by Peter Watt
*
News of the reward spread through the village faster than a bushfire in the colony of New South Wales.
Harry was loading the cart when the shopkeeper told him about Captain Forbes’ announcement at the tavern. So that was why the captain had returned to the Forbes manor, Harry thought. He had heard gossip from the other servants that Charles Forbes had been known to visit the local witch, and from time to time Harry had glimpsed the beautiful young woman when he visited the village. He had trouble imagining Jane Wilberforce as a witch because all the stories he knew about witches described ugly old crones with warts on their faces. He was not sure why Captain Forbes would be interested in the woman’s whereabouts, but he wished he had some information to give in exchange for the reward. If he had that much money, surely Miss Emilia, the daughter of the shopkeeper, would take him seriously and step out walking with him. He could buy a new suit of clothes and a beaver-skin hat.
As Harry journeyed home to the manor with the supplies that evening, a thought came to him. A while ago, and he thought it might have been around the time Jane Wilberforce disappeared, he had woken in the night when he’d heard Master Charles returning late on his horse. Harry had stumbled from his bed, but Master Charles had already gone up to the big house. Harry was still waiting in the stables some time later, wondering whether he was needed, when Master Charles hurried back in and saw him.
‘I heard you return a while ago, Master Forbes, and thought that you might need my help putting away your horse,’ Harry said nervously. He had always been somewhat afraid of Master Charles.
But the master had dismissed him curtly, and Harry had swiftly departed.
He hadn’t been able to sleep, though, worried that the master’s horse would need brushing down and feeding and watering, so Harry had crept back to the stables. There, as he tended to the horse, he’d found something under the hay.
Harry had recoiled when he smelled the blood. Nonetheless he picked up the item and saw that it was a frock coat soaked with blood. He recognised it at once as belonging to Master Charles. Had the master had an accident? he wondered, although the man had not appeared to be injured. Harry had suddenly grown frightened. He’d wrapped the jacket in a hessian cloth bag and hidden it behind a loose plank in a space between the walls where, he presumed, it still was.
Harry had dismissed the distressing memory – until now.
He knew that it was the downstairs kitchen staff who had all the gossip about the family. Bridie, the seventeen-year-old kitchen hand, always seemed to know the latest snippet of news.
Harry delivered the provisions to the kitchen, where Bridie was cutting carrots.
Harry did not know that Bridie had a crush on Master Charles, and that the skinny young girl with the lank hair daydreamed of being his wife. It was an impossible dream, but the young woman didn’t care.
Oblivious to this, Harry sat down at the table where Bridie was working and decided to confide in the girl.
‘Did you hear about the reward Captain Forbes has offered for any information about the disappearance of the witch who used to live in the village?’ he asked.
‘Everyone knows about the reward,’ Bridie sniffed. ‘A traveller told us this afternoon.’
‘What do you think happened to her?’ Harry asked.
‘She was a witch, so it is possible she used her magic to disappear and is with the fairy people,’ Bridie said, reaching for sticks of celery.
‘Do you think that Master Charles might have done her some harm?’ Harry asked cautiously.
Bridie paused, her hand hovering over the celery. ‘Master Charles is a good man, he would do no one harm,’ she answered defensively.
‘What if I said I have something that might prove otherwise?’ Harry said, and Bridie paled.
‘You are a fibber, Harry, what could you possibly have that would show Master Charles harmed the woman?’ she asked.
‘I have a coat he was wearing one night and it is covered in blood. Maybe I should take it to Captain Forbes and see what he thinks.’
‘Where is this coat then?’ Bridie asked, trying to sound nonchalant.
‘I hid it between some loose planks in the stables,’ Harry said, pinching a piece of carrot and getting a slap on the hand from Bridie for his trouble.
Bridie seemed to contemplate this. ‘Well, I don’t think it is our business to meddle in our betters’ affairs,’ she said eventually. ‘I think you should forget about the coat.’
Rather disappointed by this reaction, Harry left the kitchen to return to the stables, where he began to brush down the horses in his care. As he began rubbing down one of the stallions he decided that, despite what Bridie thought, he would take the frock coat to the guest cottage and give it to Captain Forbes. Maybe the coat was important and he would receive the reward, and with it Miss Emilia’s respect. He was unaware that Bridie had already passed on his news to Master Charles, who reacted by telling the smitten young girl that she was to tell no one else under threat of dire punishment. Frightened by this reaction, the girl agreed.
The horse he was brushing snorted and shifted slightly. Harry realised he was no longer alone in the stables. Under the dim light of the lantern he turned to see who had entered and saw a shadowy figure approaching. Harry peered into the gloom and saw that it was Master Charles, a pitchfork in his hand. Before Harry could cry out, he felt searing pain in his chest.
He tried to scream but instead slumped to the ground, gasping out his last breath.
Charles withdrew the pitchfork prongs from Harry’s chest and knelt to look into the eyes staring blankly at the roof of the wooden building. If what a breathless and excited Bridie had told him minutes ago was true, Charles was safer with this young miscreant out of the way.
Charles quickly went from one stall to the next, ripping away the old loose planks. Finally his terrible secret was revealed. He did not touch the mouldy item of clothing still stiff with the blood of Jane Wilberforce, but instead found a drum of kerosene which he tipped over, letting the liquid run along the stable floor. He went around and opened all the doors to the stalls, where the prized Forbes horses were stabled. Next he took a lantern, flinging it at the trail of kerosene, which burst into flame, enveloping the stableboy’s body and licking at the dry hay all around. The fire ran up the old wooden walls, engulfing the stables in an inferno. The terrified horses bolted past Charles to safety.
Satisfied the fire as well alight, Charles retreated, leaving the evidence and potential witness to be consumed by the roaring flames.
He was already back in the manor when the alarm was raised. Charles raced outside in the dark with the servants, pleased to see that the building was beyond hope of saving. He shuddered when he saw Ian standing alone, watching the fire. It was too bad, Charles thought, that the man he most despised in this world had not also been in the burning building.
Nine
‘He was a brave young lad,’ Charles reflected as he, Sir Archibald and Ian stood at first light gazing at the smouldering ruins of the stables. Servants milled around sniffling back tears and, in a couple of cases, sobbing. Bridie stood to one side, pale-faced and silent. ‘He must have released the horses when he realised that he had accidentally started the fire,’ Charles continued.
Ian said nothing but began to poke amongst the ruins.
He found the barely recognisable charred corpse of Harry lying on his back, hands curled inwards like a boxer’s. Ian was used to death, so he leaned over to examine the remains of the naïve and gentle lad. What struck him were the two almost bayonet-like wounds to his chest. They could hardly be seen by the untrained eye but they were clear to Ian from his experience of seeing charred bodies on the battlefields of the Crimea. Nearby he saw the head of a pitchfork used to toss hay, and he noticed that the spacing of the wounds was approximately the same as the distance between two of the prongs of the pi
tchfork.
‘We will arrange a decent Christian burial for the boy,’ Sir Archibald said. ‘He deserves at least that much for saving the horses.’
Ian stepped back from the corpse and walked across to Charles.
‘Where were you when the fire started?’ he asked in an icy voice.
Charles looked startled, stepping back a pace. ‘I am not sure what you are suggesting but I resent your insinuation. As a matter of fact I was in the house, and in any case, why on earth would I want to cause any injury to young Harold? What has happened here is a terrible accident.’
Ian knew he could not prove Charles had been involved in Harry’s death, even if he could persuade the police to investigate, which was unlikely given the Forbes’ influence. He stared hard into Charles’ face, which still bore the faint scars of the time Ian had attacked him before steaming to the Crimea. Charles blanched, and Ian took some satisfaction in that, then shook his head and walked away.
Later that morning he took a coach back to London. His regiment had informed him by letter that a dinner was to be held for officers and his attendance was required. Under military protocol, the request could not be ignored.
He signed into his club and was handed an envelope by one of the staff.
He read the contents and almost fainted when he saw the signature at the bottom – Mr Ian Steele!
*
Ian followed the directions to London’s Hyde Park. Despite being early spring, the weather had a chilly bite and he wore a heavy overcoat. He walked towards a park bench and immediately recognised Samuel sitting with the American, James Thorpe.
‘Ian,’ Samuel said, standing to shake hands. ‘It is good to see that you are safe and well.’
‘Samuel, what the devil are you doing in London?’ Ian greeted him with a frown.
‘My sentiments precisely, Captain Steele,’ James said. ‘But it is good to make your acquaintance again.’
‘I have been haunted by our pact,’ Samuel said. ‘I fear that you may not survive the ten-year contract we made.’
‘It is not the Queen’s enemies I fear, but your father and brother,’ Ian answered with a hint of a smile. ‘At least on the battlefield my enemies are generally in front of me, not trying to stick a knife into my back. They really hate you. Are you not afraid that someone in London will recognise you?’
‘Too late for that,’ James said pointedly. ‘Samuel has already been recognised and we have had to change our accommodation as a result.’
‘Damn!’ Ian swore. ‘Your presence here could make life difficult for me – and for you, of course.’
‘I am sorry,’ Samuel apologised. ‘But I had other reasons for returning, not least to visit Herbert’s memorial.’
‘He was a fine young man,’ Ian said sadly. ‘I was with him when he was killed at the Redan.’
Samuel lowered his head, and Ian could see tears in his eyes. ‘He died bravely,’ he added awkwardly. ‘He was as close to me as a brother. I understand your need to travel to Kent, but I feel it is too dangerous.’
‘We shall go in disguise,’ Samuel said. ‘I will dress as a woman.’
Ian shook his head, suppressing his alarm. ‘Something could go wrong and then both you and I will be exposed.’
‘I promise that James and I will return to New York as soon as I have visited my brother’s memorial,’ Samuel said.
Ian sighed. ‘It is not wise for us to meet again. However I wish to reassure you about our pact. Despite the horrors of war, I am doing very well and wish to continue as Captain Samuel Forbes.’
‘Thank you, Ian,’ Samuel said with absolute gratitude in his voice and face. ‘You have put to rest the guilt I have felt since we last met.’
James rose from the bench and extended his hand. ‘I, too, thank you . . . Captain Forbes,’ he said. ‘May you remain safe and well.’
The two men walked away, leaving Ian worried. Although London was a populous and busy city, at least one person had recognised Samuel. How could the man be so foolish as to stay?
*
Charles Forbes was a member of many gentlemen’s clubs, but his favourite was the oldest established club in London, situated on St James Street in Westminster. At the White Club for aristocratic gentlemen the stakes at the card tables were high, and Charles had had to draw on the Forbes fortune in order to indulge in his favourite vice.
His wife, Louise, was almost permanently away, living in Italy, in a Tuscan chateau.
While she remained out of England, Charles was able to indulge in his second-favourite vice as well, which was seducing young ladies. Now he was considering adding murder to his list of favourite pastimes. The power he experienced from taking a life and getting away with it was thrilling. He felt like God with this new authority over life and death.
Charles was feeling lucky and the club offered him the opportunity to prove it.
He sat down at a table opposite a man he vaguely knew, a Captain Brooke. Charles remembered his name from the time Samuel had served with him in New South Wales. The cards were dealt, brandy served and cigars produced for the game.
‘I think I ran into your brother at my club,’ Captain Brooke said, puffing on his cigar as he dealt the cards.
‘You probably did,’ Charles said, taking the cards in his hand and fanning them out. ‘His regiment has returned from the Persian campaign.’
‘The odd thing was that the fellow denied he was Samuel Forbes. He said his name was Ian Steele,’ Brooke said, taking a sip from his brandy.
‘Very odd,’ Charles commented, gazing down at his hand of cards.
‘I served with Samuel for three years and I am sure that the man I met was he.’
‘When did you meet this Mr Steele?’ Charles asked. When the army officer gave the date of the incident, he replied, ‘Ah. That could not have been Samuel as he was at our manor in Kent at that time.’
‘Are you sure?’ Brooke countered, and for a moment Charles stared at his cards without seeing them.
His mind started whirring. When Samuel had first returned from the colonies, Charles had doubted his authenticity. The boy who he had once bullied mercilessly had transformed into a tough and confident man. Charles had been persuaded by his father that he was Samuel returned to them, but there was something that did not ring true about this new, powerful version of his brother.
‘How did this man look?’ Charles asked.
‘He looked just as I remember your brother,’ Brooke said. ‘Still the callow youth who stood with us against the Maori in New Zealand. He has not changed.’
Charles played badly that evening, his mind going over and over what he had learned. Was the meeting simply a case of mistaken identity? Yet Brooke was so adamant he was right. Surely he would know, as he and Samuel had served at least three years together. But if Brooke was right, why would Samuel claim to be someone else? So many questions without answers. Charles decided that it was vital he find this Mr Steele and ascertain for himself whether he was in fact his brother, Samuel Forbes. After all, the Samuel Charles remembered was a shy and introverted young man. The man who had returned in his place was the opposite. Surely a man’s character could not change so dramatically?
*
Dr Peter Campbell stood alongside his brother at the edge of the Meerut barracks’ parade ground. The sun beat down on the ranks of Indian cavalrymen standing to attention as the eighty-five prisoners were brought out to parade before their comrades.
‘They are lucky devils,’ Scott said. ‘The original sentence for refusing to use the cartridges, a crime of mutiny, was ten years’ imprisonment, but General Hewett has commuted the sentence to five years.’
Blacksmiths stepped forward with their tools of trade and native soldiers watched with sullen faces as ankle irons were hammered into place. The prisoners cried out for help from the men on parade, as w
ell as cursing the British Empire.
‘The men on parade don’t look happy about British justice,’ Peter said. ‘They appear to be on the verge of attempting to rescue their fellow troopers.’
‘They will not,’ Scott replied. ‘We have the artillery gunners standing by, as well as the Dragoon Guards. It would be suicide for them to try.’
The process continued for an hour, and all the time Peter noted uneasily the barely restrained hatred in the faces of the sepoys forced to hear the sentences read out and enacted. Eventually the prisoners were marched to the barracks’ cells by a guard of sepoy troops and the men were dismissed from the parade ground.
Peter and his brother returned to Scott’s temporary accommodation. He had been billeted in a small but comfortable and well-kept bungalow in a neat, well-maintained compound. It had been designed to cater to the tastes and needs of the British families accompanying their East India Company men in military service and civil administration.
They were met by Alice, who gave Peter a peck on the cheek.
‘I have asked the house girl to prepare drinks,’ she said.
Scott and Peter followed Alice out to a veranda overlooking a stand of tall tropical trees filled with raucous birds. Soon the sun would set and Alice had requested a native meal of spiced lentils and other local delicacies for them to dine on in the evening breeze.
‘So, what do you think about this part of India?’ Scott asked, taking off his sword and hanging it on the back of a chair. ‘Are you pleased that you chose to travel with us to Meerut?’
‘It was certainly an adventure to travel here,’ Alice said, remembering the weeks-long journey on horseback through small villages, along winding roads that took them through primeval forests filled with wildlife. They had often camped under the stars and occasionally experienced heavy downfalls of rain, but it had been a thrilling experience for Alice.
