Miriam Bibby - Mistress Meg 02 - Mistress Meg and the Silver Bell (22 page)

The route
they had taken led them, via a short cut, to a plantation close to the
Marcaster Road. For someone who had just been advised, by the undersheriff,
that he’d received an anonymous letter saying that there was something
underhand going on with his horse, George thought that Richard was remarkably
sanguine.

That
morning, Richard had explained the situation to George in a few brief words.

“It
seems - according to the undersheriff, who lives in Marcaster - that there has
been some deception regarding my horse,” he had said. “He was - is -
to oversee that all is in order regarding the match.”

George
noted the slight hesitation in Richard’s voice as he amended “was” to
“is”.

“Does
this - deception - mean there might - be no match?” asked George.

Richard
seemed reluctant to reply.

“‘Tis
difficult to say, George. Our undersheriff, Edward Davison, is a contrary man
at the best of times. I have found him unpredictable in my past dealings with
him. According to this letter, both horses, Sir John’s and my own, have been
put at risk by one who might - feed them something harmful. And the anonymous
letter hints at other matter which the undersheriff will only reveal in my
presence.”

“Who
might this correspondent be? D’ye know?”

Richard had
shaken his head. “I do not know.”

George was
carrying a letter of his own to send to Sim. Less than half an hour ago, as
they hurried to prepare for riding, he had added a quick postscript detailing
the morning’s news. The letter advised Sim that George had recently met with
both the Clerk of the Assize and the pigman; and a decision had been made
regarding Clink. The Clerk, clearly busy, had spared a quarter hour to speak
with George and glance over the deposition. “After due consultation with
the Clerk - and the victim and principal witness, our pigman - it has been
arranged that the trial of the thief will take place at the forthcoming assize
in Marcaster, the Clerk seeing that all is in order for presentation to the
court. This will, I trust, receive your approval, cousin, for it is undoubtedly
a decision that will mean the least expense and inconvenience to us all.”

The letter
that Richard had received had changed the complexion of the day entirely.
Amelia, who had been looking forward to riding out with them on her little mare
to the edge of the park, was cross to be left behind. Amabilis, who had seemed
to be showing some interest in accompanying them despite her obvious
disinterest in horses, seemed partly relieved and partly annoyed.

“Here,”
Richard was saying, indicating a small ditch and bank by a plantation. “We
can reach the highway this way.” The horses jumped onto the bank and then
off again onto a track that was rutted and dusty. Richard had little
inclination to talk and George took his cue from his silence. As they
approached Marcaster, Richard seemed about to say something, but thought better
of it. They were riding along the main street of Marcaster before he spoke
again.

“The
Blue Boar, George. This is where Galingale is temporarily stabled. And I will
send word to the undersheriff that we have arrived and he may meet us
here.”

“Hal
will take that word for you,” said George. “And Hal - when you have
done so, see that this letter is sent to Master Cantle with all speed, and
return.” He gave the letter to Hal.

“The
undersheriff will most likely be at the Courthouse. If not … ” Richard
gave Hal additional instructions. Hal rode off and the two men dismounted.
Ostlers from the Blue Boar came to take their horses and two of the servants
that Sir Richard had set to look after Galingale came out as well. Sir Richard
had not sent them word that he was riding to Marcaster and so they were in some
surprise to see him. When he advised them of the contents of the letter the
undersheriff had received, they looked from one to the other. George thought
they looked furtive - shifty even.

“D’ye
have any idea who might have sent this letter to the undersheriff?”
Richard was asking. “Or why?”

“No,
sir,” said one of them. “‘Tis news to us. All - all’s well with the
horse. Galingale. Whatever this letter says - it’s not true, sir!”

The other,
younger and less experienced, spoke up. He was clearly anxious to stay in his
employer’s good books.

“Aitchison
might have knowledge, sir!”

“Aitchison?
Who is he?” Richard was frowning and staring at the older servant. From
the look on the older man’s face, George realised that the younger servant had
said the wrong thing.

“Nobody,
sir,” muttered the older servant. “Well, that’s to say - just a
stableman, sir, who has helped with - with some tasks, sir. Nothing important.
Fetching water and the like. He won’t know nowt.”

Richard was
pulling off one of his gloves. His face was white and set. George could tell
that he was extremely angry, but his voice remained calm.

“You
had my instructions, Walton. It seems you have not kept to them. Accept no
other assistance - those were my words.”

“Sir -
the horse is … “

“Where
is this Aitchison?” The voice was like cold steel.

“I’ll
see if I can fetch ‘im, sir.”

 “And
bring out Galingale. Since you have not followed my instructions, I will take
command of this horse myself. And if there has been deception - there will be a
price to pay.”

The two men
left to fetch the horse. One of them shouted “Aitchison! Yer wanted
here” as they walked away. There was a returning shout and then a tall,
thin man with straight yellow hair walked under the stable arch. He glanced
across at Richard and George and his eyes widened in shock. The Jingler had
grown a beard and his hair was shorter since George saw him last but he knew in
an instant who it was.

George
moved quickly but the Jingler was even faster. He grabbed a cask of water and
half threw, half rolled it at George, who leaped quickly aside but received a
soaking and a blow on the leg despite his speedy reaction. Instinctively, he
called for Hal; and then cursed as he realised they’d sent the lad off on his
errand. And the horses they had ridden had been led away to the trough.

The
Jingler, who was off and running almost as he hurled the barrel, was around the
corner and into the alley before anyone else had a chance to move. Throwing the
dignity of the law to the winds, George sprinted after the Jingler as fast as
he could, shouting for help as he did so. He saw the outline of the man ahead
of him as he leaped over something and carried on running. As George approached
the obstacle he saw it was a pig wallowing in a muddy patch created by an
overflowing trough. Someone should really apply the local byelaws regarding
stray animals, said a small voice in his head. Keep running, said a louder one.
This is the bastard whoreson who stole your horse.

The Jingler
almost skidded as he threw a quick turn to the left. He knew he was running for
his life and his whole body strained to the utmost. He could not remember if
George was carrying a sword or not, but in his sleeve the Jingler carried his
knife; and if Sir George cornered him he would use it. In the meantime he ran
blindly, instinctively, ducking under some blankets hung up for an airing,
leaping over a basket full of baby chicks, pushing aside some children and
knocking over an old woman who got in his way. His breath rasped and his heart
thundered in his ears. This was what the hare felt when the hounds closed on
it. He turned down what he thought was another alley and found it was a
courtyard. The Jingler began to panic. He saw that one of the cottages facing
onto the yard had a green bush over the door - an alehouse. The Jingler ran
inside.

George, who
had nearly lost the Jingler after one of his sharp turns, guessed which way he
had gone when he heard a sobbing, complaining voice. It was the old woman,
picking herself up with the help of a concerned neighbour.

“Which
way?” said George impatiently. “
Which way
?”

The woman’s
neighbour looked at George and for a moment he thought she was not going to
help. George had obvious authority - he came from the ruling class. This part
of the alley reeked of poverty. He could almost read her thoughts. Why should
she help him rather than the other? Why should her loyalty lie with either of
them? Finally, the younger woman jerked her head to indicate where the Jingler
had gone and turned back to tend to the older woman.

“My
thanks!” said George, genuinely grateful. He ran on. When this was over -
if - he would send to see that all was well with the old woman and give her
some aid. He found himself in a deserted courtyard surrounded by small thatched
cottages. Most of the doors were open. Which one, which one? George saw the
green bush set over the door of one of them and, after hesitating for an
instant, stepped just over the threshold. He looked around cautiously. The
alewife regarded him with surprise.

“Can I
fetch ye a drink, sir?” she said, questioningly, looking him up and down.
George was soaking wet and had lost his hat as he started running.

“Searching
for someone,” said George. “Queen’s Justice - no warrant. Have you
seen a man, tall, thin, yellow hair?”

The woman
shook her head. “No sir. But …” She indicated the open door into
another yard at the side of the house. George ran through it. The yard had a
small tree in a pot, some chickens, casks and a bench or two. It was walled,
but the wall was low enough for an agile man to get over it, especially with a
leg up from one of the benches. George stood on the bench and looked over.
There was a drop into a larger walled garden and beyond that he could see more
houses, some of them quite large and fine, more gardens and, in the distance,
woods and the river. There was no sign of the Jingler.

“Damn,”
said George. He dropped back onto the bench and leaned his head against the
wall.

“I
think y’need a drink, sir,” said the alewife.

George
didn’t disagree.

The Jingler,
who had run straight through the alehouse and out the other side, had leaped
onto the wall and run along the top of it until he got to the corner with a
neighbouring plot. He dropped down into the next garden where he found a gate
leading onto a quiet lane. The gate was locked but that was no problem for the
Jingler, who quickly picked the lock and let himself through. He leaned against
the outside wall and sucked in lungfuls of air. Stupid. He had been very, very
stupid. He had known that Sir George was coming over to the Assizes; it was
obvious now that he would have the acquaintance of either Grasset or Widderis,
or both. Why had he not considered it sooner? Well, there was nothing for it.
He would find a barn and hide up; and then he would find the Sad Mort, the
Egyptian Mort and the Frog. And then - he would settle up with Jugg.

When George
got back to the Blue Boar, he found that Sir Richard had sent men to search for
him. Richard was in the stableyard, looking anxious. Beside him was a stocky,
square man with an ebullient face. The undersheriff.

“George,
my boy! Thank God …” Richard’s relief was obvious. “That man -
Aitchison …”

George
shook his head. “No sign of him, Richard. I’ll explain all later. But in
the meantime, if you could set men to search for him. He is a known horse thief
and Aitchison is not, I wager, his true name.”

“I
will see that it is done. I set some after you but I think you were too fast
for them. This is Master Edward Davison, the Undersheriff of Mardale Wapentake
- of whom you’ve heard me speak. The running horses
are in his official charge.” There was meaning in Richard’s tone.
“And this is his son, Ned. Master Davison, this is my guest - and friend -
Sir George Paston. “

George,
wet, sweating, hatless and still slightly out of breath, greeted them as
courteously as he could.

“Forgive
me, George, but the undersheriff needs to be - enlightened - on an urgent
matter. As you know, he has received a note advising him that there are
certain- irregularities to be investigated regarding the horses.”