Runaway (3 page)

As soon as I was well past him, I left the lads, disappeared into a back street and wove my way through a maze of narrow alleys. After ten minutes or so, I paused in a doorway and watched for a while. There didn’t seem to be anyone following me. I leaned my forehead on a dilapidated wall, weak with relief.

I forced myself to move on along the unfamiliar streets with no clear idea of where I was heading. It was the strangest feeling in the world, to have nowhere to go. On the busy main roads, I was jostled and bumped from all sides by pedestrians and street sellers as I walked, and found myself drifting with the crowd. It was easier to follow everyone else than to fight my way through the throng. I glanced back often but saw no sign of the murderer.

I was soon hopelessly lost and the light was fading fast. Cold and hungry, with no money to buy food, I searched instead for a safe corner to spend the night. The bridges and doorways were full of ragged, destitute waifs, all of them keen to defend their sheltered spot. Eventually, the best I could find was a small space behind a wagon in a carrier’s yard. It was open to the elements as well as being dirty and uncomfortable, but I crouched down to conceal myself, wrapped in my father’s cloak, determined to stay awake all night.

I was chased out of my spot before dawn as the yard came to life around me and goods were loaded into the carts. The streets were already bustling and crowded, with stallholders calling their wares, servants fetching water and dogs nosing among the refuse for scraps. I had only two thoughts in my head. The first was how desperately hungry I felt, the second was that I had to get out of the city.

I dared speak to no one in case they remembered me. Fatigued, famished and frightened, I imagined everyone around me was my enemy. Fear drove me onwards through the city with no knowledge of where I was going. Some streets were wide and fine with grand carriages rolling along them; others were mean and narrow, peopled by ragged beggars and children, their faces pinched with want. Everywhere was equally unfamiliar to me.

A train of packhorses came towards me, carrying panniers full of winter vegetables. Somewhere in my dazed and shocked mind, it occurred to me they must have come in from the country. I headed in the direction they had come from.

Eventually, I found myself at a city gate. I had no idea which one it was; London was so unfamiliar to me. I followed the crowd out of the city and kept going along the road. I suspected I was heading west, as the sun was on my left, and that was confirmed when I saw a milestone beside the road bearing the information:
Bristol, 90 miles.
I kept walking. My father had never spoken of his childhood home, but I remembered my mother once saying that she’d grown up in the countryside between Bath and Bristol. I may as well head there as anywhere.

I hoped sleeping rough might be easier and safer in the countryside. Perhaps I could find a haystack or barn rather than risk another night beneath a bridge or in a doorway, where I might be robbed or attacked by one of the many ragged and desperate souls who eked out a miserable existence in the huge, grimy metropolis.

I found myself considering these things quite dispassionately, as though they were happening to someone else, not to me. For how could
I
, Charlotte Smith, respectable soldier’s daughter, be in such a position? Meanwhile, I kept plodding westwards along the rough road.

As the light faded, the crowds thinned. Fewer people were riding or walking along the road. I kept going with dogged determination, putting off the moment when I would have to think about where I could sleep. My boots, never intended for walking long distances, pinched my feet and the satchel strap cut into my shoulder. My belly was aching with emptiness. I hadn’t eaten since the early morning of the day before, and little enough then.

It was growing cold again and I needed to find somewhere to sleep. I turned off the road and crossed a field towards a barn. A dog frightened me away by barking fiercely. I could find no other shelter and ended up stumbling around in the darkness. Eventually I crawled under some bushes and lay down on a bed of dry leaves. I slept fitfully, curled around my satchel, my father’s cloak wrapped tightly around me.

I awoke at dawn with the sickening knowledge of all that I’d lost. It was as though I’d scarcely understood until this moment. I’d acted by instinct, fleeing from danger. But now I truly realized that my father was gone. Murdered. Yet another member of my family torn from me. ‘Oh father,’ I whispered to myself. ‘What shall I do now?’ The grief that I’d been able to hold at bay up to now swept over me. I wept like a baby.

I caught my breath abruptly on a sob when something touched my ankle. I started in fear and jerked away from the touch, convinced I’d been found and would next feel a knife on me. A giant man in ragged homespun crouched beside me.

‘You a’right, lad?’ he asked, his rough voice gentle with concern. His face was dirty, his teeth bad, and there was a vacant look in his eyes that suggested to me he might be simple minded.

‘I’m … fine,’ I said, sniffing and dragging my sleeve across my tear-stained face. ‘Th … thank you!’ I pulled my cloak and satchel closer to me, edging away from the man.

‘Don’t be afeared,’ he said. ‘I wussn’t goin’ to hurt yer.’

Nonetheless, I scrambled to my feet and fled. Disorientated and weak, I stumbled through some trees, unsure of my way. Eventually I followed the sound of a creaking wagon back down to the road. I watched as it approached from the east, the sun low in the sky behind it and then turned and followed the wagon westwards, picking my way around the worst of the churned-up mud and deep ruts.

I overtook the laden wagon after a while as it lumbered ponderously along, jolting through potholes, pulled by six horses at length with a chain linking them. A gentleman’s carriage came the other way, rattling towards the big city, drawn by four fine carriage horses, sleek and glossy. Some stable hand had worked hard to make them look so fine.

I passed another milestone:
Bristol, 80 miles
. I’d come a good distance already, but felt conspicuous walking along the road alone. I was convinced people were staring at me and might remember me if questioned. A greater problem still was hunger. I’d eaten nothing for two and a half days now.

At noon, I left the road and concealed myself behind a hedgerow. Sitting on damp grass, I glanced carefully around me, to be certain I was hidden from prying eyes, before I pulled my father’s papers and pouch from my shirt. First, I leafed through the papers, looking for bills. No such luck. If my father had had any large sums of money remaining, he would not have taken us into such poor lodgings.

I put the papers carefully aside and emptied the pouch into my lap. My father’s precious gold signet ring rolled out. I gasped in shock. I’d mourned that ring as lost, certain it had been sold as everything else of value had been. I clutched the ring in my hand, shaking with unexpected gladness. Then I uncurled my fingers and studied it, so wonderfully familiar to me when all else was lost. The unusual design on the front, the stag in the ornate
R
, and the curiously wrong initials on the inside, curled around one another,
ASL
.

I’d asked my father once, years ago, with a child’s curiosity, why he wore a ring with initials that were not his. A cloud had passed over his face and then he had smiled mischievously, grasped my hand and told me he had inherited the ring from his godfather. ‘They’re his initials, you see, Charlotte,’ he’d said. And he’d winked at my mother. I’d never thought to ask him his godfather’s name. I was far more curious now. In the light of everything that had happened, I was beginning to suspect my father had kept secrets from me. I slid the ring onto my finger, but it was too loose. I shook the bag, still hoping for a coin or two, but there was nothing. It appeared I was alone in the world with no more than a ring.

Next, I turned my attention to the papers, hoping they would tell me more. I sat for a moment, just holding them in my hands. I remembered my father as he’d been when my mother was alive: tall, dark-haired, strong, with bright, laughing eyes and smile creases.

I broke open the oilskin package and found a sheaf of letters and sundry other items. I took a deep breath and spread out the first letter. It was clearly old, the paper discoloured and the ink faded. It was dated July 1704, and addressed from
The
Home Farm
,
Deerhurst Park, Gloucestershire
.

My dearest Andrew
, it began.
I miss you more than I can say
.

I’d never heard of the place, but recognized my mother’s flowing hand. This was from before my brother and I were born. A love letter, it seemed from the next few lines. I felt deeply uncomfortable; as though I were spying on something private and secret. Besides, this could not be what the killer had been hunting for. I folded it up and laid it aside.

I unfolded the next. A quick glance showed me it was another similar letter, but this time from my father, also dated 1704 but addressed from an army barrack in Plymouth. The tenderness of the opening lines brought tears to my eyes. I’d lost both parents, and so recently. I could not bear to read their private correspondence. I laid this letter aside with the first.

More than half the papers were personal letters between my parents, filled with endearments. They must have been deeply precious to them personally, but they had no value to anyone else that I could see. I folded them all carefully together and put them back inside the oilskin package before turning my attention to the remainder of the papers.

There were several documents connected with my father’s time in the army: his joining papers dated some years before my birth, some commendations, a letter praising his bravery and confirming his promotion to the rank of major, and his discharge letter. I’d seen them all before. There was nothing either valuable or dangerous about them.

I’d come to the very last paper without discovering anything of importance. This one had been sealed, but the seal had been broken. I spread it out on my lap and saw it was dated just a few months previously and addressed to me. There was no message of any kind, however. Simply a name and address:
Henry Palmer
,
Seaview Cottage, nr Studland, Dorset.

Henry was my father’s friend and companion from America; it was a comfort to me to find his direction. The address was printed in my father’s neat, elegant handwriting. But at the very bottom of the paper two words were scrawled:
Sorry, Charlotte
.

Remembering how his hands had trembled constantly in his final weeks, I could guess that these final two words had been added later during that dreadful time. My poor father.

Now at last I knew where I should go. I had someone in England who knew me and cared what became of me. As long as I could find him; for I had not the least idea where Dorset might be. England was almost completely unknown to me.

I put everything into the satchel with my few possessions. Wearily, I got to my feet and slung the satchel onto my back. I was shocked to find how weak I’d grown. My legs were reluctant to bear my weight and I staggered as I made my way back to the road.

Before I reached it, the faint sound of running water caught my ear. Following the sound, I found a beck that looked clean enough to drink from. The surface of the water reflected my image as I looked down into it; a pale, pinched face with an ugly bruise on my forehead, another on my cheekbone, and smears of dirt everywhere else. When I pulled my scarf aside, there was a dark scab where the knife had pricked my neck. I looked a vagabond already.

I drank deeply and seeing there was still blood on my fingers where I’d touched my father’s body, I washed it away. My dear father would have a pauper’s grave with none to mourn him, like any beggar or vagrant. And yet he’d been much loved. He’d been a good man, with an affectionate family and many friends in the army. It was frightening how quickly fortunes could alter.

I rejoined the road and walked on. At an inn, I enquired the way to Dorset and was told I should follow the Bath Road and, when I reached the city, head south.

‘Is it far?’ I enquired.

‘Ah, it’d take you a good week afoot, I daresay,’ replied the innkeeper.

I kept on, putting one sore foot in front of the other. I spent the night in a haystack beside the road. My belly ached so with hunger it was hard to sleep, despite my exhaustion.

Towards the village of Colnbrook the following day, a train of packhorses overtook me, led by a lad not much older than me. Despite the large bundles they carried, they were moving quickly westwards. A stout, grey-haired woman brought up the rear of the train, a staff in her hand. ‘Hup!’ she called out to the last pony as he showed a disposition to pause and nibble grass at the wayside. He tossed up his head and walked on.

‘Good day!’ The woman cast a curious glance at me as she passed by. I plodded wearily on. Only a few moments later, however, I rounded another corner, to be greeted with a scene of chaos. A wagon had overturned on the road, spilling both wares and passengers. Its horses, five of them pulling at length, were frightened and fighting their harness. The chestnut horse that led the line was down, its leg caught in the chain, screaming with fright and pain. The packhorses were trapped in the sunken road, unable to go on, milling about, made restless and edgy by the distress of the horses harnessed to the wagon. Casting cloak and satchel aside, I ran forward to the lead horse that was down. Its eyes were rolling wildly, its neck lathered in sweat as it fought to get up. The tangled chain pinned it to the road.

‘Hush, there,’ I murmured to it, putting a hand on its nose. ‘Hush, I’ll help you.’

I looked around, wondering why no one else was helping. I spotted the wagon master stretched out on the road. Two men were tending him and other road users were helping his passengers climb out from the wreckage of the wagon. That explained why no one had a thought to spare yet for the poor horses.