Eppie (67 page)

Something inside her, the stubbornness in her nature, cried
out, ‘I mustn’t give in this easily!’

There was only one place left to run; the church spire.
Swiftly avoiding his clutches, she tore towards it, the man’s curses ringing in
her ear as he pursued her.

Stubbing her toes between stone petals, she hurriedly crept along
the decorative arch.

Gargoyles spiralled above. The lowest creature loomed, was
within arm’s reach. Grasping its wing, she dragged herself up. Weathered
through centuries, the stone grazed her skin like coarse sand. With her feet
upon the back of the creature, she lunged for the next. Thus she made her
ascent, circling the spire, always just out of Jaggery’s reach. Less
light-footed he was finding the scramble gruelling.

Glancing back, she saw his grimace of concentration, determined
that he would not be outwitted.

She struggled on, getting higher, the warm night breeze
tugging at her skirts.

The spire narrowing, the gap between them was closing,
fast. 

Reaching the loftiest gargoyle, she realised that all her
efforts had been in vain. Giddy, filled with a sense of despair, she lay upon
the beast and clutched its horns, the icy stone burning her blazing cheek.
Unwillingly, she recalled the ghastly sight in the burial pit. Once Jaggery had
killed her that was where he would, no doubt, conceal her body.

Around her, scattered in brilliant clusters, the shimmering
multitude of stars hung in the vast bowl of the night sky. ‘If I am to die,’
she prayed to God, ‘let me be one with the stars, the wind, and the rain.’

 
As though in answer to her supplication, she inexplicably
felt the beast’s horny hide palpitate beneath her legs.

Sitting bolt upright in shock, she swallowed hard.

Beneath her fingertips she felt a movement, accompanied by a
sound like quern stones grinding wheat-grains.

Jaggery’s eyes enlarged in terror as the gargoyle briskly
twisted its neck and glared at him, a spray of water flying from its knotted
fringe of thatched hair.

Buffeted by the immense power of the beast’s wings, which it
had unfurled in one swift movement, Jaggery was sent, shrieking, over the
parapet.

Before it metamorphosed to rock, the creature glanced back
at Eppie, behind its veneer of stone Talia’s exultant expression.

‘I tried to come after you,’ Gabriel
said limply.

‘I know. I heard the bell.’

‘I should’ve helped. I feel bad.’

‘It’s all right. I understand.’

‘I got scared thinking about climbing those stairs in the
dark, and then my knees gave way. What happened?’

Eppie shuddered, recalling the dull thud of Jaggery’s body landing
far below. ‘He fell off the roof.  I’ll explain later, when we’re not in such a
hurry.’

They stepped along the stone-flags, the surface worn smooth
by centuries of shuffling feet.

Before them the door swept back. By the look of Jaggery,
blanketed from head to foot in dust, he had landed in the gravediggers’ cart of
lime. ‘You don’t get rid of me that easy, Lady du Quesne.’ 

Treading backwards along the nave, brother and sister
swapped pained grimaces. 

Jaggery tramped relentlessly towards them, fists clenched,
powder puffing around his boots. His gaze drifting over the prison stripes,
noticeable beneath the hem of Gabriel’s cassock, he stopped dead in his tracks.
‘What’ve we here? A fugitive?’

Glancing up, Eppie nudged Gabriel.

Distraught at being abandoned, he watched her race off.
‘Don’t leave me!’

Jaggery smirked. ‘I’ll get a good reward for taking you back
to jail.’

‘I am no prisoner,’ Gabriel replied indignantly. ‘If you
must know, I have been unlawfully accused of a felony.  I am Gabriel du
Quesne.’

From somewhere beyond a row of pews, Eppie groaned. ‘Why did
you have to tell him that, muttonhead?’ Above the aisle hung a massive iron
ring attached to a chain, by means of which it was lowered to light a circle of
thick candles. Swiftly, she released the pulley. ‘Duck!’

Jaggery had one moment to glance up, none to retreat.
Hurtling down, the ring plunged over his shoulders like the fallen halo of an
angel lost from grace. He toppled into the vault.

Scurrying back, Eppie grabbed Gabriel by the hand and tugged
him along the nave. ‘When Jaggery climbs out he’ll go straight to Thurstan and
tell him about you. This time we really need to get going, fast.’

‘I don’t do
fast
.’    

Dumped at the side of the church was a coffin, used for the
burial of paupers. It was laid upon a rusty, movable frame on which it was
wheeled to a graveside, whereupon the body was tipped into the earth.

A roguish look flitted across Eppie’s face.

Gabriel’s heart sank. ‘I flatly refuse.’

‘Remember what I told you in the mill office about imagining
something so hard that it happens? For example, if you imagine never climbing
into this coffin it will make it certain that you never
will
scramble in
here.’

‘Yes.’

‘It doesn’t always work.’

Shunting the hand-bier through town, she tapped on the lid.
‘Imagine Thurstan’s face when he learns you’re alive.’

The timbers in which he was encased slightly deadened his
reply. ‘Not a pretty sight. Do you have to run? I’m feeling queasy, and you’re
bound to draw attention. Another thing, it’s hot in here. I’m running out of
air.’

Lurching from a seedy tavern, a drunken man cast a wondering
glance at the pallbearer sprinting past, quite believing he had supped too much
ale.

Reaching the top of the lane, Eppie cast a backward glance
to check no one was in pursuit. Having pulled the hood of the robe low over her
forehead she paced sedately.

It was not long before they reached Bridge House. Although
she hammered so hard on the door that it shook on its hinges, the men yelling
in the kitchen drowned the sound. Desperate that they should gain admittance before
Thurstan or any of his men seized them, she ran to a bowed window and knocked
insistently.

Lottie unbolted the door and came hesitantly to the top of the
steps. ‘Who’s there?’

Pitted with age and worm infestation, the coffin lid creaked
open and clattered onto the bridge. A face peered over the rim.

Lottie squealed. ‘There’s a dead body in a coffin! It’s
crawling out!’

Startled by her words, Mr Grimley came at once and stared
aghast at Gabriel’s pale face. ‘What a blessed relief!’

Eppie and Gabriel could not refrain from grins, relieved
after their narrow escape.

‘Come and see the biggest rat I’ve ever caught,’ Loafer
entreated, giving Gabriel a hand out. ‘Last night me and Redgy Dipper plied Hix
with so much gin at The Barrel that he spewed the truth.’

Wilbert was lashed to a kitchen chair, guarded by Loafer’s
terrier, and Ezra. Turnips bounded enthusiastically round and round the chair.

‘Tell Master Gabriel what you blabbed to Fortune,’ Redgy
demanded.

Wilbert was so intoxicated that his head hung over his chest
as though it were as heavy as a block of wood. ‘A forgotted.’  

Grasping Wilbert by the hair, Loafer dragged his head back
and brought the blade of a dagger close to his throat. ‘Spit it out, or you’ll
be floating down the river.’

‘Aw right!’ Wilbert bawled, scarcely able to keep his eyes
open. ‘It were Thurstan what did fer du Quesne.  Now let me go!’

‘I don’t think so,’ Mr Grimley said. ‘You will be wanted as
a witness. Mr Dipper, be so good as to request Judge Baulke’s attendance.’

‘Is Rowan abed?’ Gabriel asked.

Mr Grimley had not slept properly since Rowan’s
disappearance. His eyes burning with tiredness, he despairingly related the
facts of her disappearance. ‘Never fear,’ he said, aware of Gabriel’s distress.
‘I am sure it will only be a matter of time before she is found.’ He did not
look convinced by his own words.

He cast a look of consternation over Gabriel’s scant attire.
‘I had better find you something to wear.’

After a much-needed freshen-up, Gabriel reappeared. Mr Grimley
being short and stocky, the striped silk waistcoat hung on Gabriel like a
curtain, whilst the waist of the buckskin breeches was so spacious that the
belt went round him twice.

Priscilla arrived, carrying a laden tray. ‘My, it’s sticky
weather. You’re bound to be feeling peckish, Master Gabriel. I’ve rustled up some
savouries and tarts. Nice cup of tea, Mrs Dunham?  Lottie lovey, what’ll you
have?’

Eppie was familiar with the crumbly white cubes. ‘Umm, what
sort of cheese is this?’

Mr Grimley raided the drinks cabinet. ‘I should imagine you
would prefer a noggin of brandy, Gabriel?’

‘That I would.’  He groaned, stretching out his hand to take
the drink.

A rain of blows fell upon the front door.

‘That’ll be the judge,’ Priscilla said, scurrying to answer
it. ‘I’ve never known such a night of flap and flurry.’

Soldiers burst in, their scarlet uniforms and black cockade
hats bright against the lemon painted walls. Eppie recognised their faces; they
were the men who had accompanied Thurstan to the tavern, the night she was
warned against plotting a Combination. 

‘Gabriel du Quesne, we are here to arrest you on the charge
of murder.’

Eppie sprang to her feet. ‘You shan’t have him!’

Mr Grimley stood to address the men. ‘Everything is in hand.
Judge Baulke has been sent for. Gabriel can prove his innocence.’

Eppie eyed the soldiers suspiciously. ‘How did you know
Gabriel was alive?’

The judge strode in. ‘This had better be good, Jeremiah; I
don’t like being dragged from my bed. Gabriel du Quesne! Thurstan informed me
that you were dead.’

‘Please, sir, you have to do something!’ Eppie pleaded with the
judge. ‘It was Thurstan who killed my father, not Gabriel.’

Judge Baulke took in her bedraggled, dusty appearance.
‘Woken from my slumbers in the early hours I fear I am becoming feverish.  I
could have sworn that you said your
father
?’

‘This is Lady Genevieve du Quesne,’ Mr Grimley said. ‘Poached
from her cradle. The matter has only recently come to light.’

Having listened in at the doorway, Loafer spoke respectfully.
‘Your worship, reverence, sir, we have a witness who saw Thurstan murder Lord Robert
du Quesne. We’ve had to gag him, seeing as his swearing and cussing was
offensive to the ladies.’ 

The soldiers followed the judge out of the parlour.

Whilst the others sat in pensive thought, Mr Grimley drew
back the curtains. Pink and mauve streaked the sky, heralding another hot day.

Not long afterwards, the judge re-entered, his palms pressed
together as though in prayer. ‘Gabriel du Quesne, it would seem that your
innocence is assured. For the present consider yourself at liberty, though,
Jeremiah, until the end of the trial, I place Gabriel in your custody. Where is
Kenelm, and his men?’ 

‘Kenelm?’ Eppie said, bewildered. ‘That was the name Jaggery
called one of the Resurrectionists.’

Flames seemed to leap from the judge’s eyes. ‘Resurrectionists,
did you say? And Kenelm is involved?’

‘Would you care for a cheese savoury?’ Priscilla asked the
judge, who took his place beside Eppie on the couch, keen to hear everything.

Swiftly, she recounted the tale of what had occurred at the
church, though she was careful to say nothing about Wakelin. ‘Reverend Clinch
must have discovered Jaggery in the vault,’ she finished. ‘And Jaggery, having
found that Gabriel had escaped from jail, must’ve ordered the soldiers to seize
him.’

A horse galloped before the house, its hooves ringing loud
and hollow on the bridge. Something smashed through a window.

Already in a jumpy state, Priscilla yelped and dropped her replenished
tray of savouries.

Loafer crept to the study and returned with a parcel.

Mr Grimley sliced the string that secured the blue wrapping
to a black stone. ‘It’s from the mill wreckers. Robert du Quesne received a
threatening letter, somewhat similar, a few weeks prior to his death.’

When Mr Grimley had shown her the original letter, Eppie recognised
Wakelin’s penmanship, though she had kept this knowledge to herself. Clearly
under the influence of drink, he had scrawled the smudgy message:
This is a
Warnin to De Quesne. Yew gorra pull down em steim mashines, else use wana be a
Dedman. Leader o the Reckers
.

Mr Grimley read aloud the latest, perfectly spelt, message:
‘You have not heeded our warning. Today we smash the machines. Blood will be
spilt. Yours. Signed, The General of the Army of Redressers.’

‘Why would this General write to you, making it clear what
he’s planning?’ Eppie asked, bemused. ‘By doing so, he has lost the element of
surprise.’

‘Leave everything to me, Jeremiah,’ the judge said, making a
swift exit. ‘I only hope there is time.’

In the mill yard, a wagoner untied
the holding ropes from the pikes and axes that had been sent from the armoury
store at Litcombe Castle. Seamen of the royal navy ship
The Conquest
swelled the ranks of redcoat soldiers.

Eppie felt driven to protest. ‘Judge Baulke should never
have ordered this. People might be killed.’

‘That’s the general idea, isn’t it?’ Crumpton enthused,
chewing on a toffee.

 Solemnly, Eppie and Mr Grimley made their way to the
flat-topped roof to join others, who were keeping an eye on the streets. Sweating
it out, sailors hauled cannon into position overlooking and directed into the
yard, the only possible entrance for the wreckers to storm the mill. A surgeon
set out the contents of his black leather bag: a chisel, miniature saw, scalpel,
pliers and curved needles.