Sovay (5 page)

‘Ah!’ Jeremiah Berrow spoke up from the chimney corner. ‘I heared he was about. Stepped off the road, bold as you like, begged a cup of milk at Harrison’s Farm. Paid for it with a kiss. So young Jenny that works there told Jem the carter.’ The old man gave a wheezy chuckle. ‘She didn’t have no kisses for Jem, though.’

‘He banged up that fancy coach and all,’ Merrick added.

Sir Royston’s carriage had limped in that afternoon and was at the coachbuilders being repaired, Sir Royston being forced to continue his onward journey by stagecoach.

There was more discussion as to whether the mystery traveller presently upstairs was, indeed, the highwayman in question, and if he was, what should be done about it. After some talk, they came to the general conclusion that nothing should be done. Gentlemen of the road were held in sneaking admiration and, besides, they were always well-armed and known to be of a ferocious and violent disposition. As Cledbury had no constable and the watch was next to useless, no one in the Saracen’s Head suggested challenging the fellow.

There was another stranger present, sitting on his own in the far corner. Digby Clayton specialised in anonymity and no one really noticed his small, shabby figure in dusty black clothes and cheap, ill-fitting wig. He kept his own company, nibbling at a plate of bread and cheese and sipping his half-pint tankard of small ale. He said very little and drew scant attention from his fellow travellers, or the natives, but without ever seeming to, he was taking a keen interest in the discussion, noting everything that was said and by whom. His lips moved very slightly as he submitted each assertion to the lexicon of his memory. Days, weeks, months later he would be able to recite every utterance word for word. It was a valuable skill. He would nip out later to see the lad about the nag that would take him on his journey south. While he was in the stables, he’d take a look at the mysterious gentleman’s horse. You can tell a lot from horses.

Upstairs, the object of their speculation was reading through the sheaf of papers contained in the wallet. She was thorough and careful in her study, reading each sheet with attention. Some were in French. Her knowledge of the language was adequate enough to interpret that these were from agents reporting on events in Paris. She put those to one side and began to sift through the rest, placing each one on an appropriate pile in a system of her own devising.

There were warrants, letters, affidavits and reports of meetings from all over the country. The statements were signed with initials,
D.C.
,
D.P.
,
J.E.
,
L.C.
; single names,
Sykes
,
Oscar
,
Warner
; or soubriquets,
Dave
the Hat
,
Tom Spitalfields
,
John the Missionary
. She assumed that this was because of the need for secrecy. Some were original documents, while others had been transcribed from some other source in small, neat, spiky writing. Some pages were marked with initials or an
X
. She took these to be oral depositions. Some of the statements were written in a fine, educated style, others were near illiterate. Among the papers, she had found the names of her father and his friends, the members of the Monday Club, and similar groups up and down the country. These men were doctors, ministers of religion, scientists and manufacturers. Respectable in anybody’s estimation, and yet they were being spied on and treated as though they were revolutionaries. Letters from them had been opened, the contents transcribed, their interest in other groups carefully noted, their more radical utterances recorded to be used against them. Evidence had been gathered with painstaking care. Others had suffered the same treatment: printers, booksellers, shopkeepers, shoemakers, weavers, men from every occupation, women, too. There was nothing to link these people, except a love of liberty.

One statement had merited her special attention. It related to her father and was signed,
J.G
.

I have dined at C— on many occasions and have
frequently heard JM speak sedition. He said in
my hearing: ‘I am no politician, but I have a
strong hatred for tyranny and believe all men are
born free. The Bourbon King acted the despot
and kept the French people enslaved. He got what
he deserved. The same fate should await any
monarch who treats his subjects in a similar way.’

Sovay stood and paced the room.
J.G.
stood for James Gilmore, she was sure. He had been set to court her by his father in order that he might spy on her papa. She shuddered now to think of the kisses, the intimacies she had shared with him. To be
used
in that way . . . It was all she could do not to screw the paper up and throw it into the fire, but she resisted the temptation. She must not let her feelings cloud her judgement. She flattened the sheet carefully and put it on the pile that had to do with her father and those connected with him.

At length, she finished her reading. She sat back in her chair, trying to make sense of the information contained in the closely written documents. These were the
evidences
that the American, Virgil Barrett, had spoken of, destined to be delivered all over the country. Sovay allowed herself a small smile of satisfaction, those named could sleep safe, for a little while at least. But for how long? A log fell in the grate, the candle sputtered, she looked round. If they were surrounded by spies, then who could be trusted? She sat for a while staring into the fire, then she carefully gathered all the papers together and returned them to their leather wallet, doing up the latches.

She still did not know what to do about the money. Somehow, taking the papers did not seem like true robbery. Money was different. That was real larceny. You could hang for it.

Sovay yawned. She would worry about that tomorrow. The wine and the fire were making her sleepy. She had not realised how tired she was. Dust showered down from the stiff curtains round the bed and she surveyed the grubby coverlet with distaste. A look at the stained sheets sent her back to the chair. It was not very comfortable, but at least she would avoid the bedbugs. She finished the wine and settled down, using her coat as a blanket, but sleep would not come to her. Her mind was full of questions and speculations. Where was her father? How would she ever find him? Did he know of the dangers surrounding him? And who were all these people with strange names and mysterious initials? This shadowy network had to have a centre. She felt a presence here. Some of the reports were distant and formal, but in others fear fairly oozed off the page. Who was the spider at the middle of this web? What would he do when he found the wallet had been stolen? He was undoubtedly powerful and very likely ruthless. What would he do if he found out who had taken them?

She fell asleep with none of the questions answered, and awoke to find the cold, round barrel of a gun pressing up against her chin.

CHAPTER
5

W
hen Gabriel reached Oxford, he went straight to Hugh’s college in a side street off the Broad. He looked up at the tower with its crests and coats of arms, splashes of colour on the honey-coloured stone. There was no one about and the oak door in the arched gateway was closed. Gabriel stepped across the cobbled road, which was not much more than an alley, and hammered on the door. There was no reply. The thickness of the wood muffled his mightiest thump.

He stepped away, wondering what he should do, when a small door set within the greater magically opened and a young man dashed out, gown flying. Gabriel moved briskly and was in the gatehouse before the creaking door could close.

‘Yes? Can I help you?’ The porter issued from his lodge, intent on protecting the college from an obvious interloper. He could tell, as soon as the man stepped through the door in the outer gate, that the fellow had no right to be here. He was wearing a good coat, a gentleman’s boots and breeches, but he did not merit civilities. His build was broad and muscular, his face and hands were tanned and he was wearing the broad-brimmed hat of a countryman. ‘State your business, man. I haven’t got all day.’

Gabriel coloured under the man’s insolent stare and aggressive manner and turned his offending hat round in his hands.

‘I am Gabriel Stanhope,’ he said. ‘I have an urgent message for Mr Hugh Middleton.’

‘Who are you?
Friend
of his?’ the porter asked with a sneer as he retreated into his lodge.

‘I am the son of the Steward at Compton.’

‘That right?’

The man did his best to dismiss Gabriel and busied himself, putting letters into pigeonholes. The room was little more than a cubbyhole, panelled in wood, lined with shelves and drawers, all with labels. A wall of keys, also labelled, jingled as he brushed past them, intent on small tasks. A fire smoked and glowered in the corner. It was like the man’s kennel.

‘I’ve got an urgent message,’ Gabriel repeated.

‘So you said.’ The porter remained bent over his sorting. ‘What makes you think you will find him here?’

‘I believe he attends this college,’ Gabriel explained patiently. Was the man simple?

‘Attend
ed
,’ the porter corrected him. ‘You won’t find him here. Mr Middleton is no longer a member of this University.’ His tone was as ponderous and solemn as if he was the Rector of the college and he looked up from his urgent sorting to see what effect this news had on the young countryman. ‘He was sent down at the end of Michaelmas Term.’

‘Michaelmas?’

‘Christmas to you.’ The porter smiled satisfaction at Gabriel’s ignorance.

‘I know well when Michaelmas is,’ Gabriel replied. ‘It’s a deal of a long time ago, that’s all. What had he done to merit this punishment?’

‘Put his name to a seditious publication.’

‘We knew nothing of this . . .’

The porter smiled again, relishing Gabriel’s confusion. ‘Dare say he didn’t want his father to know. If that is all, I have work to do. The college is private property. Only open to members of the University. You are trespassing. Go before I have you arrested.’

Gabriel stood, cheeks burning, the hand on his hat trembling, trying to control his anger. If he had been a gentleman, his treatment would have been different. He would like to take the man by the scruff of his scrawny little neck and ram his pointy nose into one of the pigeonholes that were so commanding his attention. How dare a man like that assess his worth by his clothes, his station in life? He looked through the inner gate and glimpsed a world forbidden to him and his anger burned still deeper. Not for the likes of him. Never would be. Even the servants could treat him like dirt.

Just then, a slightly built, pleasant-looking young man in a full gown stepped out of the shadows into the light, deepening Gabriel’s humiliation still further. He must have witnessed the whole encounter. As soon as the porter saw the newcomer, his demeanour changed completely. He bustled out of his lodge with a beaming smile on his face.

‘Mr Fitzwilliam! How can I help you, sir? This man is leaving.’ He gave a sideways jerk of the head towards the door.

Fitzwilliam looked at the two men, his intelligent, pale hazel eyes assessing the situation. He ignored the porter and came towards Gabriel.

‘Gabriel Stanhope, isn’t it? Gerald Fitzwilliam.’ He shook Gabriel’s hand warmly. ‘We met at Compton. I don’t know if you remember? I came down with Hugh one summer from school? You took us shooting in the woods. What on earth are you doing here? Come.’ He ushered him towards the great wooden door of the college that led to the street. ‘There’s an inn nearby. We can talk there.’

The porter wished Mr Fitzwilliam a very good afternoon and held the door for him. The young man walked out as though the college servant wasn’t there, talking to Gabriel all the while. Gabriel had to catch the door to avoid a bang on the nose, but this time, he was not angered by the discourtesy. Don’t you see, he wanted to say to the man, all this is no more for you than it is for me. When you get old, if you get sick, they will cast you aside like a worn-out shoe. A horse would be put out to grass. You will not be so lucky.

The porter went back to his lodge and shut the door. A visitor from home asking for Mr Middleton? That might be of interest. He’d been directed to keep an eye on certain students, and Mr Middleton was definitely on that list. There were others in the University who could report on what was said in meetings, private discussions and conversations, but his job was just as important. Any visitors had to report to him and mail, in and out, went through his lodge. He was adept at opening and resealing letters and it wasn’t unheard of for items to go astray. Any interesting content was forwarded to an address in London and the payment he received was a welcome supplement to his paltry porter’s salary.

The two young men found a place on a settle at the far end of the dark, narrow tavern. Fitzwilliam ordered ale.

‘Have you eaten?’ he asked, his smooth, bland face full of concern. ‘Can I order you some food? The rabbit pie is particularly fine. They are famous for it.’

Although he was hungry, Gabriel declined the offer of food. He was still smarting over his encounter with the porter. The way he’d been treated took the edge off his appetite. The muscles in his jaw bunched as the scene played again in his head. He did not appreciate the way he had been served.
All men are created
equal.
But he had not been treated in that way. Not at all. He had heard it said so often. Before, the statement had been just words to him. Now he felt their true meaning. The real significance of all the other words he’d read and heard poured over him now, acting upon him as acid etches metal.

‘What are you doing here?’ Fitzwilliam asked to break Gabriel’s brooding silence. ‘Why do you need to find Hugh?’

Gabriel told him of the trouble that had come to Compton: the threat of arrest to Sir John. He left out Sovay’s outrageous behaviour but said she’d gone to London in search of her father and emphasised the need to find Hugh.

‘He needs to know how things are at home. We must find his father. We have to warn him of the danger that he’s in, the forces threatening him.’

Gerald Fitzwilliam listened with interest and a convincing display of sympathy. He was one of Hugh’s oldest friends. They had known each other from school and Hugh had followed Gerald to the same college. Gerald was older, a Fellow, but the two had remained firm friends despite the difference in their ages. Fitzwilliam was most concerned to hear what had happened and that Hugh had not been seen at Compton since Christmas.

‘He did not mention that he had been sent down?’

‘No. Not a word. He did not seem troubled when he came home after term ended. He seemed his normal self. What did he do to merit such punishment?’

‘He and some other students published a pamphlet extolling the Revolution in France and arguing that the British people should rise up against tyranny in a similar fashion. College took a dim view, I’m afraid.’ His light brown eyes flickered amusement. ‘Hugh was summoned before the Rector and sundry senior Fellows. He owned to authorship but would not repudiate and would not name the others involved. The whole matter was referred to the Proctor, who questioned him further.’ Fitzgerald shrugged his narrow shoulders. ‘And young Hugh was told to pack his bags.’

‘Where do you think he might be?’ Gabriel asked. Having put away his own dark thoughts, he was seriously worried now about Hugh’s apparent disappearance.

‘You’ve heard nothing from him?’

Gabriel shook his head. ‘We thought him here, or in London with friends. He often doesn’t write for months on end.’

‘I really don’t know, then. I thought he was safe at Compton with you. I sincerely hoped so, at any rate.’ Fitzwilliam paused, brow creased. ‘He did say that he wanted to . . .’ He shook his head. ‘But even he’s not mad enough to have done that. I just took it for hotheadedness.’

‘Took what for hot-headedness?’ Gabriel asked. ‘What did he say he wanted to do?’

‘He said he wanted to go to France. To Paris. To join the
citoyens
. To take part in the Revolution.’ He paused. ‘What you have told me concerns me, concerns me greatly, but we can do little at this late hour. Now, are you sure I can’t tempt you to a plate of rabbit pie? I know I could do with some and I’m sure you could after your long ride. I suggest we find you a room for the night and take the early coach to London in the morning. It is my intention to join you,’ he said, in answer to Gabriel’s look of surprise. ‘Hugh is my friend, too,’ he added, his pale hazel eyes suddenly serious. ‘I’m concerned for him, his family. There’s nothing much to keep me here at the moment. Finding him sounds an infinitely more interesting prospect than Greek translation.’