horror that their target was not an animal but a man, who lay apparently senseless on the road.
One man, evidently in charge of the others, knuckled his forehead. ‘’Tis nothing to worrit you, missus,’ he said cheerfully. ‘’Tis only a beggar. We’ll see him out o’ the road for ye.’
‘Beggar or not, you’ve no business attacking the poor man. Get away from him at once. You should be ashamed of yourselves.’
‘He’s nobbut a stranger,’ another of the road-menders said sullenly. ‘A man should keep to his own parish, not come beggin’ from decent folk. Tain’t no fault of ourn he got lost on the moor. We didn’t do no harm, he were all but done-in anyways.’
‘Then that’s all the worse!’ Phoebe leapt down before Nunnings could prevent her, pushed her way through the roadmen and went to stoop over the tramp. His clothes were in tatters, his hair and beard so long and matted that she could barely make out his face.
Phoebe had become used to dealing with charity cases from an early age, being only ten when her mother died. Her father had never shirked a local priest’s less pleasant duties, and Phoebe had become his constant helpmate. Putting a hand to the man’s filthy arm she felt his pulse. It was there, stronger than she’d expected. However, his breathing was shallow, and his flesh felt hot and dry. She turned to the ganger. ‘He’s feverish. Bring him something to drink. At once!’ she added fiercely, when he hesitated, ‘don’t you listen to your preacher? Have you never heard the story of the good Samaritan? Once the poor man has had a drink you can lift him into the dogcart.’
With the lad called from his perch to hold the horses, Nunnings came to her side, closely followed by young Rodney. ‘I don’t know that this is any business of ours, Miss Drake,’ the coachman said. ‘What will his lordship say if we bring home a toe-rag like that?’
‘I don’t know and I don’t care, I’ll not leave him here with these barbarians. Surely he can be spared a meal. I’ll pay for it myself if necessary,’ she added, taking the battered tin cup she was offered, and sniffing it. Strong cider; it would do. It was a relief to see the unconscious man’s throat move as she tipped each tiny mouthful between his lips. ‘Master Pengoar, get back in the carriage this minute, there’s no call for you to be involved here.’
‘But this could be the man Sir Martin Haylmer is after,’ Rodney said, his eyes alight. He turned to Nunnings. ‘There’s a reward. Didn’t you see the handbill?’ The man looked mystified. ‘It was in the stableyard, pinned to one of the doors. I saw it there this morning.’
Nunnings shook his head. ‘I saw it, but I didn’t read it,’ he mumbled, ‘I’m not too good at my letters.’
‘A tramp is wanted for questioning about the jewel robberies.’ The boy was hopping up and down in his excitement. ‘Maybe we’ve just caught the thief.’
‘Hold on,’ the road-mender said. ‘You say there’s a reward? You reckon to tek him away, but who found the beggar, eh?’
‘You found him, but you also half killed him,’ Phoebe retorted. ‘There’ll be no reward for a dead man. Two of you lift him up and put him in the carriage. Handle him gently; you’ve done enough harm. Master Rodney, you will ride in front with Nunnings, and I’ll do what I can to make this poor soul comfortable in the back. It’s lucky we’ve room.’
The men obeyed, but the ganger wasn’t prepared to let their captive go so easily. When Phoebe was settled with the unconscious man propped half on the floor and half on the seat, and Nunnings had taken up the reins, the road-mender grabbed the offside horse by the bit. ‘I reckon we’re owed summat,’ he said obstinately.
‘The poster said that they would pay anyone who could tell
them where the tramp was,’ Rodney said. ‘You may go to Sir Martin at Clowmoor and tell him he’s been taken to Knytte.’
‘Yes, do that if you wish,’ Phoebe nodded. ‘If the Lord Lieutenant is looking for this man he should be told, but be sure I shall inform him of what happened here. Now step aside, if you please.’
The dogcart jolted into motion, but the unconscious man didn’t stir. Phoebe looked down at what little she could see of his face, wondering how he’d come to such utter destitution; he looked as if he hadn’t seen a square meal in years. However, the makeshift splint and bandage on his arm suggested that somebody had recently spent some care upon him, unless he’d managed it for himself.