The Riddle of the Shipwrecked Spinster (32 page)

His apprehensions were confirmed when Tassels cantered to join the line of coaches, waggons, horsemen and pedestrians assembled with much grumbling before the still-closed gates. Even if the gatekeepers appeared now, reasoned Cranford irritably, it would take an inordinate length of time for them to deal with all these people.

He reined Tassels aside and peered ahead.

“Be damned if I can see. They open up yet?” The deep growl emanated from a large coach and did not seem to match the skeletally thin gentleman who leaned from the window.

“No,” answered Cranford. “What a stupid arrangement this is! If there were another way around—”

“Not lest you can fly, dear sir.” The pretty but overdressed young woman seated next to the thin gentleman bent forward and eyed Cranford with pert and undisguised admiration, until she noticed the frown on the face of her companion. “Oh, what a lovely horsey!” she cooed then. “Do be a sweeting and buy me one like him, Pudding, dear.”

“It ain’t a him,” growled the gentleman, with an embarrassed glance at Cranford. “It’s a her.” And lowering his voice, he hissed, “And don’t call me that in front of people!”

‘Pudding?’ thought Cranford, amused. The fellow looked more like a piece of string! But the words of the bold-eyed young woman whom one could only suppose to be his
chère amie
, echoed in his ears.

Someone at the head of the line was roaring a demand that the “curst stupid gates” be opened; a demand echoed at once by many irate voices.

Cranford scanned the gates thoughtfully. “…unless you can fly…”

He reined around and cantered past the travellers who had already gathered behind him.

“Givin’ it up, is yer, guv’nor?” enquired a wizened little man pushing a barrow laden with new brooms and brushes. “Can’t say as I blames yer.”

“Thank you, but I’m not.” Cranford bent forward and stroked the mare’s warm neck. “I must ask for your best effort again, lass,” he murmured. “But you can do this, I know!”

Tassels whickered softly and tossed her head.

The man with the barrow, who had watched this exchange with interest, called, “Wotcher goin’ ter do, milor? You don’t never mean ter try and—”

“Oh, yes, I do,” said Cranford, and shouted, “Stand clear!”

Heads turned and people sprang back as Tassels thundered past the line, accompanied by whoops and shouts variously critical and encouraging.

Give ’em pitch, guv’nor!”

“No! It’s too high!”

“Wake ’em up, sir!”

“…break your neck, you young fool!”

The gate was indeed high. Crouched in the saddle, leaning forward over Tassels’ mane, Cranford talked to her, and with complete trust she obeyed the hands and heels that guided her so surely.

The cold air whipped at Cranford’s hair.

They soared high into the air and cleared the gates with scant inches to spare under Tassels’ tucked-up back hooves.

Cheers rent the air.

The mare stumbled, but with a heart-felt murmur of “Thank the Lord!” Cranford held her together and caressed her fondly. She was blowing but tossed her pretty head as if she understood and was proud of her achievement. He turned her and
tapped her shoulder for her famous equine bow, and the cheers were louder.

Belatedly, a gatekeeper ran from the gatehouse, roaring, “Ey! You come back ’ere, me fine young nob!” which evoked jeers and laughter, whereupon he added something to the effect that “we don’t allow none o’ that ’ere!” and shouted demands for the fee or he would “’ave the law on the owdacious criminal.” Cranford threw him the fee, but responded that “the law” might be interested to hear of his laziness. He flourished his hat at the cheering onlookers, and told Tassels what a good girl she was as they resumed this desperate journey.

There were no more delays, and the mare did her gallant best, but he had to stop twice to rest her, knowing she would run until she dropped if he asked it. The roar and bustle of the city had long since been replaced by the gentle serenity of country woods and meadows. The chattering of birds, busied with their evening reunions, and the occasional voices of sheep or cattle were the only sounds to disturb the silence until they came upon a flock of geese waddling along, all talking at once. Cranford smiled and waved to the goose girl, who blushed and curtsied shyly.

The short winter afternoon had faded to dusk when they were at last turning onto the lane that led to the village. Above the trees Cranford could see smoke rising from cottage chimneys. He was still some distance away and he sighed with relief because thus far there was no sign of trouble.

Minutes later, the abbreviated church steeple loomed against thé darkening sky, and with it a new and fearful sound. A distant muttering that grew to a confused uproar and became at last the voice he had dreaded to hear: the mindless howling of an infuriated mob.

As he came nearer, the darkness was lit by a flickering brightness. He could discern individual voices now, and as he rounded the last bend in the lane he beheld a sight he had never expected to see in this peaceful corner of England. A
crowd of men was gathered in front of the tiny village gaol. The blazing torches they held aloft cast a lurid glow on faces so contorted with rage and hatred that he scarcely recognized them for his own people. Major Finchley was there, flanked by several of his men, all urging the crowd on, shouting epithets against “filthy thieving gypsies” and “foreign murderers.” Cranford was astonished to see his twin, a cane in one hand and a riding crop in the other, standing resolutely with his back to the gaol. Peddars, their footman, was to his left side, and Oliver Dixon, appropriately wielding a long-tined hay-fork, stood at his right.

Peregrine was trying to talk some sense into the crowd, but Finchley’s bull-like roars drowned his efforts.

“We all know the Cranfords welcome thieves and poachers,” he bellowed. “Give ’em shelter even when we catch one of the worthless scum red-handed! Much they care if we’re all robbed blind!”

“They
ain’t never bin robbed!” howled a man Cranford had never seen before. “What do they care if
we
is?”

Piers started Tassels forward.

Peregrine caught sight of him and gestured urgently for him to stay back.

Knowing his twin, Piers hesitated. Perry’s message had been silent but clear, “Keep out of this, big brother! I can handle it!” Perhaps he could. Certainly, he wouldn’t welcome interference. Piers reined Tassels to a halt. He would wait. For a minute or two. Unless this ugly mess became uglier.

A powerfully built stranger with a shock of curly hair shouted, “No,
they
ain’t never robbed! And we knows why! ’Cause they offer the poaching swine perfection,
that’s
why!”

“And now one of their gypsy friends has took the life of a good neighbour!”

“Aye! English-born and-bred!”

“So what we goin’ ter do?” The tall ruffian who never seemed to talk below a howl stepped close to Peregrine, and
demanded, “What yer say, mates? Let ’em set him free? They will, mark me words! All in it together, they is and thinks ’emselves above the law what you and me has ter obey or be hung or transported!”

This brought shouts of approval and the crowd moved in, but paused as the gaol door opened.

Constable Bragg stepped outside, holding a musket. His pleasant face was stern and he said with the voice of authority, “Now, you men, get on home and don’t do something as you’ll be sorry for tomor——”

Someone threw a rock and the constable reeled back, his musket falling.

Peregrine snatched it up, but with a triumphant howl the crowd surged forward and the weapon was torn from his grasp. “Don’t listen to these bullies!” he shouted, struggling desperately. “They’ve been brought in, don’t you see? Major Finchley—”

But there was no stopping the crowd now; inflamed with blood-lust, they charged at Peregrine and his loyal supporters, shouting their intention to drag out “the dirty gypsy” and treat him to “some real justice!”

The deafening crack of a pistol shot stopped the charge, and the shouting ceased abruptly.

Major Gresford Finchley jerked around, his red face twisting with wrath as he saw Piers Cranford, mounted on Tassels, the pistol in his hand levelled and steady despite the mare’s nervous sidling.

The attention of the crowd shifted as they all turned to face the new arrival. There were mutterings of “It do be the Squire!…” “Mr. Piers is come back!…”

Piers said sternly, “What are you fellows about? You don’t behave like this! You’re good, decent men. You know Constable Bragg will—”

From somewhere a man howled, “He’ll do whatever you tell him! Aye, we knows that, Cranford! You rich folks is all
alike! Come on, you chaps! Don’t be cowed by that young nob! We’re free men and we’ll show his gypsy friends they can’t get away with murder in our village!”

The Reverend Mr. Barrick tried to force his way through the crowd, his hands upraised and his falsetto voice warning of heavenly retribution if violence were committed, but he was surrounded, and, amid shouts that violence had already been committed, disappeared from view.

Major Finchley roared that Piers Cranford’s pistol had been fired, “so you men have nothing to fear from him.”

“But that was my other pistol,” responded Piers, indicating the still-smoking weapon now in the saddle holster.

“Perhaps so,” blustered Finchley. “But you’re not the only man with a pistol! Have a look at this, friends!” He nodded to the tall curly-haired ruffian who had made his way ever closer and now sprang at Peregrine, levelling a long-barrelled weapon at his side.

Peddars and Dixon, who had started to his support, halted uncertainly.

“That good fellow don’t mean to kill your brother,” jeered Finchley. “But if you value his health, I advise you to put down your weapon.”

Some of the local men drew back at this, markedly uneasy.

Piers sat motionless, knowing he had no choice. No matter what Finchley said, that curly-haired varmint looked savagely eager to fire, and another wound would very likely kill Perry. Helpless, he lowered the pistol, and it was torn from his hand by another of the imported bravos.

With a shout of triumph, Finchley urged the men to rush the gaol, braying that he would hold “the gypsy lovers” at bay while justice was done.

The curly-haired ruffian watched, grinning. Seizing his opportunity, Peregrine snatched for the pistol. The ruffian, stronger, tore it away, then flailed it at him in a vicious swipe that staggered him.

Enraged, Piers launched himself from the saddle and with a sizzling uppercut sent the ruffian sprawling. “You could hang for that, you cowardly varmint!” he cried furiously, then, seized by many hands, he was wrenched back.

Finchley sprang forward, levelling his pistol and bellowing, “My groom was brutally murdered! I’m within my rights to hang his killer!”

“Not on our property!” cried Piers. “You’re trespassing, damn you! Consett is entitled to a fair trial!”

There were hoots of mocking laughter. Piers was immobilized by an arm twisted up behind him and a group of men overcame Dixon and Peddars and rushed into the gaol.

They emerged, dragging Florian. Battered and bruised, he met Piers’ eyes in silent desperation, and whitened as a great shout of triumph greeted his appearance.

There was some discussion as to the method of his execution. A few put forward the suggestion to “drown the murderer in our pond!” Some yelled for a hanging. Little Ezra Sweet piped a ferocious demand that the gypsy warranted beheading and expressed the conviction that there were several fine axes in use in the neighbourhood.

Standing very straight, Florian listened in white-faced silence to all these proposals for his death.

It was clear that these men, most of whom were normally kind and law-abiding citizens had, at this moment, lost all semblance of rationality. Desperate, Piers stamped down on the toe of one of the bullies gripping his right arm, and as the man hopped and cursed luridly, swung his free fist at the burly stranger who had kept such a punishing grip on his left wrist.

He won clear, and fighting his way through the crowd, he shouted, “Don’t bring this shame on our village! Don’t let these hired bullies—”

A club struck at him, and the scene wavered and spun. Still striving, he was dully aware that there were too many. Finchley had won, and Florian would be murdered, in spite of—

A shrill scream.

Laughter.

Blinking dazedly, he saw Ezra Sweet’s granddaughter, a militant expression on her comely face, dragging the wailing old man away by the ear.

A howl rent the air, and one of Finchley’s bullies retreated before Mrs. Bragg, who swung a rolling-pin with verve while declaring fiercely, “I seed you throw that rock and knock my husband down, you great ugly villin! We don’t want your kind in our village! Be off with ye!”

More shouts of alarm rang out as a small and familiar figure flailing a blazing torch to left and right, cried, “How
dare
you come here with your… wicked lies! Go back… where you belong, you nasty… creatures!”

His curls frizzing, the tall bully who had struck Peregrine let out a shriek and fled to stick his head in the pond.

“Don’t be beaten by that shameless hussy,” roared Finchley, in an effort to rally his troops. “She’s the wench who lived with a lot of heathen cannibals on—”

Piers tore free of hands that seemed to have lost their strength and lunged for the Major.
“You
had that stable fire set and cut my saddle girth, you cowardly poltroon!” he roared, his fist whizzing for the Major’s jaw.

Hurled backward, Finchley disappeared from view.

The village green was suddenly full of women carrying weapons that varied from a steaming kettle to a wet mop, and using them with enthusiastic vigour.

Finchley was no longer to be seen, and it was the beginning of the end. The ranks of vengeance-inspired would-be executioners split and, cowering, reverted to husbands and fathers caught making mischief.

The organizers of that mischief saw the writing on the wall, and following the example of the man who had hired them, drifted into the night.