Gideon the Cutpurse

by Linda Buckley-Archer

  ‘Why are you crying, Mistress Kate?’

  ‘I’ve got some dust in my eye … Why don’t you tell me what nursery rhymes you know, Jack?’

  Kate had never heard of some of the songs he wanted her to sing. They both knew ‘Three Blind Mice’ although they could not agree on the words. With the unmoving stubbornness of a five-year-old, Jack insisted that Kate’s version was not just different, it was wrong. In the end Kate learned his version to keep him from complaining. At least the tune was the same.

  Three blind mice, three blind mice,

  Dame julienne, dame julienne,

  The miller and his merry old wife,

  She scraped the tripe, lick thou the knife,

  Three blind mice, three blind mice.

  Kate was a good singer and her high, melodious voice rose through the roof of the carriage where Parson Ledbury took up the rhyme and sang it as a round, starting one line as Kate and Jack had finished it. Then the carriage driver joined in and together they made a fine noise as they progressed through the Derbyshire countryside.

  Kate and Jack had just taken in a deep breath to start the round again when Jack let out a shrill cry. Looking up, Kate saw why. Directly opposite them the dozing form of Peter was beginning to blur. Terrified yet fascinated, Jack hid his head in Kate’s shoulder but could not resist peeping out with one eye open a tiny crack. ‘Why is he doing that?’ he whimpered, pointing a small, accusing finger at Peter’s flickering, liquefying form. ‘I don’t like it.’

  Aware that Hannah was beginning to stir, Kate kicked out in panic at Peter, who was now smiling in a most disconcerting fashion and looking around from side to side as if he were sightseeing. When her foot entered the space apparently occupied by Peter’s left leg, Kate felt the sensation of intense cold, as if all the living heat was being sucked out of her. Her knee was pushed up and backwards as she felt her foot being expelled with some force from Peter’s blurring body. At the same time, luminous spirals started to form in front of her eyes. She felt a strong urge to join him, to detach herself from this reality and …

  ‘Make him stop it!’ cried Jack.

  The Parson was still singing ‘Three Blind Mice’. ‘Peter!’ Kate cried out as loudly as she dared. ‘Peter, come back!’

  Hannah opened her eyes at the same moment that Peter, whose face had turned a livid, greenish-white, said, ‘I think I’m going to be sick.’ Peter promptly hung himself over the window and the rest of the carriage watched as his back heaved.

  ‘Oh, the poor soul!’ Hannah exclaimed and rapped sharply on the roof of the carriage. ‘By your leave, Parson Ledbury, Master Schock is ill, will you kindly stop the carriage as soon as you are able?’

  Jack tugged at Hannah’s skirts. ‘Hannah,’ he said, ‘Peter turned very strange while he slept.’

  ‘Well, Master Jack,’ she replied, ‘It is what happens to some people on long journeys. You are fortunate it did not happen to you.’

  Jack’s eyes grew very large.

  The whole party got down to stretch their legs. Peter stood trembling and pale in the shade of some bushes.

  ‘You look terrible,’ Kate remarked.

  ‘Thanks a lot,’ said Peter.

  Hannah came over and poured some clear, amber liquid from a rather dirty glass bottle into a tumbler and told Peter to swallow it in one gulp.

  ‘It will make you feel better,’ she urged.

  Peter looked at it suspiciously but did what he was told. The medicine certainly brought the colour to his cheeks but he did not feel exactly better. He clutched his stomach.

  ‘Not found your sea legs, yet, eh, Master Schock?’ said Parson Ledbury without a great deal of sympathy. ‘Perhaps you had better sit up on top as long as you can keep the contents of your stomach to yourself!’

  Peter dived into some bushes.

  ‘Upon my word the journey to London is going to seem an eternity for that poor child,’ said Hannah.

  ‘How long will the journey take?’ asked Kate.

  ‘It will take no time at all with horse flesh of this quality,’ declared the Parson, patting the flank of one of his chestnut mares. ‘Why, you shall be supping in Lincoln’s Inn Fields this Wednesday evening.’

  ‘Two and a half days!’ exclaimed Kate.

  ‘Indeed,’ agreed the Parson, ‘an amazing short time, is it not?’ Kate nodded her head. ‘Amazing …’

  Kate was tactful enough to wait for a moment before going after Peter to see how he was doing.

  ‘Please don’t ever, ever do that again,’ he said. ‘I thought I was going to die. When your foot went into me it felt like I was being turned inside out. Stop laughing! I’m serious – it felt really dangerous. I wondered for a moment there if I was going to disintegrate. Like every molecule of me was unsure which way to go.’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ said Kate. ‘I didn’t mean to do it. Did you blur deliberately or did it just happen?’

  ‘I’m not stupid enough to try and blur in a carriage full of people!’ snapped Peter who still looked distinctly green.

  ‘Okay, there’s no need to get so cross!’ retorted Kate. ‘Where did you go, anyway? For a moment back there you looked like you were having a nice time.’

  ‘Yeah, I was. Actually it was great. I was floating over a country road at the same speed as the carriage only minus the carriage. It felt like flying. It was only spoiled when a farmer spotted me and insisted on driving right up next to me in his tractor with his jaw open like this.’

  Peter put on a half-baked expression and let his mouth sag open. Kate giggled.

  ‘And when you decided to invade my body space,’ he said, knitting his eyebrows together, ‘it hurt so much I couldn’t see. The farmer probably drove into a ditch, for all I know.’

  ‘Look, I said I was sorry. I won’t do it ever again, I promise. Come on,’ she said, ‘we’d better be getting back.’

  ‘Kate …’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘I’m not going to dare go to sleep now.’

  ‘It doesn’t happen every time but I know what you mean. If I’m going to blur I want to know it’s happening,’ Kate replied.

  ‘What are we going to do?’

  ‘I don’t know. Get very tired I suppose. The sooner we get that machine back the better.’

  ‘Only if we can get it to work,’ said Peter.

  ‘Yeah, well, I don’t think we’ve got much choice – though maybe one of these times we’ll blur back to the future and stay there. Then it doesn’t matter if anyone sees us.’

  ‘It’s as if there’s a homing device in us, isn’t it?’ said Peter. ‘Like dogs that get lost on holiday and then walk hundreds of miles back home.’

  ‘Or maybe that machine damaged us in some way,’ said Kate. ‘I don’t know. But I bet my dad has got it sussed. He’ll come back and get us, you wait and see. Anyway, we’d better be getting back.’

  Peter did not understand why he felt quite so irritated when Kate went on about her dad like this, but he did. If he was so totally wonderful how come he let this happen in the first place? he thought.

  Once they were back on the road, Parson Ledbury announced: ‘I know a tolerable inn some three or four miles hence. The innkeeper’s wife is as ugly as sin but she cooks like an angel. I dined handsomely off a plate of tripe the last time I was there.’

  ‘What’s tripe?’ whispered Peter to Kate.

  ‘Believe me, if you’re still feeling sick, you don’t want to know,’ she replied.

  Half an hour later they found themselves seated around a long wooden table in the dining room of the New Inn. In comparison to the sweltering heat outside, the inn felt blissfully cool and comfortable. It was a large, low-ceilinged room with oak beams and sawdust scattered on the scrubbed wooden floor. There were half a dozen large tables crammed into the room although they were currently the only guests. A serving wench brought out jugs of foaming ale and water and the Parson whispered something into her ear which made her smile and blush and scamp
er back into the kitchen. The innkeeper was busy stacking bottles in the cellar and through the open trapdoor came the sound of his cheerful song echoing in the cavernous space – although he could not keep in tune from one note to the next. So it was the innkeeper’s wife who presented them with a whole loin of pork roasted with potatoes. She had pretty blonde hair and fine blue eyes but every inch of her skin, even that on her eyelids and the palms of her hands, was horribly pockmarked, covered in deep pits and craters like a lunar landscape. It was impossible for Jack to stop staring. Hannah did her best to distract him but to no avail – his wide blue eyes swivelled constantly back to the woman’s disfigured complexion.

  ‘Don’t you fret at him, mistress, if I was apt to take offence I’d never come out of the kitchen. There’s not many that’s had the smallpox as bad and lived to tell the tale. My mother lost two of my brothers and my only sister at the same time. When I took to feeling sorry for myself she always said to me: “Better to have skin like a honeycomb than be six feet under.” And of course she was right. Count your blessings, for you never know when they might be taken away.’

  ‘Well said, madam!’ said Parson Ledbury, his chin glistening with pork grease. ‘You set an example to us all. Life is what you make of it. But tell me, why is your establishment so unseasonably quiet? I have never seen it so empty. I trust your husband has not taken to singing to his guests.’

  The woman laughed. ‘No, sir. Much as I love him I’ve too sharp an eye for business to let him do that. No, it’s on account of a highwayman. He’s struck five times between Derby and Lichfield this past fortnight. Folk reckon it’s Ned Porter that’s responsible, though they do say that there’s a vicious gang of footpads abroad, too. I advise you to take extra care and arm yourself in case of need.’

  The Parson drew out a wooden cudgel from his belt and brandished it in the air.

  ‘Do you have a pistol, sir?’ asked the innkeeper’s wife. ‘He is armed to the teeth, so they say.’

  Everybody stopped eating. Peter and Kate looked at each other in alarm and Hannah clasped Jack to her. Sidney stood up suddenly and cried out: ‘Fear not! The Parson and I will show no mercy to any gentleman of the road foolish enough to waylay us!’

  ‘Bravo, my lad!’ shouted the Parson.

  ‘Well, I admire your bottom, young sir,’ said the innkeeper’s wife, ignoring Kate’s snigger. ‘But if you change your mind there’s a gunsmith’s shop in the village.’

  ‘You don’t think we’re in real danger, do you?’ whispered Kate to Peter.

  Peter shrugged his shoulders.

  ‘How should I know? But I shouldn’t worry, Sidney here will protect us!’

  By late afternoon they had left the hills and valleys of Derbyshire and had passed into Needwood Forest in Staffordshire. For two hours they rode through humid, dappled shade where the air was thick with clouds of midges. Banks of tall bracken lined the dirt track and large, blue butterflies of a kind that were unknown to Peter and Kate flapped their iridescent wings and sunned themselves in the rare pools of sunshine. In the silence of the forest the wheels of the carriage seemed to thunder over the rough ground, announcing their presence for miles around.

  More troubled than he cared to admit at the news of highwaymen and footpads in the district, Parson Ledbury was quieter than he had been in the morning. When the carriage arrived at a crossroads he asked the driver to stop. A pedlar was selling spoons and tin pans and the Parson shouted down to ask him if he knew where the narrower road led. The pedlar said that the main road led straight to Lichfield through Kings Bromley, if that was where they were headed – though he had heard tell that a gentleman had had his throat slit from ear to ear on that very road not two days past – whereas the lesser road led to Lichfield but meandered through several villages on the way. He then tried to interest the Parson in a set of tin pans but he brushed him to one side like a buzzing fly and paid no more heed to him. The pedlar gave the Parson a sly, disgruntled look, wished the company good day and disappeared into the forest.

  ‘He’s not going to sell much there,’ commented Kate. ‘Why doesn’t he set up his stall in a village instead of in the middle of nowhere?’

  Parson Ledbury plucked off his wig and wiped his perspiring head with a handkerchief. He reached into his inside pocket and fingered Mrs Byng’s precious necklace. Then he stroked little Jack’s golden curls, warmed by the sun, and sighed deeply. He sat, frowning, on top of the carriage for some time. Jack took hold of his hot, fleshy hand in his.

  ‘I promised your mother,’ the Parson said to Jack, ‘that I should get her family to London without anyone harming a single hair on their heads and I am a man of my word. I have therefore decided to be prudent. We shall avoid the main road to Lichfield and by way of precaution we shall take the lesser road. It will make our journey longer but a highwayman is certain to lurk by the main road in his search for easy victims. So we shall outwit him by taking the less direct route. We should, in any case, still reach the George Inn by nightfall.’

  Hannah was concerned that Jack had sat in the sunshine for too long and so the Parson lifted him from the top of the carriage and posted him, upside down, through the window. Jack giggled. The driver was not so happy. He gave one look at the state of the small track through the woods and his heart sank. However, he knew better than to express an opinion to his superiors, so he cracked his whip and directed the horses into the overgrown road leading into the woods. The road can have scarcely been passable in winter. As it was the carriage bumped up and down over the uneven surface and the passengers bounced up into the air and slapped back down again onto the black leather seats as the wheels sank into deep ruts and potholes. It was exhausting for everyone, especially the horses, but they could not stop if they were to reach the George Inn before dark. A couple of times fallen branches blocked their path and the driver had to climb down to heave them off the road. After an hour, the Parson left Sidney and the driver to it and joined Hannah and the children in the carriage. The sky grew pink and the balmy air grew gradually cooler and damper. The party inside the carriage had grown tired of singing songs and talking and had slumped, finally, into silence. Even Jack had given up asking how long it would be before they could stop and was now leaning against Hannah, half-asleep. Peter and Kate were both desperate to keep awake in the crowded, stuffy carriage and both kept looking up to check that the other had not succumbed to blurring.

  Then, without warning, the carriage juddered to a halt, throwing all the passengers forward. For a moment the laboured breathing of the horses and the jingling of brass on the leather tackle were the only sounds to break an uneasy silence.

  ‘What is it now?’ bawled the Parson. ‘I shall not be sorry to leave this confounded road. I think I should rather face a highwayman than have my bones rattled by one more pothole!’

  The driver’s head suddenly appeared at the window. It took everyone a fraction of a second to notice the blood pouring from a wound of the top of his head and to realise that he had been propped up against the side of the carriage like a sack of potatoes.

  ‘Oh, Parson Ledbury,’ exclaimed Hannah in a terrified whisper, ‘I think you should be careful what you wish for!’

  Someone pulled open the door abruptly and the unconscious driver collapsed at their feet. All eyes looked down at the injured man and then back up again to the door. No one, not even Hannah who had a strong urge to scream, made a sound. A pair of impertinent green eyes stared back at them from the doorway. He was a rosy-cheeked man, dressed like a gentleman who had been unable to change his clothes in a fortnight, and he was wearing the sort of smile the Big, Bad Wolf might have given Red Hiding Hood from her grandmother’s bed. He removed his three-cornered hat and stood before them, head slightly bowed, in a pose that would have been respectful were it not for the gleaming pistol which was aimed directly at the Parson’s heart.

  ‘I am sorry to impose myself on your charity, ladies and gentleman,’ he said, chucking Jack under his
chin.

  Hannah jerked the child away and sat him on her knee. He looked at her, taking in her every detail, and Hannah returned his gaze defiantly until he blew her a kiss, at which point she looked down at the floor.

  ‘Be calm, mistress, I take no pleasure in unnecessary violence, I assure you. I merely find myself out of pocket this evening. I do hope that it is not too great an imposition to ask if any of you gentlefolk could grant me the honour of a small loan?’

  ‘Loan, my eye!’ shouted Parson Ledbury, although there was a noticeable tremor in his voice. ‘Go to damnation, sir! I take it you are the infamous Ned Porter – your reputation precedes you yet you don’t fool me! You’re naught but a common thief!’ and he plucked the wooden cudgel from his belt and took a powerful swipe at the highwayman. The highwayman reacted like lightning, cracking the Parson over the knuckles with the butt of his pistol and easily relieving him of his weapon. The Parson howled with the excruciating pain of it and bit his lip to stop himself crying out any more. He cradled his bloodied knuckle in the palm of his good hand. Shock and the desire to help the Parson caused Peter to leap to his feet. He had not thought what to do but tried to look as defiant as he could. Ned Porter pretended to be scared and then laughed heartily, pointing the gun in Peter’s direction all the while. He kept the cudgel hovering close to the Parson’s skull.

  ‘Don’t be foolish, lad,’ the highwayman said to Peter in a quiet, silky voice. ‘’Twould be a shame to leave the world without tasting manhood first. You’ve a handsome face – think of all the pretty maids you might have stepped out with.’

  Peter glared back at the highwayman, his cheeks burning. He felt small and helpless and stupid but was unwilling to back down. The Parson motioned to Peter to sit which he reluctantly did after as long a pause as he dared.

  ‘John!’ called out the highwayman. ‘Would you come and help these good folk remember where they’ve put their valuables?’