‘Murderer and liar! You lured him out to that church! You and Steele between you! You killed him, and now you’ll die too. Die!’ she shrieked.
In the cellar, the slow match was working its invisible way towards the powder. Mrs Chaytor looked at Samuel and saw the look in his eye. She nodded and turned to William, standing with a candle in one hand. ‘Throw me your candle,’ she hissed.
Whatever else William Rossiter might have been, he was not weak. He tossed the candle lightly to Amelia, flame arching in the air. Edward saw the movement and fired on instinct, smoke and flame spurting from the pistol; the ball, fired wildly, flew into a ceiling arch, dislodging a shower of brick shards.
Even as the pistol fired, Samuel sprang. Like a tiger, he landed on Edward’s shoulders, dragging him to the floor, sending the candle hurtling away. Edward fought to raise the pistol and fire the other barrel but William, coming close behind Samuel, kicked it out of his hand so that it spun across the floor. Edward fought furiously, swearing and spitting. ‘Lay him out,’ said William.
‘He’s your cousin!’ said Samuel, pinning Edward’s arms behind his back.
‘He’s no kin of mine,’ said William grimly, and he balled one big fist and slammed it into Edward’s jaw. The other man’s head rolled back and he sagged senseless to the floor.
Emma was already climbing up the stacked kegs of powder, and now she began to hurl the uppermost kegs to the floor. ‘What is she doing?’ gasped Calpurnia.
‘Looking for where the slow match comes down from the ceiling,’ said Mrs Chaytor. ‘Quickly, come.’ She ran into the next chamber and started to climb. The room was almost entirely dark. Her shoes slipped and she stopped and wrenched them off, then climbed in stockinged feet up the face of the ranks of barrels. She grasped the topmost and pulled it away; gunpowder is not especially heavy and she dislodged it without difficulty. It crashed to the floor and broke open. Calpurnia could not climb, but she had found a long pole with a twisted spike on one end, which Mrs Chaytor vaguely recognised as some sort of device for artillery, and she used this to hook the upper rims of some of the gunpowder kegs and haul them crashing down.
The air was full of dust and stank of sulphur. The ceiling was visible now and there was no sign of the slow match. They hurried into another room where William was working like a madman, lifting kegs over his head like Hercules and hurling them down, and another where Emma and Samuel were working quickly and efficiently together. One of them had found Edward’s candle and lit it, leaving both candles together in the passageway that ran along the front of each cellar; that thin wavering light was all they had to go by. The next cellar had not yet been touched. Again, Mrs Chaytor climbed the stack while Calpurnia used her worm to pull the kegs down to spill on the floor. Laure was there too with some sort of rammer in her hands, bashing at the topmost kegs and knocking them down with surprising strength.
‘There it is!’ screamed Calpurnia.
Ten feet from Mrs Chaytor’s reach, where the ceiling arch came down to meet the wall, was a small black hole. Out of it, like a snake coming out of its lair, ran the thin dark rope, coiling through the shadows down over the rearmost kegs. Desperate, she pulled up her skirts and crawled across the kegs, tearing her gown on the iron rim of one. She grasped the end of the slow match and tugged; nothing happened. ‘I need a knife,’ she screamed.
There was a shout from below, and William Rossiter scrambled up to her with a penknife in his hand. He saw the match and reached up to the ceiling to cut it away, throwing the end out into the passageway, away from the spilled powder. As Amelia slithered down to the floor with a bump, wrenching her ankle, Emma and Samuel came flying into the room and began hauling more kegs away. Heart pounding, Amelia watched a bright ball of flame appear in the dark hole, run down the short remaining length of match – and stop.
Emma screamed, that same ululation she had let out the night Sandy House was attacked, and William whooped. ‘Come on! We can bash the door down!’
They ran for the stair, Amelia still barefoot. William, the strongest, went up the narrow stair first. He hit the door with his shoulder, hard. Nothing happened. Again and again with increasing desperation and anger he rammed the door, which refused to give. ‘Aunt Jane!’ he shouted. ‘Open up and let us out!’
Silence. There was a sudden smell of smoke in the air. ‘Please, Aunt Jane! Let us out! We’ve done nothing wrong!’
‘Oh, dear God,’ said Amelia suddenly.
William stopped, and then they all heard it: the crackle and spit and roar of fire. Jane Parker, not content with trusting to the slow match, had made sure of her night’s work by setting the house on fire.
*
By the time the rector reached the village the source of the flames could be clearly seen. New Hall glowed like a torch beyond the trees. Heart in his mouth, he ran heavily down the street. Of all the nights for this to happen! Stemp and Hoad and many of the other men of the village would be away in New Romney. But there was Luckhurst, coming out of the Star to gaze in astonishment at the flames.
‘Tim! Collect everyone you can, and bring buckets! We’ll use the water from the horse pond.’
Luckhurst shouted a response and began to run along the street, banging on doors. The rain still slanted down, driven on the stiff wind, but it was easy to see that the fire was increasing. Panting, the rector carried on towards New Hall. The gates stood open; he ran up the drive, seeing the windows of the library and drawing room glowing orange with fire. Several windows had cracked and fallen and flames were beginning to lick up the walls. Ivy on the wall beside the library flared and flamed and died. Sparks flew up in clouds, disappearing into inky smoke.
The front door was wreathed in curling smoke. Desperate, followed by the dog, Hardcastle ran around the north end of the house and through the gap between the house and stables. He saw at once that there would be no need for Luckhurst and his bucket brigade; the ground floor of the house was an inferno, only the kitchen so far spared. Flames licked up in some of the first floor windows as well. He ran towards the back door next to the kitchen, hoping against hope that he could bring out anyone who might still be alive. A dark shape moved before the door. Firelight gleamed off the pistol in her hand.
‘Stand back!’ said Jane Parker, in a voice harsh with rage and grief and madness. ‘Come a step nearer, and I will kill you.’
*
On the stair the smoke was thick now, and William was coughing as he continued to smash against the door, yelling hoarsely for his aunt. ‘Let me take over,’ said Samuel. His brother nodded and slid down the stairs in search of cooler air, hacking and retching, while Samuel silently pounded his shoulder against the door. In the cellars themselves the smoke was visible now, and it was growing warmer. Edward still lay unconscious on the floor.
‘We do not have long,’ said Emma.
They did not have to ask what she meant. Sooner or later, and probably sooner, the fire would burn through the floor timbers overhead, and they would start to crash down onto the brick vaults. Sooner or later, the weight of the timbers would cause the brick to give way, and sparks and burning debris would cascade down onto the gunpowder. Many barrels had been broken, and loose gunpowder lay everywhere. A single spark in the wrong place could mean the end.
Steadily, rhythmically, Samuel attacked the door. Her feet in her shredded stockings crunching on grains of powder, Amelia searched for something, anything, they could use to pry open or chop down the door. Her hand, groping in the dim light, found something metallic; a hammer.
‘Here!’ Passed from hand to hand, the hammer went up the stair to Samuel at the top. They heard the thunder of metal on wood as he began to pound at the oak planks, and their spirits lifted for a moment; but still the door remained unyielding. The smoke and heat increased still further.
At the far end of the cellar, away from the area where they had been searching, the ceiling gave way and burning timbers crashed down onto the floor, followed by a shower of
sparks.
Calpurnia Vane began to scream.
*
‘Let me pass,’ said the rector. Rain fell steadily around him, hissing in the flames. His heart thundered in his chest and he could feel the pain in his lungs. ‘There may be people in there whom we can save.’
‘There is no one there.’
The thunder of a hammer gave her the lie. Someone was trapped inside, pounding to get out. ‘Mrs Parker,’ the rector implored, ‘I beg you to let me in. Can you not hear? There are people in there, fighting to get out. Please.’
‘Let them burn!’ snarled the woman, and as the rector stepped forward her finger tightened on the trigger. ‘I mean it! One more step and I will kill you dead! I’ve done it before, and I’ll do it again, so aid me God!’
The pounding continued, and then the screaming started; a long shriek of utter fear. The rector tensed, ready to attack with his stick and knowing that he stood little chance of succeeding. He was too late.
Rodolpho too had heard Calpurnia scream. The hiss and roar of the flame struck utter terror into his heart, and without the presence of the rector he would have fled long ago. But now he heard the voice of the woman who had rescued him and given him complete and unstinting affection, and he had no choice. In the single bravest action of his young life, Rodolpho gathered himself and sprang, snarling, at Jane Parker.
The pistol barrel moved, and spat flame. Rodolpho shrieked, twisting in the air and crashing down on the cobbles; he rolled over once, still squealing, and then lay with thrashing legs trying to rise but unable to stand. The rector took one long step forward and smashed the useless pistol from Jane Parker’s grip, and ran past her into the house.
He located the sound of the hammering without difficulty. ‘The door is locked. Who might have the key?’ he called through the door.
‘Mrs Parker,’ shouted Samuel. ‘We are almost out of time, sir.’
The rector ran back to the courtyard. He had never struck a blow against a woman before, but now he picked up Jane Parker and shook her like a rag doll.
‘Where is the key? Tell me at once, or I will break every bone in your body, one at a time.’
‘No!’ screamed the woman, and she clutched at the reticule at her belt.
The rector ripped it away from her and shook it; the key fell out onto the cobbles. Jane Parker made a grab for it; the rector hurled her away, seized the key and ran back past the whining dog into the house. The key slid into its hole and the door hissed open. Samuel Rossiter stumbled out, then turned at once to pull the others up, Laure, Emma, Calpurnia, Amelia Chaytor, and last of all William, dragging the unconscious body of his cousin behind him.
‘We need to get away from the house,’ panted Amelia. ‘Quickly.’
‘Why?’ He was gasping too.
‘Gunpowder. Lots of gunpowder.’
In the courtyard there was another scream; Calpurnia knelt over the body of Rodolpho, sobbing uncontrollably. ‘Oh, my baby!’ she cried. ‘Oh puppy, no!’
Samuel knelt beside her, his fingers searching the wound. Beside him, the kind woman who had nursed him and fed him and read him her books – the wondrous, magical stories of faraway lands that he loved so much – was crying with shattering grief, oblivious to the danger. ‘The wound is not mortal,’ he said to her. ‘I think it is only the leg. We will take him away and heal him together, and he will be as good as new.’ And with great gentleness, he lifted Rodolpho’s enormous weight onto his shoulders and began to run. Amelia and Emma lifted Calpurnia to her feet and pulled her after them. The rector searched wildly for Jane Parker but could see no sign of her. Then he heard the sound of shattering timber as the floors caved in, and he too began to run.
Halfway down the drive the escaping group met Luckhurst and the first of the bucket brigade. ‘Get everyone back,’ gasped the rector. ‘Back to the village. Stay away from the house.’ They obeyed him without asking why, hurrying back down to the gates. Just as they turned onto the main road there was a red flash behind them, followed by a shattering roar as the rear elevation of the house collapsed, and then another larger flash and a boom like the end of the world as five tons of gunpowder began to explode.
Chapter 20
The Ashes of the Past
Outside in the street there was a steady ripple of sound, the clop-clop-clop of hooves and rattle of iron-rimmed wheels on cobbles blending into a single dull rumble. It seemed strange to hear such sounds again, after so long on the Marsh, where ordinarily the loudest noises were the cries of birds and the incessant sound of the wind.
Ordinarily . . . if you could erase from your memory the sound of five tons of gunpowder blowing up, or the pounding of roof tiles and chimney pots and bricks falling around you like hail.
Miraculously, none of them had been hit by falling debris as they fled the explosion. The bucket brigade had all escaped serious harm too. Even more miraculously, Jane Parker had been found wandering next morning behind the stable block; cold, wet, dazed and deafened but otherwise physically unharmed. The condition of her mind was something else entirely.
Now, the rector and Mrs Chaytor sat in chairs on opposite sides of the coal fire, listening to the sounds of London around them and waiting until they should be called. The room itself was silent, apart from the gentle hiss of the fire. Voices could be heard in the office next door, a gentle murmur only, the words inaudible.
A door opened. An attendant, white-wigged in blue breeches and coat, bowed. ‘The Foreign Secretary will see you now, sir.’
Hardcastle and Mrs Chaytor rose. ‘Just a moment, ma’am,’ said the attendant, holding up a hand. ‘I’m afraid you can’t go in. No ladies allowed, that is the custom.’
‘Don’t be ridiculous,’ said Mrs Chaytor. ‘Go and tell Lord Grenville that Amelia Chaytor is here.’
The attendant hesitated, then bowed and withdrew. He was back in a moment, looking chastened. ‘If you would accompany me, ma’am, sir?’
In the next room another fire burned, keeping out the late February chill. The walls were lined with shelves of books interrupted by massive oil paintings in gilt frames. A small group of men sat or stood around the fire. One, a tall aristocratic man in his late thirties with brushed-back dark red hair, turned and then hurried forward to greet them, smiling. He bowed and kissed Mrs Chaytor’s hand.
‘Willie,’ she said fondly. ‘It is good to see you again.’
‘Amelia,’ said William Wyndham Grenville, Baron Grenville and Foreign Secretary of Great Britain. ‘My dear, are you well? You are recovered from your ordeal?’
‘Quite recovered, thank you.’
‘I am so sorry that you have been dragged into this business.’
‘I’m not,’ she said smiling. ‘You know me, Willie. I have a nose for trouble.’
‘That you most certainly do. Come, please be seated. And you must be Reverend Hardcastle. Welcome, sir, and thank you for coming.’
There were four other men in the room, two of whom needed no introduction. One was Lord Clavertye, the silver hair at his temples glinting in the firelight. The second, sitting silently before the fire with one hand resting on his ebony walking stick, was James Rossiter. The third was a wigged man in his late fifties with sharp nose and bulging double chins; the fourth was a balding, heavyset man in his mid-forties.
‘His Grace the Duke of Portland,’ said Lord Grenville. ‘His Excellency Mr Rufus King, ambassador of the United States of America.’
King bowed. ‘Your servant, ma’am. Reverend.’
‘Very well,’ said Grenville briskly. ‘We are all busy, and I do not propose to waste time. Lord Clavertye has already briefed us on the essential facts of the situation. My lord, have you anything to add?’
Clavertye shook his head. ‘Reverend Hardcastle was much closer to this affair than myself. My account relied heavily on information provided by him.’
‘Of course. Reverend, is there anything further you wish to say about this matter?’
Ha
rdcastle looked at Rossiter. This time the other man looked straight back at him. His face might be tired and strained, but his eyes were strong and challenging.
‘I should like to begin with a question,’ said the rector. ‘May I ask after the health of Mrs Joseph Parker?’
It was not the question Rossiter had been expecting. ‘There has been little change,’ he said at length. ‘She is in the care of a doctor who specialises in nervous disorders. He warns that it may be a long time before she recovers. If at all.’
‘I am truly sorry to hear it,’ said the rector. ‘She has suffered enough already, as have many others of your family. I shall pray for her.’
‘Thank you,’ said Rossiter. The irony in his voice was faint but unmistakeable.
‘If there is one thing about this case that disturbs me more than anything else,’ the rector said, ‘it was your apparent willingness to sacrifice anyone, including the very closest members of your family. Your sister. Your daughter. Your nephews and niece. Your brother-in-law, whom you once called your old friend and comrade-in-arms. All of them were to be allowed to die, for the sake of your cause.’
Rossiter stirred a little, stretching out his bad leg. ‘Every man should have a cause he is ready to give his life for,’ he said. ‘Otherwise, life is not worth living.’
‘Speaking as one who was nearly immolated in the name of your cause,’ said Mrs Chaytor, ‘I would beg to differ. But it was never your life that was in danger, was it, Mr Rossiter? Instead, you sent others to the pyre.’
‘I had no idea that either my son or my sister would commit the acts they did,’ Rossiter said coolly. ‘I admit I favour the republican cause in France. What of it? So do many in America, and so do no small number of people here. During our war of independence, I met a French officer and discussed plans for an invasion of Britain. I also offered him the services of my family home to assist that invasion. Again, what of it? Both we and France were at war with England. My action was entirely legitimate.’
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