Pengelly's Daughter (20 page)

‘Dammit, man, I'll not succumb to blackmail. I know nothing of what you speak.'

Jim's voice turned hard. ‘But you do. Perhaps I should refresh your memory? A young man is sent a letter. It's from his step-mother's brother and requests his company in a dangerous part of town – a place where he'd normally not go. He's seventeen, young, inexperienced an' not used to being alone on the streets, but he goes because the letter's requesting his help. The young man dislikes his step-uncle intensely, but he thinks it his duty to serve him, so he overcomes his fear, enters an alley known to be particularly dangerous, an' walks alone, fearing for his uncle's safety. But it was his own safety he should have feared. Lying in wait was a dangerous and ruthless man, one known to break a man's neck with one hand – killing hands and a ruthless heart, waiting for him as he walked towards his fate.

‘Of course, they'd be clever about this death. They'd arrange for their hands to be clean, for no hint of blame to come their way. After all, there was a large estate at stake so the young man would have to die, but not be murdered. So much better to let the law of the land do the killing – far better he hangs.

‘They sprung him from behind, callous an' cowardly, but that was the nature of the two men. Before the young man had a chance to defend himself, they set about beating him, kicking him, knocking him senseless to the ground – but they didn't kill him. They removed the note from the young man's jacket, safe in the knowledge that the uncle had his own note in his pocket – a good forgery, requesting him meet the young man in the very place they were now standing. All they had to do was put the uncles' purse in the young man's jacket and leave him lying in the gutter while they saw to their own injuries – light, supercial wounds on their arms and legs were all that was needed. Then they set about ripping each other's clothes and rolling in the lth, but to nish the job properly, they opened their pouch of pig's blood, drenching themselves from head to toe, before they lay in the gutter, groaning as if they were dying.'

The room was silent, everyone straining to hear Jim's words.

‘It wasn't long before they were discovered, was it, Mr Roskelly? And not long before the news got out. The nephew had gone wild, viciously attacking his uncle after luring him to his death. The court heard the evidence – two men's word against one. They'd been injured to within an inch of their lives and they had the heavily blood-stained letter as proof. The young man must hang, of that, there was no doubt.' The bitterness in his voice was chilling. The words had come straight from his heart and everyone in the room had sensed it.

Robert Roskelly was staring at Jim, sweat now dripping from his brow. He cleared his throat. ‘A touching story and no doubt well-rehearsed, but it means nothing to me. You've nothing to incriminate me. Nothing you've said perturbs me. And who'd believe the testimony of a wretch such as yourself? Look at you – you're lthy, you stink. You're no better than a common thief. If you think anyone will listen to you, then you're even more foolish than I thought.'

‘You fear me, Robert Roskelly. I can see it in your eyes and smell it on your breath. You fear me. Yet there's more I'd accuse you of.' He pushed his chair away, standing up to face Father, addressing him from across the room. ‘You remember the late Sir Francis Polcarrow who married the young Alice Roskelly? That would be about twelve years ago wouldn't it?'

Father nodded, his face the colour of ash. Jim must have noticed how frail he looked because he made his way towards him, carefully untying his gag. Father wiped his hand across his mouth, looking up at Jim with bewildered eyes.

Jim turned back to Robert Roskelly. ‘The new Lady Polcarrow was young and healthy. Sir Francis had served his purpose in siring a son and if you were to carry out your ambition to be the boy's guardian and take control of the Polcarrow estate, you needed to make sure Sir Francis met with a fatal riding accident – a loose saddle, an unseen molehill, or a blow from a low branch? The choice was endless.

‘You chose the blow from a low branch, didn't you, Mr Roskelly? How easy it must have seemed as you swung the branch that smashed his skull. You managed the murder so well. You arranged the body, making everything look like an accident and you became the solid rock your sister and her young infant needed.'

Robert Roskelly stood wiping the sweat on his brow, glaring at Jim in undisguised fear. Jim glared back, his face dark with loathing. ‘Two deaths would have been suspicious, but a tragic accident, followed by a vicious attack from a young man who was known to dislike you so much, left no-one suspecting. You were free to prosper, Mr Roskelly, and prosper you have.'

Father's cough racked his chest. Jim turned and started to undo Father's wrists. To my horror, I saw he had left his pistol lying on the desk and I could see Robert Roskelly staring at it. I tried to warn Jim, shouting into my gag, pointing with my eyes in the direction of the pistol, desperately willing him to understand, but though he looked at me, raising his eyebrows in response, he did not grasp my meaning. I tried screaming, shaking my head, but to no avail. It was too late. Robert Roskelly reached across the desk and stood holding the pistol in both hands, his laughter now lling the room. ‘Not as clever as you think you are.'

Hearing the pistol cock, Jim turned round, horried by his foolish mistake. ‘Damn you, Robert Roskelly,' he said.

‘I should have killed you when I had the chance. You can't fool me. Right from the start I knew there was something familiar about you. You thought your sailor's accent and vagrant appearance would disguise you, but your eyes give you away. I know who you really are. We should have killed you when we had the chance, not left you to the gallows.'

‘Like you killed my father?'

‘Yes, like I killed your dammed father.' Jim was behind my chair, his hands gripping my shoulders. The barrel of the pistol was pointing straight at him. ‘You're a dead man, James Polcarrow,' Robert Roskelly said. ‘Your futile attempt to incriminate me has failed.'

James Polcarrow? Through my fear, my mind was reeling. I should have known. I should have remembered the scandal. I had been so blind, yet now it seemed so obvious – Jim's education, his knowledge of Fosse, his sense of vengeance, his championship of the aristocracy. But it was all too late. Whatever injustices he had endured, whatever hardship and cruelty he had suffered, he was now powerless. Robert Roskelly was walking slowly across the room, the pistol pointing at Jim's chest.

Jim's strong hands squeezed my shoulders and I screamed into the suffocating gag. We were going to die – all of us. My poor, poor mother. She would never survive this. Never.

Robert Roskelly seemed content to take his time, his red-rimmed eyes enjoying my fear. With a laugh of triumph he lined up his aim and, with a sneer on his face, he pulled the trigger.

Chapter Twenty-two

A
piercing whistle lled the air. The door ung open and men came rushing into the room. I watched, amazed, as the heavy brocade curtains were thrust aside and two men stepped out from behind them.

Robert Roskelly's pistol failed to re, his ngers still frantically pulling at the trigger. Jim waited only long enough for him to realise the pistol had no powder before he aimed a heavy blow, knocking him sideways to the oor. Mr Tregellas ran for his life, dodging from side to side, but he was outnumbered and stood no chance. Two men lunged to catch him, pulling him to the ground, pinning his arms behind his back to apply their heavy handcuffs. Jim began undoing the knots that bound me, ripping away my gag and I stood trembling, shaking, running over to Father who was staggering to his feet.

‘Father, come. You look so pale. Sit over here where you'll be safe. '

Behind me, someone shouted. ‘One's got away.'

Another replied, ‘Follow him... Quickly! You two – down there…follow him. Take this lantern and hurry.' I recognised him now, it was the constable speaking. Across the room, a small dark hole, no more than three-foot square, stood gaping in the wood panelling. Jim stood staring at it, his face full of fury as the older of the two men walked to his side. He was a tall man, dressed in a dark jacket and working-man's breeches, but as soon as he spoke, he lled the room with authority. ‘Denville's escaped, damn him. Did you forget about the tunnel, James?'

‘No, Sir George, I didn't know it was there.'

‘Your father never mentioned it?'

‘No. Perhaps he thought I was too young. Perhaps he was going to tell me when I came of age.'

‘Perhaps,' replied the man. I could see him more clearly now; his face was stern, his hair greying, his whole bearing at odds with the clothes he wore. He looked at the dogs. ‘That drugged meat worked well. I was worried when that lamp crashed to the ground – I thought it would rouse them.'

‘There's no chance of them waking for several hours yet and, when they do, they'll have a head from hell. I can't thank you enough, Sir George. You must have been stied behind those curtains.' He pulled the signed bill of sale out of his pocket. ‘Do you have all the evidence you need?'

‘Yes, the evidence is irrefutable. Two attorneys heard the confession and with a sworn witness from you, Mr Pengelly and Miss Pengelly, we have all we need. I'll keep this bill of sale with the ledgers and letters. It may take time – and a bit of ingenuity – but I'm condent I can get your original sentence revoked. Robert Roskelly will hang for murder and we'll have you back where you belong.'

‘I can't thank you sufciently.'

‘Don't thank me, James. I've put right a wrong, that's all. I blame myself for not getting you acquitted in the rst place – I wish I had served you better. I'm just glad you're still young and have your life ahead of you.'

‘You must not blame yourself. If you hadn't got my sentence commuted to transportation, I'd have hung long ago. I owe you my life and, now, I owe you my freedom.'

‘I was lucky to count your father among my closest friends and I won't stop until I see his killers brought to justice. Welcome back, James, my boy. Welcome back.'

With the other men no longer there, Father and I seemed so out of place in that awful room, watching the two men smiling so warmly at each other. Henderson was glancing fearfully in their direction, two silver candlesticks alight with six wax candles held in his shaking gloved hands. A soft glow began chasing away the shadows but though the light was welcome, it did little to lift the gloom. Jim saw him hesitate.

‘Henderson, bring brandy if you please – four glasses. I'm sure Miss Pengelly could do with a glass.' Despite his dirty clothes and unkempt appearance, Jim stood tall and com­manding, his shoulders squared, his chin held high. The voice that demanded brandy was full of assurance and the eyes that watched Henderson were condent and aloof. I could see at once they were the voice and eyes of another man.

I stared at James Polcarrow, at those blue eyes confronting me across the room. They were full of challenge, full of deance. Yet it was I who should feel deant. Why had he not trusted me? Why had he put me through so much terror? I had told him everything, yet he had told me nothing. I would never have given away his secret. Never. He had used me so ill. Not even a hint, not the slightest hint that my safety had been assured. We stood staring at each other, both of us unsmiling.

Sir George coughed politely.

‘I'm sorry, Sir George. Let me introduce Miss Pengelly and her father, Mr Pascoe Pengelly. Miss Pengelly, allow me to introduce Sir George Reith, my attorney.'

‘Delighted, Miss Pengelly, Mr Pengelly,' said Sir George Reith, bowing. Father bowed. I dipped a curtsey.

James Polcarrow was still staring at me. There was no sign of apology, no icker of remorse. He had put Father and me through unimaginable terror, yet he showed no remorse? Sir George was looking from one of us to the other. Raising his eyebrows, he turned to Father. ‘May I suggest a more comfortable chair, Mr Pengelly? I don't know about you, but I've been standing for an eternally long time and my legs aren't what they used to be. Allow me to help you, sir.' He put out his arm, helping Father to one of the larger chairs by the desk.

I did not see them sit down; I was staring at the stranger across the room, the knot in my stomach tightening. Henderson brought in a gleaming, ligree silver tray with a glass decanter and four large glasses. The nely cut crystal sparkled in the glow of the candles, sending bright shards of light dancing against the polished silver. I had never seen such beautiful glass, or such an elaborate tray. James Polcarrow crossed the room, picking up the decanter to pour the brandy. Holding two of the sparkling glasses in his hand, he swirled them deftly in his palm as he walked slowly towards me.

Something about the way he swirled the glass, something about his nonchalant manner, his arrogant assurance, made my hackles rise. He was acting as if he owned the place and, of course, he soon would. His power would be absolute. He would own the great house, the huge park, the vast estate. He would own all the servants, all the farm workers. He would own all the farms, all the barns, all the curates' livings. He would own the voting rights of most of Fosse, half the harbour and most of the warehouses. He would soon own the lease on Father's boatyard. He looked deant because he
was
. I had to get out of that room.

Brushing past him in my haste, I grabbed Father by the hand, almost hurling him out of his seat as I hurried him across the room. People like James Polcarrow did not need to tell the likes of me and Father what they did. They did what they liked, to whom they liked. They felt no need to explain their actions. They used people for their own ends.

Stopping at the door, I turned to address Sir George's astonished face. ‘Goodbye, Sir George – it's very late and Mother doesn't even know Father's alive. Forgive us if we don't stay for brandy, but we can't waste any more time…' All I knew was that I had to get out of that hateful house.