Naturally enough she was precocious and grown-up before her time. Harriet tended to sit on her, so that an initial prejudice on Ursula’s part against the newcomer had quickly been confirmed. This was a pity from George’s point of view, who wanted his new wife to be popular with everyone at Cardew and saw the purpose, in theory, of Harriet’s aims. (Yet by blood and by instinct he found himself, in practice, almost always taking Ursula’s side in petty disagreements.) But he still felt it would become more comfortable between them when they came to understand each other better; and the fact that all Harriet’s animals adored Ursula – and vice versa – was bound to be a reconciling factor in the end.
One thing that delighted him was that the little girl was outstandingly quick at figures. When she was seven she had opened a sweet shop for her dolls, and had kept an account in large childish figures recording how much each spent per week. At twelve George had bought her a model tin mine built by a crippled miner at Wheal Spinster. Erected on three-foot stilts in her playroom, everything worked except that the engine sucking up real water had to be animated by a manually operated handle. There were little miners underground, bending in tunnels and picking in caverns, waterwheels and tin stamps, washing floors, air adits, even imitation coal. A few months after it was installed George was particularly gratified to find that Ursula had opened a cost book and was drawing up her own make-believe accounts, striking bargains with the miners and paying out dividends.
Ursula was annoyed that Harriet wouldn’t be a shareholder.
‘She should go to school, George,’ Harriet said one day when they left the nursery. ‘Lord’s my life, I have little room for the genteelisms that are taught as standard at most of these Schools for Young Ladies; but she needs more company of her own age, more competition, a certain levity of manner that comes from mixing with frivolous girls. Also a smattering of French would do her no harm. But most of all, to get out is the important thing.’
‘She is often out,’ George said stiffly. ‘And she has one or two young friends. I don’t believe she will be that much the better for mixing with the daughters of tradesmen.’
‘Send her to Mrs Hemple’s,’ said Harriet. ‘She opened a select school in Truro last July. I do not suppose that the girls she meets there will do her any social harm.’
In Harriet’s view, Ursula badly needed to be jolted out of herself. Apart from riding, which she did frequently but badly, she had none of the cheerful feckless pastimes common to girls of thirteen. Harriet had once been tempted to suggest sardonically to George that a suitable marriage might be arranged for Ursula by pairing her off with that stout sweaty spectacled schoolboy called Conan Whitworth, but consideration for the safety of her own marriage had prevented her.
It was January 12 when Valentine left for the Lent term at St John’s, which began on the seventeenth. He had to make a very early start and came to take leave of his parents while they were still abed. He was in very good spirits and kissed his stepmother with his usual familiarity, resting fingertips gently on her bare shoulder as he did so.
‘You look tired to begin the day,’ said Harriet.
‘It is an ungodly hour, ma’am, and I was up until an ungodly hour last eve. Tired but happy, I might say.’
Harriet raised an ironical eyebrow. ‘Not happy to be gone, I trust?’
‘That was not what I meant.’
‘No, it was not what I thought you meant.’
Valentine said: ‘“Did you ever hear of Colonel Wattle? He was all for love and little for the bottle?” A noble song, that. I give you good morning, stepmother mine.’
She uttered her low chuckling laugh as he left the room.
Sir George was sitting in his dressing-gown. Valentine greeted him cheerfully. One thing about the boy: he never was sulky.
‘Well, Papa, I leave you to take a little rest and peace after the noise and turmoil I have brought to the house.’
‘You certainly have been a disturbing influence,’ George said candidly. ‘But it is no doubt good to be high-spirited in youth. And I think you have given pleasure to Lady Harriet.’
‘Among others,’ said Valentine. ‘Among others. And thank you, Father, I have taken much pleasure myself.’
‘It remains for you now, then,’ said George, ‘to pursue your studies at Cambridge with some diligence. Though I am not sure that the subjects you are studying . . .’
‘Various things are obligatory if one wishes to read Classics later.’
‘Ah well, it is all something of a mystery to me. But the dead languages offer, or seem to me to offer, little opportunity to pursue the subjects which will best serve you when you come down.’
‘I think perhaps I should have been sent somewhere else to learn bookkeeping.’
George looked at him suspiciously, but Valentine’s manner was so cheerful that he concluded no sarcasm was intended.
‘Well, goodbye, Papa. I will endeavour to live beyond my means, but dodge the creditors so skilfully that you will not be troubled.’
They shook hands, and Valentine left. George reflected that there might have been time even this morning to hint at some of the plans he had for his son; but concluded it was better not. Next time when he came home it would be Easter; there would not be the same excuse for endless parties and most of the damned hunting would be over. They would be sure to get an evening together.
In fact George need not have concerned himself in the matter of choosing a right time, for Valentine already knew of the arrangement proposed for him. Conan Whitworth had taken the first opportunity to inform him.
Chapter Seven
The Self-Defence – Elegant Light Post Coach, as it described itself – left the Royal Hotel, Plymouth, each weekday at 8 a.m., reaching the New Hotel, Falmouth, the same evening at 8.30 p.m. On the way it called at the London Inn, Torpoint, the King’s Arms, Liskeard, the Talbot Inn, Lostwithiel, the White Hart, St Austell, and Pearce’s Hotel in Truro. It travelled with two coachmen and an armed guard, had accommodation for four travellers inside and eight outside. In view of the hard times such enterprises were enduring (though it did not say this in the advertisements) the price of the journey was reduced to £1.10s. inside and £1 outside, with lesser distances proportionate. No more than two pieces of hand baggage were permitted per person.
On Monday, January 25, everything was as usual. The coachmen were called Marshall and Stevens, the guard Blight. All four places were reserved: two were to join in Plymouth, the Reverend Arthur May and Mrs May, two in Torpoint, Lieutenant Morgan Lean, RN and a Mr George Jewell. The Revd and Mrs May were booked right through to Falmouth, Lieutenant Lean to St Austell, Mr Jewell to Truro.
It was a bright sunny day when the vehicle set off, a cobalt sky and a north-westerly breeze edging a few clouds before it. The gold-painted coach looked very smart, as did the coachmen and the guard in their scarlet coats and high black hats with gold hatbands. They rattled over the cobbles through the narrow, already busy streets of the town, the long horn blown shrilly to announce their coming. People were reluctant to edge out of their way: milkmaids, girls with baskets of shrimps, slatternly women dragging ragged children, an old man with a herd of goats, a one-legged beggar in a sailor hat, red-coated soldiers leaning and yawning, dogs fighting, and down an alley a donkey braying, stout townsmen in dark suits, then more and more sailors as they neared the docks; in the wind a smell of putrid fish.
There was already a slight blemish on the day in that, even as she left the inn, it was clear that the clergyman’s wife was feeling unwell. She clung to her husband’s arm and held a handkerchief to her mouth. The Reverend Mr May implied that she was suffering in the early stages of pregnancy and asked, if it should become necessary, that they might be permitted to draw up the blinds of the coach. This was readily acceded to, for it was not an uncommon custom to do this in foul weather or over bad roads where flying stones might shatter the glass. The Revd Arthur May was a tall thin man of perhaps forty, with a fresh complexi
on but greying hair, and heavy steel-rimmed spectacles. His sight was clearly not of the best, for he stumbled in getting into the coach. His wife was also quite tall, with pronounced dark features under a transparent white veil. She was very gracious to the coachman who handed her in.
The ferry carrying the coach crossed the Hamoaze, threading its way through a forest of masts: brigs, frigates, cutters, ketches, intermingled with great battleships of the line; two first-raters being re-fitted, a half-dozen double-deckers of different size and rating. The masts and rigging were like trellis, intermingling and glittering in the winter sun. Plymouth Dock was one of the main arsenals of British sea power. From here and from a half-dozen other such ports Britannia ruled the waves. Everyone except Mrs May got down to point out and admire.
Presently they were across and drawing up at the London Inn. Here the four outside passengers were joined by three others, and Lieutenant Morgan Lean arrived, a youngish powerful-looking naval officer with a white wig and heavy black eyebrows; but Mr Stevenitt, the landlord of the inn, had had a message from Mr Jewell that he would not be joining the coach until Dobwalls or Liskeard. Until then they must retain his seat.
So, a little before nine, the coach set off on its first substantial stage. This was the longest stretch of all, and with some of the steepest hills to be negotiated. Mrs May had not alighted from the coach at Torpoint, but a glass of brandy had been taken in to her. After a few miles the mahogany panels were drawn up to shut out the light and the view. It seemed a pity on such a fine day, for they were jogging and jolting among the lovely tidal creeks round Antony and Sheviock.
As soon as the blinds were up the Revd Arthur May looped off his spectacles.
‘By God, I can scarcely see! I should have borrowed something with weaker lenses.’
‘Did everything go to plan?’ asked Lieutenant Lean.
‘Seems so. And you?’
‘Aye. I suppose you saw the cash-boxes loaded?’
Mrs May nodded. ‘Two, as you said. So far so good. When do we start?’
They both looked at the sham clergyman. Because it was Jeremy’s plan, he had come to lead it.
‘Another few minutes,’ he said. ‘I believe they stop at Polbathic, don’t they?’
They waited, unspeaking. Paul was wearing a frock of his dead sister Violet. Although he was taller than she had been they had been able to let out the hem and loosen the gown at the waist, so giving it extra length. They had all bought wigs, though at different times and in different towns. Second-hand wigs were plentiful, and Jeremy had bought one of horsehair, such as the Revd Mr Odgers always wore, much lighter in colour than his own hair; Paul, a full female wig of black curls; Stephen had cut his own hair much shorter in order to accommodate the naval wig. Stephen had complained that of the three of them he wore the least disguise; but Jeremy and Paul had both spent the night at the Royal, which he had not had to do, and Jeremy was probably right in saying that no one ever looked closely at a person’s features – it was the distinguishing signs people would remember: a tall near-sighted clergyman with heavy spectacles, a thin dark pregnant young woman in a veil, a big naval officer in a smart new uniform with a white wig.
The coach stopped. The blind was made of very thin mahogany which was raised and lowered from inside the door exactly in the same way as the glass it protected, and Jeremy, with the window down and his thumb against the shutter, was just able to see a slit of the road outside.
‘Look to yourselves,’ he snapped, and sat back in his seat.
There was a respectful tap at the door, and after an appropriate interval, Jeremy allowed the blind to sink into its socket.
‘We’re stopping here, sur,’ said one of the coachmen. ‘Five minutes. Wondered if the lady’d like another glass o’ brandy.’
Paul, still holding a handkerchief to his mouth under the veil, shook his head.
‘Very good, sur.’
‘I’ll take a tot,’ said Stephen. ‘Nay, nay, I’ll come for it.’ He excused himself to his two companions and followed the coachman into the inn.
‘Doubt if that’s wise,’ said Paul under his breath.
‘The nearer normal we seem the better. Thank God it’s a fine day. Otherwise, who knows . . .?’
Presently they were off again. Jeremy continued to watch things through the thin gap he was forcing in the blind. This slit, apart from guarding against surprise, allowed a little more light in for what they had to do.
‘Right,’ said Jeremy.
He was seated on the edge of the seat with his back to the horses. Stephen now pulled the cushioned seat away, and put it behind him. The lining of the coach behind the seat was of thick carpet-like red felt, stiff material which had been cut to fit the arch of the interior. It was sturdy enough to stay in position on its own, and only two screws secured it to the woodwork behind. Stephen took out a screwdriver, eased out the screws, bent the lining back into the coach, exposing the wood.
Paul felt under his skirts and untied a suspended parcel of linen, putting it on the seat beside him. From the parcel he unwrapped a brace and bit. In the meantime Stephen had taken out a piece of chalk and drawn a circle on the wood about the size of the face of a large grandfather’s clock. Then he screwed in the bit and applied it as it were to twelve o’clock on the clock face.
This wood, also mahogany, was about three-quarters of an inch thick. It was how Paul, who knew a lot about how coaches were constructed, said it would be. This single wooden barrier separated the interior of the coach from the padlocked compartment under the coachman’s seat. But the mahogany was hard and unyielding – quite as hard as oak – and to bore a hole needed constant muscular pressure to force the bit to bite. When the bit was unwound and withdrawn it left a hole about a third of an inch in diameter. Stephen began to drill a second hole at six o’clock.
The coach slowed as it attempted the long ascent near Trerule Foot. Some beggar children began to run alongside it, calling out and shouting. One or two tried to get a lift by hopping perilously on the axles but were quickly driven off. Paul unwrapped the rest of his linen packet. Three narrow saw-blades about six inches long for fitting into a wooden handle of the same length; a tin of grease, a bunch of keys, a tiny bottle of ‘train’ oil, two steel crowbars each about a foot long and screwing together.
By now Stephen had driven six holes.
‘Let me take over,’ said Paul.
‘Wait.’
The coach was slowing as they neared the crest of the hill. Quickly the lining was flipped back into place, the cushion seat replaced, the tools stowed under the cushions. The coach stopped and the outside passengers got down to lighten the load. Jeremy lowered the blind and peered out. Mrs May continued to lie back with closed eyes. The gallant lieutenant opened the window and put his head out.
‘Would ye wish me to walk too? It is no trouble.’
‘Thank ee, no, sur,’ called the driver from his seat. ‘We’ll manage nicely, thank ee all the same.’
It was no more than a hundred yards to the top, but it seemed a long way.
‘Am I disturbing ye, ma’am?’ Lieutenant Lean asked. ‘Is the air too fresh?’
‘No, no,’ said Mrs May. ‘It is pleasant for a few moments.’
At the top was a toll-bar. Here they stopped a moment to pay their dues. Then the outside passengers and the second coachman and the guard climbed aboard. The coach, with some clucking and clicking and the snapping of the whip, got under way again, the blind was drawn up, and after it the window. At once the lining was bent down again and Stephen snatched up the brace.
‘Like me to take over?’ Paul asked.
‘No, not yet. Put the blade of the saw in, fit the bars together. God’s eyes, are we never to be still! It is one thing we hadn’t banked on!’
The ‘thing’ they hadn’t banked on was the lurching of the coach. In bad places it jolted and swayed so much that Stephen was off his balance and nearly let the brace fall. Often the hole took twice as lo
ng to drill.
Jeremy looked at his watch. ‘How many have you done?’
‘On my ninth.’
‘How is that going for time?’ Paul asked.
‘Not ill. We might just accomplish it all before Liskeard. It depends on the number of interruptions.’
‘D’you wish me to start with the saw?’ Paul asked impatiently.
‘Certainly not. It’s a last resort, that. In any event we have four hours before Lostwithiel.’
‘I’d be happier to see it all done this side of Liskeard.’
‘Forget that. Take over from Stephen now. Then I’ll take over from you.’
They changed places. The space was very confined and they constantly bumped against each other. Stephen began to brush the sawdust together with his hand and put the dust in an inside pocket of his naval coat.
Jeremy watched the others and watched the holes growing in the clock face. In spite of his apparent calm his heart was thumping as if he had run a mile. Paul also was badly strung up; but rather to Jeremy’s surprise Stephen looked equally so. Risk and hazard and the illegal act were not nearly so foreign to him as to them, but he had never before run this sort of risk. Danger was to him something to be undertaken in the heat of the moment, violence as its natural expression. This was too cold, too calculating: a burglary taking place in a jolting coach, surrounded by other people within earshot, almost within reach, and virtually in the presence of two coachmen and a guard armed with a carbine. He looked sick.