Gideon the Cutpurse

  The magistrate protected his guttering candle from the wind and looked out suspiciously.

  ‘A good evening to you, sir,’ said the Parson, stepping towards him. ‘Our party has been attacked by a highwayman whom we have captured and whom we now deliver into your custody.’

  ‘A highwayman, indeed? Let me see the scoundrel! Give me the lantern.’

  His servant took his master’s candle and gave him the brass lantern whereupon the magistrate began to inspect each member of the company one by one as if on a military parade. He held the light up to their faces and when he got to Kate, the sight of the magistrate’s mistrustful, hawk-like features made her want to laugh. She kept as still as a statue until he moved on to scrutinise Sidney’s bloodied face and then she allowed herself to giggle silently – and a little hysterically on account of her tiredness – under cover of the night. The magistrate stopped when he got to a young man trussed up like a chicken with some old rope.

  ‘Is this he? Is this the highwayman?’ he asked.

  When he was informed that this was indeed the infamous Ned Porter, the magistrate could scarcely contain his excitement.

  ‘Upon my word!’ he exclaimed. ‘Ned Porter is wanted in five counties. What a fine catch you bring me, ladies and gentlemen.’

  Ned remained smiling and pleasant even when he was bundled roughly into the magistrate’s cellar without a candle and even when the coach driver spat at him. Then he wished everyone a good night as the trapdoor was bolted down on top of him.

  ‘Is there anything more profoundly distasteful,’ exploded Parson Ledbury, ‘than a base criminal who apes the good manners of his betters. The sooner the world is cleansed of Ned Porter, the happier will I be. When is the next hanging day, may I ask, sir?’

  ‘There is the small matter of his trial first, Parson,’ commented Gideon.

  Parson Ledbury shot a withering look at Gideon and then turned to the magistrate.

  ‘I will return in the morning to give you my full account of this rogue’s offences against our property and persons. And now, if you will permit us, we will seek out our lodgings for the night. Perhaps your servant can accompany us to the George Inn.’

  The magistrate bid them goodnight, looking very pleased with his unexpected booty, and ordered his servant, still in his nightclothes, to take the party to the George Inn on Bird Street.

  The next morning the party woke late to find that the torrential rain which had disturbed them during the night had not abated. The George Inn did not offer luxurious or even comfortable accommodation. Nor was it particularly clean. They had shared rooms – and beds. Parson Ledbury, Sidney and Peter were crammed into one, whilst Hannah, Jack and Kate took the other. After half an hour of the Parson’s stomach rumbling from lack of supper, not to mention his snoring and Sidney whistling through his missing teeth, Peter had crept down to join Gideon and the driver who were sleeping in the barn with the horses. It might have stunk enough to make your eyes water, but at least Peter had escaped the worst of the fleas and the constant dripping of rain through the leaky roof.

  ‘This bread is more chalk and ashes than flour,’ growled Parson Ledbury. Gideon and the driver, despite his injuries, were seeing to the horses. The rest of the party drooped over a bare wooden table eating a meagre breakfast. The mood was subdued. The Parson’s face was puffy and pale and his hand badly swollen. Everybody was scratching madly. Jack had pulled up his shirt and was peering at the pattern the itchy red bites made across his chest.

  ‘You’re worse than a band of monkeys,’ said the Parson. He tried to laugh but his heart wasn’t in it. He was watching Sidney, who stood at a casement window in the low, dark dining room that smelled of damp. He was examining his injured jaw and his teeth – or lack of them – in a small looking glass. There was no denying the fact that his face was a mess. Sidney looked mortified. Even Peter felt sorry for him. The Parson heaved himself up and strode over to the window. He patted Sydney roughly on the back.

  ‘Never fear, my lad, I know of a shop in St James who can fit you with wooden teeth prettier than those you have lost. Your dear Mama will never know the difference.’

  Sidney nodded his head yet it was difficult to tell who was more upset – Sidney or the Parson, racked with guilt at his failure to keep his cousin’s family safe.

  The appearance of Gideon and the coach driver shook the Parson out of his despondency, for he was not a man to remain downhearted for long. He turned and greeted them.

  ‘How do find your head this morning, Martin?’ he asked the driver.

  ‘No worse than if I’d supped half a gallon of cider, sir,’ the driver replied. ‘And it’ll be an adventure to tell the little ones.’

  ‘Well said, Martin. You shall receive an extra shilling at the end of the month.’

  ‘Thank you, Parson,’ said Martin, tipping his hat in acknowledgment. ‘We got him good and proper, did we not, sir?’

  ‘Aye, that we did, Martin.’

  Thanks to Gideon! thought Peter indignantly.

  ‘’Tis a pity his sidekick got away with your gold, sir,’ added the driver.

  The Parson slapped his thigh. ‘Ha!’ he roared. ‘Well, you need not worry on that account, for see what I have here!’

  The Parson pulled out a purse bulging with coins from his waistcoat pocket and jingled it so that everyone could hear the clink of metal.

  ‘This,’ he said, ‘is my gold. Ned’s accomplice ran off with the counterfeit coins which I had procured expressly for this eventuality. Those coins are worthless. I told you we were more than a match for any gentlemen of the road!’

  Everyone laughed and cheered and thumped the table. Only Gideon did not seem to want to join in.

  ‘Why the sour face, Mr Seymour? Do not tell me that you of all people disapprove.’

  Gideon swallowed his irritation. ‘With respect, sir, aside from it being punishable by death, is there any better way than carrying counterfeit coins of announcing to the world that you do indeed have something worth stealing?’

  ‘Pish pash, sir. You worry like an old woman. With Ned Porter behind bars, his accomplice would not dare come within a mile of us.’

  ‘Then let us hope he does not have any friends …’

  ‘So, Mr Seymour, you would have me hand over my hardearned gold to that ruffian?’

  ‘In which case, sir, you would perhaps concede that there are occasions when even good men are sometimes pushed into breaking the law of the land?’

  The Parson did not reply.

  ‘If you will permit me, sir,’ continued Gideon, ‘I should like to ride ahead to scout the county. I am persuaded that Ned Porter is not the only villain hereabouts.’

  ‘Can I go with you?’ Peter burst out.

  ‘A capital idea. Take the boy for some exercise,’ said the Parson. ‘The remainder of the party can rest while I complete my business with the magistrate. Meet us back here before noon.’

  ‘But …’ said Kate, looking pleadingly at Peter.

  ‘Gideon can’t carry two on his horse,’ said Peter reasonably.

  Kate scowled at him. ‘But you’re a townie. You don’t know how to ride a horse …’

  Everyone looked incredulous, as if she had said Peter couldn’t use a knife and fork.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ Kate said quickly. ‘I was joking. I just wanted to go too.’

  ‘It will be my pleasure to keep you company, Mistress Kate,’ said Sidney, smiling his ragged smile at her.

  Kate raised her eyebrows at Peter which he correctly interpreted as meaning: I’m going to get you for this.

  Peter was not sure whether it was tact or merriment that prompted Gideon to look away while Peter tried to mount Midnight. It took him a good five minutes and then Midnight promptly threw him off again. Why, oh why, thought Peter, had his parents always said no to riding lessons? Gideon finally took pity on him, climbed up himself and reached down to pull Peter up. When Gideon said that Peter could hold on to him if he felt unste
ady, Peter refused, saying that he had a good sense of balance. However, when Midnight headed off at a gallop Peter couldn’t help grabbing hold of Gideon’s shirt. Five miles later Peter’s legs, stretched out over Midnight’s muscular back, were sore and stiff and he felt a little seasick but he was beginning to get the hang of this riding business. He started to enjoy himself.

  ‘Imagine a carriage moving on its own without horses, only much, much faster,’ Peter said to Gideon. ‘And then imagine roads that are smooth and hard and never get muddy. When we drove up from London to Derbyshire it took less than three hours – and that was in the middle of winter.’

  Gideon looked suitably impressed.

  ‘And so,’ Peter continued, ‘if we were attacked by a highwayman in our time, all we’d do is call 999 and then within minutes a car with flashing lights and sirens full of armed policemen would arrive to rescue us.’

  ‘And how would they deal with the highwayman?’ asked Gideon. ‘Would they carry him to a magistrate or would they hang him?’

  ‘Hang him? Oh no! No one gets hanged nowadays. Not even murderers. Not even mass murderers. The police would cart him off to prison. He’d probably have to stay there for the rest of his life, though.’

  ‘I once had the misfortune to visit someone in Newgate Gaol. If your prisons are as foul as Newgate, it would be more merciful to hang him.’

  ‘Why? What was it like?’

  ‘It is hell on earth. There is the foulest stench that makes those with the strongest stomach retch … And the air is thick with cries and moans that make your heart stop with the horror of it. But worst of all is the look in the eyes of those who have languished there any time … Please God I never have the occasion to see Newgate Gaol again. But tell me, can it be true that in your time the authorities hang no one? No matter what crime they have committed?’

  ‘Yes,’ Peter replied.

  ‘But if bad men need not fear Jack Ketch and his noose, are not the streets thronged with assassins?’

  ‘I don’t think so – well, I’ve never seen one.’

  Gideon grew thoughtful and then rode Midnight to a vantage point on high ground where they could see for miles around. Midnight was breathing hard and his flanks were steaming in the cool, misty air. They dismounted to give him a rest. Rain dripped onto their backs from a great oak tree under which they were taking shelter. Suddenly Gideon let out a great cry which rang out over the surrounding fields strewn with poppies.

  ‘Nine! Nine! Nine!’

  Peter started to chuckle quietly but when Gideon turned to him to comment that calling 999 did not work in these days, he positively exploded. Tears ran down his cheeks and he could scarcely breathe. Gideon, momentarily affronted, pushed Peter over into the wet grass.

  ‘All this is fancy!’ he shouted, laughing himself. ‘’Tis naught but the imaginings of a mischievous (here Gideon rolled him with over with the toe of his boot) young (another roll) rogue!’

  ‘But it’s true! I swear it’s true! I meant that you call 999 on the telephone …’

  ‘This tel-ee-fone again,’ said Gideon in mock exasperation. ‘Confound your tel-ee-fones.’

  ‘It’s not difficult to understand,’ said Peter, miming the actions. ‘You just key in a number – 999 if you want the emergency services but everyone has their own special number – and then you put the telephone to your ear and you speak to someone who is … somewhere else.’

  Gideon laughed out loud. ‘Enough! The future is a foreign country to me. Unless I see it with my own eyes I shall not believe it.’

  ‘But I’ve hardly started yet,’ protested Peter. ‘I haven’t told you about television and computer games and DNA and the Hubble telescope and nanotechnology …’

  Abruptly Gideon’s expression changed and he held up his hand indicating to Peter that he should be quiet.

  ‘Woodsmoke,’ he said. Peter followed him as Gideon set off purposefully down the slope, leaving Midnight to graze on the long grass. There, in a deep hollow which would have provided shelter from the worst of the wind and rain, they came across the smouldering remains of a large bonfire. All around it the grass and bracken had been flattened in a wide circle. The stripped carcasses of roast rabbits and some kind of bird, probably pigeon, lay scattered about. Two small wooden chests, empty apart from a soiled, torn nightgown, had seemingly been abandoned.

  Gideon’s eyes darted everywhere, taking in every detail. He picked up a discarded flagon and sniffed at it. ‘Brandy,’ he said. ‘And no sign of horses … these were a gang of footpads. Six of them at least, I’ll warrant.’

  ‘What are footpads?’ asked Peter.

  ‘Footpads roam the country in search of innocent travellers. They are oft-times more to be feared than highwaymen for they attack in groups and are likely as not more vicious – for without horses they cannot make a swift escape and so must overwhelm their victims.’

  ‘But how can you be sure these are footpads?’ asked Peter. ‘Perhaps these were just tourists having a picnic.’

  Gideon looked puzzled. ‘Tourists? Picnic?’

  ‘Never mind,’ said Peter. ‘Maybe they were just travellers stopping for breakfast.’

  ‘What traveller would leave good chests like these behind? No, Master Peter, these men were interested only in what these chests contained. We have discovered a gang of footpads.’

  Gideon’s eye bent down to pick up a small rag which he shook out and held by one corner. Traces of blood streaked out from a central crease in the material.

  ‘Never let another man’s blood blunt your blade,’ commented Gideon in a curious, deep voice as if he were thinking of someone. It put Peter in mind of the Tar Man. Gideon flung the rag onto the glowing embers of the fire. Peter shuddered.

  ‘Let us hope that Ned Porter and his accomplice were not in league with them,’ said Gideon. ‘Come, we must return to inform the Parson. This is ill news indeed.’

  Midnight carried them back to Lichfield through the drizzle. The horse had picked up his master’s mood. His velvet nostrils flared and his very coat seemed to bristle with nervous anticipation. Gideon constantly scanned the horizon for signs of the gang of footpads, every sense on full alert. But if the footpads were there, invisible and watchful, they chose to remain out of sight screened by trees or hedges or stretched out at their ease at the bottom of ditches. Peter held on tight as they galloped back and he felt the tension build up in Gideon’s back each time they rode through woods and copses and afterwards his relief when they emerged unscathed.

  ‘They are out there. I can feel it in my water,’ said Gideon.

  ‘But aren’t we safe from them on horseback?’ asked Peter.

  ‘It’s easier than you might imagine for a group of men to pull over horse and rider. And the bones in a horse’s leg are not difficult to break …’ And then he quickly added: ‘Do not fear, Master Peter. Sadly, I have needed to learn how to hold my own against bad folk.’

  Peter, however, was not as scared as Gideon supposed. Why should he be, sitting on the back of this magnificent animal in the company of a man who had defeated a notorious highwayman single-handed?

  By the time they were within a mile of Lichfield the roads became much busier and Gideon felt that there was now little likelihood of attack. Midnight’s pace slowed down and they fell to talking again.

  ‘Mistress Kate suffers grievously, I think, from being wrenched from her family. Do you not feel sick for your home and your time, too?’

  ‘I do … but I don’t see so much of my family in any case. Mum and Dad work abroad a lot. Margrit, the au pair, looks after me while they are away.’

  ‘Your mother works?’

  ‘Yes. Lots of mothers work in my time.’

  ‘And yet you have a servant?’

  ‘Yes,’ answered Peter, puzzled. ‘Well, sort of. Why shouldn’t we?’

  ‘If you have the money to pay a servant, why would your mother need to work?’

  ‘She doesn’t just work for the m
oney – she likes it.’

  ‘Perhaps work is different in your time … And your servant is an Irishwoman? I like the Irish. They are always ready with a song or a jest.’

  ‘I don’t understand.’

  ‘Mistress O’ Pear. Is she Irish?’

  ‘Er … our au pair is German, if that’s what you mean … Anyway, things are different for Kate – it’s hard to explain. She comes from this big family. They’re quite close, I think. My parents have really important, stressful jobs. I guess they’re just too busy to notice me most of the time.’

  ‘I have few memories of my mother in moments of idleness,’ said Gideon kindly. ‘I think it is in the nature of things that parents are forever occupied.’ He pointed to the swallows skimming low over the fields through clouds of midges. ‘Look at the birds in search of food to feed their chicks from dawn to dusk. Parents mostly do not have the leisure to be with their children. It is why you have brothers and sisters to play with.’

  ‘I’m an only child.’

  ‘Ah …’ said Gideon. ‘Lord Luxon,’ he continued, ‘in whose employ I remained for almost seven years, was an only child. He had a father so wealthy he never knew anything but leisure. And yet his son was none the better for it.’

  ‘Was he the one you told Mrs Byng about? The man who always went to Tyburn for the hangings?’

  ‘The same. When Lord Luxon was on the verge of manhood, just a little older than you are now, his father cut open a ripe, red apple at dinner and found that a worm had eaten deep into its flesh. His father was always hard on him. Without warning, his father turned on him in a great rage and said: “You are like this apple, rotten at the core. I can never be proud of you, I doubt that I ever shall.”’