Illusions Of Change (A Poor Man at the Gate Series Book 6)
Page 25
He knew Sue, she had always been close to Patey.
“Godby! You come back then! Patience didn’t never reckon as ‘ow you would. Said you was gone away to come to a bad end, so she did. You and that Johnny. Is ‘e back too?”
“Johnny’s dead, better part of a year since.”
“You better tell ‘is mum then. She ought to know.”
“What about Patey?”
“She went off. Gone foreign. Bloke what was working up at the Latimers, doing lead work, flashing and that, she got to know ‘im and ‘e’d got a job lined up with the prisons in that Botany Bay, all the way to the other side of the world. They went off together, to Portsmouth first and then off on a ship. She couldn’t marry ‘im, acos ‘e’d got a missus already, ‘e told ‘er that straight, but ‘e said as ‘ow ‘e weren’t never gooin’ back along of ‘er, so she just said bugger it and took off wi’ ‘im.”
That was that.
He had wasted his time, risked his neck for nothing.
“Well then… No reason to ‘ang about round ‘ere then. I’ll be on me way. Johnny’s people still in the same place, is they?”
He led his horse a quarter of mile, down the road towards Finedon, hitched him to the gate to Johnny’s home, a small place but a bit bigger than most of the labourers’ cottages.
Johnny’s mother opened the door.
“You’re that Godby, ain’t you?”
He nodded.
“John not with you.”
“No, missus. Not for a year now. We fell into bad company down towards London way, bit outside, Chelmsford way. John got killed, missus.”
“Did you kill him?”
“No, missus. I was upstairs asleep in the room in the inn when it ‘appened. Didn’t know nothing until next morning, then I got out of it, and lucky they just let me go. I didn’t come back where I was known in case they changed their minds about me, and I ain’t staying now.”
“I knew it would happen, he was a wild boy and lacked any sense at all. My youngest. Old parents don’t make for good sons, so they say… perhaps they are right. His father died six months ago, sure until the end that he would see his John again, grown up to be a sensible man. At least he’ll never know…”
“I’ll be goin’ then, missus.”
“Do one thing for me, Mr Fletcher. Go down to Thingdon Hall and ask to speak to my lord. He’s at home at the moment, I heard. Tell him where John was killed and he might be able to get word to the local magistrates, though what good they’d do I don’t know.”
Godby had been intending simply to ride off on the Bristol road; now he decided he had business left undone.
“Back ‘ome, is ‘e? Got a few more men to ‘ang, I suppose. I’ll see ‘im, missus, it’s time somebody did.”
She failed to understand him, not very interested in anything else he had to say.
“He didn’t leave anything or send any message?”
“Nothing, missus.”
“Oh.”
She closed the door; he thought he heard a wail inside, but it was none of his business, he had done all he had come for. He led the horse a few yards down the road, mounted and walked slowly down to the river and then up the hill towards Finedon. Out of sight, in the woodland above the ironstone quarry, he took out the pepperbox, checked the loads, ball over black powder, and then carefully replaced the percussion caps, exactly on the nipples so that there could be no misfire. He pulled on the thin leather glove, working his hand carefully so that there were no wrinkles that could cause his fingers to fumble.
He knew what to do.
He must go to the Estate Office, speak very politely to the creeper there, Quillerson, tell him his business and say that he wanted to talk to my lord in person, if it was allowed. If he let him then he would do it, if he didn’t, just took the message himself, then he would thank him and go; there would be too many people hanging about, he couldn’t possibly force his way in.
Then it would be take off at a gallop, run the horse damned near to Thrapston before he turned onto the lanes as if he was going east towards Cambridge. He knew that country well enough and he could walk the drovers’ ways and the paths, cutting south and then west about. The hue and cry would be up, but looking to the ports on the East coast at first. He would make it as far as Worcester by the next afternoon, laying up in the woods overnight, not risking an inn, and there he would sell the horse and then take a stage to Gloucester. Buy another horse there and go west again and then down the coast to Chepstow. Sell the horse or just turn it loose and then take a passage down the Severn and into Bristol, there was a ferry service, plenty of people to get lost in. Once in the big port then he could find out what ships were going west, a cabin to New York or Boston or Savannah or down to New Orleans, it didn’t matter which.
He had run horses into Bristol, there was a big horse fair there three or four times a year, and he had looked about the quays, knowing he would sail west one day. Provided he got to the port and there was no great storm at sea to stop ships sailing, then he would be away clear.
He walked the horse slowly up the avenue to Thingdon Hall, wondering what his new name should be, what he would call himself in America.
He hitched the horse to the ring outside the estate office, knocked on the open door before walking in.
“Mr Quillerson? My name’s Godby Fletcher. I used to live in Burton. I went off with Johnny Jackman last year, and he got murdered down towards Chelmsford and his mum asked I to tell me lord, see if he could do owt for ‘er.”
“You should have gone to the constable or the magistrates there, Fletcher.”
Quillerson remembered the name, had little liking for it, was not disposed to be of assistance.
“Truth to tell, sir, I coulden. They’d got I, and Johnny, to move some osses for ‘em. We was short of cash and rode ‘em from Norwich across to Chelmsford for ‘em. They’d ‘ave transported I for sure iffen I’d gone to tell they what ‘appened. I was just goin’ to keep me gob shut, but ‘is mum asked I to come ‘ere.”
“There’s very little to be done unless you stand as King’s Evidence in court. Can you risk that?”
“Not bloody likely, sir! I’d be dead inside the day!”
There was a clatter in the stableyard, a pair of horses being led away.
“My lord’s back in from his morning ride with his lady. He’ll give you two minutes of his time, I expect, in his library. Come with me.”
Godby followed Quillerson towards the front of the house, entered the library where he stood and told his story, naming a few villains and refusing absolutely to have anything to do with giving evidence. He waited for Quillerson to go away but the old fool stayed put
“I doubt I can do a thing, Fletcher. Except to tell you to go a long way from here, for your own safety.”
“I’m off to Liverpool, my lord. I got money enough to buy me passage.”
There was no sense saying that he was actually intending to sail from Bristol, though it didn’t matter because he would have to do for both.
Quillerson turned to the door, giving Godby his chance as my lord pulled out his purse. He was going to give him money to go away with.
“Keep your bloody money, you old butcher!”
Godby pulled his bulky pistol from under his coat. The pin sight on the end of the barrel caught in the leather, slowed him a little.
Quillerson swung back, jumped at him, surprisingly nimble for his age, and pushed Godby to the side as he fired his first shot. Godby stuck the pistol into Quillerson’s chest, shot once then again as he fell forward onto him. Andrews was down behind his desk, the first round had hit him; Godby snapped off his last shot and ran for the door. Three of the shots had been muffled by Quillerson’s body and with luck the servants would have heard nothing.
Godby unhitched his horse, mounted and left the yard at a fast walk, unnoticed; had he galloped every boy in the yard would have come running to see what the fuss was. He gave the horse its head
as he turned onto the Thrapston road.
Tom stirred slowly behind his desk. He hurt. His right arm was broken, he was sure of that, and he could feel a bullet burn across his belly. It was not painful enough to have penetrated, no more than a flesh wound. He needed to raise the alarm, which meant standing and reaching the bell cord, and he was not sure that he could.
He could see Quillerson, mouth open, eyes blank; he was gone.
His chair had fallen, was entangling his legs; it was a big mahogany revolving desk armchair and he lacked the strength to heave it away. He swore, loudly.
“Help! Morton! Quickly!”
Two minutes and the aging butler appeared.
“Doctor, Morton, immediately!”
“Yes, my lord. A boy has already ridden out.”
Morton had sent messages to the stables as well as upstairs to Frances. Lads should by now be well on their way to the doctor, to the Finedon constable and to Sir Charles in Burton, the nearest significant neighbour. The new Marquis was still in London, there was no help to be found there.
Two hours had passed before a pursuit could be organised, and by that time it was futile.
“He will be fifteen miles away, my lady. He may have gone south to Bedford or across to Northampton, or east to Cambridge or north towards Leicester, or west on the Birmingham road. We have his name and a description and will send bills on every stage and mail coach from Kettering, and inform the office at Bow Street in case he makes towards London.”
Sir Charles had no other ideas to offer. Frances thanked him and ensured that refreshments were to hand before she sat to her writing desk.
Three identical notes addressed to James, Joseph and Charlotte.
“Lord Andrews has been shot by a would-be assassin. Mr Quillerson died in saving his life. The doctor believes your father’s injuries not to be fatal but it would be desirable that you should make all haste to the Hall.”
She sent a similar message to Robert, additionally begging him to procure the services of a resolute and resourceful thief-taker, ideally one of initiative who might not be too concerned about the niceties of an arrest and trial.
# # #
Book Seven: The Old Order
Universal Kindle Link: http://getBook.at/The-Old-Order
A short excerpt from the start of Book Seven
“Eighteen months, Captain Hood, and we still seem to be no closer to catching our little murderer!”
“Yes, Mr Robert, I would say that was a fair summary. We know more of him and we have a good idea where he is not. Where he actually is, however, I cannot at this moment say.”
Tom intervened before Robert exploded.
“We have in fact made significant progress, Captain Hood.” He eased himself in his wingchair, shifting the weak arm to a more comfortable position. “We are within reason certain that he sailed from Bristol three days after the shooting. An unaccompanied young man with a ‘low accent’ but with ample funds, conforming to his age and general description, took a single berth, an expensive cabin, to New York – and that was unusual enough to stick in the shipper’s memory, though not sufficiently so for him to inform the authorities before he sailed. We do not know where he went after going ashore in America, and it is not a small country, but we can be within reason sure that he is not in the Cape or sailed to Botany Bay.”
Eustace Hood bowed in acknowledgement.
“We know as well, my lord, that he had stolen a large sum from his late employer. The whisper is that he took in excess of four thousands, one half in gold coin, the rest in notes from country banks in the Midlands and Birmingham. A few notes have been changed in New York, but that is not too uncommon an event, there being a substantial degree of commerce between Birmingham and America. What is noticeable is that almost no such notes have surfaced in other banking centres in the States.”
“Then we have a strong indication that he is in New York,” Robert said.
“There or thereabouts, Mr Robert. He could be in one of the small towns or villages in the state: he is a country youth by background and might not feel at home in a large city. But, there is, one is informed, a rather large community of criminals in New York. It would seem that many failed settlers have returned to New York and been unable to make an honest living or to return to England; in other cases emigrants have been forced out of their homes in England or Ireland and simply dumped destitute on the quaysides of the New World. A ruthless young man with some money could very quickly make a place in the back streets, could become a leader amongst these derelicts and would be well able to enforce silence. I think it more likely that he is in a position of sufficient power to cover his tracks than that he has disappeared into the wilderness.”
Robert knew enough of the gangs in the rookeries of London to be aware that an informer was likely to be very short-lived. A gang leader would have a substantial degree of power in his own little precinct and could hide his identity for many years.
“So… what is to be done next? The search will continue, Captain Hood, never ceasing until it becomes probable that he has died of old age, yet I know that you would be ill-advised to travel to the States in person, your previous occupation rendering that ineligible.”
Captain Hood was believed to have worked with one of the Intelligence departments that had proliferated during the wars, had virtually admitted to being known in America.
“Mr James Andrews has as factotum a Mr Murphy, once a sergeant in his company of the Rifles and before that articled to an attorney in Dublin. A literate and intelligent gentleman, even if somewhat indiscreet in his attachment to a free Ireland. He is no longer an indispensable member of Mr James’ household.”
Tom and Robert had both met Murphy and respected his abilities. Murphy had been responsible to a very great degree for the way in which James had overcome the crippling loss of his leg; the young Member of Parliament was now contemplating marriage and his wife would take Murphy’s place.
“You wish to send him to the States, Captain Hood?”
“Another Irishman who has left his country in urgent fashion, my lord. Possibly drifting on the waterfront with a few coins in his pocket, an obviously able and self-reliant man, he would, I suspect, very soon be recruited into the company of others of his background. Alternatively he could go as our employee, asking questions of the powerful. Either way, and the choice would have to be his, I would have every hope of a successful outcome.”
“How will Murphy return him to England for trial, Captain Hood?”
The younger men stared at Tom, open-mouthed in amaze. Robert waved Hood to silence, chose his own words with some care.
“’Trial’, as such, does not figure high on my list of priorities, Papa. In fact, sir, it does not feature at all! Provided the identity is established then there is no doubt of guilt. He murdered Mr Quillerson, for no better reason than that he was in the way. He tried to kill you, and was within a very few inches of success! He slaughtered his most recent employer, or so it seems very likely. He is a thief. Whilst I should like to see him dangling on the Tyburn tree, I will have no objection at all to him being shot like a dog in the gutter!”
Tom thought about the matter of due legal process, concluded that he really was not too committed to a ritual semblance of legality. Godby Fletcher deserved to die, needed to be killed, the world would be a cleaner place without him.
“My mistake, Robert. He must be dealt with, and it would be quite impossible to drag him aboard ship and hold him in custody for a month before delivering him to the constables in Bristol or Liverpool. I presume that there are no provisions for the trial of an English criminal before an American court?”
Robert did not know but Captain Hood was fairly certain that it could not be done, there would be no jurisdiction.
“I would wish to speak to Mr Murphy myself. Can that be conveniently arranged?”
Robert thought it to be unnecessary, but it could be done, much though he wanted to spare his father any effort o
r distress.
“What of Fletcher’s sister, she who is thought to have travelled to Botany Bay as an emigrant?”
Captain Hood thumbed through the leather brief-case he had brought with him, a small bag of legal invention and rarely seen except in barristers’ hands. He produced a letter.
“A reply to my query made some sixteen months ago, my lord. I used the good offices of a friend who is still a serving naval officer and was enabled to obtain a very rapid response from another acquaintance who accepted a commission with the Rum Regiment when attempts were made to reform that appalling body.”
They had heard of the Rum Regiment, the militia that provided a military presence in the penal colony and which was sufficiently corrupt to be noteworthy even in that age.
“Has the reform achieved any success, Captain Hood?”
“None whatsoever, Mr Robert! The men remain vicious drunkards and the officers have without exception become very substantial landowners, all with bands of convict-slaves to work their acres. I regret to say that the gentlemen who were sent out from England to remedy the sad state of affairs found that the prospect of possession in freehold of many thousands of acres of sheep and wheat lands tended to vitiate their reforming zeal. They became, in fact, just as enthusiastically corrupt as their predecessors!”
They were not surprised, tended in fact to be amused at the naivety of politicians who had expected any other outcome.
“Patience Fletcher, gentlemen, has taken the name of the Mr Hogsflesh who she travelled with, and to whom she has borne a child, and is living with him in some degree of domestic harmony. He has a position as a master tradesman with the authorities there, and, one understands, is in the way of achieving prosperity. My correspondent assures me that she has no knowledge of her brother, had suspected him to be dead, having received no word from him at all. He is quite certainly not in her company.”