by Robin Blake
That night he did indeed take supper in his room, a supper got up with ingenuity by Matty, who was coming along greatly as a cook. However, when the boy Pip came in to tell me my message had been delivered, I gave him another penny to make a very different delivery – of the Marquis’s meal tray into his room. I was not going to play at hazard with young Matty’s virtue.
Later, before going out with Suez, I bundled the girl off upstairs with a stern warning to keep the key of her room turned and not range about in the night. The house was quiet when the dog and I returned. My rebel guests had retired, and though I had invited Fidelis to have a bed as before, he had opted to stay near his horse. I hoped he was not sleeping in a bed of pig manure.
Not feeling sleepy, I went to the library to write my journal. I gave myself the task of remembering, or rather reliving, the strange dream I had had in the morning, in order to record it. I had pieced some fragments together when suddenly I realized the meaning of it all – the argument with Elizabeth, the firewood and, above all, the gamekeeper’s gibbet, with the dead animals hanging from it. The gibbet in the dream, as most of them are, was formed from an upright stick hammered into the ground with a crosspiece nailed to the top, making a T-shape.
In other words, Robert Nixon’s headless cross.
TWENTY-ONE
We woke to a morning sun, the first in weeks. No human being, whatever the circumstances, is not lightened by such winter mornings. They make the heart feel for the briefest time young. They ungloom the soul with a fleeting promise of light and spring.
Gibbins certainly felt it. He was in his nature a jovial man, and the day met his nature on equal terms. He strode into my office and wrung my hand like an old friend.
‘Lucky it was, Mr Cragg. I have business in town this morning, so when I got your message, I had no difficulty. What was it you wanted to ask me?’
‘This may seem strange, Gibbins, but it is about the plaid worn by the men who came to the Swan on the day Limmington died,’ I said.
‘Are you still looking into all that, Mr Cragg. I should have thought you’d drawn a line there, with your inquest over and done.’
‘It is hard to draw a line completely, when one becomes enwrapped in a case.’
‘But the matter is decided, is it not? The verdict is given.’
‘It is open to me if new evidence comes my way to re-inquest, though I will only do it if I feel the truth has been badly served. There were some details that didn’t quite – and still don’t – satisfy me, and one of these concerns the troop of Highlanders that came to the Swan and subsequently went over to Limmington’s place. Now. Can you picture them still?’
‘Oh, aye, I can remember them well enough.’
‘I would like to identify their clan, if possible. Were they all wearing the same design or pattern of tartan?’
‘Yes, they were. I think so. Yes, I’m sure.’
‘Well, Mr Gibbins, the town is full of Highlanders this beautiful morning. Shall we go out and see if we can spot a plaid that matches your memory?’
Gibbins meant to see the brewer about his order for Christmas ale and, to save time, I agreed to walk along with him while we spied out likely tartans. First, we made a tour of Market Place. One group of soldiers gathered around a seller of oranges, some of the first of the season to be seen in Preston, now brightly reflecting the sunshine. Next, we examined another group encircling two men practising swordplay, shouting encouragement as the combatants danced around, their blades catching the sun’s rays in flashes. But none of the plaids these men wore were right. We passed along the Strait Shambles and I caught sight of Starkey’s house between buildings. The windows were open and a maid scrubbed the step.
While crossing Church Gate in front of the church itself, and walking towards the top of Stoney Gate, we saw at least three dozen more rebel soldiers. They were going this way and that in groups. One group trundled a cannon on its carriage behind a mule. Another walked in file, carrying sacks of stores. A third was coming out of Barkworth’s Bakery with armfuls of bread that they certainly had not paid for, since Barkworth stood at his door in his apron, calling after them despairingly.
‘We were cheering and praising them when they first came down,’ said Gibbins. ‘Not now they’re going up again. They’re costing us. The price of bread’s gone sky-high for those that have to pay for it – unlike that lot, who just take what they want.’
‘How about that fellow over there – coming out of the barber?’
This officer, rubbing his newly shaved chin, was smartly turned-out. He crossed the road to join a waiting detachment of common soldiers in charge of a cart. They all wore the same tartan, but it was not the one Gibbins remembered. So we turned down Stoney Gate and then left into a cross lane that connected with School Lane. Here stood Thomas Lacey’s brewery, one of four in town. We found the brewer in his business room, highly agitated and uncharacteristically voluble.
‘They’ve bloody found my horses,’ he said when I enquired after his well-being. ‘I thought they were well hid, but someone informed, and they’ve found them and taken them, with both the drays. How can I sell my beer if I can’t move it? I ask you, Mr Cragg, how?’
Gibbins, realizing he had come at a bad moment, did not stay for a discussion but handed over a paper on which his Christmas requirements were written.
‘Happen you’ll have your dray and horses back soon,’ he said without much conviction, while Lacey cast a negligent eye over Gibbins’s order.
‘I’ll not bet on it,’ he said. ‘Likely you’ll have to come and fetch this lot yourself come Christmas.’
We left and headed back up Stoney Gate before turning left into Fisher Gate. The wind had got up, and new clouds were riding in from the east to get across the sun. A few yards along the street we passed my tobacconist and opposite him the goldsmith’s, which was open, though the shop window and the shelves and cases inside seemed almost empty of wares. Taking Gibbins by the arm, I crossed the street to look in. It had been just three years since old Hazelbury, previously the chief clerk, had taken over the shop in his own name, with legal advice from me, and I wondered how he’d fared with the rebels. I soon found out for, as we approached, the shop door flung open and a Scotch soldier burst out at a run, with Hazelbury shouting after him from within.
‘Stop thief!’
The thief himself had slightly misjudged the shop’s threshold and stumbled over it, breaking his stride and making it a simple matter for Gibbins, now just two yards away from him, to dart forward, extend his leg and cause the fellow to trip. As he went down, a small silver pepper pot bounced out of his hand and landed at my feet. I picked it up while Gibbins made the fellow prisoner. He had struck his head on the paving as he fell and was too dazed to resist as Gibbins pushed him back inside the shop.
‘Here’s the loot – just a bit dented,’ I said to Hazelbury, handing across the pepper pot. ‘Is it all he took?’
‘I reckon so, Mr Cragg. How do, Mr Gibbins. I am fortunate you were passing.’
‘What happened?’
‘The fellow came in pretending to be a customer, until he whipped this out of the window in full view. It’s not the first thing that’s been thieved from me by rebels.’
He took me aside and murmured out of the thief’s earshot.
‘Most of my stock’s in a safe at my house.’ He winked. ‘Which they’ve never found.’
At this moment the bell swinging from the street door tinkled and the door swung open. A second Highlander stood there, a massive red-bearded ogre who growled something in Gaelic. Having come to himself, the prisoner reacted quickly. He twisted from Gibbins’s grip and ducked as I took a step forward and tried to grab him. All I got was a fistful of his plaid. The man himself was gone, through the door and sprinting away, leaving all three of us gaping after him.
‘Don’t blame yourself,’ I said to Gibbins. ‘I should have got him myself. But we would have had to let him go anyway, eventually.
The good thing is you’ve still got your pepper pot, Hazelbury.’
Gibbins approached me and touched the plaid that I still had in my hands.
‘That’s it,’ he said.
‘That’s what?’ I said.
‘That’s the same tartan as the Highlanders wore when they came to the Swan.’
I had taken hardly any notice of the cloth in my hand. I did so now.
‘My God!’ I said. ‘I know this one too.’
‘What is it?’
‘This plaid belongs to the Clan MacGregor,’ I said. ‘The same clan that the two murdered men came from. The same clan that took me prisoner.’
‘MacGregor?’
‘Aye,’ I said, remembering my first encounter with the Scotch sergeant on Playhouse Green. ‘You’ll have heard of Rob Roy.’
Back at the office, I wrote a note to Fidelis.
The men that killed Limmington are Clan MacGregor, like the two murdered at Ribch’r. Most of the MacGregors are riding under the Duke of Perth, as we know. I think I shall go and see the Duke as I now have two matters to take up with him. Shall you come with me?
I sealed the note and strolled over to Pip Simpson’s house off Friar Gate. Pip’s father was a weaver and I heard the clack of the loom as I entered the house. His mother was nursing a baby beside the thin turf fire. Without the need for me to ask, she yelled.
‘Pi–ip! It’s Mr Cragg got postman work for you.’
From somewhere in the backyard Pip shouted he was coming.
‘He’s with his pigeons,’ she said. ‘Potty about them, he is.’
‘Really? They are excellent for taking messages, I’ve been told. But I doubt they are better than Pip is.’
She enjoyed my flattery of her son, but this did not prevent her entering a sly enquiry as to my most recent troubles.
‘We heard you’ve been had up again, Mr Cragg. I hope you had a good outcome after your being taken away by the Scotch to Wigan.’
‘I had a mixed outcome, Mrs Simpson, if truth be told. But I shall appeal if need be. These times are not really amenable to the smooth operation of justice.’
Pip appeared and took my letter away at a run.
‘Is it true the Scotch were keen to hang you at Wigan?’ his mother asked.
‘Hang me?’
I laughed. I couldn’t quite tell if the idea of my dangling appealed, or did not appeal, to Mrs Simpson.
‘Their real intentions were not clear, but I had been informed at least that my death would not be by hanging. I never found out what it would be by, because Doctor Fidelis followed behind me and discovered where my prison was, and so helped me escape in the middle of the night. I couldn’t have done it without him.’
‘Aye, he’s a good man, is Doctor Fid. He does our doctoring when we need. You’ll be grateful to him for getting you out of the crib. And your wife – how is she doing?’
The voice was definitely in the key of prurience now. Good God! Was there no one in town that didn’t know she’d almost been raped?
‘She is with her parents in Broughton, with our boy. Best out of the way during this period of … of occupation, we thought. Now, I must be on my way, Mrs Simpson. Good day to you.’
I waited impatiently at the office for Fidelis to appear, or at least to answer my note. I did not much fancy the idea of going into the lion’s den on my own, but after twenty minutes Pip was back to say that the doctor couldn’t come this afternoon but would be at the Turk’s Head this evening.
I went into the house. None of our guests were there and I had sent Matty to Broughton to fetch some ham, vegetables, milk and eggs from my parents-in-law, the Georges, as food was almost impossible to obtain in town. I dined quickly on some old cheese and an apple, and went directly out in search of the Duke.
During their first visit, the rebels made their headquarters at our largest inn, the White Bull, and assuming it would be the same this time, I went there first. Two very severe English-speaking sentries stood at the door, with rifles at the ready.
‘Wha’d’ye want?’
‘An audience with the Duke of Perth.’
‘Have ye intelligence? Information?’
‘Yes, I do.’
‘In ye go, then.’
This was astonishing. Could anyone claiming to have intelligence get in? Surely that would be too easy. However, I met a second, harder, barrier once I went inside, in the form of a civilian clerk sitting at a table, with a list of names in front of him and an armed Scotchman at his side.
‘Your name?’
‘Titus Cragg.’
He looked at his list. Not finding my name, he said, ‘Your business?’
‘To speak with the Duke of Perth. I am the Coroner here, you see, and—’
‘The Duke is very busy.’
‘I understand that. But I have—’
‘The Duke sees no one without an appointment. You have an appointment?’
‘No, but I—’
‘Then you can’t see him today. Off you go.’
I was trying to frame a new line of persuasion when a young officer of the army came in. He glanced at me as he swept past, but five paces into the hall he stopped, turned and came back to the entrance clerk’s table.
‘Good God! Is it Titus Cragg? It is! Our intrepid runaway.’
It was one of the young officers I’d met in the hallway at Wigan, the one that had given me the mock interrogation prefacing my real interrogation by the MacGregor. I was both terrified and most peculiarly glad to see him.
‘But you’ve got a nerve, coming here, Cragg. We thought you’d be a hundred miles away, in Yorkshire or somewhere.’
‘I prefer Lancashire to Yorkshire,’ I said. ‘The cheese is better.’
He laughed.
‘Well,’ he said, sounding encouragingly friendly, ‘to tell the truth, if you’ve come back to us for your military execution, you may be disappointed. We are rather busy on other business now. So what is it, really?’
He took me a little way into the hall, away from the clerk at the table. ‘I hope it’s not justice for your wife vis-à-vis the Marquis d’Éguilles. I believe I explained the position to you when we last met. He is above the law, understand? He can’t be touched.’
‘It isn’t about that,’ I said. ‘It’s the Duke of Perth. Can you get me in to see him?’
‘The Duke? That’s a tall order. He’s got a mountain of work. What do you want to see him for?’
I explained. I mentioned the two men, one at least from Clan MacGregor, who were assassinated and beheaded not far to the east of Preston. I said I had information which might lead to who did it.
The officer scratched his head.
‘Strange. That’s precisely the matter we arrested you for, if I remember correctly. You were supposed to have done it yourself, or more likely ordered it.’
‘I did neither thing.’
‘Then why stick your head back inside the hornet’s nest, man?’
‘I want to find out what happened – who did kill those men. I think I know, but I want to be sure. It’s my job.’
‘Very well,’ said the officer.
He went over to the clerk and spoke in his ear, then returned to me.
‘I’ll see what I can do. I’ll come back with a yes or a no shortly.’
The clerk wearily motioned me to sit on a bench against the opposite wall.
Of course, it wasn’t shortly. I sat down (by my watch) at just before two. Forty minutes went by. Numerous soldiers came and went, carrying papers in many instances, some of which I could see were maps. Some civilians also came in, and a proportion of these was admitted, but more were turned away. Almost all of the latter wanted to petition the Prince, only to be told to come back the next day. They were being brushed off. It was inconceivable, with the Duke of Cumberland on their heels, that the rebels would still be in Preston then but, even if they were, they would have to stand and fight. Either way, the Prince would not be receiving any petitions.
But to my amazement, after only another quarter of an hour, the young officer was back.
‘He’ll see you,’ he said. ‘He’s intrigued. Come with me.’
We went up the inn’s great oak staircase to its Great Room, where ordinary dining usually occurred, but which was now full of men, many in Highland dress, who used the dining tables in various ways – holding meetings, counting money, working over calculations and lists of figures, consulting maps. The hubbub was considerable.
I was stood beside the wall, between the portraits in oil paint of two sour-faced old mayors, and told to wait. I looked around the room, naturally hoping to see if the Prince was there. At one point a couple of soldiers came in, escorting Mayor Priestley, who had only in November taken office. He had evidently not made himself scarce, as had most of the Corporation. I watched as he was brought before a man in a wig and civilian coat. Mayor Priestley from time to time puffed himself up, and was from time to time deflated, as the conversation waxed and waned. It may have been about victualling. It may have been about the rebels’ need for money and the town’s unwillingness to part with it. It may have been about prisoners. Whatever it was about, within ten minutes they had finished the discussion and Priestley was escorted away. He passed the place where I stood and noticed me.
I suddenly thought how this might look. Priestley, as the legitimate power in the town, could quite legitimately treat with the enemy. In a sense it was his job to do so. It wasn’t mine. If word got around that I had – as had just been said – ‘put my head in the hornet’s nest’, I might be in serious trouble. Treason, consorting with the enemy, giving comfort to the enemy: these were all charges that might be levelled against me.
My one consolation was that, as I had just found out from Mrs Simpson, much of Preston knew already that the rebels had arrested me and were even aware that I had been sentenced to death. This made it quite plausible that I had been called in for further questioning. The look Priestley had given me might have indicated he thought I was heading for the scaffold at the hands of the rebels. On the other hand, he could have had the scaffold at Tyburn in mind. My fate was, it seemed, an open question.
