Authors: Philip Gooden
Jack Wilson came up and peered into my face until he was quite satisfied.
“It
is
you, Nick. We’ve been waiting. I thought they might have let out the wrong man.”
“They did let out the wrong man.”
“The wrong wrong man, then.”
The second shape drew near.
“Master Revill,” she said, resting a hand on my arm.
“Mrs Milford,” I said. “I – I have not had the chance to condole with you on your loss.”
“My husband is dead,” she said simply. “But not at your hands.”
I experienced that prickling on the back of my neck which I’d had after the
Troilus and Cressida
performance. But at the same time I felt a little burst of gratitude because she was
so confident of my innocence.
“You know who did it?” I said.
“No,” she said. “But you shall find out.”
We must have made an odd trio, standing there in the middle of the street on a drizzly night, having a whispered discussion about murder. As my eyes got used to the dark I was able to pick out
features, Jack’s nervous smile, Lucy Milford’s fixed gaze.
“It was Lucy’s wish to get you released, Nick,” Jack said.
I turned towards Lucy.
“I know. Thank you. I read your note. You have both put yourselves at risk to preserve my worthless corpse.”
“When you told me about William Topcourt,” said Jack, “and how he didn’t want to leave the prison and when I saw the way one of his wives was treating him – well,
it wasn’t difficult to slip back again afterwards even if I had to oil a few palms on the way. And then I had a talk with Topcourt. You were right about him. He is a good fellow and readily
agreed.
He
didn’t want any payment. He would have paid to stay inside, I think. He already had his ticket of leave and hadn’t dared to tell his wife about it. One of his
wives.”
“Even so, I don’t understand why Topcourt was willing to stay behind . . .”
“Why not?” said Jack.
“Well, you know . . . ”
In Lucy Milford’s presence I was curiously unwilling to refer to the hempen noose or Tyburn tree. All the same, Jack got my drift.
“Master Topcourt believes that you were locked up in the Counter for debt. That’s what you told everyone, wasn’t it?”
“Oh Jesus. You didn’t enlighten him? You must have told him surely?”
“Why should I? You said yourself that you were reluctant to lay claim to three murders. Especially as you’re innocent.”
“Oh God.”
I thought of the baffled way in which Topcourt had looked at me when I’d performed the neck-stretching mime. He’d thought that he was merely substituting for a man who’d been
imprisoned for debt, not one up on a capital charge. He’d thought that taking my place would give him a few extra days or weeks out of the clutches of his wives. Not offer him a short cut to
the gallows. What were his words? “They’ll discover their mistake soon enough.” It looked as though it was Topcourt who’d made a mistake, a grave mistake. Or been
grotesquely imposed upon.
The honourable action would have been to march straight back to the Counter and resume my place in the cell, to await Coroner Talbot’s final summons . . . and the arraignment, trial and
sentence which must follow. But I didn’t move.
“Don’t worry, Nick,” said Jack, blunter than I was able to be. “They’ll hardly hang the man.”
“They will if they think they’re hanging me.”
“They’ll find out their mistake soon enough,” he said, echoing Topcourt’s own words in the cell.
“I suppose so,” I said.
“And then they’ll hardly top Topcourt for being three times married.”
“I suppose not,” I said.
“You must go, Master Revill,” said Lucy Milford, again touching me lightly on the arm.
“You may call me Nicholas, seeing as you have saved my life. Both of you have saved my life.”
“Still you must go. It isn’t safe here.”
“Not safe for you either. You’re aiding a fugitive.”
“We are safe enough,” she said, speaking with queer inwardness.
“But where shall I go to?” I said.
“You know where to go when you are in trouble,” she said.
But I couldn’t return to my lodgings in Dead Man’s Place, couldn’t resume my place in the Chamberlain’s Company, couldn’t resort to Holland’s Leaguer and my
friend Nell, couldn’t go to any place . . . except . . .
. . . except . . .
And then I knew where I could go, where I had to go.
I
walked all night, keeping the river to my right, skirting Lambeth marsh and then heading southwards towards Putney. By first light I was well
away from Southwark, away from the Globe playhouse, the Counter prison, Holland’s Leaguer, Dead Man’s Place, and all the rest of it. The day dawned wet and ragged, with clouds scudding
freely across the sky and the rain coming down hard. William Topcourt’s great coat kept off the worst of it but I too must have looked wet and ragged. Gusts of wind buffeted against me and
water ran down my face, all of it delightful to someone who had spent several days incarcerated in a stinky prison. It was still so early in the morning that few people were about and those I did
encounter were mostly heading towards the city rather than away from it.
At Putney I took a ferry across the river, knowing that the shorter route for the moment lay on the north bank of the Thames. Luckily I still had money in my purse. Sitting in the
ferryman’s boat I felt for the first time like a fugitive but I took good care to play the part of a lawful traveller, looking confident and decisive as though I had business somewhere
instead of being a mere runaway. Then on the far side I bought some brown bread and set off once more at a brisk pace, tearing myself great mouthfuls as I went. Despite having been awake now for
more than twenty-four hours – and the comforts of gaol had not been so great that I’d slept quietly there, to say nothing of my troubling dreams – I was curiously refreshed. The
brisk air blew away the fogs and fusts of London.
From time to time on the route I glanced round but, although the way was busier now, I could not see any single figure who – even to my straining eyes – appeared to be in pursuit.
Common sense suggested that if I was going to be followed and apprehended it would have happened before this point. The danger now lay in a chance encounter, an unexpected challenge. The track was
muddy and miry but not so bad as it would have been later in the winter and I was able to make fairly good progress, even to overtake the odd lumbering cart. I considered hiring a post-horse but
the expense deterred me almost as much as the thought of spending hours on horseback. Saddles are hard and horses unpredictable in my experience. I’d sooner trust to my own legs than rented
ones. Besides I was not in such a great hurry to arrive.
Towards midday the rain slackened off and I bought some more bread as well as milk and cheese from a good housewife and made a quick meal of them by the roadside, reserving a little of the food
for later. It tasted much better than prison fare. Freedom is almost as good a sauce as hunger. So far I’d been walking mostly in open country with clear prospects on either side. There was
comfort in being able to see some distance in every direction. I drank down the cold, gusty air. The bare trees shivered on the edges of fallow fields and pasture but I sang to myself as I swung
along, to the undoubted benefit of the occasional herd of pigs rooting about beneath the trees or among clumps of gorse.
Near the more wooded country south-east of Buckingham, the afternoon began to fade, the number of passengers on the road thinned out and suddenly I grew conscious of my isolation. It’s not
wise to be travelling alone when the light starts to leave the sky. The traveller on horseback digs in his spurs to reach the nearest inn. The one on foot lengthens his stride. There are plenty of
rogues who will rob you on the road after dark – yes, and think nothing either of plunging the knife in after they’ve relieved you of your goods, since the price of murder is the same
as the price of robbery. The gallows waits for both offences. And it would be an ironic enough fate if I was stabbed to death on the road out of London even while I was escaping from a capital
charge.
But I wasn’t altogether willing to commit myself to the shelter of an inn for the night. I passed one with a large, brightly painted sign swinging outside. Rain was starting to drip from
the sky again. The inn was called the Night Owl. A prosperous-looking rider was alighting from his horse in the yard while an ostler slipped his bag from the saddle-bow. I visualized this gentleman
entering the inn-chamber, where a fine fire would already be burning, and calling for sack and a servant to pull off his riding-boots. I could easily have followed him in, made myself comfortable
by the fire and mulled over a drink too. My feet and calves were aching from the journey. I was beginning to feel the accumulated damp and cold of the day. Topcourt’s woollen coat was starting
to weigh heavy.
I checked my pace and half turned towards the entrance to the Night Owl. Then, almost without thinking, I turned back and resumed my progress. The way ahead wasn’t particularly inviting
since it soon lost itself among dense clusters of trees under whose branches dusk had already gathered. But the idea of mingling with other travellers in an inn or at the least exchanging words with
a curious landlord and his tapsters daunted me, even though I’d managed to put a good few miles between myself and my enemies in London. What if word had somehow got out that a notorious
murderer was on the loose? What if Coroner Talbot had sent out agents to track me down? Perhaps that fine-looking gentleman who’d been dismounting in the yard was looking for me. Not very
likely, not likely at all – but he could have been.
An acute awareness of my plight suddenly rushed in on me. I was an escaped prisoner, a wretch with three killings to his name. No one in the world was my friend, apart from Jack and Lucy back in
London. Everyone would shrink from me in horror if they knew what I’d done. What I was supposed to have done. Surely the substitution of William Topcourt for Nicholas Revill in the Counter
prison had been discovered by now? Part of me hoped that it had, for Master Topcourt’s sake. (But a larger, selfish part hoped that it hadn’t.)
I paced slowly among the dank trees for a little while longer, not knowing what to do, whether to go on walking – but this seemed foolish since it would be easy to wander off the path and
besides I was growing too tired to go on much further – or whether to search out some mossy nook or leaf-strewn corner of the forest to rest my head in. I wasn’t much in love with the
second idea either. Sleeping in a forest may be good enough for fairies and eloping lovers in a play but even they had the wit to choose a dry night in midsummer. In this dithering mood I was about
to turn round and retrace my steps to the Night Owl when I spotted a low square shape through the trees off to my left. I made my way towards it and discovered a broken-down hovel, roofed more with
holes than with beams and straw. I don’t know who it once housed, whether a charcoal-burner or a swineherd or even a hermit, but there were no signs of occupation now, no sticks of furniture,
no pile of warm ash, no primitive bed. This was good enough for me. I thanked Providence for throwing a house into my path, in case Providence felt like dispensing any more substantial favours in
my direction.
I found the angle of the hovel which was the least wet and cold and, slumping against the corner post, chewed at my last chunk of bread and sliver of cheese. Whereas before I’d wolfed them
down with appetite, now they seemed to stick in my throat. Rain dribbled through a gap in the roof and then through a matching gap between my neck and the collar of Topcourt’s coat and I did
not have the will to shift and avoid it. All the vigour of the morning seemed to belong to another life, and not mine either. Eventually, I huddled down inside the coat and lay in my corner, half
curled up as I have seen dogs lie when they have been banished from the fire and are feeling aggrieved.
The night was endless. Once I woke up and thought I was back in prison. Then I thought, almost fondly, of my old lodgings in Dead Man’s Place, my little room with its bed and its roof and
and its walls and its floor and other bare necessaries. And I struggled to turn my mind away from the woman who had sometimes shared the bed in that room, for the memory of her was still very raw.
I compared what I had had then with what I endured now and, like the dog kept from the fire, felt extremely sorry for myself. I fell asleep again and woke convinced that it was dawn. But it was
still pitch dark. All around me was the patter of rain from the bare branches and the drip of water through the holes in the roof. From time to time there would be a rustle or a sliding sound from
the forest, as some night creature went about its business. I huddled further down inside Master Topcourt’s coat and attempted to sleep. At another point during that endless night I dreamed
that some oafish animal had invaded my hovel, snuffling and panting in search of food or shelter. If I keep very still and quiet, I thought, perhaps it’ll take me for a bundle of rags and
leave me alone.
When I awoke properly, a weak and watery light filled the hut. I saw that the oafish beast was no dream. In another corner of my tumbledown shelter another unfortunate individual was sleeping.
All I could see of him was a shag of hair and beard, framing an unpleasing set of features. He was lying, snoring and spluttering, under a weather-stained mantle that was much less adequate than
mine. There were holes in the boots that protruded from the other end. I made a silent exit before he too woke up. However dire my predicament I was still in possession of a whole coat and sound
boots, to say nothing of a purse with a bit of coin in it. I did not want to put advantage or temptation in anyone’s way. Even lying down he looked bigger than me. For certain he must be more
desperate, difficult though that was to believe.
I blundered off through the woods. Hunger clawed at my guts. I marvelled at the hardiness of those who spend their lives in the wild as beggars and vagrants. All that stands between us and them
is a stout pair of shoes and a little coin. For an instant I contemplated turning right round and going back to Southwark, to the streets and buildings of the city rather than the bare paths of the
wood. But in among those streets were coroners, prisons and gallows . . . So I shook off my self-pity and started to stride out as I’d done on the previous morning and eventually walked
myself into more cheerful spirits. The sun showed dimly to one side, as if in approval.