The Rise Of An English Lawbreaker Collection

Chapter 3

The landlady passed across Smith’s tankard without a word and glanced fearfully at the door. Three women sat in the taproom, trying to comfort a fourth who wept uncontrollably. The old man in the corner watched everything, said nothing, and sipped at his beer.

“You’re quiet tonight,” Smith said.

“Didn’t you hear the news?” The landlady snapped.

“What news was that?”

The landlady busied herself in polishing a pewter tankard. “Sir Francis Selby and the Excise men rounded up most of the village.”

“Why would he do that?” Smith sipped at his ale.

The landlady stared at him for a moment before she replied. “Sir Francis thinks they were running a cargo ashore.”

“And were they?” Smith asked.

“Yes.”

Smith nodded and took another swallow before he spoke again. “What happened to the villagers?”

“They’re in the squire’s lock-up.”

“Is that why that woman’s upset?” Smith nodded to the crying woman.

“Yes. Sir Francis has taken her man.”

Smith took another drink. “Where is Sir Francis’s lock-up?” He asked as if he did not already know the answer. “Is it in Kingsgate?”

“No,” the landlady shook her head. “It’s the Chapel Prison, on Sir Francis’s land, close by his house of Kingshunt Manor.”

Smith finished his ale, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and nodded. “Who’s the turnkey?”

The landlady frowned. “Will Archer. He’s been there for years.”

Smith knew the name. “We’d better see about releasing the lads, then, before Sir Francis recognises them.” He stamped both feet on the sawdust-covered wooden floorboards. “He’ll have them hanged, else, or pressed into the Navy, and then you’ll have no customers.”

“What?” the landlady looked up in astonishment, but Smith was already stepping outside the inn. The woman continued to weep, with her friends trying to console her with a glass of gin. The old man in the corner put his tankard on the table and followed Smith outside.

* * *

The memories returned as Smith strode through Kingsgate and onto Sir Francis’s land. The squire had built a tall wall to keep the villagers off his property and doubtless had at least one gamekeeper on patrol, but Smith slipped over the wall with ease. Although it was well over a decade since Smith had last been on the Manor’s lands, the area was familiar, and he strode forward without hesitation until he reached the lock-up. The building was ancient, a mediaeval chapel that the Selbies had grabbed during Henry VIII’s purge of the Roman Catholic Church and subsequently abandoned. Sir Francis’s father had strengthened the building and used it as the parish prison. Drunkards, poachers, wife-beaters, petty thieves, and smugglers knew the inside of these walls before Sir Francis’s men transported them to the Maidstone or Rochester Assizes for trial and sentence. As the local justice of the peace or magistrate, Sir Francis would try the lesser cases himself, pronouncing instant and stern justice.

While the exterior of the lock-up was unprepossessing, rubble-built stone unrelieved by any surviving window, the interior was worse. Smith remembered the sour stench, the rustle of rats on damp straw, and the pervading atmosphere of gloom. The shadow of the lash, the pillory, or the noose encircled the thoughts of every prisoner.

Smith shook off the old memories as he surveyed the Chapel Prison, as the locals termed the building. He walked quietly, sure of the route, knowing the layout of the policies and the location of every building but watchful for gamekeepers and mantraps. Twenty yards from the Chapel Prison, the turnkey’s cottage squatted beneath a pall of blue smoke. The house was close enough to the lock-up to be handy yet sufficiently distant for the turnkey to separate himself from the stench and misery.

Smith grunted. He knew Will Archer was a nocturnal animal, a man who seldom ventured outside during the day but infested his cottage and emerged only to lock the prisoners up and occasionally feed them. After an evening check to ensure the Chapel Prison was locked, Archer sat by his fire, reading his Bible and muttering the passages to himself.

“Praying to God to give him the strength to harass his prisoners,” Smith said. “I know you, Will Archer.”

Without hesitation, Smith cut a wedge of turf from immediately outside the lock-up and hoisted himself onto Archer’s cottage roof. He placed the turf on top of the squat chimney, blocking the passage of smoke and slid back to the ground. Ten minutes later, the cottage door opened, and the turnkey staggered out, coughing and enveloped in smoke. Smith was waiting beside the door with his pistol in his hand. As Archer emerged, Smith smashed his pistol barrel on the man’s head, knocking him to the ground.

“Are you conscious?” Smith kicked the turnkey in the ribs. When the man did not stir, Smith dragged him back inside the cottage. The interior was austere but surprisingly neat, with a table and chairs, a box bed, and a bookcase replete with religious books. One wall held an assortment of manacles, chains, and heavy padlocks, together with a whip. Smith grunted, remembering that the turnkey also performed the task of village flogger when Sir Francis ordered such a punishment. Beside this grim array was a large bunch of keys.

“Right, you bastard,” Smith said, pulled Archer’s hands behind his back, and handcuffed his right wrist to his left ankle and left wrist to his right ankle. Removing Archer’s boots, Smith gagged him with one of his socks. “Lie quiet now, and I hope you choke.”

A glance at the bookcase revealed a leather-bound account book. Smith opened it and scanned the pages until he found the names of all Archer’s prisoners, with a column noting their sentences.

Lifting the book and the keys, Smith left the cottage and shut the door, trying each key until he found one to lock the turnkey within his home. Cursing his soft heart, he scaled the roof again and removed the turf so the turnkey would not choke to death.

“You’ll keep until later,” Smith said as he strode to the Chapel Prison.

Without the moon, the darkness was intense, and only the call of an owl and the distant hush of the sea pierced the silence. Smith glanced over in the direction of Kingshunt Manor, momentarily tempted to walk over.

“No,” he told himself. “Time enough for that later. You will keep, Sir Francis, until I decide what is best.”

He arrived at the Chapel Prison, with the studded, arched door locked before him. He tried three of the larger keys before finding one that fitted the lock.

“Is there anybody in here?” Smith shouted as he turned the key. The response came in half a dozen voices, mostly obscene.

Smith placed the book against the wall and stepped inside, rattling the keys. “Lie quiet, boys,” he ordered. “We don’t want to alert Sir Francis.” He felt along a shelf beside the door until he reached a tallow dip. “There must be a strike-a-light here somewhere.” His fingers found a tinder box in the form of a pistol. It was the work of an instant to pull the trigger and create a spark to light the dip, and by its flickering light, he looked around the interior.

A score of men and three women slumped on the stone-slabbed floor, staring at him but unsure who he was in the semi-darkness.

“Out you get, people,” Smith ordered, putting the tinder box in his pocket, “unless you wish to enjoy more of the squire’s hospitality.”

Two men remained in the lock-up once the remainder rushed outside.

“What’s to do?” Smith lifted the dip higher, so yellow light pooled onto the prisoners.

In reply, one of the men rattled the chains that secured him to the wall. His eyes glittered like a fox as Smith stepped closer.

“Let me see,” Smith said.

The links were rusted and old, while a heavy padlock fastened them together. When the prisoner looked up hopefully, Smith recognised his old adversary with the pockmarked face.

“We’ll soon have you out,” Smith said. The fourth key opened the padlock. “You’re free,” Smith said. “Did Sir Francis get your name? Or would he recognise you?”

“No,” Pockmark shook his head. “It was dark, and he was too busy. He said he’d attend to us all tomorrow.”

The second chained prisoner was the lean man. “Who are you?” he asked.

“I am John Smith; who are you?”

“Ebenezer Skinner,” the lean man rubbed his wrists when Smith removed the rusted manacles. “Why are you helping us?”

“That’s my business. Remain here if you wish, Skinner. Sir Francis will either create some false charge to have you hanged at the assizes or send you to the Navy for smuggling.”

Skinner nodded, threw Smith a sidelong look, and slid out of the building. Smith followed, lifted the book, and tossed the bunch of keys into the quiet waters of the River Spike. He began to head back to the village, but on an impulse, he altered direction and walked towards Kingshunt Manor.

The nearer Smith came to the Manor, the more groomed the surroundings until he walked on close-cropped grass that felt as soft as a Turkish carpet. The mansion loomed ahead in an array of windows and smooth walls. Two towers thrust to the sky; a dominant tall turret from where Sir Francis could survey his lands, and a smaller belvedere tower, where he could entertain his guests.

Scattered around the grounds were marble and bronze statues, some ancient souvenirs of Sir Francis Grand Tour of Europe, and others more recent. The Classical gods and goddesses appeared relaxed in the prosperous surroundings as if Kingshunt Manor was a second Mount Olympus.

Smith stood beside a marble Venus in the centre of the lawn, looking at each window in turn, wondering which one looked out from Sir Francis’ bedroom.

“Where are you, squire,” Smith said. “Where is your lair?”

He paced around the house with his emotions burning within him, a mixture of anger, frustration, and hatred that he knew impaired his ability for rational thought.

Calm yourself, Smith thought. You’ll gain nothing by acting on impulse.

Calm yourselfYou’ll gain nothing by acting on impulse.When a curtain twitched in an upstairs room, Smith stood still and stared upwards. For one moment, he saw a face peering out. It had been a decade, ten hard years since Smith had last seen her, but he immediately recognised the face. He gazed at her, absorbing every detail of her features, from the broad brow to the firm chin, and then she was gone. Smith stood forlorn on the vast green lawn, with the statues mute witnesses to his discomfort.

I haven’t forgotten, Smith told himself. I will never forget.

I haven’t forgottenI will never forget.He turned and stalked away with his heels leaving distinct impressions on the grass. Only then did the old man shift from his position under the trees. He rubbed a hand over the grey stubble on his chin, pulled a pipe from his pocket, and chuckled.

* * *

“I don’t know who you are, mister, but you’re not a Preventative man. I’ll bet my boots on that.” Skinner pushed a tumbler of gin over to Smith.

“Your boots are safe,” Smith said. “I’m neither a Preventative man nor an Exciseman.” He tasted the gin.

“You locked the turnkey in his house and freed the lot of us,” Skinner slurred his words as a river of alcohol took control of his speech. “Sir Frankie will be apoplectic.”

“I hope so,” Smith sipped at his gin. “Did Sir Francis see any of your faces in the dark?”

“No, but he knows who we are.”

“If the squire didn’t see you, he can prove nothing,” Smith said. “First thing tomorrow morning, I want you to report that a g**g from another village stole all your wagons. Act as indignant as you can, request that Sir Francis organises a search for the raiders and offer the services of all the village to help the squire.”

Skinner raised his eyebrows. “Do you wish us to act the injured innocents?”

“That’s correct. Bluff him. How many men did the soldiers shoot?”

“They killed one man.”

“Say he was the only villager to join the smugglers. What happened to the famous Captain Blackwell?”

“He got away, but we lost all the cargo. All of it.” Skinner banged a hard hand on the table in frustration.

Smith noted that Skinner trusted him sufficiently to admit they were free traders. “Where is the cargo held?”

“In the King’s Warehouse, down by the harbour.”

Smith finished his gin. “Thanks for the drink. Retrieve your wagons, then get the cargo back out.”

“It’s the King’s Warehouse,” Skinner repeated. “With a military guard.”

“Are you scared of a few lobsters?” Smith allowed the question to hang in the air as he stood. “Let me know when you grow a backbone.”

“Where are you going?” Skinner asked.

“To bed,” Smith told him. “I have a busy day tomorrow.” He was aware that the landlady watched as he climbed the creaking stairs. The landlady was the lynchpin of the Dancing Horse. Smith knew that if he won her trust, he had made a significant step forward.

That process could begin the following day.