The Adventures of Tom Leigh (16 page)

“Come out to the barn,” he said.

“I've been bidden not to let t'lad out o' my sight, sir,” said Robert.

“Come and stand at the barn door, then, where you can see and not hear,” said Mr. Gledhill, rather more quickly and roughly than was his custom.

He led me out to the barn, and there beside the two smart brown horses, and the sacks of oats, and the harness, he turned up a couple of wooden boxes and we sat down.

“Well, now. Don't be afraid, lad; speak your mind.”

“Thank you for being so kind to me, Mr. Gledhill,” I said.

“You've been shabbily tret, Tom,” burst out Mr. Gledhill. I found out later that this word was a Yorkshire way of saying
treated
, but at the time I did not know this and was perplexed as to his meaning. There was no doubt, however, as to his feeling; he was deeply angered. “You should have been given a reward, not locked up as a thief. Stephen Firth makes to be a good warm-hearted man; he should have stood up for you. I make nothing of his missus, but what can you expect from that old tyrant Sykes's daughter? My wife's her cousin, you know. Meg was visiting us when she fell in with Stephen; he's rued it often, I'll bet a pack of wool. But all the same Stephen has some sense; he should have seen through yon Jeremy long ago. You needn't tell me about the stone on your elbow, and the way he left you hanging on the hook, and the cat, and all that.”

“How do you know about his persecutions of me?” said I, astonished.

“From little Gracie Firth, when Stephen left her here for the night. Lord, how that child talked! She was fearfully
distressed that you should be left alone in the house with Jeremy—seemed to think he'd murder you. Well, it wasn't so far off that, either, come to think. She almost had me walking up to Upper High Royd to see if you were safe.”

“Oh, how I wish you had come!” said I with a heartfelt sigh.

“Aye, but then we should not have caught the thieves,” said Mr. Gledhill shrewdly. “Howsomever, this is unprofitable talk and simply vexes me further. That liverish Swain is against you, and Sir Henry of course must be impartial. Besides, he lives by his rents; he knows nowt of cloth. Now, have you aught fresh to tell me?”

“Mr. Gledhill, you know the cloth trade.”

“I don't say otherwise.”

“Then you will know how difficult it would be for a thief to carry a stolen piece of cloth from Barseland to Halifax without discovery, and to sell it anywhere in the West Riding. Jeremy and the pedlar would be recognised at once carrying a piece of cloth over their shoulder near Barseland if it were daytime, and men do not carry pieces to Halifax or other market towns except on market days. On other days they would be observed as strange.”

“The cloth could be carried in the pedlar's pack.”

“But the pedlar did not leave Barseland that night, has not left it since the theft. Nor Jeremy either. Nor myself,” I added bitterly.

“We know all this, Tom—even Swain admits all this. The cloth must have been hidden somewhere not far from the Fleece Inn.”

“Indoors, then,” said I. “A great heap—eighteen yards—of blue, in this brown October landscape would stick out like a sore thumb.”

“Covered with leaves, perhaps,” said Mr. Gledhill thoughtfully. “But we have searched closely—everyone in Barseland has searched, and we have found nothing.”

“Some third person, some accomplice of Jeremy and the pedlar's, must have taken the cloth away.”

“We have thought of this long ago, Tom. Swain thought at first, of the earlier thefts, that it was your father.”

“What?” I cried aghast. “My father? The best, the most honourable of men!”

“He was a stranger, Tom.”

“There had been thefts before we came.”

“Swain thought you had been in the neighbourhood before the night of your father's death. But the letters from Lavenham disproved this.”

“I shall never forgive Mr. Swain! How dare he! Jeremy and the pedlar murdered my father!” I cried hotly, and I poured out all the story of the night in Mearclough, and the pedlar's cry of
Keep to the left
which had sent my father to his death.

“The pedlar speaks in a squeaking sort of tone,” said Mr. Gledhill.

“He affects it. If you had heard him on the night he stole Mr. Firth's cloth! He roared like a lion.”

“Well, we are no nearer the cloth, Tom.”

“The accomplice took the cloth away in a cart.”

“A cart? Happen. But whose cart? There is many a cart round Barseland. And how could he sell the cloth? Not in any Cloth Hall; to gain entry to Cloth Halls there are names to give and dues to pay. In the West Riding, to sell outside the Cloth Halls is against the law; I do not say it is never done, but at present the talk of Stephen Firth's stolen blue cloth is all over the West Riding; none would dare to buy or harbour it.”

“All over the
West
Riding,” said I.

“That's what I said. That's why Swain suspected your father—a stranger who could take the cloth elsewhere and sell it without comment.”

“The pedlar sells mittens which come from the
North
Riding, from a long way north, in Dent.”

Mr. Gledhill gave me a quick look.

“Somebody takes the cloth in a cart towards the north, where they do not make cloth and there are no Cloth Halls
and cloth can be sold openly,” I said, “and perhaps brings back mittens and other things for the pedlar to sell.”

“Well—go on,” said Mr. Gledhill. “Who is this unknown person?”

“Mittens—and mutton,” said I, hesitating.

“Speak out, lad!” cried Mr. Gledhill impatiently.

“Mr. Hollas of the poorhouse drives to Skipton to buy mutton from his cousin,” I said. “And from Harry's map I see that Skipton is on the way towards Dent.”

Mr. Gledhill stared at me.

“The night before I was apprenticed Mr. Swain's tenters were robbed. Next morning Mr. Hollas was not at the poorhouse. It will be easy, surely, to find whether Mr. Hollas set off for Skipton the day after Mr. Firth's tenters were robbed.”

“If he is guilty, he will deny it and confuse the dates.”

“If you went to Skipton immediately, without telling Mr. Hollas, and found his cousin,” I pleaded.

“He will have sold the cloth long before now.”

“Someone may remember it—the piece was a bright blue, like the one before.”

“We have no pattern.”

“I know who might be able to give you a pattern!” I cried. “The merchant who bought the previous piece. Don't you remember, Mr. Gledhill? He matched a pattern to the piece and bought it from Jeremy as he stood at your side in the Cloth Hall.”

“You are a sharp lad, Tom,” said Mr. Gledhill. “It was Mr. Rowlands, a very noted merchant who deals much with foreign parts. He may still have the cloth or the pattern.”

“Take me with you to Skipton,” I begged, “to find the pedlar's other accomplice.”

Mr. Gledhill gazed at me.

“Other accomplice,” he repeated slowly.

“Mr. Defoe said he saw Jeremy and the pedlar with a third man.”

“I have not seen the deposition yet; it came only yesterday.”

“But my letter says so. Look! I have a letter from Mr. Defoe,” I said proudly, drawing it out from my pocket. (My scissors were no longer there; Sir Henry had impounded them.)

Mr. Gledhill read the letter very carefully. At one point he started, or so it seemed to me; but I could not quite make out what word had pricked him. When he had finished he sat for a long moment with the letter in his hand. Then he spoke, quite in his former slow, mild way.

“Tom, you must not say a word of this to anyone. Not to Harry, not to Mr. Firth, not to Gracie, not to Robert. I will come to see Sir Henry this afternoon. Do not be troubled further, lad; we shall clear you and your father too.”

So it came about that a few days later Mr. Gledhill and I set off to go to Skipton. We went by public coach from Halifax one morning. I was astonished to see a knot of people gathered round as we came out of the inn: Mr. Firth was there with his mouth pulled down and tears in his eyes, quite pale and wretched, and Gracie at his side sobbed openly. As I put my foot on the step she rushed forward and wrapped her arms round my neck. Her cheek was wet against mine, and her tears ran down inside my neckcloth. I felt most awkward and reluctant under her embrace, at first, but then I grew sorry for the child's grief, and put my arms about her and hugged her and kissed her cheek, and said: “Now, Gracie love, now,” in a soothing tone.

“I don't want you to go away, Tom,” sobbed Gracie.

“I shall soon be back, love,” said I cheerfully.

(This way of saying
love
is a Yorkshire custom, and I used it designedly, to cheer her.)

“You are good and have done nothing wrong and I love you,” wailed Gracie.

At this the crowd laughed, though not unkindly, and I could not but smile a little, while the hot colour came in my
cheeks, but then I was vexed that anybody should presume to laugh at so sweet and warm-hearted a child, who had always defended me, and I said firmly:

“I love you too, Gracie.”

There was something in my tone which, I was glad to see, stopped the crowd's titters, and they looked at us with sympathy until Mr. Firth stepped forward and lifted her out of my arms.

“I don't want you to go to prison, Tom,” wailed Gracie.

This startled me, and I turned swiftly on Mr. Gledhill.

“Get in and be silent,” he said.

He put his hand on my shoulder and pushed me into the coach. The other passengers gazed at me with interest and would perhaps have spoken to me, but Mr. Gledhill put his finger on his lips in a solemn fashion.

In a few miles the coach drew up at a lane-end, and Mr. Gledhill and I dismounted. I waited till the coach had driven off, and then I turned on him.

“I think I have a right to know what this mention of prison means,” I said.

“That's right, Tom. Barseland and Halifax believe I am taking you to York Castle to prison.”

“And is this true?” I gasped.

“Nay, lad, you know me better than that. We are going to Skipton, but Hollas must not guess our destination, so we take a long way round. Here, prompt to the word, comes the coach for us.”

At first I was too much upset by the sudden alarm and its relief to take much notice of the landscape through which we passed, but presently I began to enjoy the many hills which, as we drew nearer Skipton, seemed higher and of a lighter rock than those near Barseland, while the valleys seemed wider and less tumultuously arranged. The amount of hills in the county of Yorkshire will always continue to astonish me.

It was evening light when we reached Skipton. I took a fancy to this town, for it was more like the towns of Suffolk
to which I was accustomed than those of Yorkshire. A fine broad market place led up to an old castle and a handsome church; on the left was an old half-timbered building which we were told was the gaol, and here we met the Constable of the township. By this time I was so sleepy I could hardly hold myself upright, so I have no recollection at all of this gentleman, save that he seemed to demur to my presence. But Mr. Gledhill insisted, and accordingly I trailed after them till we stopped in front of a neat house, not over large but a merchant's house, and well kept.

Mr. Gledhill shook me by the shoulder.

“Wake up, Tom!” he said. “I want you to look at this man we shall see here, John Hollas by name, a linen-draper, and tell me if you have seen him before. He may be Daniel Defoe's pock-marked man, you know.”

The name of Daniel Defoe brought me awake quickly enough and I stepped forward as the Constable knocked. A neat maid-servant admitted the three of us and showed us into a parlour at the back and lighted the candles and went to fetch her master. I stood all agog, waiting for the entrance of this pock-marked man and thinking how exciting it was that a letter for me from a great writer in London should have led us over hill and dale to this thief. Then Mr. John Hollas entered the room.

He was a short, plump man, very neatly dressed with bright shoe-buckles and a well-curled wig; florid in complexion and completely smooth of skin.

I was so utterly cast down and confounded—for knowing Daniel Defoe to be absolutely exact in all his observations I had believed him entirely about the smallpox—that I staggered back and almost fell, then with an effort I rallied myself and forced myself to gaze earnestly again into his face. But there was not a pock-mark on him.

“Well, Tom?” said Mr. Gledhill drily under cover of the Constable's explanation of our errand. “Do you know him?”

I shook my head and shrank back. This brought me to the windows, and gazing out in a daze of misery I muttered dully:

“There is Dobbin.”

“Dobbin?” exclaimed Mr. Gledhill, stepping towards me.

“The horse from Barseland poorhouse.”

“It is my cousin, then, and we can clear up this matter of the blue cloth at once, gentlemen,” said John Hollas. “For I assure you that I do not deal in stolen goods.”

He stepped towards the hearth to pull the bell, but I was so eager to be out of the way of these men who must be thinking of me as a fool and a liar that without a pause for thought I ran out and along the passage and through the kitchen and out of the back door, crying: “Mr. Hollas! Mr. Hollas!”

Mr. Hollas of the Barseland poorhouse was just dismounting from the cart, so that he had his back to me, but he heard my cry and turned to me with a smile. I gaped and halted, amazed, for in the light and shadow between the parlour candles and the setting sun, his freckles made dark spots on his cheeks, so that his face looked pitted.

I gave a loud cry and bounded towards him, and his face changed to fury, and he flung himself up into the driver's seat and whipped up the horse, and the cart clattered off down the narrow back street, swaying from side to side. I flew after him, and as I pounded down the street I suddenly remembered my great-grandfather and how he earned the silver watch, and my heart rose hot and strong within me, and I thought: “I can do what my great-grandfather did, I can catch the horse!”