by Lynch, R J
Blakiston waited for the hangman to pull on the swinging legs and bring an early end to the torment, for he knew it was customary for the condemned person’s friends to pay for this mercy. It took him a few moments to realise that this was not to happen. Perhaps the widow Robinson had known nothing of what was normal. She was in any case exiled to Yorkshire with her new husband. There is no telling how long the boy would have gone on twitching in his death agonies, had not Blakiston stepped forward from the crowd by chance at the same moment as Andrew Robson from Crowley’s Crew. Taking a leg each they hauled sharply down. The rope snapped under the assault and the boy fell to the ground, but the two had broken his neck. He was safe from further ignominy.
‘We must hope he’s in a better place,’ said Robson. ‘It’s sure he could not find a worse.’ He cut the rope from around the boy’s neck and wrapped it tight around his own waist. ‘You’ll not cut this up and sell it to these wasters,’ he told Heath.
‘Leave me the clothes,’ said the man. ‘They’ll fetch a pretty penny.’ It was all Blakiston could do to walk away without hitting him.
Chapter 40
Florrie pressed Tom so often about the fate of Joe and Miles that he began to ask after the shipping news when he went to Newcastle. One October day he was able to tell them that the ship had arrived safely in Norfolk on the Elizabeth River. If he had hoped the news would reduce questions about the emigrants, he was to be disappointed.
‘I know no more about America than you do,’ he said, but it fell on deaf ears. Lizzie, Florrie and Kate talked endlessly about what Joe and Miles would be seeing and experiencing.
‘They have wolves there,’ said Lizzie as they sat at the big kitchen table after supper while Nellie scrubbed the pots in the scullery.
‘Yes, Lizzie,’ said Tom, ‘I believe they do.’
‘And deer.’
‘Yes. Those too.’
‘What are wolves?’ asked Kate.
‘I don’t rightly know,’ said Lizzie. ‘We don’t have them here.’
‘We did once’ said Tom. ‘They are big wild dogs that howl all night and will tear a sheep’s throat in an instant.’
Kate shuddered. ‘His lordship’s gamekeeper would kill them. Do not the Americans kill them?’
‘I expect they do. If they catch them.’
‘In America ordinary people may kill the deer and eat them,’ said Lizzie.
Kate’s eyes grew large. ‘Is deer nice to eat?’
‘I suppose it must be,’ said Lizzie. ‘Or the rich would not keep it to themselves. Did you ever eat deer when you were in service, our Mam?’
‘That I did. And pheasant, too. Once or twice.’
‘Did you like it?’
‘Yes. I did.’
‘What else do they have in America, our Tom?’ asked Kate.
‘I’ve heard tell there are men eight foot tall, with two heads and but the one eye in the middle of each forehead, one pointing one way and one the other. So they can see both ways without turning round.’
Kate sat up straight on her bench. ‘Tom Laws,’ she said, ‘you are a big fibber.’
Lizzie laughed. ‘He’s teasing you.’
Tom got up to make his way to the privy. When he came back he found Lizzie waiting for him by the door, where one or two flowers were still to be seen on the gillyflowers and auriculas. She took his arm and propelled him away from the house. ‘It is a nice evening, husband,’ she said. ‘Let us take a walk and see if the badger is out.’
They strolled slowly towards the open meadow behind the barn.
‘When we arranged to marry,’ Lizzie said, ‘I asked if you liked me. You did not. Do you like us now, Tom Laws?’
‘Yes, Lizzie,’ Tom said solemnly. ‘I like you very much. As I think you know.’
‘And I like you, Tom Laws. I like you as a brother, not…not as a husband. I hope one day I shall like you in that way, too.’
‘I hope so, too, Lizzie.’
‘I brought you out here because I want to say thank you. You are a kind man. You are kind to me and you are kind to our Mam, and Ned and Kate. And you were more than kind to Joe and Miles.’
‘Say it, then.
‘What?’
‘You said you brought me out here to say thank you. You haven’t said it.’
Lizzie laughed. ‘Bend your head forward.’
Tom did so. Lizzie planted a very wet, open-mouthed kiss on his forehead, then laughed again. ‘Thank you, Tom Laws,’ she said. She turned and started to run towards the house—though “run” was perhaps an ambitious description of the movement of so heavily pregnant a woman. ‘You’ll not can catch us before I’m in the kitchen.’
Next day, Lizzie was brought to bed. After a labour lasting less than thirty minutes, she was delivered of a healthy baby girl.
A christening party was held at Chopwell Garth. The rector loaned Rosina to prepare the food, which was provided by Lord Ravenshead. From the castle came also a gift of a silver christening mug engraved with the infant’s initials. The Rector attended briefly. His wife stayed longer and wrote about it later in her Journal.
Sunday, 21st October, 1763
There are traditions here for the name a child must have, and I have seen that they are observed closely. The first daughter is always named after her mother’s mother, so this child should have been Sarah Laws, after Lizzie’s dead mother, or Florence Laws, for the stepmother. In fact, none of this was followed and the babe was baptised Louise Spence Laws. Louise was the name of the Earl of Wrekin’s dead mother, and Spence the family name of the female relative who had brought the Shropshire lands and the Wrekin title as part of her dowry. How this made Lizzie feel I cannot say, but I can see that she is still very angry. I asked Florrie if she felt that Lizzie and Tom would be happy together and she said, which is true, that they are by no means the first to make a bad start to a marriage. Nevertheless, I did not think Florrie seemed too hopeful. I asked her to promise to call on me if I could ever be of help.
It was strange to watch these two young people and stranger still to think of the twisting patterns of life that brought me to where I am and Florrie to where she is. I grew up gathering driftwood along the shore at Seaham with playmates now in service in houses just like mine. My father was a sea captain of humble beginnings who grew rich on prize money. Some might call him a pirate. Some did call him a pirate. He wanted a marriage for me with someone of rank, and Thomas’s parents wanted for him a bride who would bring him a thousand a year. I was consulted in the matter less than poor Lizzie. I was presented with the Honorable Thomas Claverley and told, this is your husband. To be fair, he had little more choice than I did. Of course, one makes it work. The good Lord tries us every day. Only a stubborn person adds to the trials for herself. But when I said that to Florrie, she replied that Lizzie is a very stubborn person. Well, I shall pray that she finds peace. And the grace to forgive poor Tom Laws for what another man did to her.
There will be gossip about this baptism. First because of the name and second because my husband did it and the whole parish knows that Thomas only baptizes the children of gentry. In normal circumstances, Martin would have baptized Lizzie’s bairn and Thomas’s duties would have been limited to writing “base born” or some similar thing in the Register. Can one say base born when the mother has married? I may ask Thomas that. But he would have found something. When Margaret Bramwell gave birth to twins, Thomas wrote, “of Margaret Bramwell and, as she alleges, her husband William, though since he has been at the wars for three years we must doubt this.” James Smith was in Scotland when his wife conceived their son, who was born last year. This year she had a daughter, Elizabeth, though her husband had not returned during that time. Thomas has made sure that these stories are there in the parish register for anyone to see.
; And when he baptised our own darling Catherine, he wrote, “Daughter of the Honourable and Reverend Thomas Claverton, Rector of this parish.” Reverend from his time at the University. Honourable as the second son of a man of title and lands. Which matters more, only Thomas knows.
But, in any case, these things will only fuel the gossip. I know, though Thomas does not because I have not told him and he is too far from the daily life of the parish that is in his care to find out, that people believe that he is the father of Lizzie’s child. They speak of it openly. When he preached a sermon on the sanctity of marriage the amusement was something to behold. The poor man was bewildered and indignant. Of course, that could also have been because they knew about him and…well, I have always left that out of this Journal and I shall do so still.
Poor Mister Blakiston seems bereft. When he searched for the murderer of Reuben Cooper, he was full of life. Now he knows that Matthew Higson is the man he sought (though I still find that difficult to believe) but Matthew has escaped and there is nothing Mister Blakiston can do.
But there is something I must do, for my mother is more ill than before, and taken to her bed, and I must go to her. I was fortunate indeed to be able to attend this christening. If the birth had been delayed but a few days more I could not have done it.
Chapter 41
The fifth of February, 1764, one year since the murder of Reuben Cooper, was a Sunday. A violent snowstorm started in the afternoon and continued till morning. Sheep were lost in drifts across Durham, Cumberland and Northumberland and many people died. A week later snow had turned to rain and the Tyne and Wear both flooded, killing more.
Blakiston rode through the mud to make sure all was well at Chopwell Garth. ‘They’ve had a hard time of it around Hexham,’ he said. ‘You know the area?’
‘Apart from Newcastle, I was never north of the Tyne in my life,’ said Tom.
‘Well, well. Do you say so? A pretty place. I was there last year. I should not like to ford the river on horseback today.’
‘What took you there?’
Blakiston laughed. ‘I have always cherished human folly, Tom Laws.’
‘And was there such last year?’
Blakiston laughed again. ‘I went to see the constable about Nicholas Cooper, but while I was there the blacksmith told me of the wedding of one Robert Scott and I stayed to marvel. Scott was a piper from Wall. A hamlet, you know, a few miles north of Hexham.’
‘And what was wonderful about this piper of Wall, Mister Blakiston?’
‘Why, his age, man. The groom was ninety. And his bride, Jean Middlemas, a maid of but twenty-five summers. A maid to this day, I’m thinking, if she has to rely on the old man. They say he’d walked on crutches for twenty-six years. They say he threw them away the day of his nuptials and walked unaided the three miles to the Church and three miles back. They say. St John Lee, it was. I confess I never heard of such a saint, but that is the name they have given their church.’
Tom rested against the cart. There was nothing for it when Blakiston got into one of his stories. You had to hear it out.
‘After he’d wed them, the parson gave us cakes and ale. Then there was a dinner at the bridegroom’s house in Wall. Pipers and fiddlers playing. Oh, a jolly afternoon we had of it. Well, there was no point in the bride spiriting the groom to bed, now was there?’
‘Was she comely?’
‘You’d not expect great beauty in a woman marrying a man near four times her age. Comely or not, I doubt there’s any shortage of men willing to help her husband be a father.’
Blakiston had not forgotten about the mysterious brother of the young girl Cooper had got with child. He had had no reply from his brother to the question he had asked, and expected none at least until Peter should be once more on land. Beyond that, he left it alone. Claverley had tried to prevent him knowing who the killer’s family were, but Jemmy Rayne had found out for him and the knowledge had helped him understand Thomas’s reluctance. Blakiston knew what a family like that could do to him. He had already lost enough. To see destroyed what little remained to him was not something he could willingly face.
Nor had he forgotten Reuben Cooper and his promise to bring the old man justice, but unless Matthew Higson was found and brought back there was nothing he could do.
And then Matthew Higson was found. And there was no need to bring him back. He had never left.
Tom met Blakiston at the door of Chopwell Garth. Frustration was written on his face.
‘George Bright should not have been Constable, but he was a farmer and he understood that famers must work,’ he said. ‘This man William Stevenson takes himself seriously. I am not to go into the fields until he has talked to me, and he will not talk to me till he has finished talking to Kate. I believe he thinks I killed Higson.’
‘There’s no doubt that it is he?’
‘I have not seen the body. But Kate has, and...’
‘Kate? That poor...’
‘Kate. Please, Mister Blakiston, your concern does you credit but there is no need.’
‘But such as Kate must be protected against the world.’
‘I should like to see you tell her that, Master. In any case, since it was Kate who found the body it is hardly possible that Kate should not have seen the body. And she says that, though it is much decayed, the red woollen cap and the black breeches together mean that it is Matthew Higson.’
‘That is but little to go on if the face cannot be recognised. Though it is true that black is uncommon here.’
‘Higson was a dandy.’
‘But Ned has black breeches and a red cap.’
‘Aye, Master, for Ned is become a dandy, too. Our young people see how the men who are gone to the manufactories dress, and they ape their ways.’ He sniggered. ‘Ned has even taken to wearing a red ribbon in his hat, like some city fop. He spent two shilling on a pair of silver buckles for his shoes! But Ned is not dead, and so it is not him by that wall.’
‘Where is the body now?’
‘Where Kate found it.’
‘Show me.’
‘Master, William Stevenson has told me...’
‘And I tell you to show me the body. If William Stevenson objects, I shall box his ears.’
Without the black breeches and red cap it would indeed have been difficult to identify the body, for there was little of it left beyond bones.
‘The poor fellow’s made a rare meal for the foxes,’ said Tom. ‘Do you suppose he might have fallen ill, and died?’
‘He might,’ said Blakiston. ‘But we may be sure he did not then bury himself. Someone else did that, and someone who was in a hurry, for they did not dig the hole deep enough to keep him hidden. Those foxes you speak of have dragged him to the surface to convenience their feasting.’ He looked around. ‘This is a lonely spot. What brought Kate here?’
‘Her suitor will have wanted to get her somewhere quiet.’
Blakiston knelt, apparently to study Higson’s remains. His face was now conveniently out of sight, and Tom lacked the sensitivity to notice how red his neck had become. ‘Her suitor?’ Blakiston said as lightly as he could manage. ‘Is she to marry, do you think?’
‘Lizzie says not. Lizzie says Kate will marry for love, and Lizzie says Kate does not love this man.’
‘But what does Kate say?’
‘I have not heard her speak on the matter. But the man keeps calling.’
‘Do I know him? Is he from this parish?’
‘He is from north of the river. A Blackett tenant, I believe. He has three hundred acres, but it seems that is not enough for my sister-in-law. In truth, I never saw him laugh and nor do I believe he ever made Kate smile. Lizzie says if she rejects this one she will not lack for more.’ He leaned closer. ‘If this is Higson, what killed
him, do you think?’
‘We must let the constable dig out the body, and then we may know.’
As they walked back to the farm house, Blakiston said, ‘It was Matthew Higson who expected to have this farm instead of you.’
‘I know it.’
‘That will be why Stevenson suspects you. He will imagine a fight, in which you triumphed.’
‘Thank you, Mister Blakiston. I should have preferred not to hear those words from another. They have been often enough in my own head’
Blakiston rested his hand on Tom’s shoulder. ‘Don’t fret. I know you did not do it.’
William Stevenson, waiting in the Chopwell Garth farmyard, was red in the face. ‘Tom Laws, I commanded you to wait here till I called for you.’
Blakiston stepped forward. ‘You forget yourself, Stevenson. I wished to speak to Tom, and I took him away. Mind your manners when you speak before me, or the lash you feel will be from more than my tongue.’
‘Sir, I am trying to do my job.’
‘And I mine. You will recall that I was deputed by Lord Ravenshead to find Reuben Cooper’s killer.’
‘But what has this...you think the deaths are related?’
Blakiston snorted. ‘I think that a lot more likely than that hard-working Tom Laws killed Matthew Higson in a fight without anyone knowing and buried the body in his own fields. Let me remind you that Higson left this parish after Reuben Cooper was murdered but before Tom took the tenancy he expected for his own. Or we thought Higson had left the parish.’
‘Mister Wale said he had gone to America,’ said Tom.
‘Aye,’ answered Blakiston. ‘I know all about the curate’s interest in Matthew Higson.’
