“Who would that be, I wonder?”
“Aye, who? That’s what we’d all like to know. Especially me, for he’s the one, mark my words, that’s got my cloth. But some folk, you see, Tom, think he doesn’t exist at all, just something Mr. Defoe made up out of whole cloth, as we say. Mr. Defoe has been in prison, you know, Tom, and even in the pillory, for writing pamphlets against the government. Of course that’s a long time past now, but you can understand how folk feel. But see, Tom, there’s a letter come for you from Mr. Defoe. I’ve brought it down for you, that’s why I’ve come; here it is, come all the way from London. It’s an honour for you, lad—happen,” he added doubtfully.
It was indeed an honour, I thought, taking the double-folded paper in my hand, for a poorhouse boy accused of theft to receive a letter from the great Mr. Defoe. I own I found difficulty in reading it, for though the hand was clear and bold, I had never read writing sloping in that way before—indeed I had never seen a handwritten letter before at all. However, I went at it slowly and carefully, and by degrees made it out. It was addressed to Master Thomas Leigh, at the house of Mr. Stephen Firth, Upper High Royd, Barseland, Halifax, Yorkshire. I broke the seal, my fingers trembling with excitement. When I had gone through it twice, I offered it to Mr. Firth.
“Read it to me, Tom,” said he.
I read it aloud, thus:
Master Thomas Leigh.
Dear Tom,
I have received from Sir Henry Norton, an estimable magistrate of the Halifax neighbourhood, an account of your statement of the stealing of the cloth from your master’s tenters, witnessed by you, and your courageous attempt to halt the thieves in their nefarious purpose. I have sent to Sir Henry a sworn deposition, to wit that I saw a pedlar with scarlet stockings in close conversation with the man whom you next day introduced to me as Jeremy Oldfield and another man whose face appeared to be pocked as with smallpox, on a certain night in the Rose and Crown Inn, Halifax. Their discourse together appeared to me not altogether friendly, but presently they seemed to reach an agreement and money passed between them, the pock-marked man being the donor and the other the recipients.
As I remember with gratitude your excellent description of the conduct of the textile trade, which is of assistance to me in preparing my forthcoming TOUR THROUGH ENGLAND AND WALES, and as I have had much experience of Courts and Trials, I take it upon me to offer some advice. First, urge your master and the Constable of Barseland to make every effort to discover the stolen cloth, for if this can be found and traced to the thieves, their guilt will be established beyond all doubt. Secondly, write down carefully in advance of the trial the statement which you wish to make to the Court, and arrange all its particulars in good order, so that one leads on rationally to the next. To give evidence in a Court of Assize before a Judge is an experience which may try the boldest spirit, and though I have every confidence in your courage, my dear Tom, you are young in years and may be caused much uneasiness by the examining Counsel.
Your true friend,
Daniel Defoe.
I felt cheered and heartened as I read. But Mr. Firth seemed not so deeply impressed.
“Where does it get us after all, Tom?” said he.
“You do not believe me, Mr. Firth,” said I with great bitterness.
“Why, I want to believe you, Tom,” said he, hesitating. “As for that accursed Jeremy, I wish he had never crossed my doorstep. Though he’s a good weaver. But Mrs. Firth, you see—”He broke off, then gave a smile. “There is one at Upper High Royd who believes in you, choose how. Gracie has been baking for you, though I told her you would not be able to eat her wares.”
He gestured with his hand to the table at my bedside, where a small round golden cake, with plums in, stood on a plate. Something in its size and colour reminded me of little Gracie, and being weak as I was, I found tears in my eyes.
“Thank her from me with all my heart,” I said, speaking as strongly as I could. “I shall try to deserve her trust. I shall eat the cake tomorrow. Was Sandy hurt? I fear Jeremy threw him very roughly aside.”
“Not a whit,” said Mr. Firth in a more cheerful tone. “He was fretful about a hind paw for a day or two, but has forgotten it now. Cats, Tom, have very supple bodies.” He rose and made to leave me. “As for believing in you, Tom,” he said, hesitating at the door. “I should not bring a cake from Gracie to you, lad, if I—on the other hand—”
“Mrs. Firth was vexed,” said I.
He gave a kind of snort and went out.
I lay for a long time in misery, for I saw well enough how I was distrusted—Jeremy was a West Riding man, and though the pedlar was a Londoner, they were used to his bland way of speech; I was a stranger and a poorhouse brat. I had thought I had acted well at the tenters and might even be commended, so to find myself a suspected thief was almost more than I could bear. As the dusk descended my spirit grew dark too.
Then suddenly Harry came bouncing in, with Robert carrying lights.
“Helloa, Tom! I hear you have come to your senses,” he cried cheerfully. “I am heartily glad of it. Why, here is a cake asking to be eaten,” he cried, stretching out his hand towards the dish.
“It is a gift to me from Mr. Firth’s little girl,” said I in a hurry.
Harry, hearing the feeling in my tone, at once with true courtesy drew back his hand from the cake and changed the subject.
“You are quite yourself, Tom. Hear me my lessons,” he urged—knowing, I expect, that he complimented me by this. “Robert, fetch the pile of books from my chamber.” He threw himself down at the foot of my bed, and when the man had gone out said quickly: “You are sad, Tom. I hear Mr. Firth has been to see you. Courage, man! You have done no wrong. Right will triumph. The cloth will be found and traced to that pair of scoundrels.”
“I wish I knew where to look,” said I.
“You must think. It’s useless for me to think on the matter for I know nothing of cloth. Thanks, Robert; put them on the bed.”
“I cannot hear your Latin, Harry, for I know none.”
“Let it be geography, then,” said Harry. “Take this atlas, see, and hear me the rivers, capes and principal towns of Yorkshire.”
I had never held an atlas, or seen maps close at hand before this, so I was somewhat perplexed. Harry leaned over to show me the big map of Yorkshire—each county spreading over two pages—and he pointed out to me Halifax, and the tiny circle of Barseland, and several other towns, with rivers winding, and little rows of peaked mountains. He was thus asprawl when Sir Henry came in upon us, and Sir Henry was not pleased. He told Harry rather sharply that it was dinner time and he must come downstairs; Harry perforce began to collect his books.
“Sir Henry,” I said, sitting up and speaking respectfully: “I wish I could go to see Mr. Gledhill tomorrow morning.”
“Why?” said Sir Henry in his sharp tone.
“I have something to tell him.”
“Why not tell it to me?”
“Mr. Gledhill knows all about cloth, father,” said Harry.
Sir Henry frowned. “Well, that is true,” he said. “Robert shall take you. If you have anything to say which may clear up this matter of the stolen cloth, you may tell it to Mr. Gledhill, seeing he is the Constable of Barseland.”
“I saw Jeremy and the pedlar tearing off the cloth,” said I firmly.
Sir Henry compressed his lips and went away, his hand on Harry’s shoulder. I heard Robert lock the door behind them, and first I grieved and then I raged, and then I grew coldly calm and planned what I should say to Mr. Gledhill. For a thought had come to me from Harry’s maps, and if it should prove correct, then the whole mystery was solved.
I was still very weak next day, and had to cling to Robert’s arm, but we reached Mr. Gledhill’s house at last after resting by the roadside. The house, High Royd by name, was larger than Mr. Firth’s, with three gables and rounded stones topping the gate-posts and a very big barn. And when the door was opened to us we found
it very busy: three looms going upstairs, Mrs. Gledhill (I suppose) and a Couple of maids baking, Mr. Gledhill sitting at his accounts, and several men and lads moving about on textile errands. Mr. Gledhill came to us somewhat flushed; his usual quiet serious look was in abeyance.
“Well, Tom Leigh?” he said. “Sir Henry’s set you loose, has he? Not before time.”
“No, sir. I wish to speak to you in private.”
Mr. Gledhill looked around; every corner seemed filled.
“Come out to the barn,” he said.
“I’ve been bidden not to let t’lad out o’ my sight, sir,” said Robert.
“Come and stand at the barn door, then, where you can see and not hear,” said Mr. Gledhill, rather more quickly and roughly than was his custom.
He led me out to the barn, and there beside the two smart brown horses, and the sacks of oats, and the harness, he turned up a couple of wooden boxes and we sat down.
“Well, now. Don’t be afraid, lad; speak your mind.”
“Thank you for being so kind to me, Mr. Gledhill,” I said.
“You’ve been shabbily tret, Tom,” burst out Mr. Gledhill. I found out later that this word was a Yorkshire way of saying treated, but at the time I did not know this and was perplexed as to his meaning. There was no doubt, however, as to his feeling; he was deeply angered. “You should have been given a reward, not locked up as a thief. Stephen Firth makes to be a good warm-hearted man; he should have stood up for you. I make nothing of his missus, but what can you expect from that old tyrant Sykes’s daughter? My wife’s her cousin, you know. Meg was visiting us when she fell in with Stephen; he’s rued it often, I’ll bet a pack of wool. But all the same Stephen has some sense; he should have seen through yon Jeremy long ago. You needn’t tell me about the stone on your elbow, and the way he left you hanging on the hook, and the cat, and all that.”
“How do you know about his persecutions of me?” said I, astonished.
“From little Gracie Firth, when Stephen left her here for the night. Lord, how that child talked! She was fearfully distressed that you should be left alone in the house with Jeremy—seemed to think he’d murder you. Well, it wasn’t so far off that, either, come to think. She almost had me walking up to Upper High Royd to see if you were safe.”
“Oh, how I wish you had come!” said I with a heartfelt sigh.
“Aye, but then we should not have caught the thieves,” said Mr. Gledhill shrewdly. “Howsomever, this is unprofitable talk and simply vexes me further. That liverish Swain is against you, and Sir Henry of course must be impartial. Besides, he lives by his rents; he knows nowt of cloth. Now, have you aught fresh to tell me?”
“Mr. Gledhill, you know the cloth trade.”
“I don’t say otherwise.”
“Then you will know how difficult it would be for a thief to carry a stolen piece of cloth from Barseland to Halifax without discovery, and to sell it anywhere in the West Riding. Jeremy and the pedlar would be recognised at once carrying a piece of cloth over their shoulder near Barseland if it were daytime, and men do not carry pieces to Halifax or other market towns except on market days. On other days they would be observed as strange.”
“The cloth could be carried in the pedlar’s pack.”
“But the pedlar did not leave Barseland that night, has not left it since the theft. Nor Jeremy either. Nor myself,” I added bitterly.
“We know all this, Tom—even Swain admits all this. The cloth must have been hidden somewhere not far from the Fleece Inn.”
“Indoors, then,” said I. “A great heap—eighteen yards—of blue, in this brown October landscape would stick out like a sore thumb.”
“Covered with leaves, perhaps,” said Mr. Gledhill thoughtfully. “But we have searched closely—everyone in Barseland has searched, and we have found nothing.”
“Some third person, some accomplice of Jeremy and the pedlar’s, must have taken the cloth away.”
“We have thought of this long ago, Tom. Swain thought at first, of the earlier thefts, that it was your father.”
“What?” I cried aghast. “My father? The best, the most honourable of men!”
“He was a stranger, Tom.”
“There had been thefts before we came.”
“Swain thought you had been in the neighbourhood before the night of your father’s death. But the letters from Lavenham disproved this.”
“I shall never forgive Mr. Swain! How dare he! Jeremy and the pedlar murdered my father!” I cried hotly, and I poured out all the story of the night in Mearclough, and the pedlar’s cry of Keep to the left which had sent my father to his death.
“The pedlar speaks in a squeaking sort of tone,” said Mr. Gledhill.
“He affects it. If you had heard him on the night he stole Mr. Firth’s cloth! He roared like a lion.”
“Well, we are no nearer the cloth, Tom.”
“The accomplice took the cloth away in a cart.”
“A cart? Happen. But whose cart? There is many a cart round Barseland. And how could he sell the cloth? Not in any Cloth Hall; to gain entry to Cloth Halls there are names to give and dues to pay. In the West Riding, to sell outside the Cloth Halls is against the law; I do not say it is never done, but at present the talk of Stephen Firth’s stolen blue cloth is all over the West Riding; none would dare to buy or harbour it.”
“All over the West Riding,” said I.
“That’s what I said. That’s why Swain suspected your father—a stranger who could take the cloth elsewhere and sell it without comment.”
“The pedlar sells mittens which come from the North Riding, from a long way north, in Dent.”
Mr. Gledhill gave me a quick look.
“Somebody takes the cloth in a cart towards the north, where they do not make cloth and there are no Cloth Halls and cloth can be sold openly,” I said, “and perhaps brings back mittens and other things for the pedlar to sell.”
“Well—go on,” said Mr. Gledhill. “Who is this unknown person?”
“Mittens—and mutton,” said I, hesitating.
“Speak out, lad!” cried Mr. Gledhill impatiently.
“Mr. Hollas of the poorhouse drives to Skipton to buy mutton from his cousin,” I said. “And from Harry’s map I see that Skipton is on the way towards Dent.”
Mr. Gledhill stared at me.
“The night before I was apprenticed Mr. Swain’s tenters were robbed. Next morning Mr. Hollas was not at the poorhouse. It will be easy, surely, to find whether Mr. Hollas set off for Skipton the day after Mr. Firth’s tenters were robbed.”
“If he is guilty, he will deny it and confuse the dates.”
“If you went to Skipton immediately, without telling Mr. Hollas, and found his cousin,” I pleaded.
“He will have sold the cloth long before now.”
“Someone may remember it—the piece was a bright blue, like the one before.”
“We have no pattern.”
“I know who might be able to give you a pattern!” I cried. “The merchant who bought the previous piece. Don’t you remember, Mr. Gledhill? He matched a pattern to the piece and bought it from Jeremy as he stood at your side in the Cloth Hall.”
“You are a sharp lad, Tom,” said Mr. Gledhill. “It was Mr. Rowlands, a very noted merchant who deals much with foreign parts. He may still have the cloth or the pattern.”
“Take me with you to Skipton,” I begged, “to find the pedlar’s other accomplice.”
Mr. Gledhill gazed at me.
“Other accomplice,” he repeated slowly.
“Mr. Defoe said he saw Jeremy and the pedlar with a third man.”
“I have not seen the deposition yet; it came only yesterday.”
“But my letter says so. Look! I have a letter from Mr. Defoe,” I said proudly, drawing it out from my pocket. (My scissors were no longer there; Sir Henry had impounded them.)
Mr. Gledhill read the letter very carefully. At one point he started, or so it seemed to me; but
I could not quite make out what word had pricked him. When he had finished he sat for a long moment with the letter in his hand. Then he spoke, quite in his former slow, mild way.
“Tom, you must not say a word of this to anyone. Not to Harry, not to Mr. Firth, not to Gracie, not to Robert. I will come to see Sir Henry this afternoon. Do not be troubled further, lad; we shall clear you and your father too.”
So it came about that a few days later Mr. Gledhill and I set off to go to Skipton. We went by public coach from Halifax one morning. I was astonished to see a knot of people gathered round as we came out of the inn: Mr. Firth was there with his mouth pulled down and tears in his eyes, quite pale and wretched, and Gracie at his side sobbed openly. As I put my foot on the step she rushed forward and wrapped her arms round my neck. Her cheek was wet against mine, and her tears ran down inside my neckcloth. I felt most awkward and reluctant under her embrace, at first, but then I grew sorry for the child’s grief, and put my arms about her and hugged her and kissed her cheek, and said: “Now, Gracie love, now,” in a soothing tone.
“I don’t want you to go away, Tom,” sobbed Gracie.
“I shall soon be back, love,” said I cheerfully.
(This way of saying love is a Yorkshire custom, and I used it designedly, to cheer her.)
“You are good and have done nothing wrong and I love you,” wailed Gracie.
At this the crowd laughed, though not unkindly, and I could not but smile a little, while the hot colour came in my cheeks, but then I was vexed that anybody should presume to laugh at so sweet and warm-hearted a child, who had always defended me, and I said firmly:
“I love you too, Gracie.”
There was something in my tone which, I was glad to see, stopped the crowd’s titters, and they looked at us with sympathy until Mr. Firth stepped forward and lifted her out of my arms.
“I don’t want you to go to prison, Tom,” wailed Gracie.
This startled me, and I turned swiftly on Mr. Gledhill.
“Get in and be silent,” he said.
He put his hand on my shoulder and pushed me into the coach. The other passengers gazed at me with interest and would perhaps have spoken to me, but Mr. Gledhill put his finger on his lips in a solemn fashion.
The Adventures of Tom Leigh Page 12
