The Devil in Clevely (Afternoon of an Autocrat) (5 page)

As always, his mind came comfortably to rest upon this thought and his face was calm again as he turned into the green, moss-carpeted, tree-shaded ride which led through Layer Wood. He was on his way to the loneliest place in the district, a keeper's cottage even more remote than the one concerned with Amos Greenway's deed of heroism. It was not his cottage, nor was its occupant his keeper; Fenn was a Mortiboys man, and his interest in the boy he was about to visit was the result of sheer benevolence.

Three years before, at the enormous Harvest Horkey which he gave every year on the day after the last load of corn was safely in, and to which everybody in Clevely was bidden, he had seen a small, pale-faced, hunchbacked boy standing with his mouth a little open and his eyes fixed on the men who were playing the fiddle for the dancing.

He'd gone over to him and said. 'I don't know you, boy. What's your name?'

The boy had jumped, as most boys did when suddenly accosted by Sir Charles, but his face remained tranquil and his large dark eyes had met the Squire's frankly.

'No, sir. I'm staying with my uncle at the forge; but he said it would be all right for me to come. My name is Jacky Fenn.'

'You're welcome; all welcome today. You enjoying the music?'

'Oh yes, sir, thank you.'

'Be a fiddler yourself, one day, eh?' Not that there was much likelihood--not long for this world if Sir Charles were any judge; he'd seen that look on a child before.

'I'd love it more than anything in the world, sir. But you have to have a fiddle, don't you?'

There was something immensely engaging in his frank look and lack of shyness and shuffling.

'I suppose you do. And fiddles cost money, don't they? Any idea how much?'

'I think about two guineas, sir.'

'Two guineas! Bless my soul I That's a lot of money, ain't it?'

'Yes, sir. A very great deal of money.' He let out his breath like a sigh and his eyes went back to the fiddlers.

'Had all you want to eat? That's right. Enjoy yourself, Jacky Fenn.'

Next time he went into Baildon Sir Charles sought, and after some initial difficulty found, a man who had two fiddles for sale. One, a very cheap new shoddy bit of work, was thirty shillings; the other, old and beautiful with some mother-of-pearl about it and inlay on its belly, was ten guineas. Sir Charles bought the old one and, having by now found out from Strong Un where his nephew lived, rode over to present it. He had also learned that the boy's mother was dead, had died young of the lung rot, and that Jacky had kept house for his father, not being strong enough to work outside.

So he would be much alone in that remote place, Sir Charles thought, and the fiddle would be nice company for him.

'There you are,' he said to the astonished, speechless child. 'You learn to play and one day I'll come and hear you. I'm very fond of a good tune--a good old tune, mark you. I've spoken to Jim Lantern about you, and he's coming over one evening soon to show you the way of it.' He had ridden away before Jacky could say a word. During the intervening three years he had called at the cottage five or six times. The boy had quickly mastered the instrument and could now fairly make it sing, as Sir Charles said; but it was more and more evident that the boy's time for playing the fiddle or doing anything else was very short. And that was sad. Still, in Heaven he would have a harp and a good straight back, to boot; and there was no use being sickly and sentimental about such things. Jacky himself opened the door and gave the old man a look of dog-like adoration before he reached inside for the fiddle and the muffler which always made Sir Charles think of Joseph's coat of many colours in the Bible--the muffler had been knitted out of hundreds of odds and ends of wool and was like a rather dingy rainbow. 'Well, how are you, my boy? And how's the fiddling?' 'I've got three new songs for you today, sir. Three new old songs, I mean, sir.'

'That's the style. Fire away.'

Half leaning against the jamb of the door, the child genius--he was nothing less--played 'Once in the Month of May', 'Edgar's Sad Wooing' and 'Jack on the Green". The rein lay slack on the grey horse's neck and Sir Charles's plump red hands lay slack on the rein. The last rays of the sun withdrew from the tree-tops and the swift October dusk began to flood through the woods. The wind was rising, carrying the bitter-sweet wail of the fiddle music into the distant thickets. The old Squire's broad face, highly coloured and solid from seven decades of good feeding and drinking and excellent health, and the boy's, pinched and pale from thirteen years of suffering and poverty, wore, for a little while, the same look of peaceful pleasure. Then the last note shrilled out triumphantly, lingered and died. Jacky lowered his brow and stood panting a little from exertion, and Sir Charles roused himself.

'As bonny a music as I ever listened to,' he said heartily. 'And it's a comfort to know that when old Lantern goes to his long home you'll know all the good old tunes to play at the horkeys and weddings. When that day comes we'll rig you up a little donkey cart. Well, you go in now, it's turning cold. Going to be a wild night.'

With some difficulty, for his breeches were a tight fit across his thick thigh, he pushed his plump hand into his pocket, fingered for and found a half-guinea.

'I shall be along again,' he said as he withdrew his hand. 'Here y'are!' He pushed the neat shining coin into the boy's little claw. 'Nay, nay. I'm only paying for my pleasure. Good day, Jacky.'

Fumbling at another pocket, he pulled out his watch, snapped open its case and stared at its face. It was later than he had thought, and he was a good way from home. Best cut through by the Lady's Ride and on to the Lower Road. He'd intended to look in at Wood Farm, where the on-the-face-of-it friendly visit would tend to remind Captain Rout that Michaelmas was rent day and three weeks past; but he could do that just as well tomorrow.

'Come up, Bobby.' he said. 'Best foot forrard now!'

The grey horse, knowing that each step now led towards home, set off briskly; nevertheless it was full dark when they emerged from the wood and turned into Lower Road. And there it happened, whatever it was.

Dark tales were told by winter fires concerning the Lower Road near Lady's Ride. Away back in the time of the Civil War it had been the scene of the last desperate gallop of Lady Alice Rowhedge, who had been convicted of witchcraft. There were very few people in six parishes who did not at least half believe that on certain nights, when the wind was high, she and the great black stallion, which had obeyed her like a dog, rode this way again.

It was, of course, a windy night; and possibly a branch had fallen, startling the sober grey horse and making it throw its rider.

At Wood Farm the Routs heard the clatter of its hoofs and Captain Rout popped back into the corner cupboard the bottle of brandy he had just taken out and opened, very skilfully, with his one hand, holding the bottle between his knees, and Mrs Rout put on her most piteous hard-done-by, all-at-sea expression. But the horse did not slacken pace, and after a moment they looked at one another and breathed again.

'In the deuce of a hinq-y tonight.' said Captain Rout, and went to the cupboard again. A man so handicapped, whose career had been cut short, whose future was decidedly unpromising, needed all the consolation he could give himself.

At Bridge Farm, Shipton the Dissenter, just back from the meeting at Nettleton, which had also drawn Amos Greenway away from his duties, was belatedly feeding his pigs. He was nearly two hours late and the pigs believed that death by starvation was imminent; they were squealing so loudly that he could hear nothing else. Mrs Shipton was deafened by the din too as she prepared in the kitchen a hot meal--the Saturday ritual to make up for not cooking on the Sabbath Day.

The grey horse clattered over the wooden bridge just as Fuller, lantern in hand, was collecting from the common pasture the four bullocks which he meant to stall-feed through the winter. It was late, for he had finished his rack and heaved the turnips into it, and he could have left the beasts out until morning. But the urge to see the job truly completed, to see his bullocks in the straw with their noses in the manger, had been irresistible. As Bobby's hoofs rang hollowly at the bridge Fuller said into a bullock's unresponsive ear, 'There he go, pig-headed old sod! Riding like the Devil: Pity he don't break his bloody neck!'

The grey horse halted by the gate. Bessie Jarvey, who had just sat down for the first time that day, said, 'You go, Jim?" without any great confidence. However, Jim grunted and rose; not willingly, but with alacrity. Sir Charles did not like to be kept waiting, and Jarvey remembered the time when Bessie had been abed with her fifth and he himself had been in the privy and half a minute's delay had been unavoidable, Sir Charles had said, 'You getting old and slow, Jim? Or is all this night work sapping your strength?'

So tonight briskly he swung back one half of the heavy gate, briskly he put his hand to his forelock and said, 'Good evening, sir' before, in the darkness, he was aware of the empty saddle. He said later that it made him feel no end of a fool. He also said he noticed how profusely the horse was sweating; a bit more than you'd expect it to even after a sharp gallop, the night being so chilly.

Bobby, according to custom and drawn by his stable, went smartly through the gate and was out of reach along the avenue before Jarvey had fully taken stock of the situation and realised that he must do something. He must get up to the house and tell Sir Edward Follesmark and the rector; they were there, Bessie had let them in just before she sat down. They'd know what to do. 'Bugger Bobby, going by me like that,' he muttered. 'Now I must tramp it. I could have rode.'

They found Sir Charles sprawled in the road, halfway between the opening of the Lady's Ride and the gateway of Wood Farm. The way his head lolled indicated that his neck was broken. Fuller was obscurely relieved to think that this must have happened before he confided in the bullock, choosing to forget that all through the late afternoon he had been wishing ill to his landlord. They took Rout's gate from the post and used it as a stretcher upon which to carry the body home. They mentioned Richard in muted voices; they remembered many things; they speculated about the future.

Only one thing was sure. The old man, now dead, had in his fashion 'kept the faith and finished the course. Nothing would ever be the same again. 

On the afternoon of the third Saturday of October in the year 1795, but making due allowance for the longitudinal variation in time which those who mastered the subject at school will understand and those who did not be content to ignore, Mrs Richard Shelmadine set out on what she knew would be her last ride through the city of Kilapore.

The Rajah had sent the message in the morning. It was couched in the usual arrogant terms--His Highness would be prepared to take leave of them on this day, an hour before sunset.

Richard had described exactly the various horrible things which he was prepared to see happen to the Rajah, and to himself, before he intended to comply with this command, and so long as he confined his curses to English Linda had made no protest; but when he changed, with that astonishing facility of his, and began a tirade in the native language of the grave-faced servant who stood awaiting an answer she said, 'Richard, please. Ask the man to wait outside, I have thought of something--'He did as she asked, not because he was amenable to her wishes but because he had a well-founded respect for her quick-wittedness; many a time during their wandering exiled years she had found a way to turn an uncompromising situation to their advantage.

As soon as they were alone she said: 'No one could expect you to go. But perhaps I should. He rather likes me, you know. He might give me something.'

Something more like a snarl than a grin crossed Richard's face.

'I've noticed His Highness's partiality! If I'd had any sense I should have let you negotiate. Still, it is a notion. Being impotent as a mule, he can't give you what he would like to--so you may come back with one of the bright buttons with which he decorates his fat belly!'

She gave a little laugh--one of the tinkling, mirthless, brittle laughs which she learned long ago to be the best way of parrying the thrusts which aimed to hurt.

'One of the emerald set! Well, that would be very acceptable.'

'Go then, and get away with all you can. All I ask is that you make no civil excuses for me. Tell him I didn't come because I couldn't trust myself not to kick his teeth in.'

As often before, having won her point, she was ashamed of the duplicity which had gained her the victory. But to have spoken truthfully, to have said, 'One of us should go; Surunda has been very kind to us; and though he decided against making the concessions he never led you to expect anything else'--that would merely have led to Richard ordering her not to go.

A half-remembered Biblical phrase drifted through her mind, something about being wily as a serpent and harmless as a dove; it brought with it the memory of English Sunday evenings, with the scent of hay and honeysuckle drifting in at the open door, of sunset brightening the stained glass of the windows and her father's voice thrown back from the sounding-board of the high pulpit. But these were things better forgotten; the days of the dove were over, it had been sacrificed long ago--even the serpent had found survival difficult enough of late.

She dressed for the visit with scrupulous care utterly divorced from vanity. She had never been very pretty, just young and fresh and lively-looking, and five years in India had ruined what looks she ever had; the smooth pink-tinted oval cheeks were bleached to the yellowish ivory of elderflower, and there were hollows in them, and at the temples and about the eyes. Her hair, once the prettiest thing about her, shining golden and very curly, had also bleached and faded to a dullish primrose colour and was almost as straight as an Indian woman's. And she was so thin that her neck was stringy. Cousin Maud had been right when she had warned her that India was no place for a white woman. 'In a year you'll be a scarecrow and in two you'll be dead,' she had said. Well, it was jive years and a few months, and tomorrow she would be on her way back to Fort St George; and within a fortnight, with any luck, on her way back to England. The assignment to Kilapore had been Richard's last chance; the Company had finished with him now. And though there were white men--quite a number of them--who had come out to work for the Company and then been dismissed, or had left it to launch out on their own, and, many of them, made a living and, some of them, a fortune, Richard was not of their stamp. It took energy and enterprise and industry and ruthlessness to make a way in India, and of all these qualities Richard possessed only ruthlessness.