Eppie (64 page)

‘It ain’t him as is heading the court this
morning. Thurstan du Quesne’s due in.’

Rowan put her face in her hands and sank
into herself in anguish.

Gabriel looked on hopelessly.

‘Perhaps you would be more comfortable in
the gig, my dear,’ Mr Grimley said. ‘I did warn you this was not a fit place
for you to visit. I must see what I can do to help Gabriel.’ 

‘I’ll see you safely outside,’ Eppie
offered.

‘I will be fine, I assure you.’ Ashamed of
her tears, Rowan took one last look of longing at Gabriel and hastened away.

Gabriel spoke in a tormented voice. ‘Genevieve,
you must be careful. Thurstan knows that you are his cousin.’

She had no time to reflect upon her own
fate. ‘If Thurstan is in charge of sentencing, no way will Gabriel have a fair trial.
Thurstan has already declared Gabriel guilty when it was he who killed Lord du
Quesne.’

‘I can quite believe it,’ Boyle answered
leadenly. ‘They don’t come much more cold-blooded than Thurstan du Quesne.
Usually the condemned cell is fit to bursting, but when he steps into command
he rushes through them at an alarming pace. That’s why you can hear all them
cries for mercy. They know their time’s fast running out.’

‘It is imperative that I enlighten my
lawyer of the trial,’ said Mr Grimley. 

‘There’s no time,’ Boyle replied. ‘Besides,
it’s regular for prisoners to conduct their own defense.’

‘Gabriel is too ill to defend himself,’ Mr
Grimley protested. ‘I, at least, must be allowed to speak on his behalf.’

‘No public
allowed in the sessions,’ Boyle said flatly. ‘Thurstan du Quesne’s orders.’

The narrow lane was deserted.

Sobbing, Rowan made her way to the gig.

A carriage, driven by Fulke, drew alongside. Thurstan threw
back the door and stepped down. ‘If it isn’t my vacillating Miss Grimley.’

She cast him a startled look.
    

‘Grim not around to chaperon you? From your sodden
appearance, I presume that you have bid farewell to my murderous cousin.’

‘I have nothing to say to you, Mr du Quesne. Please leave me
alone.’

‘On the contrary, I believe that you have something of
utmost importance to say.’  He took her firmly by the arm. ‘So far you have
denied me the courtesy of a reply to my proposal of marriage. I give you one
last opportunity.’

She tried to pull out of his grasp. ‘If you were the last
man on earth I would not marry you.’

‘You extol me to the heavens with your accolade! What you
fail to grasp, however, is that I let nothing and no one impede my plans.’

‘Release me!’

‘I think not, unless you yearn for your uncle to suffer the
same fate as Gabriel.’

Forcefully, he thrust her into the coach. Jaggery waited
inside.

‘I almost forgot to offer my
condolences,’ Thurstan said. ‘I paid a visit to your great-grandmother this
morning. She had a most unfortunate tumble over the banisters. As heiress to
the Bulwar estate you will make me a wealthy wife.’  

Knowing that time was against them, Eppie spoke
quickly. ‘Wilbert was the only witness to my father’s death. We must persuade
him to speak the truth.’

‘Hix has no scruples,’ Mr Grimley answered.
‘If you ask me, he’s in this with Thurstan and more than willing to lie for his
ale money. That’s why I urgently need to speak with my lawyer. He’ll tear Hix’s
evidence to shreds.’  

 In Gabriel’s eyes was a numbed acceptance
of his fate. ‘Nothing can be done to save me. Thurstan has made sure of
that.’  
 

Gazing upon the man whom the quack had
unsuccessfully treated, the germ of an idea formed in Eppie’s mind. She spoke
in a hushed voice. ‘What happens to the dead?’

Boyle looked puzzled. ‘The dead?’

‘When they’re taken from here?’

‘After a spell in the Dead House, where
they’re laid out in sacks, they’re carted out for burial and tossed into the churchyard
pits by the dozen, no ceremony.’

‘What if?’ She drew the men close and
whispered. ‘Gabriel hid in a body sack?’

‘What you getting at?’ Boyle asked,
reservedly. 

‘If Thurstan asks, you could say Gabriel
died all of a sudden. Tell him it was punishment from God.’

Boyle shook his head, doubtfully. ‘I’ll do
it, though it won’t be easy. You’ll have to get past the gravediggers.’

‘It’s Gabriel’s only chance,’ she answered.
‘He needs time to prove his innocence. This way you won’t be implicated. If I
know Thurstan, he’ll not wish to dirty his hands by checking on Gabriel’s body
for fear of catching the sickness.’ She turned to Gabriel. ‘Will you do it? I’ll
rescue you from the pit. You look as white as a corpse anyway. I’m sure you’d fool
anyone.’

Despite his suffering, a twinkle came into
his eyes. They were the playful eyes she remembered from childhood, when he had
teased her. ‘Thanks, you’ve made me feel much better. I’ll do it.  Only, don’t
forget me.’

Lovingly, she squeezed his hand. ‘How could
I ever forget you?’

Gabriel feigned a swift death. Such an
event was clearly commonplace; no one paid him the slightest attention.

Boyle loaded Gabriel onto the barrow, and trundled
him along a series of corridors.

Eppie and Mr Grimley followed, past the
doleful sight of prisoners suffering behind bars. Racked with cramp, a man
vomited fluid tinged with blood.

Coming to a square cut out of a timber
floor, Boyle tipped the barrow by its t-shaped handle and Gabriel landed a few
feet below. Eppie winced, thinking about his bruises. At least he had the
gumption not to cry out in shock and pain.

They followed Boyle down a flight of stone
steps to a cellar-like room, where they nervously waited outside whilst he
busied himself, sewing Gabriel into a sack.

The door of the Dead House clanged shut
behind Boyle. ‘I’ve stuck him out of the way in a corner, hoping bodies won’t
be piled upon him. With a mountain of corpses in there already and more after
the trials, there’s no knowing when he’ll be thrown into a pit.’ 

At this devastating news the blood seemed
to drain from Eppie’s body. ‘What’ve I done?’ she thought fearfully. ‘Gabriel
could be lying in there for days.’

The distress in Talia’s eyes mirrored Eppie’s.

In her mind, Eppie spoke the words she knew
her sister would understand. ‘You are our only hope.’ 

With a nod of her head, showing that she understood,
Talia turned and melted through the wall, into the House of the Dead, her
ghostly skirts rustling like parched leaves blowing in a breeze.

Eppie, Martha and Lottie were afraid
to stay at their rented room, where they might be easy prey for Thurstan, and
so they came to stay at Bridge House.    

Two days had passed since Rowan’s disappearance and everyone
at Bridge House was gravely disturbed about what had happened to her. 

Although Colonel Cudbert Catesby and his soldiers had
scoured the town, their search for her had proved futile.

It was plain to Eppie and the others that Thurstan was
behind Rowan’s disappearance. When questioned at Tunnygrave Manor, where he had
lost no time in taking up residence, he was adamant that he knew nothing about
her whereabouts.

Sat
on the window-seat on the poop deck, Eppie gazed at the full moon, pondering
Gabriel’s peril, and recalling her father’s horrific death. She glanced at
Martha, who was seated on the sofa beside Lottie, both of them sewing. ‘Betsy once
told me that since Lord du Quesne drowned a kitten he would suffer a violent
death. Now he’s gone I regret not having the chance to get close to my father,
to understand him. In a way he was like one of pa’s prize beetroots; his best
side lay buried and needed unearthing. Only, for my father, that moment came
too late.’ 

Mr Grimley attempted to lighten the atmosphere by
reminiscing about the previous summer’s peace revelries.

To mark the end of the Napoleonic War, Grinling and Agnes
Clopton had been invited by Robert du Quesne to a social gathering at the manor
house. 

As a guardian of the poorhouse, Mr Grimley was left in
charge of the inmates. Drawing upon the fines money embezzled from the cotton
mill, he had provided a sumptuous meal for the poor folk.

Eppie, Martha, Lottie and Priscilla had helped Betsy serve
steaming cups of tea, a novelty for the poor people who usually drank watered
down gruel or small-beer. Loafer had a relative there and, much to Betsy’s
delight, he had brought in packs of cards. 

Upon her return, Agnes was none
too thrilled to find that the poorhouse had been turned into a gambling den, with
Betsy and some of her elderly friends enthusiastically involved in a round of loo,
betting and playing for the much-drooled-over-stakes - slices of Priscilla’s fruit
cake.   

Despite the entertaining evening and the comfort of the
feather-filled mattress, Eppie could not rest easy in Rowan’s bed. When she did
finally drop off, Martha and Lottie, who slept beside her, awakened her. 

‘That leak is driving me to distraction,’ Lottie moaned.

‘It reminds me of the time our cottage flooded,’ Martha said.
She pulled the coverlet over their heads so that they would not have to listen
to it. 

‘What leak?’ Eppie asked woozily.

‘Don’t say you can’t hear it?’ Martha asked. ‘Even Rotten
Yard was drier than this place when it rains.’

‘The whole house smells of damp mice,’ Lottie reflected.

‘It’s not raining,’ Eppie said. ‘Leastwise it weren’t when
we came to bed; the sky was clear.’ She peeled back the bedclothes. Padding
over to the window, she drew back the curtains.

Moonlight spilt into the room, casting upon a water pitcher that
stood upon a washstand. Approaching it, she held out her cupped palm to catch
the drips. She felt nothing. Picking up the pitcher, she placed it on the opposite
side of the washstand. Still the drip plinked into the jug.

The shadowy water transformed and shone like a sparkling,
clear pool. As Eppie watched, the rings ebbed, to be replaced by the image of
prisoners’ corpses being tipped from a cart, like infected cattle, into a mass
grave.

‘How long has this drip been going on?’ She snatched up her
clothing from a chair, tumbling Martha and Lottie’s dresses onto the floor in
the process.

‘Ages,’ Martha answered. ‘Why? What’s the matter?’

Nerves jangling, Eppie hurriedly slipped into her frock. ‘It’s
now! I have to rescue Gabriel.’  

Wearing his nightshirt and cap, Mr Grimley groped downstairs
in the gloom to join the others, who were huddled in the doorway.  

‘What if something happens to you?’ Martha wailed. ‘What if
you never come back?’

Eppie could not let herself think about that possibility.

The bridge was so riddled with holes that, in the darkness,
she stumbled a few times.

Twisting through alleys, she was forever fearful, expecting
to be jumped upon by villains whose haunts were the murky, dreary lanes. All
she came across were destitute children, sleeping rough in groups or singly. 

A sudden realisation hit her. The sacks into which the
corpses were sewn were all the same. How would she know which one Gabriel was
in?  It was all she could do not to weep in torment at what might befall him. He
would be buried alive.

Heading towards the remote, wind-swept outskirts of town the
air grew fresher. Fields cloaked in darkness spanned to the distant hills. This
was a place where people, in the belief of evil spirits, were afraid to venture
at night.

Fighting for breath, she crouched before the railings.

Talking loudly, one of the gravediggers even whistling a
jolly tune, the men led their horse away, the cart empty. Seeing them heading
back to the jail, she drew a sigh of relief.

Spades stood beside the glowing fire at the side of the
grave. The diggers clearly intended to return with more bodies.

Boyle had told her that, once the last of the bodies had
been tossed in, they were loosely covered with lime and soil. A few days later,
the grave was reopened and the recently-dead forced in. A terrible picture
flared in her mind, recalling Boyle words: ‘If the pit’s too full the diggers
jump on the bodies to squash more in.’

She was creeping away when, from the direction of the
countryside, came the rasping snort of a weary horse and the smack of
iron-hooves.

‘Keep ‘em horses quiet,’ a man hissed above the rattle of bridles
and stirrups.

Hastily, she drew her shawl over her head, praying she would
not be spotted. Through holes in the wool she watched two wagons and a carriage,
their wheels wrapped in straw and cloth to aid their silent approach, draw
level with the gates. Riders followed.

Turned about, the wagons were made ready for departure.

No longer did the graveyard seem a
place of sanctity. Rather, it had become a rough, desolate place where
evil-minded men roamed. Shovels and sheets upon their shoulders, men passed
through the gates, the graveyard whispering with their furtive movements.

Despairing, Eppie watched, hoping frantically for a moment
to reach the pit. It was not long before the grave-robbers returned with a macabre
loot of freshly-buried corpses.