by Nicola Pryce
‘Nothing’s obvious except you’re a villain,’ retorted Mr Roskelly, beads of sweat covering his forehead.
‘Well, they say it takes one villain to recognise another,’ replied Jim.
‘What is it you want?’
Jim seemed to be enjoying the panic in Robert Roskelly’s voice. He paused, and the eyes which had once pierced my soul and very nearly captured my heart turned vengeful and greedy. I had touched his scars. I had felt his pain. I had melted under his kiss. I had so wanted to trust this man, but even before he uttered a word, my heart went numb. A triumphant smile lit up his face. ‘I’d have thought that was obvious, you idiot. I want the cutter. ’
Chapter Twenty-one
Jim’s treachery sliced through me like a knife. All colour drained from Father’s face. He clutched his chest, his sunken cheeks hollow against the deathly pallor of his skin. Crying out, I ran to his side, but Jim was too quick.
He stared at me, his cold eyes hard, his hands already reaching into his jacket. He knotted a scarf around my mouth, forcing my head back. ‘I’ve had just about all I can take from that clever mouth of yours,’ he said as he tugged it tight. ‘If you value your father’s life, you’ll be quiet for once.’ I tried screaming, shouting, twisting myself free, but the scarf was too tight, the knot too rm. He was wrenching my hands behind my back, strapping them to the chair with the strength I knew so well. Once more, I felt the pain of being bound; my hands, my feet lashed to the chair with the rope he had hidden under his jacket. How could I have been so stupid? How could I think to trust him?
Father tried to defend me, his frail form lunging unsteadily forward. ‘For pity’s sake, she’s a woman, let her go. She can’t harm you.’ Jim grabbed his arms, pinning them behind his back, forcing him down on the chair next to mine.
‘Enough!’ he shouted, binding Father’s mouth with another scarf. ‘I know Miss Pengelly’s capabilities far too well.’ Reaching beneath his jacket, he released another rope, shaking it free from its coils with a deft ick. Father put up no resistance, his frail frame bound quickly to the chair by the well-practised hands. Robert Roskelly stood watching from his desk.
‘They’re all yours,’ said Jim, turning to face him. ‘Do with them what you will.’
William Tregellas scowled down at Father. ‘Your damned daughter’s as dangerous as any man – and well you know it. If it hadn’t been for her high-handed prying, none of this would have happened and you’d be rotting where we left you.’
‘Hold your tongue, you fool,’ snapped Robert Roskelly. He was looking at Jim, his face full of loathing. ‘You demand the cutter, do you? I’ll see you hanged rst.’
Jim seemed unperturbed, amused even. With a ourish he drew out a folded paper, smoothing it against the desk. ‘I’ve a deed of sale drawn in my favour. All I need is your signature.’ He turned to Mr Tregellas. ‘I thought six hundred guineas a good price – though obviously I’ve no intention of paying you anything. This deed’s a mere formality.’
Jim’s insolence was too much for Mr Tregellas. His twitch was unstoppable. ‘You’re a dead man,’ he said, his lithe frame lunging across the room at Jim.
As if waiting for his signal, Sulio Denville darted from the shadows, pushing aside a table in his haste, sending a lamp crashing to the ground. His massive shoulders seemed to strain against his jacket, as he stepped slowly forward, a dagger ashing in both hands, which he held rigid in front of him. ‘Now then, sailor boy, let’s see what you’re made of.’
Both men closed on Jim, murder in their faces. Jim started backing away, his eyes darting from one to another as they slowly forced him towards the corner. He knocked against the large table and stopped, leaning forward, his hands outstretched, swaying from foot to foot. They knew he was trapped and both men drew nearer, Sulio Denville taunting him with his daggers, waiting to strike. As his huge frame lunged forward, Jim dived between them, somersaulting behind the two men, jumping quickly up to face them. Sulio Denville crashed against the table, William Tregellas falling heavily on top of him. They picked themselves up, cursing loudly, their faces purple with fury. Sulio Denville bent to retrieve his fallen daggers.
‘Think you can take on Sulio Denville, do you? Do you? Well, you can think again.’ Once more he held his knives in his hands, brandishing them in front of him as he crouched forward. They were huge knives and I watched in horror as the two men began forcing Jim back across the room to the other corner. Step by step, they closed on him again, Sulio Denville almost drooling. ‘Steady does it,’ he said. ‘I don’t like to rush a killing.’
Bile rose in my throat. I thought I would choke. I began pulling against the chair, struggling with all my might, trying to loosen the bindings. The servants must hear. Surely I could alert them, but there seemed nothing I could do. I tried shouting, screaming, yelling into the gag, but my head was bursting, my breath suffocating, and my cries remain stied, mufed by the scarf which clamped me so tightly. I shut my eyes, waiting for the sounds of killing.
Suddenly there was silence. The three men stood motionless, frozen to the spot. At rst I could not understand their sudden stillness but then I saw the pistol Jim was holding in his hand. It was the same pistol he had pointed at Ben.
‘Stand back, you fools, killing me would be pointless. All the evidence – the ledgers, the letters, the men’s testimonies, the afdavit signed by Mr Pengelly, everything is with the Vice Sheriff of Cornwall, Lord St John Stevens. It’s in a locked box an’ if I don’t meet him tomorrow, he’s to unlock the box an’ act accordingly. There’s no doubt of your guilt an’ no doubt of the consequences. You’ve no choice. D’you really think me such a fool I wouldn’t cover my back? You’ve no option but sign the deed.’
He pointed the pistol at Sulio Denville. ‘Throw those down.’
Sulio Denville spat in disgust. His daggers struck the agstones and Jim reached to retrieve them, the pistol pointing at Mr Tregellas. ‘Now, sign the deed.’
‘Not until you return the evidence.’
‘I’ve already told you. When you’ve signed, I’ll tell you where to meet me.’
‘You really believe I’d trust you?’
‘You’ve no option.’
‘What about them?’ Mr Tregellas nodded in our direction.
‘Captain Denville knows what to do with them,’ replied Jim coldly.
I could scarcely breathe. My heart was beating so fast I thought it would burst. Mr Tregellas walked stify over to the desk, glaring at Mr Roskelly as he picked up the quill, dipping it angrily in the inkwell before scratching his name. ‘If you double-cross me, you’re a dead man. I’ll hunt you down.’
Jim watched him sign. ‘Now you, Mr Roskelly – you’re joint owner of L’Aigrette, I believe.’
‘May you rot in hell,’ muttered Robert Roskelly.
Yes, well may you rot in hell, I thought.
We were in the greatest danger – somehow we needed to alert the servants. Henderson had seen us come in so he must be waiting for us to leave. I had to warn him, but how? I looked across the room, desperately searching for the bell pull. Father was looking straight at me. Some colour had returned to his cheeks and though he still looked gravely shaken, he seemed to be trying to tell me something. He kept lifting his eyebrows, looking from me to the dogs. At rst, I could not understand his meaning but then I realised they were still sleeping, oblivious to the commotion around them. That could not be right.
Jim picked up the deed of sale, examining it carefully before sliding it into his jacket. ‘I’m obliged, gentlemen, an’ should you ever run short of brandy, or silk, or salt, you’re only to ask. I can’t guarantee you special rates but I’d be happy to do business…’
‘Insolent dog! Do you really think you’ll get away with this?’
‘I do. I’ve every intention of spending the rest of my life in comfort.’ Jim examined the pistol, turning it over in his hands, polishing the barrel on his sleeve.
‘Get out, you bastard.’
‘I’m afraid, I’m not nished yet, Mr Roskelly – I’ve more business to discuss.’ Jim ran a hand through his hair, straightening the scarf round his neck, brushing the dust from his sleeve. ‘It may not be obvious but I’ve expensive tastes…an’ though the revenue from this cutter will provide a fair income, it’s not enough. I need a bit more.’
Mr Roskelly’s eyes narrowed. ‘Damn your impertinence! I’ll not be blackmailed.’
Jim drew up a chair and leant back, the pistol on the desk in front of him. ‘Won’t you? I suggest you listen to what I’ve got to say. You see, I’ve particular good eyesight, Mr Roskelly, especially at night when no-one’s meant to be watching an’ people get hurt. There’s always a nook or doorway to squeeze into, barrels to hide behind – as a young man, I often saw things I could turn to my advantage. Your friend, Mr Tregellas, may not know what I’m about, but you do, don’t you? An’ so does Sulio Denville. You’ll have to go back a long time, mind, but I’m sure your memory’s as good as mine.’
The room was darkening, the heavy curtains blocking the fading light. Beads of sweat glistened on Robert Roskelly’s brow and I was surprised to see Mr Tregellas watching Jim as intently as Father. Jim’s voice remained expressionless. ‘I’m talking about eleven years ago – but you remember it well, don’t you, Mr Roskelly? Mr Denville?’ he glanced across the room at Sulio Denville, now lost in the shadows of the wood panelling. ‘I can remember it as if it was yesterday, but my memory could be dulled by a monthly stipend. A man with a regular income can forget dark nights an’ false accusations of violence and robbery.’
‘Dammit, man, I’ll not succumb to blackmail. I know nothing of what you speak.’
Jim’s voice turned hard. ‘But you do. Perhaps I should refresh your memory? A young man is sent a letter. It’s from his step-mother’s brother and requests his company in a dangerous part of town – a place where he’d normally not go. He’s seventeen, young, inexperienced an’ not used to being alone on the streets, but he goes because the letter’s requesting his help. The young man dislikes his step-uncle intensely, but he thinks it his duty to serve him, so he overcomes his fear, enters an alley known to be particularly dangerous, an’ walks alone, fearing for his uncle’s safety. But it was his own safety he should have feared. Lying in wait was a dangerous and ruthless man, one known to break a man’s neck with one hand – killing hands and a ruthless heart, waiting for him as he walked towards his fate.
‘Of course, they’d be clever about this death. They’d arrange for their hands to be clean, for no hint of blame to come their way. After all, there was a large estate at stake so the young man would have to die, but not be murdered. So much better to let the law of the land do the killing – far better he hangs.
‘They sprung him from behind, callous an’ cowardly, but that was the nature of the two men. Before the young man had a chance to defend himself, they set about beating him, kicking him, knocking him senseless to the ground – but they didn’t kill him. They removed the note from the young man’s jacket, safe in the knowledge that the uncle had his own note in his pocket – a good forgery, requesting him meet the young man in the very place they were now standing. All they had to do was put the uncles’ purse in the young man’s jacket and leave him lying in the gutter while they saw to their own injuries – light, supercial wounds on their arms and legs were all that was needed. Then they set about ripping each other’s clothes and rolling in the lth, but to nish the job properly, they opened their pouch of pig’s blood, drenching themselves from head to toe, before they lay in the gutter, groaning as if they were dying.’
The room was silent, everyone straining to hear Jim’s words.
‘It wasn’t long before they were discovered, was it, Mr Roskelly? And not long before the news got out. The nephew had gone wild, viciously attacking his uncle after luring him to his death. The court heard the evidence – two men’s word against one. They’d been injured to within an inch of their lives and they had the heavily blood-stained letter as proof. The young man must hang, of that, there was no doubt.’ The bitterness in his voice was chilling. The words had come straight from his heart and everyone in the room had sensed it.
Robert Roskelly was staring at Jim, sweat now dripping from his brow. He cleared his throat. ‘A touching story and no doubt well-rehearsed, but it means nothing to me. You’ve nothing to incriminate me. Nothing you’ve said perturbs me. And who’d believe the testimony of a wretch such as yourself? Look at you – you’re lthy, you stink. You’re no better than a common thief. If you think anyone will listen to you, then you’re even more foolish than I thought.’
‘You fear me, Robert Roskelly. I can see it in your eyes and smell it on your breath. You fear me. Yet there’s more I’d accuse you of.’ He pushed his chair away, standing up to face Father, addressing him from across the room. ‘You remember the late Sir Francis Polcarrow who married the young Alice Roskelly? That would be about twelve years ago wouldn’t it?’
Father nodded, his face the colour of ash. Jim must have noticed how frail he looked because he made his way towards him, carefully untying his gag. Father wiped his hand across his mouth, looking up at Jim with bewildered eyes.
Jim turned back to Robert Roskelly. ‘The new Lady Polcarrow was young and healthy. Sir Francis had served his purpose in siring a son and if you were to carry out your ambition to be the boy’s guardian and take control of the Polcarrow estate, you needed to make sure Sir Francis met with a fatal riding accident – a loose saddle, an unseen molehill, or a blow from a low branch? The choice was endless.
‘You chose the blow from a low branch, didn’t you, Mr Roskelly? How easy it must have seemed as you swung the branch that smashed his skull. You managed the murder so well. You arranged the body, making everything look like an accident and you became the solid rock your sister and her young infant needed.’
Robert Roskelly stood wiping the sweat on his brow, glaring at Jim in undisguised fear. Jim glared back, his face dark with loathing. ‘Two deaths would have been suspicious, but a tragic accident, followed by a vicious attack from a young man who was known to dislike you so much, left no-one suspecting. You were free to prosper, Mr Roskelly, and prosper you have.’
Father’s cough racked his chest. Jim turned and started to undo Father’s wrists. To my horror, I saw he had left his pistol lying on the desk and I could see Robert Roskelly staring at it. I tried to warn Jim, shouting into my gag, pointing with my eyes in the direction of the pistol, desperately willing him to understand, but though he looked at me, raising his eyebrows in response, he did not grasp my meaning. I tried screaming, shaking my head, but to no avail. It was too late. Robert Roskelly reached across the desk and stood holding the pistol in both hands, his laughter now lling the room. ‘Not as clever as you think you are.’
Hearing the pistol cock, Jim turned round, horried by his foolish mistake. ‘Damn you, Robert Roskelly,’ he said.
‘I should have killed you when I had the chance. You can’t fool me. Right from the start I knew there was something familiar about you. You thought your sailor’s accent and vagrant appearance would disguise you, but your eyes give you away. I know who you really are. We should have killed you when we had the chance, not left you to the gallows.’
‘Like you killed my father?’
‘Yes, like I killed your dammed father.’ Jim was behind my chair, his hands gripping my shoulders. The barrel of the pistol was pointing straight at him. ‘You’re a dead man, James Polcarrow,’ Robert Roskelly said. ‘Your futile attempt to incriminate me has failed.’
James Polcarrow? Through my fear, my mind was reeling. I should have known. I should have remembered the scandal. I had been so blind, yet now it seemed so obvious – Jim’s education, his knowledge of Fosse, his sense of vengeance, his championship of the aristocracy. But it was all too late. Whatever injustices he had endured, whatever hardship and cruelty he had suffered, he was n
ow powerless. Robert Roskelly was walking slowly across the room, the pistol pointing at Jim’s chest.
Jim’s strong hands squeezed my shoulders and I screamed into the suffocating gag. We were going to die – all of us. My poor, poor mother. She would never survive this. Never.
Robert Roskelly seemed content to take his time, his red-rimmed eyes enjoying my fear. With a laugh of triumph he lined up his aim and, with a sneer on his face, he pulled the trigger.
Chapter Twenty-two
A piercing whistle lled the air. The door ung open and men came rushing into the room. I watched, amazed, as the heavy brocade curtains were thrust aside and two men stepped out from behind them.
Robert Roskelly’s pistol failed to re, his ngers still frantically pulling at the trigger. Jim waited only long enough for him to realise the pistol had no powder before he aimed a heavy blow, knocking him sideways to the oor. Mr Tregellas ran for his life, dodging from side to side, but he was outnumbered and stood no chance. Two men lunged to catch him, pulling him to the ground, pinning his arms behind his back to apply their heavy handcuffs. Jim began undoing the knots that bound me, ripping away my gag and I stood trembling, shaking, running over to Father who was staggering to his feet.
‘Father, come. You look so pale. Sit over here where you’ll be safe. ’
Behind me, someone shouted. ‘One’s got away.’
Another replied, ‘Follow him... Quickly! You two – down there…follow him. Take this lantern and hurry.’ I recognised him now, it was the constable speaking. Across the room, a small dark hole, no more than three-foot square, stood gaping in the wood panelling. Jim stood staring at it, his face full of fury as the older of the two men walked to his side. He was a tall man, dressed in a dark jacket and working-man’s breeches, but as soon as he spoke, he lled the room with authority. ‘Denville’s escaped, damn him. Did you forget about the tunnel, James?’
