The Nelsons had only three ponies between them and were always hinting that Nimrod needed exercising, but I explained that Jack Daw’s legs were dicey and I needed a second horse. In this way I kept them at bay.
We had ridden several times together when Carl suggested that we hacked up to Hangman’s Cross one night and looked for ghosts. I was in their kitchen at the time, drinking coffee, while Jack Daw stood tied up in the yard.
“Ghosts! You must be mad,” I said. “Or do they swing from a gibbet in the dark?”
Melanie smiled. “But they do exist, don’t they, Carl? Though they don’t exactly swing…” she said.
It was nearly the end of November. The trees were almost bare of leaves now, and there was an uneasy wind which seemed to tell of storms to come.
“We’re serious,” said Carl. “Will you come with us tonight, Francis? Or are you chicken?”
“Dad isn’t keen on me riding in the dark,” I answered.
“We can lend you a stirrup light – tell him that,” said Melanie.
“I don’t see the point – why ride in the dark at all?” I said.
“To see the ghosts,” said Melanie.
“Have you seen them?” I asked.
“Yes, of course. Lots of people have.”
“Actually it’s our great-great-great-grandfather being murdered. That’s what makes it so interesting for us,” said Melanie.
“Oh yeah, tell me another,” I said scornfully.
“It’s true,” replied Carl. “Now are you coming? Or are you scared? We go every year and we don’t ask just anyone to come with us. It really is a compliment.”
“I’ll come, but I don’t believe in ghosts and I think you’re both mad,” I answered.
“It’s an awful experience,” said Carl. “And if I could get my hands on the murderer I would tear him to bits.”
“Very funny,” I said.
“It sends my blood pressure up to bursting-point – and your father’s a doctor, so you know what that means,” said Carl.
“You’re talking drivel, but I’ll come anyway,” I said.
When I reached home Dad was hanging pictures. I had seen them all before. They were what you call family portraits: aunts and great-aunts, great-uncles and great-great-uncles, grandfathers and great-grandfathers. Some were on horses, but mostly they sat on sofas with their hands folded neatly in their laps, or stood, with strange-looking dogs lying at their feet.
Fortunately my parents had been invited to a party, so I didn’t have to tell them I would be going out in the dark. Presently they left, dressed in clothes suitable for cocktails. I cooked myself sausages and baked beans in our rather stately kitchen, which belongs to an earlier age when there were cooks and scullery maids and a butler in the pantry. The house is far too large for us, but it was much cheaper than more convenient homes, which was why Dad bought it.
I decided to take Nimrod, because, being grey, he would show up better in the dark than Jack Daw. He bit me as I tightened his girth and obviously thought it outside pony rules to be taken out so late at night.
It was a particularly dreary November evening, with drizzle falling like dew. I like riding in the dark; it has no fears for me. I imagine I am a Cavalier, fleeing from the Roundheads, or a doctor riding to see a dying patient. But Nimrod was not too keen and left our old-fashioned stable yard reluctantly.
The road to the Nelsons’ was straight and empty. They were waiting for me at the end of their drive, Carl riding Cobby Choirboy, who looked more like an old man than a horse. Melanie was on the roan, Roman-Nosed Stepmother, and George rode his big bay, High Court Judge, known simply as Judge. I have never understood why they always chose such long-winded names for their horses.
“So you’ve come,” observed Carl.
“Of course I’ve come,” I said.
“Fantastic!” cried Melanie.
We had no lights between us, not even a torch. I wondered what my father would say if he saw us. He dealt with road accidents at the hospital and was always lecturing on road safety and how carelessness cost lives. So, as we rode towards Hangman’s Cross, I prayed that he wouldn’t find out.
There was a long hill up to Hangman’s Cross.
“Don’t you want to know a little more about the ghosts?” asked Melanie, as a car hooted and dipped its lights at us.
“No, we’ll be ghosts ourselves soon enough,” I replied. “And I thought you were bringing stirrup lights.”
“Don’t be such a fusspot,” said Carl. “How can man die better than on the back of a horse?”
“Not at fifteen,” I answered.
“We must hurry,” said Melanie, looking at her watch. “It’s due at eight.”
“What is?” I asked.
“The stagecoach. He stops it at the top of the hill, the swine. They always did that, because the horses were out of breath and incapable of galloping away.”
“What horses?”
“The ones pulling the stagecoach, of course.”
“It’s the night coach,” added Carl. “So they’ve put the lame and the blind to pull it. They will have left the Coaching Inn at Hellborough half an hour ago.”
“And our great-great-great-grandfather is on the box,” said Melanie.
“The stagecoach men were like pop stars then,” explained Carl. “Some of them accepted bribes from highwaymen, but our great-great-great-grandfather never did, and that’s why he was shot. He was only forty, but then they didn’t live long in those days. They drank too much. They had to, or they would have frozen to death on the box. They were a special breed of men,” continued Carl.
“You seem to have made quite a study of them,” I observed.
“Wouldn’t you if your great-great-great-grandfather had been murdered by a criminal, just three miles from where you lived?” asked Carl.
“And can’t rest in peace even a hundred and forty years later,” added Melanie.
“Who was the highwayman?”
“History doesn’t tell. I think he was caught and hanged. I hope so, but no one is sure. We don’t know his name, but he had a cultured voice, the stinking rat,” said Carl.
We were nearly at the top of the hill. Nimrod was sweating. There was a thick mist. “Not so many cars come this way now,” said George. “Not since they built the motorway.”
George was thickset. He rode with his legs forward and seat well back in the saddle. His riding set my teeth on edge, if you know what I mean. I wanted to say: “Why don’t you consider poor old Judge? You wouldn’t want to carry a great lump on your back; you would want it near your shoulders like a knapsack. It’s much easier there.” But I didn’t.
There was nothing at Hangman’s Cross except a signpost and a few trees. The wind whispered in our ears, and far below we could see lights from cottages and smaller, moving lights, flickering like glow-worms along hedge-fenced roads.
“It’s fantastic up here at night, isn’t it? Don’t you agree, Francis?” asked Melanie.
“Eerie,” I answered. “Like the top of the world. Listen, I can hear sheep. What’s the time? The cocktail party ends at eight-thirty. If Dad discovers that I’ve been out, there will be one heck of a row.”
“Three minutes to,” said Melanie. “We had better get off the road. Not that side. The highwayman hides between those trees.”
“Of course, they may not come, but it’s the right day and the right time,” said Carl. “Eight o’clock was quite late then.”
The horses stood very still, close together, their ears pricked. The wind continued whispering. The drizzle had stopped.
“Gosh, it’s quiet,” said George.
“Listen, I hear hooves,” Melanie said quietly. “They’re down in the valley. Listen.”
“It’s coming then,” said Carl.
There seemed to be something moving on the far side of the road, behind a clump of trees. There was a muffled neigh and the click of a gun. Nimrod broke into a sweat. None of us spoke. We could hear hoove
s distinctly now, coming steadily, clip-clop, clip-clop…
There was a rattle of iron-rimmed wheels. My heart was thumping against my ribs, and the atmosphere was extraordinary – everything seemed to be waiting, waiting…
All at once four horses came into sight, their heads down, their nostrils sending up clouds of steam, their breathing laboured.
“Stop!” shouted a voice. “Everyone get out.”
A man sat astride a black mare, easily, alone. And the driver on the box, swathed to his ears in a great cape, shouted, “No, not this time, you devil! I would rather die!” He reached inside his cape for a gun, and then there was a single shot and he fell from the box and lay quite still on the road, while the horses stood panting, their coats wet with sweat…
And I stared at the highwayman and I knew him.
“That’s the end,” said Melanie in a small voice, as though we were in the cinema and had come to the end of a film. “There’s never any more.”
“I wish I knew what happened next,” said Carl.
As I looked at the road again, I saw that it was empty, just as it had been before.
“Well?” asked George. “Do you believe us now, Francis?”
“Yes, of course,” I answered, trying to place a face, a long straight nose beneath a mask, a high forehead under a hat. In a minute I would know. I would fix the two pieces together – the face I had seen, and the other face.
“He shot him at point blank range; he didn’t give him a chance,” said Melanie.
“There were rich pickings on board, jewels galore,” said George.
“Cowboys were the same – the survivor was the one who was quickest on the draw,” I answered.
“You’re not sticking up for the highwayman, are you?” said Melanie. “He’s a robber – a robber and a killer.”
“I wonder why,” I said. The faces were coming together now, my memory was piecing them together, and I knew then that the face was that of my great-great-great-grandfather in the hall, the one who, they said, loved black horses – just like me. I didn’t know what to say, I had heard so much about him; he had been a very rich man when he died, and we still benefitted from his wealth. He had owned a pack of hounds and had built a fine house. And yet there was no mistaking him, for in the picture in our hall he sat astride the same horse – the highwayman’s black horse.
“You’re very silent,” said Melanie, after we had been riding homewards for some time. “What’s the matter?”
“I’m thinking,” I answered. “It’s all very difficult really because – well, that man on the black horse – I believe he was my great-great-great-grandfather!”
“He can’t be,” replied Carl after a short, shocked silence. “I told you, no one knows who he was…”
“His picture hangs in our hall. Come and see it tomorrow,” I suggested. “It’s the truth. I wish it wasn’t.” After a pause Melanie said, in a voice tight with emotion, “We can’t know you now. We can’t ever speak to you again. Our great-great-great-grandfather was a wonderful man, he could drive a team of four anywhere. He was the most famous stagecoach driver of his time.”
“No wonder you are so well off,” said George with a short laugh. “Have you still got any of the jewels he stole?”
“I think we have. Goodnight,” I answered.
I trotted away from them, suddenly wishing that I had never spoken. Nimrod was glad to be going home. Cars hooted at me. One driver wound his window down to shout, “Where’s your lights, you idiot?”
My father was waiting for me, grim-faced in our big hall. “What the devil have you been doing?” he shouted.
Mum said, “We’ve been scared. We were about to ring the police. What’s the matter? You look as though you’ve seen a ghost.”
“I have – several,” I told them. It all seemed impossible, and yet I knew it was true. I turned to stare at the portrait of the man who had been my great-great-great-grandfather on my father’s side, and it was the same man on the same horse, only now he was dressed like a rich gentleman. I wanted to laugh, but couldn’t.
“He was a highwayman,” I said, pointing at the portrait. “I saw him tonight, holding up a coach driver at the top of Hangman’s Hill. Ask the Nelsons. He was murdering their great-great-great-grandfather. Funny, isn’t it? He was just a common robber.” I was half crying, half laughing.
“You had better go to bed,” said Dad. “You look all in.”
“Everything will seem different in the morning,” added Mum, as though I were a small, overtired child.
But as I climbed our wide, as yet uncarpeted stairs, I knew it wouldn’t. I lay in bed, dreading what the Nelsons might do. Supposing they told the whole neighbourhood? I tossed and turned, and since everything always grows worse at night in bed, I imagined Dad losing his job, Mum sacked by the library, and all because I had told the Nelsons the truth.
In the morning, Melanie telephoned. Her voice was small and determined. “We don’t want to see the portrait. We believe you,” she said. “But since blood is thicker than water, we have decided that we can never speak to you again. I hope you understand.” And with that passing shot she put down the receiver.
“That’s that,” I said.
Dad was behind me. I relayed what Melanie had just told me.
“But he wasn’t your great-great-great-grandfather,” Dad said. “Tell them to come over here. I can explain everything. You needn’t be enemies.”
“But you can’t explain. He’s there!” I cried, pointing. “Even the horse is the same.”
“Do as you’re told. I’ve got an hour to spare. Tell them to come at once.” Dad picked up the telephone receiver. “Number?” he asked. “What’s their number?”
“Two six seven two.”
I could hear Melanie answering, then Dad was saying:
“Will you come over at once? I want to put the record straight about your great-great-great-grandfather and the highwayman.”
Melanie sounded surprised. There was a short silence before she replied, “Okay, we’ll come.”
Mum began to clean the hall in a demented manner. “Why do you always ask people when the house is in a mess?” she asked.
“The Nelsons don’t notice mess. You should see their house,” I said.
Dad unlocked a drawer in his desk and took out an ancient envelope with red sealing wax on it. “Skeletons in the family cupboard,” he said. “I never thought I would have to do this. And why did we name you Francis, for heaven’s sake? Why not James?”
Rain was falling outside now, washing the last of the leaves from the trees. I ate a bowl of cornflakes in the kitchen without noticing what I was doing, and buttered some bread automatically, like a robot.
Five minutes later, Carl, Melanie and George arrived on an odd assortment of bicycles.
“That was quick. Come in,” Dad said to them as he opened the door.
“We are eaten up with curiosity,” Melanie told him.
“And there he is!” cried Carl, looking at the portrait. “It’s unmistakable. Even the horse is the same!”
“Yes,” murmured Melanie, standing behind her brother, while George said:
“I don’t know why we are here. This place makes me sick.”
“Steady there, not so fast,” replied Dad in his best bedside manner. “You mustn’t judge without hearing the evidence.”
“We’ve seen that on Hangman’s Hill,” declared George.
“I’d better tell you our side of the story, then,” said Dad. “And in this envelope, I have the proof. The man you’re looking at on the wall is my great-great-grandfather, Sir James Welberry Sincock; the highwayman you saw was his twin brother, Francis Welberry Sincock, twenty minutes younger and never to have the title, or much money, because of that.”
“But the horse?”
“He’s the same. James acquired him after his brother was hanged. He was particularly fond of black horses. I have all the documents here.” Dad waved the ancient envelope. “T
here’s even a cutting from a newspaper describing the public hanging. It was a great scandal in its day and never mentioned again in our family. Poor Francis, he never fitted in; he needed money and never had enough. He grew up in a stately home, and became a gambler. The women he loved refused to marry him and his family disowned him. The more his brother prospered, the lower he sank. It was as though one was born with all the virtues and the other with all the vices. But he was a superb horseman, by far the better of the two.”
“So he was hanged then,” said Carl, looking at me.
“Penniless and disowned. News travelled slowly, if at all in those days,” said Dad. “And your great-great-great-grandfather wasn’t the only coachman he killed. The news of his shameful death may never have reached your family.”
Carl held out his hand and shook mine. It was a firm, steady handshake. “Our great-great-great-grandfather was a bit of a rogue, too,” he admitted. “They say he beat his wife and drove sick, lame and blind horses. You can’t sink much lower than that, can you?”
“It was a different world,” said Dad.
“I hope you will come and ride with us again soon, Francis,” Melanie said, with an apologetic smile.
“And let bygones be bygones,” added Carl.
The rain had stopped. When we opened the door everything outside looked washed clean.
“I do believe in ghosts now,” I said.
“I think we are nicer than our ancestors – much, much nicer,” said Melanie to Dad. “I mean, a doctor is a far better person than a highwayman, isn’t he?”
“Why did you call me Francis, rather than James?” I asked after the Nelsons had left.
“I think because James was awful too, but in a different way. He had everything, but he cheated and seduced young girls and rode horses to death in the hunting field. He was a hypocrite. He looked all right on the outside, but really his behaviour was appalling. At least Francis never pretended to be good,” explained Dad. “But perhaps we should have played safe and called you John,” he added, laughing.
The Pullein-Thompson Treasury of Horse and Pony Stories Page 14
