The Gallows Pole

by Benjamin Myers

  Rest assured you’ll be rewarded. We’re men of our word. Hard to believe we exist, I know, but understand this: John Sutcliffe is just one small cog in the machine. One tiny insignificant cog whose arrest will have little impact on the output of your friends. Do you understand how the machine of a functioning society works, Mr Broadbent – that all working parts are related?

  Before he could answer, the solicitor continued.

  You must be aware that your naming of your landlord was little more than an exercise in trust. It’s Hartley who we really want. All the Hartleys, but first we’ll chip away at his foundations. Mr. Deighton here will dismantle his network and raze his hilltop fortress. And for that we need to take more names.

  Names? said James Broadbent. Uncomfortable in his surroundings, he seemed unable to keep his eyes fixed in one place.

  More forgers. We need more forgers. Clippers – or whatever it is you call yourselves. We’ll soon have Hartley running scared. We need him incapacitated. Frozen. Before he can do more damage. And before he cottons on.

  Cottons on? said James Broadbent.

  Robert Parker looked to William Deighton then back to James Broadbent.

  Before he knows you’re informing on him.

  James Broadbent nodded.

  Are you fearful? asked Robert Parker.

  James Broadbent shook his head.

  Good. I was told you were once a soldier.

  And a good one at that. Many years I served.

  And you left when?

  Discharged some six year ago.

  At what age?

  James Broadbent shrugged and said six years younger than I am now.

  Robert Parker continued.

  You understand that without names we are left with nothing but hill-top rumours and valley bottom gossip. We have a failed economy being ruined by cold-hearted forgers and we have a town with a reputation for lawlessness that has spread all the way to the back rooms of Westminster – to the seat of our very parliament and to the throne of the King.

  The King? said James Broadbent.

  The real monarch, not some barbarous land labourer.

  Will I get to meet his majesty?

  Robert Parker raised an eyebrow to William Deighton.

  That remains to be seen on how co-operative you are, he said, gently humouring the swarthy man whose odour had tainted his dwelling. But do be aware the King always rewards his loyal subjects.

  Your name won’t reach his ear unless you start giving up some Coiners but, said William Deighton.

  The money, said James Broadbent again.

  The money will come.

  Robert Parker gestured to a chair.

  Sit, lad.

  James Broadbent lowered himself awkwardly onto the edge of the chair.

  My throat it is scratching he said.

  Scratching? said Robert Parker.

  From the walk over. Dry. Itchy, like.

  Would you like some water?

  No sir, I do not care for water. Never have.

  Fine then.

  But perhaps something to flavour it. Or something to loosen my words.

  I think he means alcohol, said William Deighton.

  I don’t take it, replied Robert Parker. But I could send down for some whiskey. I have been gifted several bottles over the years.

  Thank you sir.

  But first a name.

  David o’ Johns o’ Dicks o’ Jacks is a name, said James Broadbent. He is known to clip.

  Robert Parker looked puzzled.

  David o’ Johns o’ Dicks o’ Jacks?

  Aye. That is what they call him.

  It’s the valley way of naming offspring, said William Deighton to the confused solicitor.

  Do you happen to know his actual name?

  Aye. David. The son of John who himself is the son of Dick. And he is the son of Jack. Names get passed on round our way.

  So I see. But what is his full name?

  I told you, said James Broadbent. David o’ Johns o’ Dicks o’ Jacks.

  William Deighton stepped towards him.

  Buckle up, Broadbent – Mr Parker is a man of the law, as am I. Makes fools of us to our faces and you’ll be joining John Sutcliffe in York Castle by sun-up.

  John Tatham of Wadsworth I do not care for said James Broadbent. Nor Isaac Dewhurst or the Pickles lot. Go to the Pickles place at Luddenden Dene and you’ll catch them red-handed. They keep their works behind a loose stone to the left of their fireplace. There are your names.

  We need more, said Robert Parker. We need someone closer to Hartley.

  A neighbour, said William Deighton. We need someone from Cragg Vale. From the moor.

  James Broadbent scratched at his chin and still he did not meet the eyes of the men.

  There’s Thomas Clayton, he said quietly.

  Now this name I know, nodded William Deighton to Robert Parker, and then to James Broadbent he said: Clayton of Stannery End?

  Yes.

  Along from Bell House?

  Aye. That’s the one. Shifty as a stoat on morning egg raid and as mean as a mousetrap, is Clayton. Oh, as mean as they come that one. They say he is Hartley’s right hand. He’d slit my throat if he could see this here scene.

  I don’t doubt it, said Robert Parker. And for your information I am grateful.

  He clips then, this Clayton? asked William Deighton.

  He has been known to. But often they have a man.

  A man?

  James Broadbent nodded at the floor.

  A man what comes and takes the coins and the clippings that the men have collected and he makes magic out of those clippings. He makes coins better than any man’s.

  Who is he? asked Robert Parker.

  Magic? asked William Deighton.

  James Broadbent shrugged.

  What is his name? the exciseman asked again.

  That I do not know. No-one knows.

  Nonsense, said William Deighton.

  He comes from Bradford. He is never seen with his cowl down. They say he knows things. Plays with fire. Summons dark forces.

  Robert Parker laughed.

  What rot.

  James Broadbent looked up at him then.

  It’s not rot. If you spent time on them moors you’d know it’s not rot. Things happen up there.

  I’m up on those moors regularly, said William Deighton. One more time: who knows the name of this man?

  Hartley knows, said James Broadbent. And Tom Spencer knows. And Thomas Clayton knows. Them knows. They all know.

  David Hartley tumbled into the room and his wife saw that he was full of drink. The long walk back from the inns of Mytholmroyd was usually enough to sand away the edges, or else he sometimes slept it off in one of his dug-outs in the woods – under the stone slab of an overhang perhaps, or in one of the hunting hides that he and his brothers built as boys and to which they added new branches every year – but he carried with him a jar of something uncorked and his flinty eyes were rolling around like marbles. His cheeks red, wild grass seeds in his hair and the scent of springs blooming about him. His other hand held a small sack that he swung down from his shoulder onto the floor, where it spilled coins across the stone flags.

  Wife, we is of wider wealth than you could ever know.

  He stood proud, swaying gently.

  You’ve woken the child.

  I’ll waken the whole fucking valley with my boasts if I want to, for it is warranted.

  I’ve just got him off.

  Why is a crying baby your only concern when you have a king for a husband and liquid gold flowing around your fat ankles?

  Because he’s not slept proper for three nights now.

  David Hartley dismissed her words with a sweep of the arm.


  Winter is for sleeping. But it’s spring now and spring is for drinking and roaming and coining and fucking, and it’s the stagman.

  Stagman? What daft talk.

  It’s not daft, said David Hartley.

  You’re full of Barbara’s ale, you lump.

  He took a step towards his wife.

  Full of beer I may be, but I talk the truth so mind your tone when you’re talking to me. The stagman of the moors has chosen to treat me favourably. That’s what I’m telling you. All my life he and his kind have looked over me. As a boy they picked me out. Chose me.

  You’re as daft as a privy rat, you are.

  Daft but not tapped.

  Every time you’re filled from your boots to the brim of your brow with beer you talk of this stagman, replied Grace Hartley. But you should be careful else they think you’ve turned lunatic and then it’ll be off to Manchester asylum with all the broth-dribblers for you.

  They’ll never chain King David. All I’m saying is the stagman has blessed me with a wife and three children and balls big enough to embark on an enterprise that by the year’s close will see us the richest family in Calderdale, mark my words Grace. You’ll want for nothing. You’ll have everything.

  I’d take a good night’s sleep.

  Give us a kiss and I’ll tell you more about it.

  As her husband reached out Grace Hartley took a step backwards, and he slipped on the coins but managed to maintain his balance.

  Two days and nights you were gone, she said. Where have you been?

  I’ve been kinging from Hell to Halifax and back again, he replied. And now I’m back in this piece of heaven I’ve created. There’s a reason I chose to live so high up and that’s because it puts us closer to paradise.

  He took a swig from his jar and then pointed to the coins.

  There’s five hundred fresh milled bits there. That’s enough money to start building us an even grander palace.

  You’ll be wanting a throne next.

  David Hartley belched.

  Don’t need no throne unless the stagman deems it so.

  From up in the rafters the baby was crying louder.

  Grace Hartley stooped and began to gather the coins up.

  Here, give us one of those.

  David Hartley snatched a coin from the hand of his wife and went to the front door and flung it out into the darkness.

  That’s for the stagman, he said. That’s my tribute for him seeing us right, and there’s more to come. Give us another.

  I won’t.

  The stagman wants paying.

  Turning the coins in her hand, Grace Hartley looked at her husband but said nothing.

  Shake your head all you like, wife, but it’s because of a creature with the body of a man and the head and antlers of a stag that your cupboards are full and those babes sleep on the best blankets and you’ve new boots and two dozen hens and a set of china the likes of which this valley has never seen. And that’s just the start of it, queen.

  You’re three sheets, she said.

  I’m drunk tonight but tomorrow I’ll still be blessed by the horned one.

  He slumped into a chair and drained the jug but the jug was empty. He closed his eyes and appeared to be asleep immediately.

  Grace Hartley scooped coins back into the sack, but some she slipped into her pinafore pocket.

  I’ve got a hunger, he said from behind his eyelids, his voice slurring towards sleep.

  Four hundred coins, you say? replied his wife

  David Hartley raised his slumped head and opened his eyes.

  What, woman?

  You said the stagmen is responsible for you acquiring these four hundred coins.

  That’s what I said. And then I said I’ve got a hunger.

  He closed his eyes again. Grace Hartley put more coins into the sack, and then some into her pocket.

  There’s mutton slices and a new loaf, she said. And there’ll be fresh eggs.

  Then fetch it here and put it in my gob. A man could die of starvation if it was left to his wife’s own initiative. Get the food in here, and a new jar, and then I’ll lay you down right here on this bed of gold, and give you what it is that any woman in this valley dreams of. You can sit on it and spin on it like a bobbin. But first I’ll be needing feeding. A man needs meat as a pencil needs lead.

  Grace Hartley stood and set the sack on the side and said: I’ll need to check the hen hut.

  I’ll take four, he said, from somewhere approaching sleep. And fetch four for the fucking stagman too.

  Grace took a lamp and went out to the hen hut. She unhooked the gate and crawled on in to where the birds were roosting in rows and at the back in the corner where the reek of bird shit was strong she parted the straw and found the loose board and she lifted it. She took the coins from her pocket and stacked them in her hand and then she reached down in the darkness and set the stack there with the rest of them, and then she replaced the board, and feathers were in her hair.

  Part IV: Autumn 1769: Clett-Clett

  Autumn arrived like a burning ghost ship on the landscape’s tide to set the land alight. The fire of the trees’ turning spread far across the flanks and the ravens took flight to the highest climes as leaves fell like flung bodies. September had long slipped away. It was a charred thing now. Gone.

  The hills were ablaze with the colour of brilliant decay as the cycle of winter began with a fresh palette. Crows blown like black handkerchiefs from a funeral feast into the tangled tree tops exchanged shrill chatter there, a running commentary on all that was happening around them. Because everything was in vibrant flux. All was facing death.

  William Deighton came in on over Hathershelf and aback of Scout Rock. He followed the field line where it fell away dramatically to a series of deadly cliffs and precipices above the thick woodland below that some believed was cursed or haunted; a place where things happened that could not be explained. In that small wood they said there were treasures buried – and bodies too. During his life-time more than one person had hurled themselves from the rocks to their death below. And William Deighton suspected that in the base of these sheer drops, where the scree met the soft soil of the woodland floor, and moss-covered boulders the size of small houses sat half buried, each cleaved away from the cliff face by the steady battering of the elements and underground springs that ran through the rock like woodworms through the trusses of a timber roof frame, lay hidden the tools of the Coiners’ trade too.

  Perhaps it was they, the local criminals, who had spread the stories about Scout Rock wood: tales of the white witch that stalked its tangled undergrowth, the hidden medieval mineshafts that sucked children down and the mulchy terraces that were known to shift underfoot. And the small caves there too, where human remains were said to have been found. Where better to hide and plot and conspire – and stash a cache of contraband – than in the place no local dared set foot?

  From up here beneath the darkening sky William Deighton could see right along the valley where the new turnpike was to follow the River Calder to Hebden Bridge, and beyond it the steep rake they called The Buttress up to Heptonstall high on the hill, where the locals barely left and lived in sordid domestic conditions, investing all their time and what spare money that they had in the new octagonal chapel built by this preacher, one John Wesley, whose words it seemed had captured the imaginations of so many in the valley. They said he shaped it eight-sided so that there were no corners in which the devil could hide. They said his name was known across the land, that he had the ear of God himself and that he saw sin in people just by looking at them, between blinks.

  Only five or six miles from his Halifax home lay these other worlds.

  William Deighton paused in the furrow of a field recently tilled and turned and shorn of the valued winter grass, and he looked back the other
way from where he came, where the safety of town now sat unseen.

  His destination was over the brow to the solitary farmstead of Stannery End, a straight crow’s mile across from Bell House.

  It was evening and Thomas Clayton’s place appeared as a mirror image of the Hartley home. It may not have been quite as high up nor as remote but it was still a good half hour’s walk down to the cluster of houses and stores of Mytholmroyd and, sitting in nothing but fields, equally difficult to approach. As with the Hartley home its occupation was tactical. It was an asset to those who harboured secrets. A strategic bolt-hole.

  William Deigthon cleared the last field that bordered the precipitous drop of Scout Rock cliffs and crouched behind a wall. Stannery End was in sight. There was light in the upstairs window. There was a shadow. There were shadows. There were several shadows stretching and receding.

  He squinted and then keeping low he frog-crawled his way closer. He saw a figure cross the flame of the candle, a definite elongation of darkness bent crooked across the wall of that upstairs room. William Deighton crouched and waited.

  Then the light went out. Snuffed.

  The light went out and it was as if it had never been there at all.

  The house was cast in darkness and suddenly William Deighton felt exposed, even here behind the wall with nothing but cliffs and woods behind him and the autumn sky closing in above him; night here, he noticed, had a habit of collapsing across the land quickly.

  He climbed over the wall and ran across the field towards the house of the Coiner Clayton. He ran across the field, stumbling in holes. Holes that dotted the field. The field that would lay fallow and frozen over the coming months. The months of a winter already coming in on the autumn breeze. A breeze that rustled the stubby clusters of grass. Grass that fed the cows that made the milk. The milk that weaned the children of the valley. The valley that they said ran rich with gold.

  William Deighton ran straight for Stannery End. He abandoned any attempt to remain unseen, for if his suspicions were right it was his sighting that had snuffed that candle. Killed that light. Emptied that room.

  Then he was there. Then he was banging on the front door. Banging on the door and turning the handle at the same time. And the door was opening and he was entering to nothing but darkness. Darkness and the smell of a fire doused in water. Damp ash and imposter smoke. And cutting through it, the scent of a pipe and something cooked, hot, of salt and flesh.