by Lynch, R J
‘I shall be here, sir. What did Lizzie say to you this morning?’
‘She wished to warn me not to toy with you.’
Kate looked cross. ‘My sister should mind her own business.’
‘Until tomorrow, Kate.’
There was no sitting on a cold wall for Blakiston that night, and he rested more comfortably than for some time. Only one thing disturbed his peace. It was the realisation that he, James Blakiston, son of a country squire and still a man who expected to be called “Mister”, was in love with a young woman who was not even allowed to enter and leave the Rectory by the front door.
On Wednesday morning on the stroke of seven, Jemmy Rayne knocked on Blakiston’s door. Within twenty minutes he was two guineas richer and on his way to Staithes to seek out the name the Rector had refused to provide.
Chapter 38
The run of poor harvests continued. With output low and demand high from people who had been put off their own land and could no longer grow what they needed to stay alive, prices were higher than they had ever been. As he prospered, Tom used some of his new surplus to make life easier for those around him. Florrie and Lizzie had done the household laundry, with Kate to help. Now he paid a shilling each, with breakfast and dinner, to two washerwomen who came in for two days each month. He told Florrie to hire a maid to do the heavy work for three pounds ten shillings a year and her keep.
When the new cattle came to the farm, it was immediately clear that there was more milk than there had been. Generous amounts were poured into large pans to be scalded, then cooled in the dairy. Lizzie learned to skim off the thick cream, draining the skimmed milk to be fed to the pigs. Then she put the cream and a little salt into the churn which she and Kate worked in turns till the cream was beaten into butter. Shaped into pats, the butter was collected by cart and taken to Gateshead or Newcastle for sale. There was cheese to be sold, too, and each month Tom made a little more money than he had the month before. As the pigs fattened he knew that the coming months would be better still. Black puddings began to appear at Chopwell Garth breakfasts.
Kate exercised her new skills of weighing, adding and recording, and Blakiston went over the numbers with her every week, and frequently more often. Sometimes she thought that now, at last, he would kiss her, and there were times when she raised her face towards his in a gesture that invited him to do so, but he never did. Kate was often cross and cantankerous when he left the farm.
His silence did not mean that Blakiston was unaware of Kate. When he spoke to her, he spoke to a girl who could pass for a young woman and whose calm authority would have captivated less stricken hearts than his. When he looked at her—and he looked at her as often as he thought she would not notice—he saw someone on the verge of womanhood who would be as beautiful as anyone, however much money others might have for clothes and artifice.
But it was more than that. Blakiston was conscious not only of how Kate looked and spoke but how he felt about her. And then, whenever he felt his heart moving this way, his mind moved too. It moved to the recollection of a woman he had once loved and expected to marry. To the recollection of her father and the interview in which he had been told that as the son of a wealthy man he had been a welcome suitor, but that now he could expect only rejection. To the news in his brother’s letter that she was married to another and could never now be his.
And Blakiston told himself, as he had so many times before, that love was a mirage, a chimera, and that he would never allow himself to love again.
When Jemmy Raine returned from Staithes, the information he brought let Blakiston understand immediately why the Rector had refused to tell him the name of the brother who had travelled north to avenge his sister. The man was a Blackett, and Blakiston had no doubts about the damage the Blackett family could inflict.
One question was left, and Blakiston wrote to his brother asking for his help in answering it. Beyond that, he let matters lie. It was easier for him to do so because, in any case, it appeared that the mystery of Reuben Cooper’s murder was solved.
Blakiston had been as eager to find the murderer of Reuben Cooper as he was to run Lord Ravenshead’s estate with maximum efficiency. The end, when it came, was sudden and brought a sense of loss. Tom provided the solution, and Blakiston’s world became suddenly empty. Indeed, it came to seem that there had never even been a mystery and that the answer had been there all the time, if only he had seen it for what it was. He had suspected that Martin Higson might be the killer, and now he knew it.
‘Say it again,’ he said. ‘I know I have heard you, but tell me exactly what Higson said. Put nothing in but leave nothing out.’
Tom sighed. ‘Mister Blakiston, Matthew Higson was a friend. He is a friend, wherever he is now.’
‘Yes, yes. And he said...?’
‘Oh, Mister Blakiston. He said he would not...’
‘No, Tom, no. I do not want to hear your understanding of what he might have meant. The exact words, please, in the way he said them.’ He saw the irritation in Tom’s face. ‘How did the conversation come to pass? Did you say something first?’
‘Master, it was the day you spoke to me about the Irishman. I cannot remember his name.’
‘Joseph Kelly. He never existed. But never mind that. I asked you if you had seen him. You said no. And then?’
‘Why, then you went off, Mister Blakiston. And Matthew was there and wanted to know what we had been talking about.’
‘Damned impudence. But what did he say?’
‘I said I was surprised you did not want to talk to him and he said, “Mister Blakiston has got no time for me.” He said everyone thought when he wed Catherine Robinson he’d get the farm when her father died but he said, “I don’t believe he’ll let me have it.” He said, “I’m thinking of going to the colonies when we’re married and try my hand there”.’
‘Did he, the rogue? Well, he was right about the farm. I never thought much of his ability as a farmer. Then what?’
‘I asked what Catherine said about that and he said, “I haven’t mentioned it to her yet.” And he told me not to. And then he asked what you wanted, Master. And I said you had talked about someone called Joseph Kelly who looked like a vagrant and walked from Swalwell six weeks before. And he said, “Oh. He’ll be Reuben Cooper’s murderer, then”. I said you had not said so and Matthew said...’
‘The exact words now, Tom.’
‘He said he had not seen Joseph Kelly, either. And then he said, “I’m not sure I’d say if I had. Not unless they’re planning to take up a subscription for the man. Whoever killed Reuben Cooper deserves a reward, not hanging.” And that was it.’
‘I see. And you decided to tell me this now when you had not told me before because...because why?’
Again he saw the reservation in the way Tom responded. ‘Come now, Tom. You did not tell me, and now you have. Why?’
‘Master, Matthew Higson may not be the best farmer, but he is a good man. Better than me, I’m sure of that. I did not believe what he said meant anything.’
‘So. I ask you again. What has changed your mind?’
‘Mister Wale said he saw Martin hiding. He said he had blood on his clothes.’
‘The curate? He said that to you?’
‘No, Mister Blakiston, not to me. I heard this from Florrie, who had it from Rosina. The cook, you know, at...’
‘Thank you, Tom, I know who Rosina is. Tell me, did Higson have any reason to dislike Reuben Cooper enough to kill him?’
‘Master, I do not believe that Matthew could kill anyone. However much he dislikes them. Matthew is a religious man. If Matthew had been educated, I believe he would have been a curate, like Mister Wale. They are close to each other, those two.’
‘The curate and Matthew Higson? This gets stranger by the moment. And yet the
curate tells us now that Higson killed Reuben Cooper?’
‘I have talked to Lizzie about that. We think there is only one explanation. Because, you know, a curate is a man of God and he is not going to cover something up but if he did not like Reuben Cooper and was not sad that he was dead then he would not want to see Matthew, who he did like, punished for killing him. And no-one liked Reuben Cooper.’
‘You are saying that Mister Wale invented the story of Joseph Kelly to give Higson time to escape the country?’
‘Yes, Master. Although I still believe that Matthew would not kill anyone. But Mister Wale thought he had, and Matthew must have been frightened that no-one would believe him when he said he had not.’
‘Well, Tom, you have given me a lot to think about. I shall speak to the Rector and he will have to speak to his curate. And then I will ask for a warrant to have Higson brought back from the Americas. If anyone can find him there.’
Blakiston found that the Rector disagreed with him on only one point. ‘I do not think there is any purpose in confronting Martin,’ he said. ‘He has such a view of his own rightness in all things that we should get no sense out of him.’
‘He has set himself up as judge and jury. He has taken it on himself to decide that a killer should be allowed to escape justice.’
‘And he had no right to do such a thing. I agree. I may let him know that he is found out, but Martin will never accept that he is in the wrong. He is not capable of it. But, in any case, clearly Higson is the murderer you have been seeking.’
‘It would seem so. He was seen hiding and covered in blood immediately after Cooper was killed. He has disappeared across the sea, deserting the woman he claimed to love. If only we had known the one thing before the other, we might have prevented his flight. I do not think we can doubt his guilt.’
‘He must certainly go before an Assize. And I am a Justice of the Peace, so I shall issue the warrant for his return to these shores to face justice.’
‘Bringing him back may take a very long time.’
‘Especially as he has Reuben Cooper’s riches to buy his safety with. I expect he will set himself up as a man of quality, like George Washington. Fear not, James. I am sure Lord Ravenshead will not leave you short of things to occupy your time. But you feel the loss, do you not?’
‘Loss?’
‘The search for the killer has filled your thoughts in a way that managing an Estate could not. I understand how you feel. When I was in Staithes, inquiring into Cooper’s history, I felt an excitement that twenty years of ministering to my flock could not provide. I returned to Ryton and had to fall back into my old life. You must do the same.’
Chapter 39
Tom was overseeing the hoeing of rows of cabbages when Blakiston rode up. ‘See how the seed drill helps,’ he said, dismounting from his horse. ‘They grow in straight lines, instead of all over the place as they did when we broadcast seed. So not only do we use a quarter of the seed we used to, and get better land coverage from it, we are also able to hoe the weeds out as we never could before. That is what the rector means when he goes on about not getting the tares out of the wheat till harvest time. Not that I believe for one moment they had wheat where Our Lord lived.’
Tom listened tolerantly. There was no need to persuade him of the benefits of Jethro Tull’s invention, besides which he had heard the lecture before. ‘Good thing King James can’t hear you casting doubt on what’s in his bible. And they must have had something or they couldn’t have made the unleavened bread.’
‘If King James hears me it’s from the pit of his Scottish hell,’ said Blakiston. ‘Though I’ll thank you not to repeat that to his lordship. A king’s a king in the nobility’s books. Were you ever on Byker Hill, Tom?’
‘No, Mister Blakiston. I was never there.’
‘There’s a man called Robert Jackson lives in a little hut. They say he’s a hundred and ten years old. They say he was a soldier under the second James, then under William and Mary, Queen Anne and the first George. They say he fought at the Boyne, in Almanza, at Malplaquet, at Sheriffmuir and at Glenshiel. They say.’
‘What does he do now?’
‘What would you do if you were a hundred and ten? He leaves the wenches alone, I can promise you that. And they him. I should say he has the pizzle of a field mouse by now. Begs, man. He begs from his little hut.’
Tom waited. He knew the overseer had not ridden out to talk about an old beggar on Byker Hill.
‘It’s a bad business, Tom,’ said Blakiston. He looked at Tom. ‘I see you do not know what I am talking about. The widow Robinson’s boy,’ he said. ‘Him Blackett’s gamekeeper caught stealing rabbits. He was sentenced this morning to be hanged.’
Tom shook his head. ‘The lad’s but Miles’s age, Mister Blakiston. They’ll transport him. His mother’s heart’ll break.’
‘Nay, Tom. I have it from his lordship, there’ll be no commutation.’
Tom stared at Blakiston as the words sank in. ‘You cannot mean that, Mister Blakiston. They’d not hang an unshaven boy.’
‘The gentry are worried about the price of food. Show mercy to one and they’ll all be thieving is the quality’s thinking.’
‘Mercy? Sending a boy across the seas to penal servitude in America is not mercy!’
‘It is to them as are better than us. The boy will hang on Friday.’
‘Oh, dear God.’
‘They mean to put on a show. He’s to be taken out of Durham Gaol on Friday morning, tied to the back of a cart and whipped around the city. Sir Edward Blackett is taking up a collection for the hangman, to encourage him to lay on with the whip. All his tenants are to contribute a shilling each.’
‘Nay. I…this is wickedness. I’ll not pay.’
‘You’ll not be asked. His Lordship is not of the same mind as Sir Edward. As for wickedness…it’s not for us to talk about our betters like that, Tom Laws. But it’s a bad business, right enough.’
When Friday came, Nellie the maid approached Florrie after breakfast and asked if she could have some hours off.
‘You have half a day every week to yourself,’ said Florrie. ‘You’ve not scrubbed the pots yet. And there’ll be the dairy to clean after the cheese-making. What for do you want time off?’
‘George Humble, missus,’ said Nellie. ‘Him I’m walking out with. He’s going to Durham to see the hanging of the Robinson boy and there’s room for me in his cart. They’re whipping him round the walls, missus. There’s to be a fair. It’ll be a great day.’
Florrie’s face was white as she struggled to control herself. At last, she said, ‘James Robinson was almost my son. If you go to watch him whipped, or hanged, take your things with you for you will never return here afterwards.’
As Blakiston walked in the crowd, he found the air of carnival sickening.
Young women begged their swains to buy the ribbons and silk handkerchiefs that men had walked miles to peddle to the crowds. Parents bought wooden spinning tops and hoops for their children. A travelling storyteller diverted the crowds by acting out the last words of Jack Sheppard, hanged forty years earlier after a short but notorious life of crime. A man claiming to have had them from villain and thief-taker Jonathan Wild sold what he said were pieces of the rope that had ended Dick Turpin’s life.
The city was thronged and many were drunk. At last it was time for the central entertainment. Men, women and children ran cheering after the cart as the Robinson boy was dragged behind it, whipped towards his death. When they reached the gibbet he could hardly stand.
This was not the first hanging Blakiston had ever seen, but it was the first at which he feared disgust at his fellow men might make him sick. The terrified boy was loaded onto the cart, where he could better be seen by the crowds, and his hands tied behind his back. The Ordinary
to Durham Gaol, a man of almost unbelievable fatness, read the lesson over him and preached a short sermon about the gentry’s great care for its people and the need for ordinary men and women to show respect for the God who had willed all, noble and labourer, rich and poor, to their position in life. He went on so long that hangman George Heath, who had drunk almost as much as many of the mob, had to walk away to urinate off the back of the cart, spattering the dresses and breeches of those standing near.
When the jeering of the crowd told Heath people had endured enough preaching for the day he hauled the boy to his feet. ‘Get to the blessing, Priest,’ he hissed.
The Ordinary looked up, then snapped his bible shut with great force. ‘May the Lord have mercy on your soul,’ he intoned. Then he stepped down into the crowd where a laughing bystander handed him a pot of ale. Blakiston was close enough to see into the boy’s eyes. He looked away, overwhelmed by compassion, when he saw the terror there.
When the hangman asked him to address last words to the mob it was clear that the boy’s senses had completely deserted him, for he was unable to say a word. Blakiston knew that it mattered not, for the sellers of broadsheets would invent a whole remorseful address for him and have it printed and on the streets within a day. Heath half-carried the boy to the ground, then prodded him up the stepladder that leaned against the cross-piece of the gibbet. Standing two rungs lower down, he tugged the noose down over the lad’s head and pulled it tight around his neck. He patted the boy on the back, and said something which Blakiston, no lip-reader, decided was, “Good lad. Not long now,” but which really could have been anything. Then he leapt nimbly to the ground, took a firm grip on the ladder and turned the boy off, leaving him to swing helplessly, choking slowly to death.
