Gideon the Cutpurse

by Linda Buckley-Archer

  ‘Parson,’ shouted Stammering John over his shoulder, ‘I can’t see you t-t-taking to splicing the m-m-mainbrace. If I were you I’d m-m-make yourself scarce and be quick about it!’

  Stammering John hesitated a moment before mounting one of the Parson’s chestnut mares. ‘Will you p-p-pray for us, Parson?’

  ‘I shall not, you murderous coves!’

  ‘N-n-no more than we deserve … Thank you, Parson …’

  Joe grabbed hold of Stammering John’s sleeve and slapped the flank of his horse.

  ‘Move, you ninny, they are upon us!’

  Joe cast a last look at the broken highwayman and spat at the ground. And with that the footpads rode off and vanished into the night.

  After a moment Kate called out to everyone: ‘It’s not a press gang! It’s Gideon and Peter!’

  ‘Thank the Lord!’ exclaimed Hannah. ‘My nerves won’t stand any more.’

  Sidney and Kate untied the driver and Hannah ran over to help the Parson with Ned. The Parson knelt at Ned’s side, puffing slightly with the effort of bending double.

  ‘I did not imagine my life would be as it has been,’ he murmured. ‘Am I to die, Parson?’

  ‘I am no doctor, Ned. But I think that you should make your peace with God.’

  Ned looked up at the stars twinkling through the leaves of the oak tree and let out a deep sigh.

  ‘Are you in great pain?’ asked Hannah.

  ‘I feel nothing,’ he replied.

  Hannah folded a handkerchief and placed it on the wound beneath his jacket. She bit her lip at the sight of the injury and pressed gently to try to stop the flow of blood.

  Midnight’s hooves announced Gideon and Peter’s arrival. Parson Ledbury stood up and smiled broadly. He stepped forward and offered Gideon his hand which he shook willingly.

  ‘A press gang! An inspired notion, Mr Seymour. Even footpads will go out of their way to avoid a press gang! I thank you, sir. I shall not forget this. You shall not go unrewarded.’

  Gideon inclined his head, suddenly unsure how to react to the Parson. His gaze fell on Ned.

  ‘To find everyone safe is reward enough, Parson. I heard the shot. I feared it was one of the party.’

  The Parson turned to Peter and crushed his hand in his.

  ‘Well done, my lad! I knew you would find out the meaning of bottom!’

  ‘Parson Ledbury,’ said Kate, ‘Gideon stole back the necklace from Ned Porter.’

  She walked towards him, holding up the diamonds which swayed and sparkled in the light of the fire. The Parson gasped and then, grabbing hold of Kate’s two hands, swung her round and round and did a little jig.

  ‘Perhaps you would care to put on your jacket and trousers, Parson,’ suggested Hannah.

  Kate laughed out loud.

  ‘I feared it was lost for ever!’ cried Parson Ledbury. ‘I have been imagining the accusing expression on my dear cousin’s face … The necklace is quite irreplaceable, a family heirloom. Oh happy day!’

  With what strength he had left, Ned laughed, a little bitterly. He beckoned weakly to Gideon with one finger. Gideon knelt down next to Ned and took his hat off.

  ‘So Will did not have the necklace. It was you, Mr Seymour. I have taken this shot for nothing. You are a skilful cutpurse. It is no wonder that the Thief-taker does not wish to lose you.’

  ‘I have sworn an oath,’ Gideon replied. ‘I will neither betray Lord Luxon nor ever work for him again. He knows this.’

  An ironic smile passed over Ned’s contorted features.

  ‘I don’t think he believes you, Mr Seymour.’

  ‘Lord Luxon, a thief-taker!’ exclaimed the Parson.

  Gideon stood up and walked away. He appeared angry with himself. Now Peter crouched down next to the highwayman.

  ‘Why won’t Lord Luxon let Gideon go if he’s sworn not to betray him?’

  Ned turned to look at Peter.

  ‘Have you not heard tell of Mr Seymour’s skill? There is no one like him. He is Lord Luxon’s favourite. He is more than his cut-purse – he is his conscience. The rest of the world might see him as the devil by any other name but your Mr Seymour is determined to see some good in him … Besides, a thief-taker can’t let people walk away whenever they please – he is forced to make an example of him.’

  ‘I don’t understand,’ said Peter. ‘What does Gideon know that makes Lord Luxon frightened to lose him?’

  Ned laughed and then started to cough. A trickle of blood appeared at the side of his mouth.

  ‘Master Peter, you must let him rest,’ said Hannah. ‘He has a grievous wound.’

  Ned, however, continued. ‘Your Mr Seymour knows what every rogue in London knows – that nothing is stolen nor fenced, that no one is robbed nor killed, that no one squeaks on another or pays the straw men to get ’em off, without the Thief-taker and his henchman getting to hear about it. Only for the rest of us, the Thief-taker is naught but a distant figure, an elegant gentleman in his fine coach. If you put us at the same table he wouldn’t know us and we wouldn’t know him. And as for the fops and lords and ladies that pay court to him – they don’t know or even suspect the half of it. But Gideon – he’s seen enough to have his master hanged at Tyburn ten times over. If I’d have been in Lord Luxon’s shoes your Mr Seymour would have had his throat cut long ago …’

  Ned slumped back, exhausted, and Hannah motioned to Peter to leave before Ned was tempted to talk any more. She poured a little water into the highwayman’s mouth. Ned’s words horrified Peter. He glanced over at his friend who was busy repacking the trunks whose contents were scattered all over the camp. Gideon was in even more danger than he thought. It was easy to see why the Tar Man was so very determined to take him back to his master.

  He walked over to join Kate who was trying to persuade Tom to get up off the floor.

  ‘We’re not going to hurt you. We’re not like the Carrick Gang. We’ll help you get home.’

  Sidney stood behind her: ‘Help this vermin!’ he exclaimed. ‘Never!’

  Kate lost her temper.

  ‘Stop being such a pompous, stuck-up idiot!’ she shouted. ‘Do you think you’d be any better than him in his shoes?’

  Tom looked at Kate in wonderment through a crack in his fingers. Sidney seemed crestfallen. Peter could not help smirking and Gideon, too, looked away for fear she would see his smile.

  ‘Well,’ she continued hastily, giving Peter a cursory glance, ‘at least Sidney is brave – unlike some people who don’t mind leaving their friends in the lurch …’

  Kate stopped in full flow when she heard Hannah’s gasp. They all looked over towards her, crouched down at Ned’s side.

  ‘The highwayman is dead,’ said the Parson. He passed his hand over Ned’s forehead and closed his eyelids.

  It was at that moment that little Jack chose to wake up. He tottered sleepily over to Hannah. ‘I’m thirsty,’ he said.

  ‘Oh, Master Jack,’ said Hannah. ‘Lord bless you!’

  And she hugged him.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  A Pact Made in Blood

  In which Inspector Wheeler goes on the warpath,

  Peter and Kate make a solemn promise and London

  uncovers some of its attractions and its dangers

  They had no choice but to spend the night under the oak tree. They made themselves as comfortable as they could and, although they were all hungry, at least the fire kept them warm. The knowledge that Ned’s body lay stretched out on the other side of the carriage haunted their dreams. When Hannah had sung Jack a lullaby to get him back to sleep, he wasn’t the only one who allowed himself to be comforted.

  Nobody slept well. Peter least of all. It bothered him that Kate clearly thought so badly of him. She must know how unfair she’s being, he thought to himself, but still it bothered him. She said that Sidney was braver than he was! What had he done that was so great? Allowed Stinking John to knock his teeth out? And surely Kate must see that if he hadn
’t gone off with Gideon things might have turned out a lot worse. And maybe it was mean of him to go off with Gideon without trying to include her – but it was meaner of her to imply he was acting like his dad, always leaving him behind while he went off and did something important. Nor was it his fault that girls had to wear stupid big skirts in the eighteenth century and weren’t allowed to do anything interesting …

  He tried to stop thinking about it and instead forced himself to work out how many days they had been in the eighteenth century. Tomorrow, he decided, must be their sixth day. Which meant that at home, in four days’ time, it would be Christmas. Not that his mother had yet decided whether she could spare the time to fly home to celebrate it with them … She’d been so far away for so long. Strangely, it felt pretty much the same whether they were separated by eight thousand miles or two and a half centuries. Something tugged at him – was it anger? Or guilt at feeling angry? Or was it just that he missed her? Or perhaps he was frightened that he didn’t miss her enough?

  ‘Aren’t you proud of her?’ his dad had said. ‘Doing without her for a few months is hard but not too much to ask. This film is so important to her.’

  Except it wasn’t a few months, it was more like a year and a half. And, yes, it was nice to be able to say to his friends that his mum was working on a film in Hollywood and, yes, he’d been promised a couple of weeks’ holiday in LA before too long, but all he really wanted was for her to come back home and for things to go back to normal. His dad was so bad-tempered when she wasn’t around. Always on a short fuse, always too busy, always so critical. And when she did come home for a holiday it was awkward at first – like having to get to know each other all over again – and just as everyone was beginning to feel comfortable, she would fly back to California.

  Images of his mother came to him, unbidden. Precious memories, silly things, momentous things: standing in a thunderstorm together, heads back, mouths wide open; her throwing a tub of chocolate mousse at him after he’d lied about taking some loose change and then, as she scraped it off his clothes, her happy, infectious laughter; her waving goodbye to him at Heathrow, trying very hard not to cry, the first time she left for Los Angeles …

  Fluorescent spirals started to form in his mind. Peter opened his eyes. He lay on bare, ploughed earth, hard and white with frost, and, directly above, a watery sun was trying to break through rippled white clouds. There was no sign of the giant oak tree and in the distance he could hear the constant hum of traffic as if there were a motorway over the horizon. I’m back! he cried. I’m back! He stood up and tried to ignore the flickering dark borders which were trying to creep into the centre of his vision. If I concentrate, he thought, I can stay. I refuse to go back! I won’t go back! I’ll walk to the motorway and hitchhike back to Richmond. He was conscious of a force being exerted on him with increasing pressure. He felt he was strong enough to resist it but it was building up every second. For a moment – and he wasn’t quite sure how he was doing it – he felt he was making headway. And then Kate’s words pushed their way into his thoughts like a gust of wind suddenly flings open a window: ‘And you went off without giving me a second thought …’

  His concentration snapped and a pool of darkness flowed over the pale wintry scene. After all his efforts he collapsed to the ground. He was back on the damp earth under the oak tree and no matter how hard he tried he could not manage to blur a second time. Peter felt cold and empty and alone. He had nearly managed to return home by what felt like sheer force of will. If only he hadn’t thought of Kate … And now he was stuck in 1763 with a girl who thought he was a coward. For all he knew he might never be able to blur again. Might never see his parents ever again. He realised he was crying: he never cried, he had trained himself not to. His back heaved as he gulped silently for air. Suddenly he became aware of a hand resting lightly on his shoulder. Peter felt too ashamed to look up and kept his head buried in the crook of his arm. He tried not to sniff. Then he sensed someone lay a jacket over him, spread it out and tuck it around his sides. The warmth soothed him and soon he fell into a dreamless sleep.

  To Gideon’s and Peter’s surprise, the cherry-picking boy kept his word and arrived shortly after daybreak with his father, a farmer with a good-natured, nut brown face and hair streaked yellow by the sun and scraped back from his face in a neat ponytail. They brought two large, wooden wagons with them. The boy was keen to get his second sixpence which Gideon willingly gave to him. The farmer helped the party into one wagon and was beginning to load their luggage into another when he spotted Ned’s corpse. He shrank back and put his rough, square hand to his mouth and took another, fearful look at the folk he had come to help.

  ‘Do not be alarmed, my good fellow,’ said the Parson. ‘We are no murderers. This is none other than the notorious highwayman, Ned Porter. We have had a narrow escape.’

  The farmer’s curiosity was such that he took a surreptitious peep at Ned’s face when he thought no one was looking, though he slapped the back of his son’s head when he tried to do the same.

  Tom was allowed to travel with them, too, mainly thanks to Kate, but he had to suffer a stern warning from Parson Ledbury.

  ‘I have my eye on you, lad. You have Mistress Kate to thank for your safe passage. If her faith in you proves to be mistaken, you can be assured that Newgate Gaol will be your next destination!’

  The wretched boy cowered even more than usual and put his hand deep into his pocket where, Kate guessed, he was gaining some small comfort by stroking his one friend in the world.

  The farmer refused to have anything to do with moving Ned’s body but agreed to get a message to the magistrate at Lichfield that afternoon. Parson Ledbury undertook to write a full account of the night’s events and send it to him but said he was not prepared to delay their journey to London any longer for they had an appointment to keep with no less a person than His Majesty King George III.

  ‘I have the King’s Evil,’ announced Jack proudly to the farmer and his son who looked suitably impressed.

  They covered Ned’s face with his jacket and placed some leafy branches over him to protect him, at least for some little time, against the rooks and the foxes. The Parson had stood over him and said a few words. Already flies were beginning to buzz around him. How happy they were to see the giant oak tree and the scene of the attack recede into the distance.

  Gideon reluctantly put Midnight into the hands of the driver, who was no longer needed now that the party was to catch a stagecoach. After two knocks to the head in as many days he was, in any case, happy to be returning home on a fast horse.

  ‘Though I hope I might be spared any further encounters with any gentlemen of the road,’ he said.

  The Parson did his best to reassure him.

  ‘I doubt, Martin, that the sight of you drooping over your horse would excite the interest of the least daring highwayman. He would have expectation of very slim pickings indeed to spare a poor wretch like you a second glance. Why, he is more likely to offer you a sixpence.’

  Gideon stroked Midnight’s nose and wished horse and rider God speed. When the driver dug his heels in Midnight responded a little too eagerly – they all watched poor Martin disappear out of sight clinging on to the reins for all he was worth.

  While the farmer’s massive shire horses heaved against the weight of the wagons on the road to Birmingham the party took it in turns to recount what had happened the previous night. Somehow it helped everyone get over the shock of the attack and the horror of Ned’s murder. The farmer listened in rapt attention and then, when Hannah told him about the Parson having to preach to the drunken footpads in a state of undress, he slapped his thigh and laughed out loud, begging the Parson’s pardon, at the thought of it. He could not stop repeating, ‘As I live, Ned Porter … As I live …’ and was quite beside himself when the Parson allowed him to hold Mrs Byng’s diamond necklace in his own hands. Gideon, who was driving the second wagon which was piled high with luggage, happened
to look back as the farmer dangled the jewels from his fingers, his eyes wide with awe. Gideon glared at the Parson and raised his eyebrows. The Parson met his gaze and hastily snatched back the diamonds, secreting them in his jacket.

  ‘Faith, you’ve spent a more thrilling night in Shenstone than ever I have and I was born and bred there!’ the farmer said. ‘I shan’t want for an audience at the Fox and Hounds tonight …’

  Thrilling, thought Kate, isn’t what it felt like at the time.

  They stopped briefly at Aldridge for breakfast before making haste to Birmingham where they hoped to catch the morning stagecoach to London. The farmer and his boy deposited them outside the King’s Head and, having been thanked very kindly and paid two shillings for their trouble, they set off back towards Shenstone, their heads buzzing with tales of footpads and highwaymen.

  As the party was so large an extra coach was laid on specially. Parson Ledbury handed over the princely sum of twenty shillings (which he was obliged to borrow from Gideon) and the party clambered in. A printed notice announced that ‘God permitting’ the London coach would depart at 9 am and would reach the Blue Boar Inn in Holborn at 10 am the following day, stopping only at four staging posts along the way to change the horses.

  Gideon and Tom sat up on top with the driver and his guard who carried a blunderbuss and a fearsome-looking cutlass in case of attack. The rest of the party were crammed into the carriage: it smelled of horse and stale sweat but its steel springs made for a more comfortable journey than anyone was expecting. The guard said that Dr Samuel Johnson often took the stagecoach from Lichfield and swore that he had a better night’s sleep than in any bed at a wayside inn. Nevertheless, the carriage bumped over interminable potholes and made frequent enforced stops while they waited for flocks of sheep and herds of cows to let them through. Often the roads were so bad the driver would take detours over farmers’ fields to avoid getting stuck in the mud. Just after Oxford the driver stopped at a turnpike and paid to use a private road which was much smoother in comparison and allowed them to make fast progress for a good while.