The Path of the Wicked (7 page)

‘Son.'

‘Picton's sister says Smithies and her brother are friends.'

‘It wouldn't surprise me. Birds of a feather. What are you hoping to find out from him?'

‘At present I'm trying to build up a picture of Jack Picton. It's just possible that a friend might know why Picton won't give an alibi.'

Although not likely that he'd talk about it to a complete stranger.

Dusk was coming down, so we went inside and, at Mr Godwit's request, I played the piano for him. He listened with the closed eyes and gentle wafting of the hand that denote the entirely unmusical, but he seemed soothed. That was something I could do for him at least.

It was a slow start next morning. Mr Godwit's gardener acted as driver for their placid cob but, in his own words, came over all of a dothering when faced with an equine aristocrat like Rancie. She picked up his unease and I had to calm the pair of them as best I could, doing most of the grooming and tacking up myself. For an hour or so I behaved like any visitor, riding Rancie round the lanes, enjoying the late-summer sunshine. The village was near the top of the hill, looking down on the roofs of Cheltenham. The land was a mixture of stubble fields, pasture and coppices. I glimpsed what looked like a large manor house in a dip in the land about half a mile away and guessed it belonged to the Kembles. Mr Godwit had given me directions to the wheelwright's yard, about a mile north of the village. It looked a moderately prosperous place as I rode up to it: a solid house of the local limestone, facing on to a yard with open barns on two sides of it. The gate to the road was open, so I rode straight in. A man with a square greying beard and thatch of grey hair, a cap perched on top, was working with a lad who looked young enough to be an apprentice, fitting a curved section of outer rim on to the spokes of a wheel. The lad looked up as I rode in, but the older man told him to keep his mind on his work. I slid off Rancie and stood watching. If you want something from a person, it's not a tactful start to ask it from horseback. The curved section slid sweetly on to the two spokes and the man tapped it home with a few hammer blows. Only then did he turn.

‘Good day, miss.'

There was no surliness in making me wait, or the lack of apology for it. Mr Smithies was a man on his own land, master of a craft that wouldn't be hurried. The way he was looking at me was neither hostile nor especially welcoming, just an invitation to state my business. I'd not worked out my approach in advance, but decided to be straightforward. I introduced myself and told him that I was staying with Mr Godwit.

‘If possible, I'd like to speak to William Smithies,' I said. ‘Sal Picton says he's her brother's friend.'

Behind us, in the open barn, a young man was working at a treadle-operated lathe.

‘What's your business with the Picton family?' Mr Smithies said.

‘If Jack Picton isn't a murderer, I'd like to prove it.'

‘Does Godwit think he isn't?'

‘He's a magistrate. He can't have an opinion either way.'

The wheelwright considered that and me and came to an unhurried decision.

‘William, a lady to talk to you.'

He led the way towards the shed. I looped Rancie's rein over a hurdle and followed. The young man who'd been working at the lathe was on his feet, holding out his hand. The father introduced us and went back to the work he'd been doing, without any further explanation.

The son was less solidly built than his father, with a pale complexion and light brown hair, but he had the same level-eyed look. I repeated what I'd said to the older man.

‘You think you can help Jack, then?' He spoke with the Gloucestershire accent.

‘I'd like to, if I can.'

‘How?'

‘I don't know. I was hoping you might be able to tell me.'

‘I'll say to you what I've said to everybody: if Jack Picton says he didn't kill the young lady, then he didn't.'

‘Did you know that he was seeing Miss Marsh?'

‘I don't know that he was.'

‘Did he ever mention her?'

‘No.'

‘Did you know there was gossip about them?'

‘I've got no time to listen to gossip.'

‘If Jack Picton didn't kill her, why won't he say where he was that night?'

‘He'll have his reasons.'

‘He was seen near the Kembles' house.'

‘It's a free country for walking in – or so they say.'

‘Do you know what he was doing that evening and night?'

‘No.'

I thought I believed him. There was a shade of regret in the way he said it.

‘Is there anyone who might know?'

Before he shook his head, there was the slightest of hesitations. Then he said something in a lower voice, as if worried his father might overhear.

‘I might have tried telling the magistrates we were together, only I'm a poor liar and I'd have been found out.'

‘Can you tell me anything at all that might help?'

‘What sort of thing?'

‘What kind of man he was. Who his other friends were. Anything.'

‘For a start, he's the stubbornest man on God's earth. Once he's made up his mind to something, he's as hard to shift as that block there. Always was.'

He pointed to a squared-off oak block that must have come from a giant of a tree.

‘You knew him from a long way back, then?'

‘Nearly as long as I can remember. We were at school together.' He glanced at me, then at the lathe. It had a thick piece of elm wood, pale as cream, clamped into it. Judging by the shape, it was being rounded into a hub for the centre of a wheel. ‘I'll talk about him as much as you like if it's any use to you, only it'll have to be while I'm shaping it. We've got as much work on as we can handle.'

He brushed wood chips and bird droppings off the oak block for me to sit down and took his place at the lathe. It whirred quietly nearly all the time he was talking and he kept the blade of his chisel against the turning hub, so delicately that the wood seemed to change shape of its own accord.

‘He was always in trouble at school for being impudent; ruler across his knuckles more times than you could count. He didn't mean to be impudent, just he was always asking questions about things – the Bible, history, anything. Tell him two times two made four and he'd ask why. But then he could never show respect. I reckon that's what most schools are for, as far as working men are concerned – teaching them respect for their betters. He wouldn't “sir” or “madam” anybody. Jack's as good as his master; that was what he lived by.'

‘Don't you think so too?'

‘I do. “When Adam delved and Eve span, Who was then the gentleman?” My dad brought me up on that one, but he taught me a bit of sense, too. You can't go fighting everybody all your life. You have to be patient and choose your time.'

‘You're Chartists, you and your father?'

He looked up briefly from the lathe. ‘We are. A vote for all men, a confidential ballot and wages for Members of Parliament so that workers can have a voice.' His eyes met mine, looking for disapproval but not finding it.

‘And Jack's a Chartist, too?'

‘Oh, he signed the Charter, all right. But he thought we were being too cautious, relying on petitioning Parliament. All for action, Jack was.'

‘Like joining in the riot at Newport?'

He glanced up at me again, then away, not confirming or denying it.

‘A fat lot of good that did them. If Jack had his way, he'd have had all the farmworkers marching out to join them with their pikels and ploughshares. Only farmworkers aren't easy to organize; that was part of Jack's trouble. It's all very well getting a crowd together in towns, but when you've got men scattered all round the countryside, depending on the farmer for the roof over their heads and every mouthful they eat, it's slow going getting politics into their heads.'

‘But some farmworkers must be political,' I said. ‘What about the Raddlebush Brotherhood?'

The rhythm of the lathe didn't change. ‘Political! A gang of grudge-bearers without an idea about anything except destruction.'

‘And yet your friend Jack was part of it, wasn't he?'

‘I'm not saying so.'

‘If he was out with the brotherhood the night Miss Marsh was killed, that might be why he's not saying anything. He wouldn't want to get the other men into trouble.'

‘I'm not talking about it.'

The hub was almost finished. He gave it a few more caresses with the chisel and then stopped the lathe and unclamped it, rubbing the palm of his hand along it. The wood looked smooth as velvet.

‘I hope to be seeing Jack,' I said.

His head came up, surprised. ‘In prison?'

‘Yes.'

‘Can you do that?'

‘Is there any message you'd like me to give him?'

He thought about it. ‘Tell him we're doing what we can for her, me and dad.'

‘For his mother?'

That was a puzzle. From what I'd seen of the Picton household, nobody was doing anything.

‘Just tell him what I said. Say we'll get her back if we can. He'll understand.'

He walked with me to where Rancie was standing patiently and rolled a log of wood over for a mounting block.

‘Will you come back and tell me, if you see him?'

I said I would. His father, still busy fitting spokes, raised his hand to us as we went. He looked concerned. I guessed he didn't approve of the friendship with Jack Picton, but he had at least allowed his son to talk to me without interfering.

Back at Mr Godwit's, I untacked Rancie and let her out to graze in the paddock. At luncheon, I gave my host a brief account of the talk with William Smithies, but admitted it didn't take us much further. He had good news for me – although that wasn't how he saw it.

‘Our clerk is arranging the visiting order. He's bringing it this afternoon.'

‘Excellent. That means I can go and see Jack Picton tomorrow.'

‘If you really think it's necessary. But there'll be no date on the order. You could keep it by you and use it later if everything else failed.'

‘Tomorrow. Where's the prison?'

‘Gloucester. That's where the assizes will be held.'

That was no more than half a day's ride away. I thought I could get there and back on Rancie, but once he saw I couldn't be dissuaded, Mr Godwit offered me the use of the cob and gig, with the gardener as driver. There was something else on his mind.

‘I think when you do see Picton, it might be best not to mention me at all.'

Seeing he was so concerned about it, I agreed. It was settled that I should leave in the gig about eleven and visit the prison in the afternoon, a Saturday. It would suit me well, because that would give me time to exercise Rancie first, provided I rode out early. A good idea, Mr Godwit thought, pleased that I should be doing something so harmless. If he'd known the true reason, he'd have been horrified, so I didn't tell him. Instead, I inquired about sending letters to London. A great improvement since the new post, he told me, glowing with local pride. The vicar's lad rode down into Cheltenham every afternoon with mail from the village, in time to catch the evening post from Cheltenham. Letters would be delivered in London the following morning and, if the correspondent was efficient, an answer received next day. After lunch I wrote a note to a political friend in London and took it over to the vicarage, with a penny for the post and another for the vicar's lad for his trouble.

Back in Mr Godwit's garden, I found Tabby picking beans, along with the maid, Suzie. She seemed surprisingly cheerful, but more than willing to put aside her basket and accompany me on a sketching trip.

‘So what are we really doing?' she asked, as soon as we were out of the gate.

‘Sketching. I want somewhere with a good view.'

She gave me a disbelieving look, but stepped out briskly beside me, carrying my block and pencil case.

‘No word from Sal Picton, I suppose,' I said.

‘Nah. I'm supposed to be taking some food there tomorrow. Are you coming?'

‘I'll be doing something else. You seem to be getting on well enough with Suzie.'

‘She's all right. We have a laugh at Mrs Wood. We were digging up carrots and there was one such a rude shape that we were both creased up with laughing. So Mrs Wood came out and asked what was so funny, and—'

‘Did you get any gossip from Suzie about what local people think of the Picton case?'

‘She said most people think the family's no good. Her young man – well, she thinks he's her young man – works at the stone quarries and he says they'll all go into Gloucester to see him hanged.'

‘Charming. So what does she think herself?'

‘She says she'll be sorry if they hang him. He was the best-looking man in the village and always spoke to her civil enough.'

That seemed to be the closest thing Jack Picton would get to a character reference. We walked up the hill to where a grassy bank by a signpost gave a fine panorama round the hills. I spread my cloak, avoiding an ants' nest, and started sketching while Tabby wandered up and down, scowling at the scenery.

I'd done no more than rough in the outlines of the hills when a plump man with a collie came slowly uphill from the direction of the village. He stopped beside me, raising his low-crowned hat, and remarked that it was a fine day for views. I agreed.

‘You'll be the young lady staying with Mr Godwit. Fond of drawing, are you?'

I said it was such beautiful countryside. That was all it needed to make him a stationary guide to the locality. That hill over there was where the Romans camped; there was the quarry where they got the stone to build the town.

‘And that one over there?' I asked, pointing north.

‘That's Cleeve Hill, the racecourse. Pity you've missed the races.'