The Path of the Wicked (25 page)

‘Straight on, past the statue thing,' said Tabby, directing from the back.

As it happened, it was the main road towards Gloucester, so quite busy. After less than a mile, we came to the public house, three faded gold stars on a flaking blue background, a couple of out-of-work farm labourers drinking slow pints on a bench outside. A girl like Barbara shouldn't even have known such a place existed, but a sporting gentleman might pause there for a quick glass on horseback to break a long hack home. Paley's suggestion to her, probably. How long had they been planning this?

We slipped off and I left Tabby holding Rancie while I went to the door and waited. One of the labourers stood up and called ‘Lady to see you' into the dim, beer-smelling depths of the room. A tall, very thin man in a green apron came out.

‘I'm sorry to bother you,' I said. ‘My friend's coachman left a trunk here yesterday. I wonder if it's been collected yet.'

‘Yes, ma'am. First thing this morning. He was here before I got the doors unlocked.'

‘Did he give a name?'

‘Why should he? He'd come to collect a trunk, he collected it and off he went in a hurry. Didn't even stop to wet his whistle.'

‘A young man?'

‘Pretty young.'

‘What sort of vehicle was he driving?'

‘Two-horse curricle, nice one.'

A sporting man's vehicle. That fitted.

‘Was he a tall red-faced gentleman with dark hair and side whiskers?'

I was describing Postboy, sure that he was in the plot somewhere. The landlord shook his head.

‘Tall, very tall. Not dark or red-faced, though, and no side whiskers. Light-coloured hair and blue eyes, I noticed. Didn't come from round here, judging by his voice.'

‘Where from, did you think?'

He jerked his thumb westwards. ‘Somewhere that way, I'd say.'

‘Which way did he go?'

‘Towards Gloucester. Handled the horses like he knew what he was doing.'

It was unbelievable, and yet it fitted too well. I tried another question.

‘What was he wearing?'

‘Jacket, boots and gaiters, ordinary wear but neat.'

‘And his waistcoat?'

‘Yellow as a canary bird. So you know the gentleman?'

He looked relieved when I nodded. I suppose he'd feared trouble about the trunk. I thanked him and went back to Tabby and Rancie.

‘It was collected first thing this morning,' I said. Then added, still not quite believing it: ‘By Amos Legge.'

W
e walked westwards along the road, leading Rancie and trying to make sense of it. The idea that Amos had simply been recruited as a bag-carrier in an elopement was ridiculous. Why and wherever he'd taken the trunk must have been to do with his search for Paley. How he'd got to it before we did was a puzzle. When I'd parted from him, he'd been on his way home to Herefordshire, pausing at Ledbury to follow the trail of Paley's horse. On Sunday morning he'd have been sitting in church next to his fiancée, hearing their banns read. In two days he'd somehow picked up the trail and ridden back here. Given Amos's ability to lay his hands on a fast horse or a pair of them at need, it was possible but still surprising.

‘Why in the world didn't he tell us what he was doing?' I said.

‘Because we weren't there,' Tabby said, defending him.

A fair point, I supposed. Amos might have been looking for us while we were looking for Barbara.

‘The trunk must have had a delivery address on it, or what would be the point in taking it?' I said, trying to think it through. ‘Or perhaps he hoped there'd be something inside it that would tell us where Barbara's gone.'

‘How would he have known she's gone?'

‘You know Amos. He only has to spend five minutes in any stable yard to catch the latest gossip. The whole county's been buzzing with people looking for her.'

We walked on another half-mile.

‘Where are we going?' Tabby said.

‘Gloucester. It's only another nine miles or so.'

The decision seemed to have made itself. Perhaps it had been made as soon as I looked at that scrap of paper in Mary Marsh's desk.

‘Because that's where he's going?'

‘I've no notion where he's going,' I said. ‘He might have turned off anywhere between here and Gloucester. We'll probably have to wait for him to find us.'

‘So, why are we going there?'

‘To find a church.'

‘Another one?'

She sounded far from impressed, but I was working on a guess so wild that I didn't want to talk about it until I'd tested it, not even to Tabby. She saw that and walked on without resentment. In theory, we were on foot for a while to give Rancie's back a rest, but she was still as fresh as paint and could have carried us both cheerfully. The real reason was another notion too eccentric for me to explain. We were following Joanna Picton. Soon after we'd left the Three Stars, I'd realized that this must have been the road she'd walked, with the baby in her arms, on that icy November night nine months ago. The Three Stars might even be the public house where a kind landlady had let her warm herself at the fire, or another one like it along the way.

It was true that the circumstances could hardly be more different. Joanna was walking in the dark, scared and hungry, with nothing but sodden ploughland and flooded ditches round her. We were going between golden stubble fields with fat pheasants clacking, pastures full of grazing sheep, pink mallow and creamy meadowsweet growing along the roadside verges. She had the weight of the baby in her arms, probably crying by now, and walked on workhouse shoes that would let in water. It would have been surprising if she'd possessed gloves, so her hands would be blue with cold, probably chapped and chilblained. She and the baby were alone until, too late, the carter came along. In our case, carriages and riders were passing every few minutes, people raising hands and wishing us good afternoon. If we'd needed help at all, either kindness or the sovereigns in my saddle bag would have guaranteed it. She might as well have been a lost traveller in Arctic wasteland for all the help she could expect. And yet she'd walked on, hoping for something better that never happened. When we came to a milestone, I suggested that Tabby should get up on Rancie.

‘Don't you want to as well?'

I shook my head. She settled, holding on to the pommel of the saddle as I told her, while I led Rancie along, the sun dipping to the west in front of us, shining in our eyes and throwing long shadows back along the road. When the tower of Gloucester cathedral came in sight, we were passing a grove of withies, with a deep ditch between trees and road. Irrationally, I was sure this was where the baby had drowned and I shuddered.

‘What's up?' Tabby asked, missing nothing.

‘Just a horsefly. We'll stop at the next milestone and I'll get up with you.'

Gloucester was busy. The broad river Severn takes quite large ships down from there to Bristol, so timber and coal carts were going backwards and forwards from the docks. We found a small but respectable hotel – of the temperance persuasion as it happened – and I negotiated stabling and a feed for Rancie and a room each for Tabby and me. After two weeks of sleeping on Suzie's floor, I thought she deserved a little comfort. The hotel keeper promised chops, potatoes and tea in an hour and cans of hot water in our rooms for washing. I said I had an errand to do first and left Tabby to carry up our saddlebag while I took a short walk to the cathedral. A verger was checking candles, ready for evensong. When I asked him where I might find St Luke's, he seemed surprised that anybody should want it rather than his fine cathedral.

‘A little new place, down by the docks.'

‘So near the prison, too?'

‘Yes.'

‘Would it take an interest in prison charities?'

‘I think it might.'

I walked back to the hotel, knowing that my guess had been right. All the guests ate dinner at a common table. There were twelve of them, including three clergymen. Over teacups after the meal, I managed to get into conversation with the most amiable of them. He wasn't surprised by my interest.

‘Yes, indeed; I know the vicar there. He runs a charity which does what it can for these unfortunate people. If you like, I'll write you a note of introduction.'

I thanked him and he wrote the note there and then, on hotel notepaper at the table.

‘What's that about, then?' said Tabby later, with her usual suspicion of the written word.

‘A vicar we'll be calling on first thing tomorrow.'

The vicar was quite a young man, but almost completely bald with only a tonsure of sparse hair. His voice was deep, his eyes kind but weary. His small church and vicarage, both of raw-looking brick, in a poor area near the docks, was not the most desirable of livings. The plain curtains and modest furnishings in his study at the vicarage where we talked suggested that he was a bachelor who didn't spend much thought or money on his own comforts. Judging by the notices in his church porch, the Prisoners' Gospel Mission was only one of several charities his parish supported, along with Indigent Seaman and Relief of Dock Labourers' Widows. It seemed close to his heart, though, and he was happy to tell me about the work he and his volunteers did – mostly prison visiting. He showed no surprise when I said my interest was in a prisoner who'd been deported.

‘Yes, they're heart-rending cases. We're allowed to see them as they're taken away and give them a small parcel of comforts for the voyage – a blanket, a cake of soap, a Bible. I've seen hardened sinners crying like children when they're put into the coaches to be driven off to the hulks. Even men who've been sentenced only to seven years away know they might not see their homes and families again. As for the poor wretches who are transported for life, I've had some of them say to me that they wished they'd been hanged instead.'

‘The person I'm interested in was for life, and she was a young woman,' I said.

A pained look came over his face. ‘Joanna Picton?'

‘You know about the case?'

‘Of course. It was notorious here. And there aren't so many women deported.'

‘When was she sent away?'

‘The end of May this year. The men, they're sent down to the hulks at Woolwich to wait for the deportation ships. The hulks have no accommodation for women, so they're conveyed to Woolwich just before the ships are due to sail. Joanna was the only woman this time. They sent her off on the London coach, wrist-shackled to a warder.'

‘Shackled?'

He looked down at the table, obviously uneasy with what he was telling me.

‘We did suggest that it was hardly necessary in Joanna's case. The poor girl was sobbing and so distressed she could hardly walk to the coach. But the prison governor insisted it was the rule. I think up to the last minute they feared there'd be some desperate attempt to rescue her.'

‘We? There was somebody with you?'

‘A woman. A remarkably good-hearted and determined woman.'

‘Was her name Mary Marsh?' I said.

‘I never knew her name. She said Joanna Picton had been employed in a household where she lived.'

‘You thought her remarkable?'

‘Decidedly. She came to me the day before Joanna was to be taken away and asked if there would be any chance to speak to her. I explained that the authorities would be unlikely to allow it and that in any case the scene was likely to be too distressing for somebody not used to such things.'

‘But Miss Marsh wasn't convinced?' I said.

‘She was immovable. If her motives had not been so kindly, I might even have said stubborn. She said she had a message for the unfortunate girl from her brother. I offered to deliver it, if I could, but that didn't do. Nothing would satisfy her but she should be there when Joanna was put on the coach. For better or worse, I gave in.'

‘And did she talk to Joanna Picton?' I asked.

‘She did, but for no more than a minute or two. I wouldn't want to impute any wrongdoing to your friend, but I think it possible that she even passed some money to a gaoler to look the other way while he was sorting out the shackles.'

‘Do you know what they talked about?'

‘No. I stood quite close, so that I could protect your friend in case of any difficulty, but not so close as to overhear. I presume the message from the brother was passed on. As I say, the girl was distressed and crying.'

‘Crying too much to talk?'

‘Not entirely. There were several occasions when your friend had clearly asked her something and she lifted up her head and spoke quite sharply. I thought perhaps your friend was asking her if she repented of that she'd done, which would have been quite understandable. If so, I'm afraid she didn't get the answer her kindness deserved.'

‘Joanna spoke sharply? Angrily?'

‘From the expression on her face, I think so.'

‘Angry with Miss Marsh?'

‘In my opinion, no. When the men came to put the girl on the coach, she clung to your friend and buried her face on her shoulder. They had to drag her away.'

‘Miss Marsh must have found that distressing.'

‘That's what I thought. When the coach had driven away, she seemed dazed, not speaking, I supposed from shock at what she'd witnessed and I regretted having given in to her. I brought her back here and some of our ladies brewed tea. After a while she seemed to recover and I realized I'd been wrong. She'd been simply dazed with anger.'

He stared at me, eyes as puzzled as they'd probably been at the time. I thought that anybody of feeling might be angry at what she'd seen, but I guessed there was more to it than that.

‘Why was she angry?'

‘I don't know. But I do remember what she said to me. “Hypocrisy should be one of the deadly sins.” She said it very decisively, as if it were somehow my fault as a man of the church that it weren't. I began explaining to her that it was bound up with other sins, like pride and bearing false witness, but she interrupted me, almost rudely. “It seems to me that it's the one thing that should be unforgivable.” I tried to remind her that nothing is unforgivable to our Saviour, but I think she was sunk in her own mind, not hearing. She was like a person who'd received a bad shock, almost stunned by it.'