by Sara Reinke
* * * *
Howard Linford was a tall man with a form that would have probably been lean and fit in his youth. As age had set upon him, it had taken its toll, softening him, leaving his face and neck rounded around formerly etched angles and lines, drawn in doughy measures toward his shoulders. He wore no wig; his shoulder-length, gray hair was wildly askew about his head, despite his efforts to draw it back in some semblance of a fashionable tail. His eyes were large, framed by weathered lines and swollen pockets of flesh. His justicoat was dun-colored and unadorned by embroidery; it was rather rumpled, in need of both mending and ironing. His boots were unpolished, scuffed, and mud-spattered from horseback riding. He struck Charlotte as somewhat bumbling upon their introduction as he offered a clumsy smile and an awkward bow.
“I was just telling your father that I am sorry it has taken me so long to pay call about the robbery,” Linford said. He had jostled his cup as he had risen upon her arrival. Coffee had sloshed against the rug, and he genuflected, whipping a handkerchief from his jacket pocket to mop at it. When Lord Epping’s butler moved to tend to the spill, Linford laughed. “I have it, sir. Do not trouble yourself. Dreadfully sorry, my lord, but it is coming right up.”
“Quite all right, Mr. Linford,” Lord Epping said. “Here now, let Pickernell see to it. I pay him well for such efforts.”
Linford looked up, and he and Charlotte’s father laughed together. “All right, then,” Linford said. When he rose, he turned to Charlotte again, cramming the rumpled folds of his kerchief back into his pocket. “As I was saying, miss, I would have paid call sooner than this, but have had some matters in Epping to distract me. I own the local livery stables, and have hired a new hand, a nephew of sorts by way of my wife, though I would scarcely claim the boy. A sack of grain has more wits to its credit, and I have been loath to leave lest he sets fire to the barn, horses, and himself in the…”
His voice faded and he laughed. “None of that matters. Pardon my digression. You have my assurances, as I have offered them to your gracious father, that the rot scoundrels who accosted you will be caught in some measure. I cannot promise swiftly, because I am not God; if I was, none of this would have happened in the first place, and I would be living in the palace, sucking down brandy for breakfast.”
Charlotte blinked at him, bewildered, and glanced at her father, who seemed to find Linford’s peculiarities delightfully entertaining. “Well, I… I thank you kindly, sir,” she said to the sheriff.
“I was just now explaining to your father that I have printed up a mess of broadsides,” Linford said. He reached beneath the lapel of his coat for a pocket, frowned, and reached for the other side. He patted his hands against his jacket until he heard paper rustle, and he found the right pocket. He produced a folded, crumpled piece of paper and offered it to Charlotte.
NOTICE TO ALL TRAVELERS, the broadside read in large, glaring black print:
BEWARE OF THE FIENDISH HIGHWAYMEN, THE BLACK TRIO, WHO PREY UPON THE UNSUSPECTING IN EPPING PARISH. A REWARD OF FIVE SHILLINGS IS OFFERED FOR
INFORMATION RESULTING IN THE CAPTURE OF THESE ROGUES WHO, WHILE CLAD IN BLACK VESTMENTS AND BEARING ARMS HAVE STALKED THE HIGHWAYS OF OUR FAIR PARISH, TERRIFYING OUR CITIZENS WITH THEIR HEINOUS AND FELONIOUS ENDEAVORS. THESE BRAZEN SCOUNDRELS ASSAULT AT WILL, PERFORMING THOSE MOST ABHORRENT CRIMES OF: HIGHWAY ROBBERY, BODILY ASSAULT, AND WANTON BATTERY.
“Five shillings?” Charlotte asked, looking toward her father. “That is a very generous reward, Father.”
“Yes, I thought as much myself,” Linford said, before Lord Epping could reply. “The earl must have taken a shine of sorts to you, miss, to front such a goodly sum on your behalf.”
“The earl?” Charlotte said, startled.
“Lord Essex has generously proffered the reward, Charlotte,” Lord Epping told her. “He had word delivered to Mr. Linford yesterday.”
“Oh,” Charlotte whispered. “He… you may wish to contact him before you post these, Mr. Linford,” she said. “As I… I do not know if his generosity would still be so inclined, given that yesterday, I… well, you see… his son…”
“It does not matter,” Lord Epping said. “If Lord Essex will not see it posted, then I will tender it from my own purse.”
“And I had the opportunity to speak with the earl’s son last night in Epping,” Linford said, drawing Charlotte’s gaze. “Lord Roding, a pleasant enough chap. He told me the reward would be met gladly. I gathered his man’s account of things, given he was your coachman that evening. What is his name? Cheadle. Big fellow. I cannot rightly see how he did not dispatch of the bandits for you. Though three against one, no matter the one’s girth, are poor odds.”
There was something within Linford’s eyes as he offered this. He seemed to study Charlotte intensely, in a nearly inquisitive fashion. “I thought I might take your recollections of events, Miss Engle,” he said.
Charlotte looked at him for a long moment. He did not believe Cheadle’s account; she could see that in his eyes. “All right, sir,” she said quietly, and Linford nodded, smiling.
She sat beside her father and described the robbery. She was somewhat surprised when Linford produced a small ledger and slate pencil from his coat pocket. As she spoke, he jotted in the ledger. He noticed her curious attention almost at once, and laughed sheepishly.
“I have a dreadful memory for details,” he said, tapping his pencil against his brow. “My wife is fond to tell me I would waltz out-of-doors without my head most mornings, was it not attached by God’s good foresight to my neck.”
Charlotte smiled politely at this, and Lord Epping laughed. She continued her accounting of the robbery.
Linford listened with an interested expression and precious little interjection or commentary. He would hold her gaze evenly except to glance at his notebook and scribble a line here and there. She tried to tell the story as Cheadle likely had; she had no idea why she would lie for Cheadle’s benefit, but she had incurred enough of her mother’s disapproving wrath for one week without adding to it with tales of punching and cursing at highwaymen.
“They clapped Mr. Cheadle about, but they did not harm you,” Linford said when she had finished.
“No, sir,” she said.
“Because it is my understanding one of them groped you in rather untoward fashion,” Linford said, a continuation of his previous comment that nearly overlapped her reply. “Lord Roding told me this and Mr. Cheadle recounted it as well. His hand down your stay, that is what they told me.”
“Have you ever tried to put your hand down a lady’s stay, Mr. Linford?” Charlotte asked, and he blinked at her. “I can scarcely draw breath in full when it is cinched. There is hardly room for me inside, much less the whole of a man’s hand. The highwayman put his fingertips here, like this…” She demonstrated. “I was wearing a fichu fastened with a brooch. The brooch clasp is broken. I could not get it undone. He thought I was lying and tried for himself. That is all.”
“Did he take the pin?” Linford asked. “No, he did not.”
Linford made a thoughtful, harrumphing sound. “That was kind of him,” he remarked, scribbling a little note in his ledger. Charlotte had to resist the urge to lean forward, her curiosity stoked, to see what he was writing.
“Yes, I thought so as well,” she said.
“It is peculiar that they did no more than this,” Linford said. “A fetching young lady, if you will pardon the observation, traveling alone, her only capable chaperone beaten to semi-lucid helplessness. Most highwaymen would have treated you with far less courtesy, if you gather my inference.”
She gathered indeed. “I think they rather pride themselves on being gentlemanly,” she said. “That is what he told me, anyway.”
Linford raised his brow. “You carried on quite a conversation with this lad, did you not?”
“I insulted him plainly, and he offered retort, if that constitutes a conversation, sir,” Charlotte said. Her tone had grown defensive;
her posture had stiffened, and she had no idea why. She was answering Linford’s questions like she drew offense on the highwaymen’s behalf, and felt ridiculously helpless to prevent herself.
She had given some thought only the night before as to why the highwaymen had not raped or molested her. She had told Una about the gazette clipping she had discovered among Cheadle’s possessions with the note: Suitable for our needs?
“Perhaps Lords Roding, Hallingbury, and Stapleford are the highwaymen,” Una had mused. “Mr. Cheadle drove your coach. Perhaps he delivered us deliberately to be robbed.”
“They are not the Black Trio,” Charlotte had replied. “Do you think if James had the opportunity to have his way with me—anonymously at that—he would have passed it up? He can scarcely tear his eyes from my breasts when we are face to face and in public surroundings. By that measure, do you think he would let Julian or Camden touch me? No, there is no way they are the highwaymen. I think Cheadle is interested in claiming the reward for their capture. That is why he had the clipping.”
“I have been sheriff of this county for twelve years, Miss Engle,” Linford said. “And I have yet to meet a highway bandit who was a gentleman besides, no matter what the songs and chapbooks tell you.” He rose to his feet, tucking his pencil and ledger into his coat pocket. “I have taken up your morning with such unpleasant recollections, and I apologize to you both.”
“Not at all, sir,” Lord Epping said, rising. “We are grateful to you for your efforts.”
“Yes, sir, truly indeed,” Charlotte said, standing beside her father.
Lord Epping reached into a pocket of his gilet, producing a small coin purse. He slipped out a penny and offered it to the sheriff.
“I will see these broadsides posted,” Linford said, nodding at Lord Epping in thanks as he tucked the penny in his fob pocket. “We will find the lot, do not fret for it. No highwayman preying in Essex has avoided capture for too long. I even damn near laid my hands on Dick Turpin’s scruff once, did I mention?”
“Dick Turpin?” Lord Epping exclaimed, delighted. “I will be damned!”
“Hah, yes, caught him galloping through the forest on that nag of his, Black Bess in 1737, I do believe. Midsummer. Anyway, he beat my horse’s stride and was gone. I never had a clear shot at him for the trees, or another chance at his hide.”
“They caught him in Yorkshire, did they not?” Lord Epping asked.
“Oh, yes, strung him high and throttled him well,” Linford said. Lord Epping offered his hand, and the sheriff clasped palms with him, exchanging a hearty shake. “Good day to you, my lord, and to you, miss.”
