Gideon the Cutpurse

  ‘I have already wagered that one of our brave contestants will be the first to finish – but I shall not admit which one I favour! I have had brought up from my stables in Surrey these two racing horses which I see you have all had the chance to admire. Magnificent creatures, the pair of them, as I am sure you will agree, both sired by a champion of Arab blood. And so, without more ado, ladies and gentlemen, it remains for me to introduce the contestants and for them to choose their horse! Please raise your glasses to Mr Seymour and Blueskin!’

  On cue, Gideon and the Tar Man emerged from the hall and stood on the step next to Lord Luxon who put an arm around each shoulder. The small crowd cheered and clapped.

  ‘What a monster!’ Peter heard Sir Richard say under his breath.

  Peter wondered if he referred to Lord Luxon or the Tar Man. Then Lord Luxon took a golden guinea from the pocket of his waistcoat.

  ‘Heads or tails, gentlemen?’

  ‘Heads,’ said the Tar Man.

  ‘Very well, tails,’ replied Gideon.

  Lord Luxon tossed the coin high into the air. It spun several times, catching the sun’s rays as it did so. It fell into Lord Luxon’s outstretched palm, he slapped it onto his wrist and lifted up his hand to reveal the golden guinea.

  ‘Heads’ he declared. ‘Which horse do you choose, Blueskin? Black or white?’

  ‘Black, my Lord,’ replied the Tar Man and then, putting his face right up to his adversary’s, continued, ‘Black, eh, Gideon, like my heart …!’

  There was general laughter but those of Lord Luxon’s friends who had placed bets on Gideon booed good-humouredly.

  ‘You have made a poor choice of animal, Blueskin,’ responded Gideon, ‘for the white is the stronger horse, although in the circumstances I should be the last to complain …’

  Peter and Kate whooped, which provoked a raised eyebrow from Sir Richard, while the rest of the party, along with several of the fops, cheered heartily. ‘Huzzah!’ they cried. ‘Huzzah!’ The Tar Man’s supporters booed. Jack thought all this was great fun.

  Two footmen now appeared in the doorway carrying a long-case clock which they placed with the utmost care on the top step.

  ‘It is now five and half past,’ declared Lord Luxon. ‘The inimitable Mr De Courcy, here, has agreed to officiate and will start the race on the stroke of six o’clock.’

  The macaroni who had hissed at the Parson stepped forward and bowed low to the crowd with a flourish of his handkerchief.

  ‘Gentlemen, may the best man win!’

  Then Lord Luxon climbed into the coach and six and with the crack of a whip the carriage thundered away towards the Thames and, twenty-five miles to the south-west, Tempest House. Lord Luxon’s lace handkerchief fluttered from the window as his carriage disappeared out of sight. A boy, dressed in the same ornate livery as the driver, stood at the rear of the carriage, one hand in his pocket. He looked over at Peter and Kate but quickly turned away when his gaze was returned as if he were ashamed to be seen. Suddenly Kate realised who it was.

  ‘Tom! It’s Tom!’ she said to Peter. ‘I can’t believe it! He must have taken the Tar Man up on his offer!’

  ‘I guess it’s difficult saying no to the Tar Man. I wonder which is worse, being a member of the Carrick Gang or becoming the Tar Man’s apprentice?’

  ‘Poor Tom. Maybe he’ll escape one day,’ said Kate. ‘I hope so. I liked him.’

  ‘Even after what he did?’

  ‘Well, he didn’t have a lot of choice, did he? And he did try to help us.’

  While they waited for the race to begin, Sir Richard, always the diplomat, had gone over to talk with Lord Luxon’s friends. He was having an animated conversation with De Courcy who made dramatic gestures with his hands to emphasise every point that he made. Peter and Kate moved towards the rest of their party who were now clustered around the proud white horse, patting its neck and feeding it blades of fresh green grass. As they drew closer, the Parson asked Kate to stand next to Hannah in front of the animal so that he could discreetly examine its hooves. Being able to function as a moveable screen was, thought Kate, perhaps one of the very few advantages of wearing a skirt the width of a sofa. She stood with her back to the horse, pretending to take an interest in the macaronies’ antics and listening to the grunts and groans of the Parson. ‘Damn his eyes!’ she heard him say. Finally he stood up and Kate turned around. He was angry and red in the face.

  ‘I knew it! Some villainous fellow – and I can guess who – has put a nail in the hoof. Skilfully done, too. All but invisible – had I not pulled it out the beast would have been lame after ten miles.’

  Kate had never seen Gideon look so furious and she watched him as his eyes searched the crowd for the Tar Man. He spotted him and sprang up with the intention, Kate was sure, of challenging him. The Parson stopped him.

  ‘Trust me, Mr Seymour, say nothing for the time being. Let him think that you are unlikely to get beyond Richmond. I have a happy idea. Sidney, why do you not regale our friends with an amusing story while I attend to a small matter.’

  The Parson then laughed affectedly and said loud enough for everyone to hear: ‘Very droll, Sidney, very droll. Come, Jack, you wanted to see the ducks.’

  Then he caught hold of Jack’s hand and walked into the park. Hannah hurried after them. Peter and Kate exchanged looks. What on earth, thought Peter, is the Parson up to? Sidney did as he was asked and told them his best stories about Parson Ledbury. Even Gideon, who was preoccupied with the race, burst out laughing when he heard how the Parson had attempted to set light to damp firewood in the drawing room at Baslow Hall by using gunpowder and ended up destroying the chimney.

  Soon they saw the Parson returning with Hannah and Jack. He walked straight up to the Tar Man and offered him his hand. The Tar Man eyed him suspiciously.

  ‘To the victor the spoils!’ Parson Ledbury said. ‘May the best man win!’

  The Tar Man slowly took his hand and shook it.

  ‘Thank you, Parson. I have no doubt that the best man will win …’

  Parson Ledbury stroked the stallion’s black neck and stood back for a moment to admire its physique.

  ‘Dashed fine horse, sir, dashed fine. I do not mind admitting that I have never seen a prettier piece of horse flesh in my life. Were it not for the fact that you are riding it, Blueskin, I might be tempted to put ten guineas on him.’

  The Tar Man threw back his head and laughed and the Parson’s attention was taken by his scar.

  ‘You would offend good Mr Seymour if you did, Parson, for you must know that he does not approve of gambling …’

  ‘Pish pash! Life is too short to deprive oneself of such small pleasures,’ he replied. ‘But, tell me, for I am curious, that handsome scar of yours, Blueskin, it bears all the marks of an encounter with a sabre. Did you perchance earn it in His Majesty’s service?’

  ‘Most of my acquaintance know better than to make personal comments of that nature,’ the Tar Man replied, allowing a menacing smile to linger awhile on his lips. ‘But I have taken a fancy to you, Parson Ledbury, so I shall tell you the truth about my scar, as you might appreciate the irony of it. This is how I got my war wound. I was sent to fetch my brother in from the barn where he was playing. I was nearly grown by then but he was still very young, scarcely able to talk. I found him perched on top of a cart, whirling around and around with a scythe my father used for cutting hay. It was too heavy for him and he lost his grip. I watched it flying through the air towards me. I dived to one side which no doubt saved my life but it still cut me deep as the scar bears witness. My brother ran back to his mother without knowing what he had done. They did not find me until the next morning and, when they did, would not believe my story, so convinced were they that it was my appetite for fighting that was responsible for my injuries …’

  ‘Did you find it in your heart to forgive your brother?’ asked the Parson.

  ‘Forgive him? I should rather thank him. This scar is eloquen
t. It promises much, does it not? It strikes terror into the souls of those who would cross me – little do they know that it is the work of one who had not seen his third birthday … However, he is dead, as are the rest of my brothers and sisters. The fever took them all or so I am told …’

  ‘I am sorry for it,’ said the Parson. ‘That must have been a grievous blow, indeed.’

  ‘No. My family felt no great tenderness towards me and I returned their feelings …’

  The Parson did not know what to reply so said nothing.

  Jack was feeding the black stallion with the last of a large bunch of grass they had brought back from the park. He looked up at the Tar Man and asked: ‘Is it on account of your brother that you cannot hold your neck straight?’

  The question caused all of the Tar Man’s good humour to drop from his face and the Parson realised the child had overstepped the mark. He hastily lifted Jack onto his shoulders.

  ‘Well,’ he said, ‘I shall take my leave of you, Blueskin, and shall await news of the race with bated breath.’

  The Parson strode away with a huge grin on his face. Hannah and Jack, too, looked very pleased with themselves as they rejoined the party trying to look as casual as they could.

  Sir Richard, who had managed to extricate himself from the excitable Mr De Courcy, said: ‘Something’s afoot. What is the cause of such merriment …?’

  The Parson was chuckling too much to speak and covered his face with a handkerchief. Hannah spoke for him.

  ‘Someone had put a nail in the hoof of Gideon’s horse. If the Parson had not found it the poor animal would have been lame within a matter of miles.’

  ‘But we must inform De Courcy!’ exclaimed Sir Richard. ‘This is shocking!’

  The Parson stopped laughing and shook his head violently.

  ‘We must do no such thing! Let them think the horse will go lame – it will give Gideon the advantage …’

  ‘The Parson is a good horse doctor,’ continued Hannah. ‘He always treats our horses when they get sick at Baslow Hall. He has found a herb in the park which will cure all manner of minor ailments when taken in very small quantities. Taken in larger quantities it is liable to make a horse’s bowels a little irritable for some hours afterwards …’

  ‘You mean …’ said Kate.

  Hannah nodded. Kate tried hard to keep her face straight. Neither Sir Richard nor Gideon looked at all pleased.

  ‘Well,’ said Sir Richard. ‘It’s too late to do anything now. I am going to ride to Tempest House myself in the interests of fair play – although it seems that we are not playing by the rules ourselves …’

  Sir Richard climbed into his two-seater carriage and took hold of the reins.

  ‘Until tonight!’ he cried to the party and then, to Gideon, ‘May God be with you, my friend!’

  The carriage moved off. Suddenly Kate caught hold of Peter’s arm.

  ‘One of us should be there, too,’ she exclaimed. ‘How will Sir Richard know if it’s the anti-gravity machine? Quick, Peter, run after him – I’ll never catch him in this stupid dress.’

  Without even bothering to reply, Peter raced after Sir Richard in his carriage.

  ‘Sir Richard! Sir Richard!’ he cried.

  ‘Whoah!’ called Sir Richard to the two chestnut mares.

  The horses slowed down just long enough for Peter to leap up. He turned around in his seat and waved back at Kate.

  ‘Good luck!’ she shouted.

  Kate sighed. She would have liked to have gone, too. Clothes in this century, she thought, have a lot to answer for.

  As the clock struck six Gideon and the Tar Man mounted their steeds and the flamboyant Mr De Courcy pointed his pistol to the sky.

  ‘On your marks, gentlemen,’ he cried, striking a pose. ‘On the count of three! One! Two! Three!’

  With a whiff of gunpowder and an ear-splitting blast that echoed around St James’s Park, De Courcy discharged his pistol, sending both the riders and a small flock of starlings on their way. The black and white stallions plunged into a headlong gallop. Kate watched Gideon’s white shirt billowing in the breeze and saw the Tar Man crack his whip once and then crack it again – only this time Gideon nearly lost his seat and clutched at his shoulder.

  ‘He struck Gideon!’ she cried.

  There were boos but also some cheers. Kate’s spirits sank. Was Gideon a match for the Tar Man? It suddenly struck her that if Gideon did not win back the anti-gravity machine, she might never see her family again. The two riders disappeared into the distance and the crowd went eerily silent. The race had begun and there was nothing she could do now but wait.

  Sir Richard had hoped that his carriage would catch and outrun Lord Luxon’s heavy coach and six but he had not counted on him procuring fresh horses on Richmond Hill. As Sir Richard’s horses tired, the gap between them grew gradually wider again and soon Peter lost sight of the shiny black carriage with Tom perched on top, barely recognisable in his smart new uniform. Sir Richard took the main Portsmouth Road through Esher and on to Cobham, a route which he knew because of his frequent visits to Mr Hamilton’s pleasure gardens at Painshill Park. By midday they had reached Effingham where they asked for directions to Tempest House. They spoke little as Sir Richard needed to concentrate to avoid hitting any stone or pothole which could, at this rattling speed, tip over the lightweight two-seater. Yet the silence between them was an easy one and Peter enjoyed seeing the countryside flying past them as they hurtled over the rough roads.

  Half an hour’s ride beyond Effingham, amidst rolling hills and lightly wooded valleys, they caught their first glimpse of Tempest House. It was set in landscaped grounds that afforded views of a large lake and lush fields dotted with sheep as far as the eye could see. It was, as Gideon had described it, a great estate and the house itself was perhaps five times the size of Baslow Hall.

  In the circumstances Sir Richard was reluctant to impose on Lord Luxon’s hospitality and decided to wait for the two contenders outside the tall iron gates at the head of the tree-lined drive to Tempest House. Sir Richard predicted that the wait would not be a long one but he was wrong. An hour went by, then two, and they started to become concerned. They saw, from a distance, tiny figures emerge on a balcony at the top of Tempest House and they guessed that Lord Luxon was scanning the landscape with his eyeglass.

  It was hot and flies buzzed around the horses. They had drunk all the water and had nothing to do but pace up and down the country lane leading to the house. Peter’s eyes ached from focussing on the horizon for so long. At half past three they heard the sound of horses galloping up the drive. There were three riders, one of whom they recognised as Lord Luxon.

  ‘I’ll warrant they’ve spotted something,’ said Sir Richard.

  They climbed back into the carriage and drove a little way down the lane. Peter screwed up his eyes against the sun and then he saw it – a tiny white speck in the far distance.

  ‘It’s Gideon!’ shouted Peter. ‘Gideon’s won!’

  ‘The Lord be praised!’ said Sir Richard, letting out a huge sigh of relief. ‘I was beginning to fear the worst.’

  The tiny white speck approached at a snail’s pace.

  ‘Why is it taking him so long?’ asked Peter.

  Sir Richard did not answer but the look of relief was turning into an expression of concern. Peter wanted to ride to meet him but Sir Richard was anxious that they could be accused of helping Gideon. He did not want to give Lord Luxon any excuse to disqualify him. They looked behind them and saw that Lord Luxon and his attendants had stopped at the iron gates – he raised his hand in greeting but did not approach them.

  Finally the white horse came close enough for them to see. At first they feared that the horse was riderless. Then they saw that Gideon was slumped over his horse’s neck.

  As he passed in front of them Peter shouted: ‘Gideon! You’re here! You’ve made it to Tempest House!’

  ‘What ails you, Gideon?’ called out Sir Richa
rd.

  Gideon lifted his head a couple of inches and shook it from side to side. He started to come to his senses. He glanced over at Peter and tried to smile – but he had a badly cut lip and a black eye and when he pushed himself up he winced and clutched his side.

  ‘Oh no!’ exclaimed Peter. ‘What happened?’

  ‘Forgive me, Master Peter, I did what I could. I was winning for much of the race but Blueskin knew a shortcut in Abinger Forest and decided to even the odds.’

  ‘What did he do?’

  ‘He pulled me off my horse and left me in the woods. I am not badly hurt – mainly my pride. I should have been on my guard against such a thing. I was lucky – Blueskin drove off my horse but he is a faithful animal and he came back for me. How long ago did he arrive?’

  ‘The Tar Man, you mean?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘He hasn’t!’

  ‘Blueskin has not arrived?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Then I have won?’

  ‘Yes, Gideon,’ shouted Sir Richard. ‘You have won!’

  Suddenly Gideon found the strength he thought had failed him and he dug in his heels and urged the white horse forwards.

  ‘It looks like the Parson’s horse medicine worked!’ said Peter, keeping his voice low.

  ‘And it seems that you are to have your anti-gravity machine after all!’ said Sir Richard. ‘I wish Mistress Kate were here to witness Gideon’s triumph!’

  They all followed Gideon as he rode past the iron gates and acknowledged Lord Luxon.

  ‘Well done, indeed, Gideon!’ they heard him shout. ‘I have won my wager. To the crypt!’

  They continued some little way up the country lane and soon they reached a small, stone church. Everyone dismounted and walked through the churchyard towards an imposing crypt bearing the Luxon’s family crest. Holding himself very stiffly on account of his bruised ribs, Gideon walked to the door and placed his hand on it. There was a smattering of applause.

  ‘What kept you so long, Gideon?’ asked Lord Luxon. ‘I have been waiting these three hours past to claim my winnings! I see that you have defended yourself against Blueskin. He lives, I take it?’