‘How be as it’s so secret, ma’am?’
‘Well, you see, dearie, it’s a long way from any high-road, running through the farmers’ fields. O’ course the farmers knows about it, but they don’t reckon to mention it, not when they finds a keg of Bergamo Water or two-three corkscrews in the hay-barn now and again. And the canal’s all grown over with may bushes, right the whole way up, so you’d hardly notice it was there. Ah, dear, in May month it surely is a pretty way to go to London, a-gliding along under the may bushes and a-listening to the nightingales sing – many’s the time I’ve done it with my Hannibal in bygone days. Well, when you find the canal, ’tis easy enough. All you’ve to do is follow along till you come up with the barge, the Gentlemen’s Relish she’s called; she doesn’t go faster than mule-pace, it shouldn’t take you that long to catch up with her. If you meet anybody, just you say Yan, Tan, Tethera, Methera, and they’ll know you’re on Gentlemen’s business and not hinder you.’
‘I’m obliged to you, ma’am. And I’ll pay back the dibs as soon as I can – or work it off helping you in the kitchen.’
‘Ah, pshaw, child, run along with you.’
Dapple was not pleased to be harnessed and ridden off along the Pulborough road on a foggy November night, but he had been well fed and rested in the stable of The Fighting Cocks. He went briskly and biddably enough, through the little village of Fittleworth, up a long hill, and then down a winding road through evergreen woods. Now Dido began to smell water; they were coming into a valley. Ahead of her the road curled around and she could just make out a narrow stone bridge spanning the misty river; on the far side glowed the lighted windows of the White Hart pub.
‘Keep on this side, Miss Sarah said. Us wants a gate, Dapple.’ Dido reined him in and walked him along, searching for a way into the water-meadows. With her head turned to the left she never heard quick soft footsteps, never heard a rope whistle through the air. The first thing she knew was that a noose dropped over her, tightening sharply and jerking her from Dapple’s back. That was the last thing she knew, too; she fell, helplessly, her head thudded against the road’s stony surface, and the dark fog seemed to rush in through her eyes, nose and ears.
The party on board the Gentlemen’s Relish was carefree enough. She was a forty-foot barge, with a galley bigger than the bar parlour of The Fighting Cocks and below that, a series of roomy holds packed now with corkscrews, orris-root, eau de cologne, eau de vie, eau de nil and Spirits of Liquorice. In fact she smelt like a mixture between a scent factory and a distillery as she glided along, drawn by Moke and Choke, a pair of mules who picked their careful way up the towpath, heads lowered to avoid the over-hanging red-berried, rusty-leaved branches of the hawthorn trees.
‘Well, yes, ’tis a bit okkerd, the hogo,’ Yan agreed when Tobit remarked on the smell. ‘That’s why we like to come canal-way, because it’s fine and far from the turnpike. In springtime, o’ course, no one’d be like to notice, because o’ the scent o’ the may-blow, but at this time o’ year it is a bit remarkable.’
There were five Wineberry Men on the boat, looking after cargo and navigation: Yan, Tan, Tethera and Methera (who were brothers) and Pimp, recently rescued from jail. The other five, Yan explained, did the ten-shilling run from the sea to the Cuckoo Tree.
‘But o’course we all shares the profits; ’tis a grand steady line o’ trade.’
‘Don’t you have adventures?’ said Tobit, disappointed.
‘Not if we can help it, my duck,’ said Yan, grinning. ‘That’s why we keeps the paddlequacks, see?’ Tobit and Cris had wondered why there were so many ducks on board: half a dozen different families, all with broods of lanky pin-feathered ducklings. ‘There be naught to equal a paddlequack for a night-watchman; rouse up if a stranger comes within a hundred yards, they will.’
‘What do you do then?’ Tobit asked, all agog.
‘Why, we rummage off, right smart – up the bank and away.’
‘And just leave the boat and cargo?’ Tobit thought this very poor-spirited. ‘I’d stay and fight!’
‘Nay, that’d be right ardle-headed,’ remonstrated Tethera, a bony red-head, who spoke little but seemed extremely devoted to, and popular with the ducks: whenever he sat down, as many as could find room came and perched on him. ‘What’s the ship what’s the cargo? Uncle Samson, in Appledram Camber, he’d allus fettle us up another barge, and we can allus get us another cargo; but it ain’t so easy to get another us.’
A slow smile broke over the face of Cris. She, like Tethera, played littled part in the long, lazy conversations, but she enjoyed listening, and the ducks had taken to her at once, too; she had a brood of particoloured ducklings now, scrabbling for the warm place under her chin. Bunches of red-leaved thorn twigs and swags of golden bracken were fastened thickly all over the decks and cabin of the Gentlemen’s Relish to help her merge into the background as she floated along. Cris and the ducks had burrowed themselves a kind of nest in the bracken, and there they were all snuggled together in the mild November sun.
Pimp and Tethera jumped ashore and mounted Moke and Choke (whose real names were Mercy and Charity) to encourage them to amble along a little faster. Tan and Methera went below to re-stow some of the corkscrew cargo, which had worked loose and was clanking. Yan sat in the stern, steering when it was needful, playing on his devil’s box, or harmonium, in between times, and softly singing old songs: ‘The Milkmaid of Wisborough Green’, ‘Sweet Sally of Smock Alley’ and a very aged ditty that seemed to consist principally of the words:
‘Eh! how they do bound about
At Roundabout.’
‘How about a game of cat’s-cradle?’ Tobit said to Cris.
She nodded, and pulled a length of string from her pocket. They had hardly spoken since leaving Dido. After coming aboard the previous evening, they, with the rest of the crew, had been busy for a couple of hours, fastening down the cargo; then Yan had shown them a pair of sweet-scented little cabins between the orris-root and the eau de cologne, where they had slept in bracken-lined bunks, until called on deck for a breakfast of brown bread, scrambled duck eggs and liquorice tea.
After they had been playing for a while, Tobit said, ‘D’you know what? It’s our birthday!’
‘So it is!’
‘We’re of age!’
They both thought this very funny. Cris, leaning back and looking up at the gleams of sunshine coming through as they moved along under the red hawthorn leaves, said,
‘I didn’t even know what coming-of-age meant, this time last week.’
Presently Tobit said, ‘Do you remember me at all?’
She shook her head.
‘Or the place where we were born?’
‘No.’
‘I didn’t think I did, but since I’ve seen you I’m beginning to. I can remember a pair of big iron gates, and two rows of trees with moss on them. There was a fountain.’
‘Why,’ said Cris slowly, ‘so there was. And a big white house with balconies – wasn’t there a sandy track under the trees? They used to put us there in our wicker cradles – ’
‘That’s right!’ said Tobit excitedly. ‘And once – there was a snake in the sand – ’
‘And our father came and killed it!’
‘He was a big man with a black beard.’
‘He used to sing – he used to sing a song about the moon and a mocking-bird,’ said Cris, frowning with effort as she dragged the memory from some nearly closed cupboard in her mind. Then she added rather slowly, ‘Can you remember our mother?’
Tobit thought for a minute.
‘A yellow dress?’
‘Yes! And a necklace of big orange beads. I used to bite them when my gums were sore.’
‘Father used to hold us both at the same time, one in each arm.’
‘Oh,’ said Cris – she was crying a bit – ‘what happened to them? Why aren’t they here?’
‘There was a storm – a very bad storm.’
‘So t
here was. First it was hot – and a lot of crabs came – ’
‘And the wind blew like a scream that went on and on.’
‘All the trees fell down.’
‘The house fell down too.’
‘I don’t want to remember any more.’ Cris rubbed her eyes. ‘It’s too miserable.’
‘They got killed in the storm,’ Tobit said soberly. ‘I can remember someone saying. They were out in the carriage. We were in the cellar with Tante Sannie so we were all right.’
‘Horrible old Tante Sannie. Why didn’t I remember that?’
‘She wasn’t horrible then. It was only in England that she turned horrible.’
‘We used to have a parrot that sat on a perch.’
‘That’s right – so we did! Mother used to give it bits of orange-peel.’
‘Father named it when someone gave it to us – he called it – ’
‘Polyglot!’ said Tobit triumphantly. They beamed at one another. Then, remembering something Tethera had said half an hour before, he added, ‘I tell you what, Cris, it’s miserable that Father and Mother were killed in the storm but aren’t we lucky to have found us?’
Dido was unconscious a long time. When she began to take notice again, she found that she was lying on a damp stone floor listening to voices which apparently were discussing her future.
‘Polish off the little canker, I say. Drop her in the river,’ suggested one voice, which Dido recognized with little enthusiasm as that of Mrs Lubbage.
‘Is much best,’ agreed Tante Sannie’s voice. ‘Isn’t no more trouble from her then.’
‘Here, hold hard!’ protested a man – Dido’s father. ‘The individual you allude to in this utilitarian way is my only chick – the last living sprig on the Tree of Twite. Consider a father’s feelings, I beg!’
‘Does she know about the Wren’s Nest?’ That was Colonel FitzPickwick.
‘She says not. She appears ignorant of the matter.’
‘So, once that meddlesome Captain’s Dispatch is destroyed, she can’t give warning?’
‘No.’
‘Oh well, in that case, all we need to do is leave her trussed up here for two days – that will serve our turn. Wind an extra length of cord about her wrists and secure her to the pillar.’
Dido was dragged a few feet across gritty ground; her wrists were jerked out in front of her and made fast to a post. Nevertheless she went on resolutely keeping her eyes shut.
At this moment she heard footsteps.
‘Who’s that?’ said Colonel FitzPickwick sharply. ‘Oh, it’s you, Godwit. What kept you, man? Have you the levers – the machinery? Are you ready to start?’
‘No I haven’t, and I’m not, and I’m not coming,’ replied a thin, dry voice – Dido instantly recalled the wrinkled little ironmonger and conspirator in his rimless glasses.
‘What’s that? Not coming? What the deuce has got into you? Explain yourself, man!’
‘I supplied rollers as per specification. I installed them by night, encountering difficulties which would make – which would make a camel weep,’ said Godwit. ‘Have I been paid? I have not – bar a mere pittance. Now you ask me to do this other job which is a difficult job and a highly risky job. Very well, I say. Where’s the money for the rollers? Where’s the money for the next job? Any more work I undertake on behalf of you and your colleagues is strictly cash in advance.’
Colonel FitzPickwick let out an oath.
‘I tell you, Godwit, the money’s as good as in the bank. Tegleaze has gone to sell the miniature to the Margrave of Bad Fallingoff. He will be back any time this next seven days.’
‘That wasn’t what I heard,’ said Godwit. ‘I heard as how he’d scarpered from the Angel leaving his luggage and without paying his score, and it was thought he’d pocketed the Tegleaze Luck-piece and gone back to the Americas. That’s the talk in the town.’
‘Rubbish, man!’ Colonel FitzPickwick spoke with forced confidence. ‘Twite here will say that’s a pack of moonshine, won’t you, Twite? You’ll pay the score at the Angel, won’t you, Twite?’
‘Not pesky likely!’ replied Mr Twite. ‘What, when that unfeeling Mystery required me to sleep in the stable along with those heathen mannikins – me, an artist on the hoboy as has played before all the margraves and pagraves of Europe in my palmier days? No, if Mystery has really snudged off I’m clearing off too – unless you’re wishful to pay the month’s wages he owed me, Colonel?’
‘Don’t be ridiculous, man. Of course you will be paid in full when our cause triumphs.’
‘If I had an ounce of flour for every time I’d heard that,’ muttered Twite, ‘I’d be able to make a birthday cake the size of the Houses of Parliament. No, friends and colleagues, this is where Twite says good night. I like plots as is carried on business-like and money down; none o’ this havey-cavey cabbing around on credit. You a-going back to Petworth, Mr Godwit? I’ll ask the favour of a lift in your conveyance.’
There was a long silence after the two men had left.
The Colonel began cursing in an undertone. ‘Flay, spike and hamstring that Mystery. I wonder if he has made off with the Luck-piece. If so, what’ll we do? By the great Coolin, it’s enough to make a man become a – a fishmonger: to have the whole project so near coming off, and then to be at a stand for want of a bit of motive-power!’
‘Me and Sannie could do your little job for you, Colonel,’ said Mrs Lubbage softly. ‘Us doesn’t need all that gurt old machinery and levers. All us needs is folk, hey, Sannie?’
Sannie didn’t answer in words, but she gave a little chuckle that made Dido’s hair prickle.
‘Could you now?’ said the Colonel thoughtfully. ‘Could you really?’
‘Ah, we could! We could make a right avick as’d finish off King Dick for ye once and for all. And the only pay we’d want’d be a passage to Tiburon – ’
‘On a great white ship a-sailing, sailing – ’
‘Over the white waves and the black waves – ’
‘With us a-wrapped in silk satin – ’
‘Well, well, I daresay that could be arranged without undue trouble,’ the Colonel said hastily.
‘It better had,’ Mrs Lubbage muttered. ‘Or who’s to say our fine Colonel won’t end up in the same mizmaze as old piecrust-promises Mystery?’
‘What’s that, you old hag?’ the Colonel said sharply. ‘What do you know about Mystery?’
‘Why, nothing, Colonel, nothing! He be in Bad Fallingoff, you said so your own self!’
‘Humph!’ the Colonel grunted, sounding only half satisfied. ‘Well, wherever he is, we had best start for London without delay. There is no time to be lost. I left my carriage at the White Hart yonder. I’ll tell them to set-to new horses, and will expect you in ten minutes.’
‘Us’ll have to go back to Petworth, Colonelmister,’ said Sannie. ‘For to get Mystery’s mannikin box.’
‘What d’you want that for? How do you know he has not taken it with him?’
‘He not take it, no, no,’ Sannie said chuckling. ‘He not need mannikins where he be now, in Bad Fallingoff. Those mannikins a-waiting in Angel stable, a-lying so still. Those mannikins like to play new game, old Sannie teach to play new game.’
Lying on the wet stone floor Dido was cold already, but Sannie’s tone made her feel even colder.
‘Right: back to Petworth and pick up the puppets. What about the girl – should she not be gagged?’
‘No need. Old Sannie put her to sleep directly.’
Oh no you don’t, missus, Dido thought.
‘Ten minutes, then.’ The Colonel left.
‘Open eyes, dearie! Old Sannie knows you not be asleep.’
Despite her intention not to, Dido opened her eyes.
She was in a curious little octagonal room, quite bare and empty. It had small windows in each of its eight walls, and an iron pillar in the middle, to which she was tied. Beyond the open door she could see weeping willows, and the river flowin
g. But in the front of her stood Mrs Lubbage and Tante Sannie with their four eyes fixed on her like four glittering metal skewers.
‘Now, miss!’ The face of Mr Lubbage was red and shiny and gleeful. She looked as if she had been given a splendid birthday present. ‘Where’s Cris and Tobit? You’d best tell us or you’ll be turble sorry, I can promise ee.’
‘That I won’t!’ said Dido stoutly. But her heart sank at the expression on their faces.
‘You like spiders?’ Sannie asked softly. ‘You like spiders come and climb on you?’
Spiders happened to be things that Dido particularly disliked. But she shrugged, in what she hoped was an indifferent manner.
Crouched in front of Dido, wrapped in her black-and-white blanket, old Sannie looked like the Queen of the Spiders herself. She reached out a tiny, bony, furry arm, flicking her fingers sideways in front of Dido’s face, and Dido felt something tickle her cheek: a thread of spider-web had caught and attached itself crossways. With her hands tied, she could not rub it away; she moved her head, trying to dislodge it.
‘Now another!’ whispered Sannie, and moved her hand upwards; a thread crossed Dido’s eye and stuck to her eyelash.
‘Now one for the other eye,’ chuckled Mrs Lubbage, and drew her hand across Dido’s face so that five tendrils of sticky thread, one from each finger it seemed, clutched and clung simultaneously.
‘Stop it, you old witches!’ Dido shouted angrily.
‘Weren’t it for you,’ crooned Mrs Lubbage, drawing another handful of spider-webs along Dido’s cheek and round the back of her neck, ‘weren’t it for you, Miss Fine-Airs, we’d be sailing to Tiburon on a white ship this minute. You don’t like spiders, eh?’
‘I don’t mind ’em, I tell you.’
‘Oh, so you don’t mind ’em dearie? Well – before your eyes is all matted over with black webs – jest you have a look by the wall there, eh?’
By the wall there seemed to be a heaving mass of things about the size of bantams’ eggs, each with a pair of tiny red eyes, all looking at Dido.
‘Take your nasty little cold claw off’n the back of my neck, will you, Missus Sannie?’ Dido said politely, quelling a horrible heave of her heart. ‘Yan, Tan, Tethera,’ she said to herself, ‘Methera, Pimp, Sethera, Wineberry, Wagtail, Tarry-diddle and Den! It’s all a load of hocus-pocus. There’s nothing by the wall but a pile o’ dead leaves.’