by Hall, Ian
Shades of the Real Varney
I studied the map the rest of the evening, setting Reggie to watch for the partner’s departure. From the scale at the bottom, Chessington was hardly more than sixteen miles away from where I would cross the Thames, but I determined to take a cab all the way to the stables to save time. My plan was set; I just had to wait for the moment to set it in motion, and there was little point in doing that until I confirmed for certain that Rymer and Prest were headed there.
Just after breakfast, Uncle James set off quietly with a small valise in his hand. He offered no goodbyes, but neither did he use much in the way of subterfuge. Either the secret of his weekend destination was now less fervently guarded, or perhaps I had just started to take notice. I watched from the window as he mounted Lady Clara’s coach, with Reggie setting off behind him. He had orders to find their general direction, and details of who else was inside.
To my surprise, he was back in minutes. “They’s headin’ south, Mister MacNeill.” He was out of breath, but looked very pleased with himself. “And the other feller’s already inside. They’re headin’ towards Blackfriars Bridge.”
I did not ask how he had got his information, but ran upstairs and quickly changed, grabbing my cane and map as I ran out of the door. “Thanks Reggie!” I waved as I ran down the lanes, heading through the alleys to Tavistock Place, a far better place to find a cab, and cutting out its unnecessary loop north. To my surprise, Reggie soon ran by my side. “Where do you think you’re going?” I panted.
“I’ll come as far as the river, sir.”
I had little objection to his plan and with that we hailed and caught the first cab we saw, jumping aboard. “Across the Thames!” I called through the hatch to the driver, “Then Abbeyfield Stables, near Southwark Park!”
To his credit, he set off at a swift pace, and soon we were past Regent’s Square and barreling down Gray’s Inn Road.
I half sat, half crouched inside the cab, my backside being buffeted by the less than adequate padding. But throughout the process I was conscious of grinning, happy with my decision to travel, hopeful to see Kitty once more. I also harbored a huge yearning to see the Varney mansion, and compare it to the writings I had been so intertwined with.
Then the carriage slowed, and I began to throw anxious glances out of the window. Moments later, we were doing no more than a slow walk. I poked open the drivers peephole with the tip of my cane. “What’s the problem, driver?”
“Beg pardon, sir, but the roads are cloggin’ up, sir.”
“What’s the reason?”
“Oh, prob’ly Blackfriars again, they’ve been workin’ on that thing for years, it’s never prop’ly fixed. I thought o’ going over Lon’on Bridge, but that’ll be busy too.”
There seemed no point in continuing at the snail pace, so I paid the driver and we continued on foot. Soon it became apparent that not much of anything was moving, and I thanked providence for my decision. As we neared the bridge, out of the corner of my eye I noticed a black coach standing in line. The foxes on the side gave the game away. “Vixen’s carriage!” I gasped, stopping to stare at the shiny black .
“What sir?” Reggie asked, and my mind was snapped from the revelation that I’d already caught up with the partners.
“You’ve got to go back, Reggie.” I patted him on the head. “I’ve got to do this on my own.” He gave me a sour look in resignation, but I turned southwards with determination.
Stepping smartly through the throng of pedestrians on the pavement, I pulled my collar high onto my neck, and walked past the carriage, constantly looking over the bulwarks of the bridge onto the river, hiding my face. Once past and in the middle of the concourse, the reason for the delays became apparent. A horse had obviously taken fright, and tried to get free from its harness, the resultant mess left the poor animal with a broken neck, and a large carriage on its side, blocking most of the bridge. I swear fifty people were trying to right the vehicle.
Once on the other side of the river I grabbed a cab immediately, and set off again at a good pace. I looked out the window with new appreciation, and it took me only minutes to find myself in semi-familiar territory, passing through the Rotherhithe area.
Once at the stables, my transition from coach to horseback was done with efficiency, and with my partners being delayed at the bridge, I felt far less frustrated as I otherwise would have been.
My mount was a mare of good size, and the saddle well adequate for a long trip. As the stable-boy lifted my foot, hoisting me onto its back he offered me some advice.
“She’s a tame ‘un,” he said, patting her neck as I found the second stirrup. “An’ she’s just been fed, so don’t push her for an hour or so.”
“Thank you,” I said, feeling far more precarious than I had the last time I’d been riding. I put it down to nerves. “What direction to the Portsmouth Road?”
“Out o’ the gates, an’ head right when you hit the main road.” He made the appropriate actions with his hands, and I watched carefully. “That takes you to Old Kent Road. Turning right and along there will take you right to Elephant and Castle. You can’t miss it from there.”
“Thank you,” I felt nervous as I turned the reins to the gates, but the horse fell into step easily and I found my riding rhythm within a few hundred yards.
Elephant and Castle was a huge square in which many coaches had already parked. Noon seemed to be the favorite time for a pause in a journey, and the taverns around the square seemed eager to oblige. Vendors accosted me as I traversed the area, offering me sandwiches and pies of all persuasions.
“Chicken Pie!” one said, a pretty maid, and to her credit her pies did look better than the average. “Just thruppence each.”
That did it. I knew I would need food sometime, and I had no idea when the next opportunity would present itself. “I’ll take two,” I said. “Wrap them for me.”
As I set off south on the Portsmouth Road, I had no idea if the partners were in front or behind me, but I kept to a trot until I was out in the country, then found a convenient place to sit for a while. From a small copse of trees on a rise just fifty yards from the road I watched the traffic on the road for almost two hours. The instant I had decided to call it quits, Lady Clara’s coach came bouncing round the corner.
I tipped my hat low over my eyes and allowed myself a smile of satisfaction as the coach passed by.
Then I looked on with a huge shake of my head.
A few minutes after the coach, a small figure ran along the road, obviously following. I rose and ran down to the road, recognizing the diminutive form immediately. “Reggie!” I called as I neared the road. “What are you doing here?”
“Mister MacNeill, sir!” he gasped, smiling through a grimace. “I had to come, sir.” He stood, bent over, his hands holding his sides, obviously in some discomfort. The rutted road cannot have been good to run on. “There’s a new man in the coach, sir.”
“Where did he get in?”
“They stopped at the Elephant and Castle, Mister MacNeill, sir.”
“Describe him,” I had never heard of the partners mention another man.
“Thin set, sir, not much meat to him at all, grey hair, in a pig-tail.”
Not wanting to lose the coach, I quickly untied the horse, mounted, and pulled Reggie behind me. “Feel under my jacket and hold onto my belt.” I offered, and felt Reggie’s fingers find purchase. I set off at a trot, and heard Reggie yelp in surprise. We soon caught sight of the coach, and I slowed to keep our distance.
As we progressed through the next village, I asked a woman bearing straw its name.
“Wimbledon, please y’ur pardon.”
I let her pass out of earshot. “Five miles outside London and the people talk like foreigners.” I heard Reggie chuckle behind me, but he was not his usual bubbly self.
I kept my eye on the coach, and kept us maybe a quarter of a mile behind. As we progressed south I lost it as it turned corners
, but resisted the temptation to close the gap.
Then on one of the corners, we found the coach gone. “She’s given us the slip.” I said, craning my neck as I stood in the stirrups. Reggie dropped to the ground and ran ahead. I followed slower, suddenly cautious.
Then he crouched at a fork in the road, and as I looked to the left, I seen the coach meandering across a tended meadowland. The road across the field, if I could call it a road, was just a hint of carriage track in the grass, little more. I could see it carry on for some distance, then disappear into a sizeable wood.
“I think we may have found Horton House.” I said as I approached the junction. Instantly I thought of the Inn in the town in the Varney stories, and tried to remember its name. “Climb aboard Reggie, we’re going to ride on ahead a bit.”
Chessington was as typical an English village as I could imagine. People milled the street, and stopped to watch a stranger pass. But the main Portsmouth Road ran right through, and the people knew where their money came from, so they smiled and called greetings as we rode.
Then I turned a corner, and there it stood; two storeys tall, whitewashed walls topped with a high thatched roof. A Large blue sign fell from a firm looking bar, a portrait of Lord Nelson himself.
“Admiral’s Arms,” I read the large gold letters above the door. Damned if it didn’t look exactly like it had been dragged from the pages of Varney.
Three shillings got me a bed for the night, and a berth in the stables for both the horse and Reggie. Then we rode back up the road, turning into Varney’s meadow towards the wood. As we neared the woodland, the trees looked more sparse, chestnut and oak, large sycamore. I rode until I could see the roof of a large house rising behind a tall garden wall. It made me shake to think I was in the book, part of the scenery, actually heading towards Bannerworth Hall. The brickwork of the house was red, a bright terra cotta, rising from low white terraced arches. The roof caught the setting sun, and was covered in lead-grey tiles. Six large red chimneys thrust into the air like castle towers, capped in white stone.
I veered off the trail to the left as we entered the wood, and left Reggie nervously in charge of the horse. I climbed the low branches of a young Sycamore, to get a better view over the wall. There was little doubt in my mind; at the center of the walled garden stood Bannerworth Hall. I could see the low white balconies Varney had used to his advantage, the summer house where Charlie had confronted Flora, and the wall Varney had easily scrambled over.
Before I got down, I had as good a look around as I could. The sun was beginning to set, and clouds were rolling in from the south, it did not bode well for a good weekend’s weather. To the north stood a house with a single spire, similar in size to Bannerworth Hall, standing atop a slight rise in the otherwise flat grassland. “Ratford Abbey.” I said out loud, then climbed swiftly down from my hiding place.
By the time we got back to the Admiral’s Arms, the rain had started, and I ordered beers in the busy tavern bar. I sat at a small corner table telling Reggie the story of Varney to pass the time, and he sat rapt in my words until the windows darkened to evening.
Suddenly the door swung open and two men shuffled quickly inside. Both had wide-brimmed hats and waxed capes, wet from the rain, but there the similarity stopped. The man to the fore was stout and forthright, he weaved to the bar like a ship at sea, blustering as he walked. We could hear his endless torrents across the room, Reggie sat in stupefied silence, his mouth agape.
“Ahoy, barkeep!” the seaman roused, opening his dark blue overcoat as he walked. “A ration of rum, and make it smartish! The sun is way past the yardarm, and shiver me if I’ve not got a thirst on!”
I could hardly believe it myself, the very image from Varney’s pages had materialized in front of me and made corporeal.
“Captain,” the thin man in his wake said, breathing heavily as if he’d walked the whole way. “Reef a sail, sir!” Neither man seemed conscious of the heads turned in their direction.
“I will not, Jack!” He neared a stool by the bar and with more agility than seemed possible for his considerable form, he leapt on it, his backside meeting the smooth wood perfectly, his feet sliding round in a fluid practiced motion. The man behind the oak counter had a glass of dark brown liquid in front of the Captain in seconds. “Ah, Roger, me boy, you’re quicker than a rat up an anchor-line!” he grinned, letting the rum trickle past his lips
Jack settled beside the Captain, and the dialogue between the two quietened down a bit, although we could still hear some of the words.
“It’s the Admiral.” Reggie leaned over, whispering.
“I know.” I couldn’t help but wonder if the partners actually knew the pair personally or if they’d just witnessed their antics in the tavern. That thought, of course, carried the accompanying warning that the partners may actually use the establishment; their love of drink would suggest it. Silently I hoped the rain would keep them away tonight.
Our serving wench suddenly obscured my view, making me start in surprise. “Can I fill you up, sir?”
“Aye,” I sighed, then looking up, caught her eye. “Who’s the nautical pair at the bar?”
She gave me a warm smile. “Why that’s our Captain Belling,” she said, “He’s our most regular customer.”
“Does he live locally?”
She nodded. “He bought the parsonage just down the road when he retired.” Then she puffed out her chest. “He actually did sail with Admiral Nelson, you know.” She said with obvious pride.
I ordered two more pints, and continued my interrogation when she returned. “His companion?”
“Ah, he’s a life-long friend. Jack started out as Captain Belling’s cabin boy, and retired with him as an officer of some sorts.”
“Jack…?”
She looked over at the pair, then turned back to me. “I’m not even sure I knows his last name. He’s just always been Jack.”
As I watched her rump move away I wondered just how much of the Varney story could be found in the people of the area, and of course, that meant the partners spent a lot of their time down here.
I debated for a while to introduce myself, then thought better of the idea; if I were to remain in the area for a while, I needed to tread carefully at first, not go barging into unknown circumstances.
Considering the activity at the bar, I finished another beer and retired to my room. The bed was soft and comfortable, and after my long day in the fresh country air, I fell asleep instantly and slept like a baby.
I awoke to the sharp sunshine that only an early morning can deliver. The birdsong sounded incredible, and I will admit that I took seconds at breakfast, and I felt so invigorated as I saddled the horse that I was barely conscious of doing so.
Half an hour later, the horse was tied in a thicket near the wall, and I had found the same branch to view the house as the previous day. In the morning light, the Bannerworth House looked magnificent. Ivy grew up some of the frontage, and gave a contrasting colour to the red brickwork, but of course, if I had expected the participants inside would carouse the gardens for my delight, I was soon disappointed. After an hour, I had perceived no sign of life from the house whatsoever.
Back at the horse, I poured out my frustration to Reggie. “How do I find out what’s going on inside?” I said finally.
“You go in.” the boy replied with such simplicity that I stared at him for a moment in disbelief.
“What?” I started. “In broad daylight?”
“No,” he chuckled, “We wait ‘til it’s dark, then we opens a window.”
I grinned, following his mood, finding it refreshing that such directness should come from the lad. “And what do we do in the meantime?”
“Let’s go see the chap next door.”
I could feel my brows furrowing above my eyes. “And we just go knocking at the door?”
“Why not?” He replied. “Just say you got lost.”
And half an hour later, I rode up the dri
ve to the walled garden of Ratford Abbey.
At the end of the grassy drive lay an impressive pair of iron gates, ornate metalwork curving in complex patterns. I dismounted and gave the gate a push, but felt little movement. I looked around for a latch, but could see none. In the red bricked gatepost sat a rusty knob with a square shaft going into a hole in the mortar. I pulled on the handle, and as I stared past the bars into the lawns surrounding Ratford Abbey, I swear I heard a distant bell ring although I had no idea how the task had been accomplished.
Moments later an old woman opened the large arched door and looked out, squinting against the low morning sun. I waved my hand hesitantly, suddenly not feeling comfortable with our simple plan. “I’m lost!” I shouted, somewhat feebly.
To my surprise, she closed the door, and I felt cheated, failing at my first hurdle.
Feeling little point in ringing the bell a second time, I pulled myself into the saddle, the horse turning under me. As I prepared to spur the animal back down the path, I caught a flash of light from the side of the Abbey, and pulled the horse still to see properly.
An elderly man walked briskly towards me, dressed in a loose black coat which draped to his knees, a bright red lining winked as he approached. As he cleared the side of the building, he made directly for the gate. I dismounted again, and stood in expectation of some sort of dialogue. For the life of me, I could not dispel the thought of meeting Francis Varney in the flesh.
The man was obviously at least in his sixties, a thin wrinkled face pushed between thick wisps of long white hair. He had a long nose that dipped slightly over his upper lip, but his face was hairless, in fact he was so well groomed, as he neared I could see no sign of his barber’s work at all. “Good morning, sir.” I began with more confidence than I felt. As he came to a halt, perhaps six feet from the gate I looked through the bars at his glowering eyes, so pale a blue as to be almost white. “I’m lost, sir, I strayed from the road and look for Chessington.”
“Then you are almost there,” his crisp throaty voice rang over the distance between us. He looked past me up the road. “But you do not come alone.”
