Authors: Janice Robertson
‘Get it off me!’ Dick shrieked.
‘What you doin’ in ‘ere?’ Jaggery asked.
‘Fixing the planks,’ Dick answered lamely.
A grin on his face, Jaggery slammed the door.
‘Hoy!’ Dick scrambled over the corpse to get to the door. ‘Let
me out!’ he cried in a perturbed voice, realising Jaggery was standing outside,
keeping a hold on the opposite side of the handle.
Amused by Dick’s discomfiture, the riders threw themselves
into their saddles and cantered away.
Having had his little fun, Jaggery stepped back from the
coach and went off to listen to the quarrel between Wakelin and Thurstan.
It had all been play-acting with Dick. Taking his chance, he
thrust aside the corpse and drew back the planks so that Eppie could crawl up
beside him.
Pulling up the corner of the curtains, which had been drawn
to conceal evidence of its extraordinary traveller from prying eyes, she peered
out.
Wakelin glowered at Thurstan as he prowled around him, a
pistol in his hand.
‘I have always believed that there is much to the art of
physiognomy,’ Thurstan said, ‘judging a character from the features of the
face. It is one of my greatest delights when condemning people to the gallows.
I have an expanding collection of heads, which I plan to transfer to the Brown
Room at Tunnygrave Manor. On this occasion, however, I must forgo your cranium.
Sad, although I suppose it would have been devoid of brains. Have you anything
to say before I improve your ape face by reducing it to particles of dust?’
‘Go to plaguey hell!’
‘Tut, tut. After all the years I have had the misfortune of
being acquainted with you, I must say that your language is not much improved.’
‘I know your scabby mind’s behind this bodysnatching. I’m
gonna have the law on you.’
‘But I
am
the law. You can do nothing to touch me. Jaggery,
I will let you into Dung Heap’s murky secret. Many years ago, he stole Gabriel’s
sister, Genevieve, from her cradle. She goes under the assumed name of Eppie Dunham.’
‘Her! Sour face, spits like a wild cat?’
‘The very one. I would not want her to challenge my
inheritance. She must be disposed of, permanently. I suggest you keep a watch
at Bridge House, where I suspect she is hiding. Now, Dung Heap, you will
accompany me to the church. I would not like our little business to be
overheard.’
Wakelin had been expecting this.
Taking the full force of Wakelin’s blow on his chin, Thurstan
crashed back against the door. The carriage lurched on its rockers. Eppie
nearly screeched with surprise, but managed to keep silent.
Fulke cracked the whip over the horses. Away the carriage
sped, bumping and bounding over ruts in the road.
Panicking, Eppie made to throw back the door.
Placing his hand over hers, Dick restrained her. ‘If you both
jump out at this speed you’ll go under the wheels.’
With his feet on top of a plank, he grasped the wooden ledge
that ran around the top of the carriage, used to stop luggage from toppling
off, and dextrously swung his body.
‘What’s that!’ Dick shrieked as he thumped onto the driver’s
box beside Fulke.
Snorting in alarm, the horses shuddered to a stop, leathers
creaking. The swinging door smashed against the shiny painted side of the
carriage.
‘’ere, waz your game?’ Fulke bawled.
‘Didn’t you see it?’ In Dick’s voice was a genuine note of fear.
‘See what?’
‘That ghost in the middle of the road! It was a girl, shimmering
like a light, with white ribbons and grass in her hair. The horses ran straight
through her.’
‘I reckon it’s you what’s been on the bottle, not me.’ Fulke
jumped down and slammed the door shut. ‘I’ll never get to me bed at this rate.
You climb up the rear and keep a sharp eye out with that gun.’
Wakelin was through the graveyard
before Thurstan had a chance to recover.
Not far off The Leaking Barrel, a cavern of lamplight and
warmth, with its lopsided beams and dirty plaster, beckoned. Wakelin pictured Fortune,
the painted barmaid, drifting between tables, the smell of rum and tobacco
hanging heavy in the parlour.
His only chance of staying alive was to head in the opposite
direction, along the riverside. The path led to the barge, where he kept a gun
concealed. If Thurstan was intent on his death he ought to have an even
chance.
On this sultry night the depths of the river stewed, reeking
with a concoction of fermenting sewage and spewed substances.
‘I’m gonna make it,’ he spat out as he stumbled along. Wretched
from a surfeit of ale and sleepless nights in the damp caves he was petrified
by the thought that he might be wrong.
Thurstan was gaining on his quarry, the steady thudding of
his boots growing louder.
Now, well into open countryside, Wakelin spotted the black
bulk of the dilapidated barge. In spite of its sorrowful state, one or two timbers
missing, and the bow gouged by collisions with other vessels, it offered a
place of sanctuary, a haven where he liked to shut himself away from the world.
Though he could not see the wood smoke curling from the flue, he smelt the
savoury waft of roasting meat coming from the cabin.
Despite his peril, he was overwhelmed with fury, wondering
who had broken into his boat. He had no time to ponder further. Dodging
bullets, he listened in dread to their whine before they struck the dirt path
before him, sputtering grit. An easy target, he knew he was being played along.
A piercing pain shot through his leg and thence through the
rest of his body. He cried out in pulsating agony. A second bullet gored into
his flesh. Staggering, doubled over, he crashed into the congealed river.
Thurstan drew up swiftly, having noticed a figure emerge
from a ruined barge further up. Under cover of darkness he was confident that
the person would not be able to recognise him. Before turning to flee, he let
loose with a volley of shots into the river where Wakelin floundered.
Ignited, the cocktail of combustible
wastes encircling Wakelin burst into flames. He made a desperate attempt to
escape the fiery heads of luminous serpents which leapt around, scarlet and
turquoise, searing. A haze of blue smoke enveloping him, he gulped his last
breath of air and sank beneath the tempestuous waters.
‘That was a close thing,’ Gabriel said. He and Eppie crawled
from behind a hedge and watched the carriage race away.
Heading back along the road, Gabriel winced when his bare
toes caught the edge of a sharp stone. ‘I was nearly suffocated in that sack
and have practically lost all feeling in my legs.’
‘At least you’ve had an easy time of it,’ Eppie teased.
‘An easy time?’
‘All you had to do was stick your feet up and have a nice rest.’
‘It was hardly tranquil, knowing that I might be discovered
at any moment. And I’m starving. Every time a guard came in to stitch a
prisoner into a sack I had to squash my stomach, otherwise it would’ve growled
louder than gravel rattling in a tin. At the same time I had to hold my breath
and count to one hundred and thirty one. You try it.’
Ponderously, Eppie asked, ‘Do I have a sour face and spit
like a cat?’
‘Do you want an honest answer?’
Eppie gripped his arm harder, having caught the sound of a
horse ridden hard towards them. ‘Someone’s coming!’
Dragging her reluctant brother by the arm, they scurried for
cover behind a tree that stood beside a field gate.
Gabriel peered up the road, watching the horseman canter
away. ‘That was Thurstan.’
‘I hope Wakelin’s all right.’
‘Don’t worry. Thurstan took quite a blow; he won’t have caught
him.’
‘I told Wakelin to get away. He chose to stay and create a
distraction whilst Dick and I rescued you.’
‘After what Thurstan did in wrenching father’s neck like
that, it’s reassuring to know that there are kindly people like Wakelin out
there.’
As they approached the graveyard gates, Eppie glanced at
Gabriel’s clothing. ‘It wouldn’t be a good idea to shamble through town dressed
in prison breeches; they’re a dead giveaway if you’re spotted. We might find
something in the church for you to wear. We mustn’t delay; Reverend Clinch will
be back to lock up, if he hasn’t already.’
The unexpected scrimmage with Wakelin having distracted the
bodysnatchers, they had omitted to clear up. A solitary lantern forgotten, its
glimmer fell upon a subterranean chamber.
They crept along the nave and stared into the hole.
Stone coffins were stacked one on top of another, hemmed in by
shadows. Eppie was consumed by a chilling eeriness, imagining the parched
skeletons lying long and aching for centuries in the vault.
Worse, was the desecration of Squire Bulwar and Lord
Wexcombe’s corpses; whatever their flaws in life, they had deserved dignity in
death, not vandalism of their remains.
Eppie led Gabriel to where she knew cassocks would be
hanging. She rummaged through the robes.
The door banged. ‘Oy! Who’s back there?’
Startled by Jaggery’s fierce voice, Eppie and Gabriel
glanced at one another, horrified.
Eppie’s lips barely moved. ‘I’ll tackle him.’
‘No, he’s dangerous!’
Forcing him between pegs, she thrust a robe over his face.
‘Once I’ve got him on the run, you head to Bridge House. Mam’s waiting.’
She leapt into the nave.
Jaggery trod steadily towards her. ‘If it ain’t that ill-tempered
Eppie Dunham, or should I be addressing you as my lady? I can’t begin to
wonder what you’re doing here, all alone at this time o’ the night. O’t nasty
might befall you.’
‘Or you!’ she cried, hurling a hassock at his sneering face.
Pelting between rows of benches, she headed towards an open
stone doorway which led to the roof. Her eyes burning through sepulchre
blackness, she hastened up the curving stairway. Feeling her way with her
hands, she yearned for a handrail to speed her flight.
Jaggery’s muffled footsteps were not far behind; his cursing
indicating that he was experiencing the same difficulty.
Thankfully, she felt the door with her hands before her head
crashed into it.
Bats soared in the bell tower, their velvet bodies wheeling
above her.
At her feet lay a broken weathercock. Grabbing it, she
rammed it between the bottom of the door and a drainage pipe which spanned the
flat roof. Just in time. Jaggery thundered on the timbers with his fists as
though trying to punch a hole through the door.
A stone parapet, designed like the rampart of a fortress,
ran around the rooftop. She leapt to the edge. Viewed from this height, the yew
trees appeared minuscule.
Hoping to find a way down, she hitched up her skirts and
stepped into a recess. All around fiendish gargoyles leered, their wings sharp
against the violet sky. She gaped in trepidation at the sickening drop. There
was nothing else for it, she would have to hide from Jaggery and make him
believe that she had found a way down. Throwing her shoes off the roof she took
a firm grip on the stone and, turning her body, shifted along the outside sill.
Clutching onto each of the square blocks of the ramparts, she felt with her
bare toes until she stood upon the hunched back of a gargoyle.
There was a clang and clatter of yielding metal. Jaggery was
through.
Eppie gasped in alarm, so unnerved that she almost lost her
balance. Sinking to her knees, she manoeuvred herself until she was able to
straddle the beast’s back, her hands clasped around its stony neck.
Riding the nightmare creature across the sullen skies, she
experienced a heady stillness. The expanse of emptiness above and below was
exhilarating, sickening. In her mind, she became the carefree child she had
once been, soaring upon her swing over the stream. ‘This must be what it feels
like to sail across an ocean,’ she thought. In her fancy she imagined the
church soaring, a char-blackened ship, crashing and rolling upon waves of
graveyard flotsam.
An owl, disturbed from its perch, swished past, its wings
creating a gust of warm air as it brushed close to her face.
The man stepped close. Tap-tap went the hobnails on his boots.
‘I know you’re out here,’ he drawled. ‘I can smell your fear.’
From the corner of her eye she saw his head appear above the
parapet. If he looked down now she was done for.
A bell clanged. Inwardly, Eppie groaned. ‘Surely that’s not
Gabriel trying to follow?’ Stumbling, he must have grasped a bell rope to
steady himself.
Jaggery presumed it was her and drew back. ‘Thought ya’d
give me the slip, did ya?’
Listening to his retreating footsteps, she prayed Gabriel
would realise Jaggery was on his way down, and hide.
Yawning silence.
Stealthily, she clambered back. Terrified of falling from
the rooftop, her legs shook.
Tiptoeing to the door, she was reaching for the knob when, from
behind, came a grating noise. A creeping sensation travelled up her spine to
the back of her neck. Now she was spooking herself, imagining leaden footsteps
treading through the gloom. Daring herself, she glanced back.
Roaring from the pit of his stomach, Jaggery hurtled towards
her and cast the remains of the weathervane at her head.
Yelping, she ducked.
The weapon smashed into the door, its echo reverberating in
the void of the church.
Fleeing along the rooftop, she soon reached the opposite end.
If she was to die, she did not want him to know that she was
afraid. Turning to face him, she willed her thudding heart to calm, but knew her
panic must be evident in her pounding breath.
He advanced, his murderous eyes starting from behind a wilt
of grizzled locks. Seeing her awaiting death, the look of doom etched upon her
numb features, Jaggery sneered jubilantly, revelling in her terror before the
kill. He laughed through his yellow rat’s teeth. ‘This serves ya right for
never givin’ me a slice o’ shortbread.’