Haggard

by Christopher Nicole

'Peter Wring?'

  Johnnie stepped backwards, and his knees touched the bed.

  'Why can't you leave him alone?' Alice had stopped pounding and was speaking in a normal tone. 'Haven't you tortured him enough?'

  'Was it Peter Wring?' Haggard asked again.

  'We were to burn the factory,' Johnnie gabbled. 'Nothing else.

  We were to bum the factory. But they wanted Wring. They didn't tell me that, Father. I swear it.'

  He stopped, and his jaw slowly sagged as he gazed at the expression on his father's face.

  'We?'

  'I . . . I . . . I . . .' 'You were there?' Johnnie sat on the bed.

  Alice closed the door. 'And why shouldn't he be there?' she demanded. 'Wring deserved to die. He raped Meg Bold. Don't trouble to deny it. As you deserve to die, Father. For having sent him. You all deserve to die. Only Johnnie doesn't have the stomach for killing.'

  Haggard turned to her. 'Your doing?'

  'Can you deny it?' she spat at him.

  He gazed at her. Was he afraid of her? Was he afraid of anything she could say or do? He decided he was not. Not even if she could prove it. And he didn't suppose she could do that. But it would be necessary to face her down.

  He turned back to Johnnie. God, how he hated the boy. Alison's child. How could he do other than hate him? But he kept his voice quiet and even. 'Get up, boy. Don't be a snivelling coward all of your life. You believed her?'

  Johnnie licked his lips, pushed himself to his feet, isn't . . . isn't it true?'

  'Do you really suppose I'd waste the time?' Haggard demanded. Did it matter? Why did he not tell the little lout, and watch him squirm with hatred. 'And do you suppose the virginity of a tinker's daughter is worth the life of a man? Her mother was a whore. A whore, do you understand? She was my whore, then when I threw her out she went whoring elsewhere. A whore's daughter, that's who you were puling after.'

  'You'll not say that.' Alice struck at him, but he caught her hand easily enough, turned her and sat her on the bed. 'You'll not,' she gasped.

  ‘I thought you were a stickler for the truth, miss? You.' He pointed at Johnnie, ‘I want the names of the men who rode with you. I want the name of the man who shot Peter Wring.'

  Johnnie stared at him, mouth opening and shutting.

  'So you can hang them all?' Alice snarled.

  That's right,' Haggard said. 'So I can hang them all. Quickly, boy, or you'll dangle beside them.'

  Johnnie Haggard found his voice, ‘I was there, Father. I led them. I'll not betray them.'

  Haggard's hands opened and shut. But he could not control them. His arm shot out and the flat of his hand slashed across Johnnie's face. The boy tumbled backwards, struck the end of the bed and sat on the floor. The door opened, and Roger stepped in.

  'Father?'

  'He led them,' Haggard said. 'He's boasting of it. My own son, a Luddite and a murderer.'

  'Christ,' Roger said, is it true?'

  'He had cause,' Alice gasped. 'He had cause. He . . .'

  'He's due for a hanging.' Haggard said. 'Because of her hate.'

  Alice's mouth closed, slowly. She bit her lip instead. Roger glanced from one to the other in bewilderment.

  'But I'll save you, boy. God knows why. I'll save you, if you'll give me the names of those at your back.'

  Johnnie held on to the bedpost to pull himself to his feet. He remained out of reach of his father's hands, and tears were rolling down his cheeks. But his face was set. 'I'll not, Father. They rode with me, at my bidding.'

  'Who?'

  Johnnie shook his head.

  'Why?' Roger demanded, in the name of God, why?'

  'I didn't want Wring to die,' Johnnie said. 'But he deserved to. He raped Meg. And Father sent him to do it.' He caught his breath, as if amazed that he should have spoken the words.

  Roger stared at his father.

  'Do you believe him, boy?'

  'I ... of course I don't.'

  'Aye, well, it was all a product of Alice's diseased brain.' 'It was not. It was . . .' But again she checked herself. 'Alice?'

  Her shoulders slumped. ‘I don't know. I ... I was sure. I lay under the tree, and there were five men. Wring and the others. And I thought I ... I don't know.' She threw herself on her face across the bed, shoulders wracked by great sobs, ‘I don't know. Oh, God, I don't know.'

  'Christ,' Roger said again. 'Oh, Christ. You believed her, Johnnie?'

  ‘I . . . I . . .'

  The names, boy,' Haggard said. The names.'

  Johnnie shook his head again. 'I won't. They trusted me. I won't.'

  Trusted you,' Haggard snorted. 'And you'll hang for them?' Slowly Johnnie's head came up. His lips were trembling. 'Oh, aye,' Haggard said. 'Don't suppose being a Haggard will save you from the noose. You'll hang boy. You'll hang.'

  'Of course he means to frighten him,' Roger said. He stood in the centre of the Bolds' kitchen, gazed at the startled faces. Even Harry and Tim looked to be frightened. 'And I wouldn't have supposed Johnnie has the courage of a louse. But he won't betray them.'

  'Perhaps he's afraid to,' Emma said. She drove her hands into her hair. 'Perhaps . . .' She gazed at her daughter.

  ‘I’m sorry for it, Captain Haggard,' she said. 'Oh, I'm sorry for it.'

  'Perhaps if . . . there's nothing you remember about the men who attacked you?'

  'Leave the girl be,' Harry Bold growled. 'You think she wants to remember? Leave her be. You've no cause coming here, anyway. You've got trouble in Derleth, that's your business. Haggard's business is Haggard's business. You're happy enough to say that when things are going well. Like you say, it'll serve young puppy right. Beginning what he can't finish. Let him get frightened. Let him get frightened to death. You clear out of here, and leave us be. Captain Haggard.'

  Roger looked from one to the other. 'I'd like a word with Meg, alone,' he said.

  'You'll not,' Harry said. 'You'll not speak with her. Who do you suppose has suffered worse than any? Worse than your stinking brother ever could. You'll not speak with her, Haggard.'

  'Emma?'

  Emma sighed, and raised her head. 'She isn't well, Roger. You can see she isn't well. She hasn't been well since that night. Harry's right. You've no right to pry. You had no right to pry in the first place. Johnnie deserves a good thrashing.'

  'She's . . .' Haggard glanced at Meg. Her eyes were wide, beseeching him not to betray her. How like Alice she is, he thought. She had given him everything she had to give. Now she did not want him to allow her family to discover that. He shrugged. 'If that's the way you feel, Mrs. Bold. I'll say good day.' He went to the door, hesitated there, looked over his shoulder, if you should want to see me again, you'll know where I am.'

  He sat his horse in the trees, and watched the cottage through his glass. But without hope, now. He had sat here for three hours, and she had not come. She had not even left the house to feed the chickens. He could not believe that she could have used him, so coldly and dispassionately, to regain her womanhood. Dispassionately? He could not believe she was that good an actress.

  But she was not coming. And he was wasting time. Valuable time. There was so much to be done at the Hall, where Johnnie was confined to his room. Father had used the emergency power granted the Justices of the Peace by the recent legislation to hasten the trial—summary justice in the case of frame breaking had in any event been one object of the law—and the neighbouring magistrates who were required to make up the quorum were already sent for. If he was about to frighten his son, he was making a very good job of it.

  She was not coming, and there was an end to it. For a last time he levelled the telescope. Slowly a frown gathered between his eyes. Meg had not come out to feed the chickens for the very simple reason that there were no chickens. Nor was there any smoke issuing from the chimney. Fool that he was for not noticing that immediately.

  Would it have made any difference? He kicked his horse, cantered across the meadow, down the path. The front
door was locked, but he could peer in through the windows. The stocking frames were still there, as was the empty range, the four chairs, the wooden table. Nothing else. He went round the back, stared into the bedroom. There were no blankets, no clothes. The Bolds had abandoned their home.

  'But do you believe it?' Roger demanded.

  Byron sat on the terrace, gazing out across the deer park. 'What I believe, my dear Haggard, is immaterial. Your brother certainly believed it, as he had been told so by his sister. It is she you wish to question.'

  Roger sighed, and sat down. 'And drive her a little further out of her mind? What advice did you give Johnnie?'

  'Ah,' Byron said, ‘I dissuaded him from doing anything foolish.' 'You would not call murder foolish?' 'Now you know that was not premeditated.'

  'Not by Johnnie, at any rate,' Roger agreed. 'I know that.'' But by his accomplices? By Harry Bold and his son? If they knew, or if they even believed, that Peter Wring had raped Meg, there was motive enough. Motive enough for them to flee, afterwards, too. For fear that Johnnie would betray them, while he, poor deluded fool, was now set on playing the hero. But, Roger wondered, did he really want them betrayed? Did he want Meg's brother and father to hang?

  Did he want Johnnie to hang? But that was nonsense. Father would never let it come to that.

  He got up. 'I had thought you were returning to town.'

  ‘I’ll stay, if you don't mind,' Byron said. 'Johnnie is one of my closest friends. I'll not desert him.'

  'Good of you,' Roger remarked, drily, and went inside. He climbed the stairs to his father's office, but the room was empty. He went upstairs again, opened Alice's door. But she had asked for, and been given, some more laudanum, and was asleep. He seemed to be surrounded by grey clouds, through which he could not push. But that was nonsense. He was Roger Haggard. He had pushed through thicker clouds than these in the past.

  He ran downstairs, called for Corcoran. 'I may need a couple of good arms.'

  ‘I’m with you, sir,' Corcoran agreed.

  They rode through the gap, gazed at the burned out mill. Under MacGuinness's directions, men were already clearing the blackened timbers, dragging out the shattered frames, testing the walls for strength. Squire had said rebuilding would commence immediately, and it was doing just that. While Peter Wring still awaited burial. While John Haggard junior still awaited trial.

  'MacGuinness,' Roger called.

  The big man raised his head, slapped his hands together, came towards the horse. His labourers stopped working and watched.

  'I'd like a word with you, Mr. MacGuinness,' Roger said, in private.'

  ’I aye, Captain Haggard. In good time, sir. In good time.' 'Now,' Roger said.

  MacGuinness shook his head. 'Squire's orders are to have this site cleared by the time he returns from Derby. Can't stop for nothing, Captain Haggard.'

  'MacGuinness . . .' Roger hesitated. The other men had laid down their tools and drawn closer. Amongst them were the remainder of the gamekeepers. Wring's accomplices? Alice thought so. But Alice had as good as admitted her mistake. And in any event, they were closing their ranks against him. He was the outsider, now. He'd been away too long.

  MacGuinness smiled at him. 'You ask squire, Captain Haggard. You ask him if I can stop to speak with you, and I'll be willing. You ask squire.'

  Ask squire. Roger was in front of the house to greet his father. 'Father. We must..’

  'What's he doing here?' Haggard's arm was outflung, the finger pointing at Byron.

  'Well, he's Johnnie's friend . . .'

  'Friend?' Haggard's voice rasped. 'Lover, more like. They're a pair of damnable sodomites. You,' he shouted, stamping on to the terrace. 'You are no longer welcome here, sir. Get off my property.'

  Byron stood up. His face was cold, if his cheek were bright. 'Your manners do you little credit, Mr. Haggard. I am your son's friend.'

  'You, sir? Why . . .'

  'His only friend, I would estimate,' Byron continued. 'Oh, I shall leave your miserable Folly, sir, as you demand it. But I shall not go very far.'

  He went inside, and Roger scratched his head in sheer amazement. 'Surely you've no right to make such an accusation?'

  'No right?' Haggard snapped. 'Johnnie as good as confessed it. My son . . . Christ, I can hardly believe it.'

  'Aye, well, it takes all sorts. I'd agree with you that his lordship was a bad influence. But now he's gone . . .'

  'You talk as if there was nothing wrong,' Haggard said. 'As if it scarce matters whether a man loves a man or a woman. By God . . .'

  ' Tis Johnnie concerns me,' Roger shouted. 'Surely this farce has gone far enough. Only Johnnie matters now. I wish to know when you are going to drop the charges.'

  Haggard stared at him for several moments, then turned on his heel and went inside.

  Surely this farce has gone on long enough. He sat at his desk and stared at the closed door. To know what to do. He was John Haggard. He could do anything he wished, within reason. But he was Justice of the Peace for Derleth. Over the years these people had grown to respect him and to trust him. and now one of their number had been killed, in his service, and he had promised to bring the murderer to justice.

  But the murderer was his own son. A snivelling coward who was also a sodomite. Did he wish such a son? Could a man execute his own son?

  He was John Haggard. He could do anything he wished. Therefore he could drop the charges and release Johnnie. So perhaps the people of Derleth would then hate him as much as everyone else hated him. Would that be so very hard to bear?

  And what of Johnnie? He had stumbled on the truth, even if he no longer believed it. Was he then confessing that he would execute his son to prevent his own crime being discovered? Then what of Alice?

  Unworthy thoughts. All unworthy thoughts. He was overtired, and he was too emotionally disturbed. Where was the John Haggard who had ridden out to face Malcolm Bolton? Then it had been a simple matter. The cause of the duel had been puerile. But it had had to be fought. And if it had to be fought, it had to be won. Better to kill in a puerile cause than to be killed in one. He had made the decision without the slightest hesitation. That was Haggard law. Do what is right, and what is right for Haggard is right for the community at large. It had to be so. But for his wealth and his paternalistic attitude, Derleth would have declined into a vast slum. Haggard law.

  And Johnnie was Alison's son. How had he hated her, while she had lived, just as he had hated her since her death. Could Johnnie really be any different? He had all of his mother's perversions, all of his mother's secret ambitions and desires which had so infuriated him. Johnnie should never have been born. He should have been the babe which had killed her, and he should have died with her. There was the truth of the matter.

  But could a man kill his own son? It had been done before. There was even a Biblical text about it, something about plucking out mine own eye, if it offends me. He found himself smiling in his despair. John Haggard, quoting the Bible.

  'Gentlemen.' He stood in the doorway of his study.

  'Mr. Haggard.' Squire Burton of Plowding took-his hand. 'We . . . well . . .'He glanced at Sergeant McCloud.

  ' Tis a devilish situation, Haggard,' McCloud remarked. 'A devilish situation.'

  Haggard closed the door, indicated chairs. He'd not anticipate. The fact is, Haggard . . .' Burton wiped his brow. 'You'll not be sitting?' 'Why not?'

  'For God's sake, man, you cannot try your own son.' 'Why not?'

  'Well . . .' He glanced at McCloud.

  Who cleared his throat. The fact is, Haggard, we are wondering if you'd like to withdraw the charge. Then we could enter a nolle prosequi, and the whole thing could be forgotten. There is not a shred of evidence that your son was involved . . .'

  'He confessed to it.'

  'Save his confession, I was going to say. Now, sir, if he were to withdraw that confession, I do not see how we could proceed. I don't suppose we could. Now, sir, there is yet time for you to
convince the young man of his utter folly. I've no doubt some girl is involved, what?' He paused, and gave a nervous laugh. 'Or . . . something of that nature. He's protecting someone. Well, sir, it's absurd. So, sir . . .'

  'He has confessed to murder and to arson and to frame breaking,' Haggard said. 'It is written down . . .' it can be mislaid, easily enough.'

  'You are asking me to condone a miscarriage of justice.'

  in the name of God, sir, is it not a miscarriage of justice to hang your own son? It will come to that, sir. Once we take our places and he takes his, why, sir . . .'

  'You'll know he has refused counsel?' Burton asked.

  That is his prerogative,' Haggard said. 'It would be useless in any event.'

  There was a knock on the door, and MacGuinness pushed in his head. 'Master John's been taken down, Mr. Haggard.'

  'Thank you, MacGuinness. We hold court in the school hall, gentleman. Shall we go?'

  'Haggard . . .'

  'They are waiting for us, gentlemen.' Haggard opened the door, in the circumstances, McCloud, I'd be obliged if you'd act as chairman.' 'What are we to do?' Burton whispered.

  McCloud hesitated, then his face cleared. 'He means to punish the boy. That's certain. But he'll never hang. The sentence will have to be commuted.'

  To transportation? Is that any better?'

  McCloud sighed, and shrugged. Haggard had remained just outside the door.

  'They are waiting, gentlemen.'

  'State your full name,' MacGuinness requested.