“Will you repeat the expressions used by Mr Westmacott?” Sir Edward begged.
“I will repeat the one that, to my mind, matters most. Mr Westmacott, getting to his feet and in a loud voice, exclaimed, ‘God save the Protestant Duke!’ ”
“Do you admit it, sir?” thundered Albemarle, his eyes glowering upon Richard from under his ponderous brows. Richard hesitated a moment, pale and trembling.
“You will waste breath in denying it,” said Trenchard suavely, “for I have a drawer from the Bell Inn, and two gentlemen who overheard you waiting outside.”
“I’ faith, sir,” cried Blake, “what treason was there in that? If he…”
“Silence!” thundered Albemarle. “Let Mr Westmacott speak for himself.”
Richard, inspired by the defence Blake had begun, took the same line of argument. “I admit that in the heat of wine I may have used such words,” said he. “But I deny their intent to be treasonable. There are many men who drink to the prosperity of the late King’s son…”
“Natural son, sir; natural son,” Albemarle amended. “It is treason to speak of him otherwise.”
“It will be treason presently to draw breath,” sneered Blake.
“If it be,” said Trenchard, “it is a treason you’ll not be long committing.”
“Faith, you are right, Mr Trenchard,” said the Duke with a laugh. Indeed, he found Mr Trenchard a most pleasant and facetious gentleman.
“Still,” insisted Richard, endeavouring in spite of these irrelevancies to make good his point, “there be many men who drink daily to the prosperity of the late King’s natural son.”
“Ay, sir,” answered Albemarle; “but not his prosperity in horrid plots against the life of our beloved sovereign.”
“True, your Grace; very true,” purred Sir Edward.
“It was not so I meant to toast him,” cried Richard.
Albemarle made an impatient gesture, and took up a sheet of paper. “How, then,” he asked, “comes this letter – this letter which makes plain the treason upon which the Duke of Monmouth is embarked, just as it makes plain your participation in it – how comes this letter to be found in your possession?” And he waved the letter in the air. Richard went the colour of ashes. He faltered a moment, then took refuge in the truth, for all that he knew beforehand that the truth was bound to ring more false than any lie he could invent.
“That letter was not addressed to me,” he stammered.
Albemarle read the subscription, “To my good friend W, at Bridgwater.” He looked up, a heavy sneer thrusting his heavy lip still further out. “What do you say to that? Does not ‘W’ stand for Westmacott?”
“It does not.”
“Of course not,” said Albemarle with heavy sarcasm. “It stands for Wilkins, or Williams, or…or… What-not.”
“Indeed, I can bear witness that it does not,” exclaimed Sir Rowland.
“Be silent, sir, I tell you,” bawled the Duke at him again. “You shall bear witness soon enough, I promise you. To whom, then,” he resumed, turning again to Richard, “do you say that this letter was addressed?”
“To Mr Wilding – Mr Anthony Wilding,” Richard answered.
“I would have your Grace to observe,” put in Trenchard quietly, “that Mr Wilding, properly speaking, does not reside in Bridgwater.”
“Tush!” cried Albemarle; “the rogue but mentions the first name with a ‘W’ that occurs to him. He’s not even an ingenious liar. And how, sir,” he asked Richard, “does it come to be in your possession having been addressed, as you say, to Mr Wilding?”
“Aye, sir,” said Sir Edward, blinking his weak eyes. “Tell us that.”
Richard hesitated again, and looked at Blake. Blake, who by now had come to realise that his friend’s affairs were not mended by his interruptions, moodily shrugged his shoulders, scowling.
“Come, sir,” said Colonel Luttrell, engagingly, “answer the question.”
“Aye,” roared Albemarle; “let your invention have free rein.”
Again poor Richard sought refuge in the truth. “We – Sir Rowland here and I – had reason to suspect that he was awaiting such a letter.”
“Tell us your reasons, sir, if we are to credit you,” said the Duke, and it was plain he mocked the prisoner. It was, moreover, a request that staggered Richard. Still, he sought to find a reason that should sound plausible.
“We inferred it from certain remarks that Mr Wilding let fall in our presence.”
“Tell us the remarks, sir,” the Duke insisted.
“Indeed, I do not call his precise words to mind, your Grace. But they were such that we suspicioned him.”
“And you would have me believe that hearing words which awoke in you such grave suspicions, you kept your suspicions and straightway forgot the words. You’re but an indifferent liar.”
Trenchard, who was standing by the long table, leaned forward now.
“It might be well, and it please your Grace,” said he, “to waive the point, and let us come to those matters which are of greater moment. Let him tell your Grace how he came by the letter.”
“Ay,” said Albemarle. “We do but waste time. Tell us, then, how came the letter into your hands?”
“With Sir Rowland, here, I robbed the courier as he was riding from Taunton to Bridgwater.”
Albemarle laughed, and Sir Edward smiled. “You robbed him, eh?” said his Grace. “Very well. But how did it happen that you knew he had the letter upon him, or was it that you were playing the hightobymen, and that in robbing him you hoped to find other matters?”
“Not so, sir,” answered Richard. “I sought but the letter.”
“And how knew you that he carried it? Did you learn that too from Mr Wilding’s indiscretion?”
“Your Grace has said it.”
“’Slife? What an impudent rogue have we here!” cried the angry Duke, who conceived that Richard was purposely dealing in effrontery. “Mr Trenchard, I do think we are wasting time. Be so good as to confound them both with the truth of this matter.”
“That letter,” said Trenchard, “was delivered to them at the ‘Hare and Hounds,’ here at Taunton, by a gentleman who put up at the inn, and was there joined by Mr Westmacott and Sir Rowland Blake. They opened the conversation with certain cant phrases very clearly intended as passwords. Thus: the prisoners said to the messenger, as they seated themselves at the table he occupied, ‘You have the air, sir, of being from overseas,’ to which the courier answered, ‘Indeed, yes. I am from Holland.’ ‘From the land of Orange,’ says one of the prisoners. ‘Aye, and other things,’ replies the messenger. ‘There is a fair wind blowing,’ he adds; to which one of the prisoners, I believe it was Sir Rowland, makes answer, ‘May it prosper the Protestant Duke and blow Popery to hell.’ Thereupon the landlord caught some mention of a letter, but these plotters, perceiving that they were perhaps being overheard, sent him away to fetch them wine. A half-hour later the messenger took his leave, and the prisoners followed a very few minutes afterwards.”
Albemarle turned to the prisoners. “You have heard Mr Trenchard’s story. How do you say – is it true or untrue?”
“You will waste breath in denying it,” Trenchard took it again upon himself to admonish them. “For I have with me the landlord of the ‘Hare and Hounds,’ who will corroborate, upon oath, what I have said.”
“We do not deny it,” put in Blake. “But we submit that the matter is susceptible to explanation.”
“You can keep your explanations till your trial, then,” snapped Albemarle. “I have heard more than enough to commit the pair of you to gaol.”
“But, your Grace,” cried Sir Rowland, so fiercely that one of the tything-men set a restraining hand upon his shoulder, “I am ready to swear that what I did, and what my friend Mr Westmacott did, was done in the interests of His Majesty. We were working to discover this plot.”
“Which, no doubt,” put in Trenchard slyly, “is the reason why, having got the let
ter, your friend Mr Westmacott locked it in a desk, and you kept silence on the matter.”
“You see,” exclaimed Albemarle, “how your lies do but serve further to bind you in the toils. It is ever thus with traitors.”
“I do think you are a damned traitor, Trenchard,” began Blake; “a foul…” But what more he would have said was checked by Albemarle, who thundered forth an order for their removal, and then, scarce were the words uttered, than the door at the far end of the hall was opened, and through it came a sound of women’s voices. Richard started, for one was the voice of Ruth.
An usher advanced. “May it please your Grace, there are two ladies here beg that you will hear their evidence in the matter of Mr Westmacott and Sir Rowland Blake.”
Albemarle considered a moment. Trenchard stood very thoughtful.
“Indeed,” said the Duke, at last, “I have heard as much as I need hear,” and Sir Edward Phelips nodded in token of concurrence.
Not so, however, Colonel Luttrell. “Still,” said he, “in the interests of His Majesty, perhaps, we should be doing well to receive them.”
Albemarle blew out his cheeks like a man wearied, and stared an instant at Luttrell. Then he shrugged his shoulders.
“Admit them, then,” he commanded almost peevishly, and Ruth and Diana were ushered into the hall. Both were pale, but whilst Diana was fluttered with excitement, Ruth was calm and cool, and it was she who spoke in answer to the Duke’s invitation. The burden of her speech was a clear, succinct recitation – in which she spared neither Wilding nor herself – of how the letter came to have remained in her hands, and silence to have been preserved regarding it. Albemarle heard her very patiently.
“If what you say is true, mistress,” said he, “and God forbid that I should be so ungallant as to throw doubt upon a lady’s word, it certainly explains – although most strangely – how the letter was not brought to us at once by your brother and his friend Sir Rowland. You are prepared to swear that this letter was intended for Mr Wilding?”
“I am prepared to swear it,” she replied.
“This is very serious,” said the Duke.
“Very serious,” assented Sir Edward Phelips.
Albemarle, a little flustered, turned to his colleagues. “What do you say to this? Were it perhaps well to order Mr Wilding’s apprehension, and to have him brought hither?”
“It were to give yourselves useless trouble, gentlemen,” said Trenchard, with so much assurance that it was plain Albemarle hesitated.
“Beware of Mr Trenchard, your Grace,” cried Ruth. “He is Mr Wilding’s friend, and if there is a plot he is sure to be in it.”
Albemarle, startled, looked at Trenchard. Had the accusation come from either of the men the Duke would have silenced him and abused him; but coming from a woman, and so comely a woman, it seemed to His Grace worthy at least of consideration. But nimble Mr Trenchard was easily master of the situation.
“Which, of course,” he answered, with fine sarcasm, “is the reason why I have been at work for the past four-and-twenty hours to lay proofs of this plot before your Grace.”
Albemarle was ashamed of his momentary hesitation.
“For the rest,” said Trenchard, “it is perfectly true that I am Mr Wilding’s friend. But the lady is even more intimately connected with him. It happens that she is his wife.”
“His…his wife!” gasped the Duke, whilst Phelips chuckled, and Colonel Luttrell’s face grew dark.
Trenchard’s wicked smile flickered upon his mobile features. “There are rumours current of court paid her by Sir Rowland, there. Who knows?” he questioned most suggestively, arching his brows and tightening his lips. “Wives are strange kittle-kattle, and husbands have been known before to grow inconvenient. Upon reflection, your Grace will no doubt discern the precise degree of faith to attach to what this lady may tell you against Mr Wilding.”
“Oh!” exclaimed Ruth, her cheeks flaming crimson. “But this is monstrous!”
“’Tis how I should myself describe it,” answered Trenchard without shame. Spurred to it thus, Ruth poured out the entire story of her marriage, and so clear and lucid was her statement that it threw upon the affair a flood of light, whilst so frank and truthful was her tone, her narrative hung so well together, that the bench began to recover from the shock to its faith, and was again in danger of believing her. Trenchard saw this and trembled. To save Wilding for the Cause he had resorted to this desperate expedient of betraying that Cause. It must be observed, however, that he had not done so save under the conviction that betrayed it was bound to be, and that since that was inevitable the thing had better come from him – for Wilding’s sake – than from Richard Westmacott. He had taken the bull by the horns in a most desperate fashion, when he had determined to hoist Richard and Blake with their own petard, hoping that, after all, the harm would reach no further than the destruction of these two – a purely defensive scheme. But now, this girl threatened to wreck his scheme just as it was being safely steered to harbour. Suddenly he swung round, interrupting her.
“Lies, lies, lies!” he clamoured, and his interruption coming at such a time served to impress the Duke most unfavourably – as well it might.
“It is our wish to hear this lady out, Mr Trenchard,” the Duke reproved him.
But Mr Trenchard was undismayed. Indeed, he had just discovered a hitherto neglected card, which should put an end to this dangerous game.
“I do abhor to hear your Grace’s patience thus abused,” he exclaimed with some show of heat. “This lady makes a mock of you. If you’ll allow me to ask two questions – or perhaps three – I’ll promise finally to prick this bubble for you. Have I your Grace’s leave?”
“Well, well,” said Albemarle. “Let us hear your questions.” And his colleagues nodded.
Trenchard turned airily to Ruth. Behind her Diana sat – an attendant had fetched a chair for her – in fear and wonder at what she saw and heard, her eyes ever and anon straying to Sir Rowland’s back, which was towards her.
“This letter, madam,” said he, “for the possession of which you have accounted in so…so…picturesque a manner, was intended for and addressed to Mr Wilding, you say. And you are prepared to swear to it?”
Ruth turned indignantly to the bench. “Must I answer this man’s questions?” she demanded.
“I think, perhaps, it were best you did,” said the Duke, still showing her all deference.
She turned to Trenchard, her head high, her eyes full upon his wrinkled, cynical face. “I swear, then…” she began, but he – consummate actor that he was and versed in tricks that impress an audience – interrupted her, raising one of his gnarled, yellow hands.
“Nay, nay,” said he. “I would not have perjury proved against you. I do not ask you to swear. It will be sufficient if you pronounce yourself prepared to swear.”
She pouted her lip a trifle, her whole expression manifesting her contempt of him. “I am in no fear of perjuring myself,” she answered fearlessly. “And I swear that the letter in question was addressed to Mr Wilding.”
“As you will,” said Trenchard, and was careful not to ask her how she came by her knowledge. “The letter, no doubt, was in an outer wrapper, on which there would be a superscription – the name of the person to whom the letter was addressed?” he half questioned, and Luttrell, who saw the drift of the question, nodded gravely.
“No doubt,” said Ruth.
“Now you will acknowledge, I am sure, madam, that such a wrapper would be a document of the greatest importance, as important, indeed, as the letter itself, since we could depend upon it finally to clear up this point on which we differ. You will admit so much, I think?”
“Why, yes,” she answered, but her voice faltered a little, and her glance was not quite so fearless. She, too, saw at last the pit he had dug for her. He leaned forward, smiling quietly, his voice impressively subdued, and launched the bolt that was to annihilate the credibility of the story she had told.
>
“Can you then explain how it comes that that wrapper has been suppressed? Can you tell us how – the matter being as you state it – in very self-defence against the dangers of keeping such a letter, your brother did not also keep that wrapper?”
Her eyes fell away from his face, they turned to Albemarle, who sat scowling again, and from him they flickered unsteadily to Phelips and Luttrell, and lastly, to Richard, who, very white and with set teeth, stood listening to the working of his ruin.
“I… I do not know,” she faltered at last.
“Ah!” said Trenchard, drawing a deep breath. He turned to the bench. “Need I suggest what was the need – the urgent need – for suppressing that wrapper?” quoth he. “Need I say what name was inscribed upon it? I think not. Your Grace’s keen insight, and yours, gentlemen, will determine what was probable.”
Sir Rowland now stood forward, addressing Albemarle. “Will your Grace permit me to offer my explanation of this?”
Albemarle banged the table. His patience was at an end, since he came now to believe – as Trenchard had earlier suggested – that he had been played upon by Ruth.
“Too many explanations have I heard already, sir,” he answered. He turned to one of his secretaries. In his sudden access of choler he forgot his colleagues altogether. “The prisoners are committed for trial,” said he harshly, and Trenchard breathed freely at last. But the next instant he caught his breath again, for a ringing voice was heard without demanding to see His Grace of Albemarle at once, and the voice was the voice of Anthony Wilding.
Chapter 11
THE MARPLOT
Mr Wilding’s appearance produced as many different emotions as there were individuals present. He made the company a sweeping bow on his admission by Albemarle’s orders, a bow which was returned by a stare from one and all. Diana eyed him in amazement, Ruth in hope; Richard averted his glance from that of his brother-inlaw; whilst Sir Rowland met it with a scowl of enmity – they had not come face to face since the occasion of that encounter in which Sir Rowland’s self-love had been so rudely handled. Albemarle’s face expressed a sort of satisfaction, which was reflected on the countenances of Phelips and Luttrell; whilst Trenchard never thought of attempting to dissemble his profound dismay. And this dismay was shared, though not in so deep a measure, by Wilding himself. Trenchard’s presence gave him pause; for he had been far indeed from dreaming that his friend had a hand in this affair. At sight of him all was made clear to Mr Wilding. At once he saw the rôle which Trenchard had assumed on this occasion, saw to the bottom of the motives that had inspired him to take the bull by the horns and level against Richard and Blake this accusation before they had leisure to level it against himself.
Anthony Wilding Page 11
