The Highwayman's Daughter

by Henriette Gyland

  She’d never believed the stories of Gentleman George’s treasure, but it wouldn’t hurt to find out if the story held some truth, would it?

  ‘All right,’ she said, ‘tell me what you think I should do.’

  Chapter Fifteen

  After his visit to Newgate, Rupert had begun making enquiries about the man named Mardell, whom Gentleman George had inadvertently fingered, but no one was talking. He was met with blank stares bordering on the hostile, from men and women alike, and he cursed the fact that the townsfolk of Hounslow had such long memories when it came to his exploits.

  Eventually he managed to corner a lad, and a combination of threatening to shake the poor youth until his teeth fell out and the promise of a coin yielded information he had partly surmised anyway – that Mardell lived with his daughter in a cottage in the woods near Hospital Bridge. This information left him exactly nowhere – he had seen for himself that Mardell’s cottage was deserted and knew that the man and his daughter must be long gone.

  Frustrated, he took himself back to the magistrate.

  Blencowe received him in less than good humour.

  ‘What brings you here at this late hour, Blythe?’ he bellowed from behind his desk. ‘If it’s to do with that thieving lad who’s terrorising us all, I’m afraid I have no intelligence which I haven’t already shared with you.’

  ‘I may have some information for you.’

  ‘Indeed?’ Blencowe raised his eyebrows.

  ‘Are you familiar with a man named Mardell?’ Rupert said.

  ‘Mardell?’ Blencowe frowned and appeared to be thinking hard. ‘The name is familiar. Yes, I recollect now. The man is a common labourer, but if you believe him to be our highwayman, you’re grossly mistaken. The sightings all report a lad, not a man Mardell’s age. Besides, it’s common knowledge that Mardell suffers from an ague of the chest and has a rasping cough likely to give him away.’

  Rupert hesitated. Blencowe had already refused to help him once; if he wanted him to change his mind, now was the time to own up to the fact that the ‘lad’ in question was, in fact, a woman. Except he was certain Jack must have kept this piece of information from the magistrate, for reasons of his own, and Rupert would do the same. Otherwise his chances of winning that wager against his saintly cousin were very slim.

  ‘Not Mardell,’ Rupert said. ‘A relative of his.’

  ‘Relative, pah! The only relative Mardell has is a daughter, and I seriously doubt a mere female has enough mettle to put the fear of God into our hapless travellers. No, it has to be a young man we’re looking for.’

  ‘So … Mardell has no nephews or any other known young associates?’

  ‘None whatsoever,’ Blencowe replied. ‘So, if you have nothing else to add, I should like to attend to my dinner.’

  Blencowe rose to signal that the meeting was at an end, and Rupert had no choice but to thank the magistrate for his time and bid him goodnight, which he did smiling affably yet gritting his teeth. Outside he gave vent to his frustration and threw his cane to the ground. To Blencowe he was nothing but a time-waster, and always had been, that much was clear.

  Muttering curses, he forced himself to apply some logic. What would he do if he were in the highwaywoman’s position? They had already left their cottage, but may be planning to leave the area for good. If this was the case, they would need travel money, quickly, which probably meant robbing another coach. But he’d not heard of any attacks since the one directed at himself and Jack, so he could either patrol the Bath Road and wait for the highwaywoman to strike or he could follow Jack to see what he got up to. Except Jack had proved rather adept at giving him the slip lately. Or he could go back to the Mardells’ cottage in the hope of finding some clue to where they might be headed, something which he may have missed the first time.

  Picking up his cane again, he resolved to go back there at first light, which was far earlier than he was accustomed to rising. However, desperate measures were called for under the circumstances.

  Cora and Mrs Wilton set off at daybreak the next morning. Mrs Wilton, carrying a covered basket over her arm, wore a white cotton cap and a long shawl, which hid the fact that her dress had seen better days, and Cora had opted for the breeches and jacket. She tied her hair back in a queue and pulled her tricorne hat over her eyes to hide her face from curious looks.

  But nobody took any notice of them, an old woman and her son going to London. Soon they struck lucky and hitched a ride on the back of a wagon transporting kegs of ale from Isleworth Brewery to an inn near Drury Lane.

  Cora hadn’t been to London since before her mother died, but she remembered some of the landmarks they passed from her last journey: Kew Bridge and the town of Kew on the other side of the Thames, the villages of Hammersmith and Kensington. By the church in Kensington the road widened, and the traffic grew heavier. In addition to the slow-moving wagons and market carts, stagecoaches, horsemen and travelling carriages all bustled towards London, and the smell of the road and the rumbling of wheels over granite stones filled the morning air.

  Between Kensington and Hyde Park stood the Halfway House Inn, reputed to be a meeting place for highwaymen’s touts, who gathered here, ready to send word to Hounslow Heath and other places on the western roads when wealthy families or merchants were setting out. Situated on the road side of the park, the inn stood all alone with its sinister reputation, and Cora felt a slight shiver as they passed it. She may have broken the law on occasion, and hit Jack’s groom out of desperation, but she would never intentionally harm any of her victims.

  Others were far more brutal.

  As they drew nearer to London, the din rose. Street vendors touted their wares and the crowds grew denser and more vociferous.

  But nothing could have prepared her for the narrow streets between Drury Lane and Oxford Street. What before had seemed crowded and busy, rich and poor, colourful and drab, all rolled into one, was replaced by the most unimaginable filth and squalid misery. Wretched houses with broken windows patched with rags and paper, gutters in the street, clothes drying and slops emptying from the windows, children with matted hair walking barefoot. And everywhere men and women, of all ages and in every variety of scanty and dirty clothing, were lounging, drinking, smoking, fighting and swearing.

  Horrified, Cora tried not to stare, but found it difficult. There was poverty in and around the town of Hounslow, people living in far more woeful circumstances than herself and Ned, but nothing like this. It was a different world.

  The wagon stopped in front of The Black Lion, a disreputable-looking ale house, and Cora and Martha climbed down and thanked the drayman.

  ‘Mind how you go, fella me lad,’ he said to Cora and nodded his head for emphasis. ‘This ain’t no place to bring yer ma.’

  He began unloading the kegs with the help of the taproom boy, and soon forgot about his passengers, who slipped in the back through an enclosed yard. A group of men engaged in a game of dice paid little attention to the young man who slipped into a back room, and no one batted an eyelid when the same young man emerged dressed as a woman. Perhaps such sights were commonplace in the vicinity of a theatre, Cora thought with amusement.

  In her yellow dress and a slightly tattered black veil Martha had lent her, Cora followed her companion, who had been to London a few times before, along the Strand and Fleet Street to Newgate. The streets were a beehive of activity, but even in a crowd such as this, Jack’s mother’s yellow dress was eye-catching. Already she was attracting a number of stares, a few leering, some courteous, despite her wearing a veil. Or perhaps because of the veil. Either way it made her feel uncomfortable, as if she was being watched.

  The smell greeted them first as they turned into Old Bailey. It was as if the gates of Hell had opened and spilled forth all its misery and malodour. Martha covered her nose with her shawl, but Cora didn’t. This was where Gentleman George was forced to spend the last few hours of his life; he had no choice but to accept it, so Cora wou
ld do the same.

  Still, it struck her as deviant, inhuman even, that shopkeepers, innkeepers and delivery men would go about their business as if their neighbour was just another building, and not the most notorious prison in the whole of England.

  The hustle and bustle here was the same as elsewhere in this sprawling city, completely heedless of what misery lay beyond these walls producing the near-unbearable stench. Passers-by were within a few yards of men and women whose days were numbered, who had lost all hope and whose lives would soon end in violent and shameful death.

  Cora stopped in front of the portcullis gate and looked up at the four-storeyed front looming over her. There was no hope for George. Last-minute reprieves from the king were rare, and why should Uncle George get one anyway? He had no one to plead his cause and had committed all the crimes with which he had been charged. Probably more. There was no doubt about his guilt. The only thing Cora could do for her father’s friend was to return his dignity to him.

  She breathed in and almost gagged from the noxious air. ‘Soap,’ she said to Martha. ‘I need soap.’

  ‘Soap?’ Martha squawked. ‘What’ll you be needing that for? Old George can’t eat that for ’is last meal!’

  ‘For washing,’ said Cora, still staring up at the imposing prison façade.

  ‘You look clean enough to me.’

  ‘Not for me. For Uncle George.’

  Finally Martha understood. She squeezed Cora’s arm with her claw-like hand. ‘You’re a good girl, Cora. Your father’s right to be proud of you. He probably don’t say it much, but I know ’e is.’

  Cora put her hand over Martha’s. For a brief moment she wanted to laugh at the absurdity of it all. Here she was, a country girl by day, highwaywoman by night and possibly a fine lady by blood, in stolen finery, walking into a prison, a veritable lion’s den, with only soap and a silk waistcoat for the condemned man. Her father might be proud of her, but he was right about her actions: this was utter madness.

  It was also the right thing to do.

  On the bustling Newgate Street they found a shop selling household goods; Cora purchased a pound of lye soap and dropped it in the basket Martha was carrying; then, holding their breath, they walked in through the prison gate.

  At the gatekeeper’s house Martha’s basket and pockets were searched, but when the guard turned to Cora, she held her head high.

  ‘My good man, do I look like the sort of personage who would bring a weapon to a condemned criminal?’

  The guard eyed her expensive dress and her veil and Cora hoped he wouldn’t notice that the veil was a bit threadbare in places and the dress a little too short – or the pistol concealed in her pocket.

  ‘I’m sorry, m’lady, just doin’ me job.’

  If he noticed that Martha was far too old to be a lady’s maid, he omitted to mention it, and Cora drew a sigh of relief. ‘I apologise for inconveniencing you, but may I trouble you for a pail of water?’

  The gatekeeper narrowed his eyes and Cora had a nasty feeling that he saw right through her disguise and was toying with her. Maybe the man had listened to the rumours of Gentleman George’s alleged treasure and was waiting to pounce on anyone who may have further information. A drop of perspiration ran down her back and she suppressed a shiver.

  ‘Certainly, m’lady,’ he said at last. ‘Although, begging your pardon, but what’ll you be needing the water for?’

  ‘I believe it to be Gentleman George’s last wish to meet his maker with a clean shirt and well-combed hair.’ And you could do with a proper wash yourself.

  The gatekeeper cackled at that. ‘I dare say you’ll need more than a pail of water for that. Scum, they all are in ’ere. Just scum. Ain’t no one here clean enough to go anywhere other than straight to Hell. It’ll cost you.’

  Cora jutted out her chin. She hated to have to part with some of the little travel money they had but if she kicked up a fuss, she might draw unwelcome attention to herself and Martha. ‘Of course. Will a shilling suffice?’

  ‘That’s most generous, m’lady. Most generous indeed.’ While Cora dug out a shilling from her purse, the gatekeeper signalled to the other guard, who left the room, then he grabbed the coin Cora handed him and slipped it into the pocket of his waistcoat. A moment later the other guard returned with a pail of murky water.

  ‘Here you are, m’lady. Although I fear it’ll take more than water to make this prisoner presentable.’ He winked at the gatekeeper, who chuckled menacingly, and it was with some trepidation that Cora and Martha followed him through a labyrinth of stairs and corridors to a cell on the third floor.

  ‘These cells are for those who only have hours left before their execution,’ the guard explained. ‘It gives them a chance to spruce up before the ’anging so they can put on a proper show, like. Not disappoint the specta’ors.’

  Cora stiffened. She was aware that crowds at a hanging expected a performance from the condemned, but hearing the guard talking about it so matter-of-factly, as if it was no different from an ordinary theatre production, brought it home to her that people were actually looking forward to seeing men die today.

  And one of those men was a dear friend.

  The guard unlocked a thick wooden door with a metal grille at the top. ‘Someone paid us handsomely to give him a private cell. A fine lady, like yerself.’

  He sent Cora a sly look as if to gauge her reaction to the news that the prisoner had other female admirers – which was what he assumed Cora to be – but she ignored him. When the door swung open with a clang, all she had eyes for was the disconsolate figure sitting on a high-backed chair staring up at the blue sky beyond the barred window. Chains attached to a ring in the wall kept his ankles shackled, but the prisoner wasn’t otherwise restrained. He did not turn around when Cora entered.

  ‘That’ll be all,’ she heard Martha say to the guard. ‘We’ll give you a holler when we’re finished.’

  ‘I’ll be right outside. This cove’s dangerous.’

  ‘Looks more like ’alf-dead already,’ Martha muttered when the guard had left them with a cheerful whistle and a jangle of keys as he locked the door behind him.

  Half-dead? Ripping off her veil, Cora crossed to where George sat, but he didn’t turn around, almost as if the fight had gone out of him a long time ago. Panic gripped Cora’s heart. Uncle George loved the freedom of the Heath, the sun and wind on his face when he rode and, of course, spending his evenings at a convivial inn. Had prison taken away his soul already? She would never forgive herself if Uncle George died without ever really knowing that she had come to say goodbye.

  She put her hand on his shoulder, and only then did he turn, with empty eyes and a distant smile on his lips. ‘My lady,’ he said and inclined his head regally although he did not get up, ‘to what do I owe this unexpected pleasure?’

  Cora bit her lip. It was worse than she feared; prison had indeed robbed her friend of his sanity. ‘Uncle George? It’s Cora.’ She whispered in case the guard was still listening.

  ‘Cora …’ He nodded slowly as if tasting her words. ‘But of course you are. A beautiful name for a beautiful lady.’

  ‘Cora Mardell. Ned’s daughter.’

  A shadow passed across his face and reality returned to his eyes. He gripped her hand and squeezed it. ‘Cora? Little Cora? Can it be?’ His gaze ran over her, searchingly, until it seemed he had drunk in all her features and was satisfied with what he saw. Then his face lit up. ‘It is you! And in a fine lady’s clothes. How can that be? And why have you come to see an old man die? This is no place for you.’

  ‘You’re not old, Uncle George,’ she replied and squeezed his hand in return, then quickly stopped as he winced in pain. He looked terrible. One of his eyes was badly swollen, his bottom lip had split, and underneath his torn shirt he was covered in cuts and bruises, some of them oozing yellow pus. And he stank. Gently Cora peeled aside the shirt to reveal a large bruise on his side with a peculiar protrusion under the skin.
r />   A broken rib, she thought. Perhaps several. Uncle George had taken a severe beating.

  ‘Who did this to you?’ she asked, seething with rage. ‘The guards?’

  George groaned unintelligibly.

  ‘Who?’ Cora insisted.

  It was a while before he answered. ‘There was a man … can’t remember his name.’ George exhaled. ‘Maybe he didn’t give it. I … I don’t remember things so well these days. The mind … is not what it was. But he was a nobleman.’

  Cora’s thoughts flew to Jack. If he possessed the intelligence she credited him with, he would have surmised that highwaymen were likely to be known to each other. Who better to question than a man who had no means of escape?

  She looked down at her old friend, at his beaten-up face, once so kind and gentlemanly, and clenched her fists. Jack couldn’t have done this, not the Jack she knew, but if she ever found who had reduced a beloved friend to this pathetic state, she would … well, she would rip him to shreds.

  ‘Whoa,’ croaked George and looked at Cora with a twinkle in his good eye. ‘I know that face. Doesn’t bode well.’

  ‘Can you describe this man to me?’ Cora asked and moved aside so he could get comfortable. Please, God, let it not be Jack. I couldn’t bear the thought.

  ‘It seemed like an age ago, though I don’t suppose it is. You lose all sense of time in a place like this.’ He was quiet for a moment. ‘A young man, a dandy. Your own age or thereabouts. Fine clothes, exquisitely crafted wig, a patch here.’ He indicated a point beside his mouth. ‘Or maybe it was real, I dunno. You can never tell with these types.’

  ‘A gentleman,’ George continued, ‘but only skin deep.’

  ‘I don’t understand.’

  ‘There was something nasty about him, lurking beneath the surface.’ George narrowed his eyes. ‘And he wanted to know about you specifically. Have you crossed this man?’