When I came to, the first vague impressions of consciousness were the
excited chatterings of what seemed to me a multitude of people. Then I
saw the flashing of the light of a log fire lightening the dark oak
beams of a room. I lay still, my temples throbbing like to burst, and
my head swimming till I felt ready to vomit. Trying to collect my
thoughts, I realized that I was in the kitchen of our own house. Then
in an instant the whole scene of the tragedy in the pine-shrouded lane
burst upon me in all its horror, and I raised myself on one elbow and
feebly articulated: "Father, say it is but a dream!"
Gentle hands firmly put my head back upon a pillow, and a voice, which I
recognized as that of Master Salesbury, the chirurgeon, said: "The lad
will surely recover. No more letting of blood or cupping is needful. A
hot posset will not come amiss, good Mistress Heatherington, ere I take
my leave, for 'tis cold abroad."
"Thou art right, Master Salesbury," replied another, Sir George Lee,
who, I afterwards found out, had been summoned as a Justice of the Peace
to take down such evidence as could be obtained. "And as for you, sir,
I must ask you to accompany me as my guest till this unfortunate matter
can fully be gone into."
"Right gladly would I, worthy sir, but I ride hot-foot on affairs of
State. By ten of the clock I must deliver a sealed packet into the
hands of Master Jack Tippets, the Mayor of Portsmouth."
I started, and strove again to rise; the voice seemed but too familiar
to my ears; but once more I was soothed into repose.
"To Portsmouth, say you? Then why, may I ask, were you so far from the
highway?"
"I had also to summon the Squire of Trotton----"
"Trotton, say you? Then why didst take this road, seeing that the
turning at Milland is the right and proper one?" demanded Sir George
sternly.
"I must have missed the right road, and, hearing shots, I suspected some
foul crime, and rode hither----"
In an instant I connected that voice with that of the murderer, Increase
Joyce, and with what strength yet remained I shouted: "Seize him; he is
my father's murderer!"
Immediately all was commotion. Women shrieked--men shouted. Sir George
Lee sprang to his feet and whipped out his sword. "Arrest him," he
ordered. Two men, who were attendants at the Court Leet, placed their
hands on Joyce's shoulder.
"Unhand me, men!" he exclaimed; "'tis a mistake--a grave mistake. Would
ye pay heed to the ravings of a light-headed child?"
A wave of indecision swept over the people present; but, in spite of
extreme physical pain, I had raised myself on my elbow, and in reply I
repudiated the Roundhead's taunt. "I am not light-headed nor is it a
mistake. That man shot my father with a petronel not a furlong from
this house."
But Joyce doggedly followed up his line of argument. "Look, worthy
sir," he reiterated, "the lad is still wandering. Why, when I came upon
them, the boy was stretched senseless on the roadway. I pray you, order
your men to release me. I journey on the business of the Commonwealth."
The two men released their hold, but Sir George turned on them with a
rage quite unusual to him. "Were ye told to unhand him, dolts?" he
shouted. "A messenger of the Commonwealth or no messenger, I take the
responsibility. Bind him, and away to Midhurst with him at once."
With an oath the scoundrel shook off his two captors and threw himself
bodily on Sir George. Taken unawares, the knight could ill defend
himself, and before the bystanders could interfere, a knife flashed in
the firelight and was buried in his body. Then the two henchmen
grappled with the Roundhead, and all three rolled in a heap on the
floor. It was not until the miscreant was stunned by a blow from a
milking stool that he was finally secured, and attention could be given
to Sir George Lee.
The knight was leaning against the wall, his head slightly bent, while a
deadly pallor overspread his face, on which, however, lurked a
peculiarly grim smile.
"Art hurt, Sir George?" asked Master Salesbury.
"Nay, Doctor, 'tis not a case for your hands this time, thanks to Lawyer
Whitehead; I am but winded."
"To Lawyer Whitehead! How?"
"Ay, to Lawyer Whitehead! 'Tis the first time in twenty-nine years that
I have been well served by a lawyer, and even this once it was not as a
deliberate act of kindness." And, drawing from his pocket a thick
bundle of parchment, partly cut through by the villain's knife, he held
it up for inspection.
At that moment the door opened and a sturdy countryman entered, pulling
his forelock as a mark of respect to Sir George, and handed him a
petronel which I recognized only too well.
"Zure, sir, I did find 'e but d'ree paces from t' road where they killed
Maister Wentworth."
Under guard, the villain, now in a half-dazed condition, was removed in
a cart to the jail at Midhurst. Most of those present dispersed, and,
faint and tired, I fell into a troubled sleep.
A week passed ere I had sufficient strength to be able to sit up. Under
the careful nursing of Mistress Heatherington my bodily hurts were
healed, though the mental anguish of that terrible night still gripped
me in a relentless grasp.
It was on a Tuesday morning when Sir George came to the cottage to
enquire how I progressed, and to tell me that he was taking me to the
courthouse at Midhurst on the following Monday morning, should I be well
enough to bear the journey.
"Lad," he exclaimed, "I would I could fathom this mystery! Thy father's
slayer is no mean reaver or cutpurse; yet, though we have him safe by
the heels, manacled and leg-ironed, and threaten him with the
thumbscrews, never a word can be wrung from him. Was there ever a feud
'twixt thy sire and him?"
I told the knight of the event that took place at the sign of the
"Flying Bull", and of the meeting with the villain in the moonlit lane.
Sir George listened attentively, and, proud of being privileged to talk
to so exalted a personage as the wealthiest man for miles around Rake, I
let my tongue run wild for the space of nigh on an hour.
When I had finished, Sir George, who had never ceased to stroke his
beard and play a tattoo with his fingers on the table, remained silent
for a few minutes; then suddenly he exclaimed:
"Holwick! Captain Slingsby of Monk's Regiment of Horse! 'Tis passing
strange, yet----"
His remarks were cut short by the thunder of a horse's hoofs, and a man
suddenly burst in through the door and exclaimed breathlessly: "Oh, Sir
George! Sir George!"
"Well, sirrah?"
But the man could only stammer out: "Oh, Sir George!"
This was more than the choleric old knight could stand. "Don't stand
there babbling like a drunken mummer at Martinmas fair!" he shouted,
with a round oath. "Deliver thy message, dolt!"
"Oh, Sir George! The murderer Joyce hath escaped!"
With another furious outburst the knight rushed out of the room, mounted
his horse, and, followed by his two servants and the messenger of
ill-tidings, rode furiously down the road to Midhurst, the noise of the
horses' hoofs clattering on the frosty road testifying to the speed at
which they were urged.
News travels apace, and in less than an hour it was all over our village
that Joyce had by some means obtained a file, cut through his fetters,
and, after a murderous attack on his jailer, had broken out of Midhurst
Jail, and was last seen making his way towards the bleak Sussex Downs.
My father had already been laid to rest in the quiet little churchyard
of Trotton, and on making an examination of the little house where we
dwelt, his will was discovered. The reading of this will, though of
little interest to me (on account, I now suppose, of my youth), was the
occasion of an assembly of many of the friends of my father, the number
surprising me; for, though highly respected, he was not one who was fond
of associating with our neighbours.
There were present, besides Sir George Lee, who appeared to take a great
interest in me, Lawyer Whitehead, Howard Hobbs and Jack Alexander of
Iping, both of whom had seen service under Prince Rupert; Arthur
Conolly, an Irish veteran who had served in the Low Countries, and who
had come over from Chichester for the occasion; Arthur Lewis, a
gentleman of Bramshott; Percy Young, an officer of the navy, who in his
earlier days had lost a leg in the action of La Rochelle; Herbert
Collings, a master mariner of Gosport, who used to be a frequent visitor
at our house, and who greatly interested me with the account of his
adventures off the coast of Barbary; and Giles Perrin, the landlord of
the "Flying Bull", who modestly seated himself on a stool in a remote
corner of the room. There were also several others whose names I
forget.
Lawyer Whitehead, whose name did not belie his appearance, adjusted his
horn spectacles, and, unfolding a parchment, read the will, which is as
follows:--
"In the Name of God, Amen, I, Owen Wentworth, late of Holwick in the
countie of Yorks" [here followed some word that had been erased and
"yeoman" written above] "being whole of bodie and perfect of mynde, do
ordaine and make this my last will and testament in manner and forme
followinge: First, I commend my soule into the handes of Almightie God
my Creator, and my bodie to be buried in the churchyarde at Trotton.
Item, I give to the poor of the parish of Rake ten pounds to be divided
amongst them by the discretion of my Executors. Item, I give to Sir
George Lee, knight, in token of friendship, my horse, alsoe a box and
contents now deposited with Master Whitehead, Lawyer of Midhurst. Item,
to my sister Margaret, now wedded to George Anderson, Clerk of Ye Survey
at the Dockyarde neare Portesmouth, One hundred Pounds. Item, to the
said George Anderson the sum of Twenty and five Pounds yearly, provided
that the said George Anderson doth fulfil to the letter the instructions
set forth by me and intrusted to the keeping of the aforesaid Master
Whitehead, Lawyer of Midhurst.
"Item, to all persons hereinafter named" [here followed a long list of
names, embracing all present and many besides], "provided that they pay
me the last respects due to me, I give XX*s*. Item, to John Alexander
and Arthur Lewis, my welbeloved friends and Executors, I give Five
Pounds apiece.
"Item, to my deerly beloved sonne Aubrey I give the residue of my
estate, to be held in trust by the aforesaid George Anderson till my
sonne attain the age of XXI yeares, if he doe so long live.
"It is my will alsoe that my sonne Aubrey shall take charge and have and
hold the metal box that I do always carry attached to my belt, suffering
not the same to go out of hys possession, so that it will help in a
small matter whereof he knoweth not yet.
"Item, it is my will if the above named Aubrey my sonne doth dye without
heires or before he come to the age of XXI years, the residue shall
remain to my sister Margaret Anderson and her heires forever."
There was a buzz of suppressed excitement when Master Whitehead had
ended the reading of this lengthy will. Clearly my father was a far
richer man than most people had wot of; moreover, there was a cloud of
mystery hanging over the will--that was evident by the darkly worded
passage about keeping the instructions.
But before there was time for discussion the lawyer brought out another
bulky packet, fastened with a large red seal. This he broke and
withdrew the contents, revealing yet another sealed missive and a sheet
of vellum written in my father's hand. The missive was addressed: "In
trust for my sonne Aubrey Wentworth. To Master George Anderson, dwelling
in St. Thomas Street in Ye Burrough of Portesmouth. Not to be opened
under paine of my displeasure till my sonne attaine the age of XXI
years."
The letter gave instructions for me to be sent to my uncle's at
Portsmouth, to be provided for until I could choose for myself what I
should be, at the same time exhorting me to serve faithfully His Majesty
King Charles II or his lawful successor, and to abstain from vain or
idle longings to break the seals of the enclosed package till the
stipulated time limit had expired.
This the lawyer gravely handed to me, expressing his satisfaction at the
prospect before me--a statement that left me more bewildered than
before.
Then Sir George Lee spoke, enquiring where was the small metal box that
my father had mentioned.
Here was another mystery. No one knew or had seen the box. Mistress
Heatherington and both the servants, Giles and William, who had brought
home the body of my murdered sire, had been ignorant of its existence,
and, at the request of Lawyer Whitehead, the clothes my father wore at
the time of his death were produced. There was the belt--a highly
ornamented broad band of Spanish leather. The lawyer took and examined
it, then passed it on to Sir George, who also looked at it closely, even
bending and shaking it in the hope that the missing box might be hidden
between the layers of leather.
"Ah, what has been here?" exclaimed the knight, pointing to a series of
minute holes round a patch of leather that was not quite so discoloured
as the rest.
Clearly the mysterious box was missing, and it was evident that it had
been forced away from the leathern belt. Then arose the question, how
could it have been detached, and who was the miscreant who had taken it?
The debate lasted for a long while, but all present were agreed that the
villain Joyce must have annexed it for some particular motive, though
'twas evident that robbery was not intended, the box being of some
worthless metal.
Master Whitehead then gave to Sir George an oaken box which my father
had mentioned in his will. The knight opened it, disclosing a lace
handkerchief marked with a deep brown stain, to which was fastened a
piece of parchment inscribed: "Stained with y^e blood of y^e Martyr His
M^tie King Charles", the jewelled hilt of a sword, a ring, and several
papers.
The knight reverently pressed his lips to the royal relic, then
proceeded to peruse the various papers. The first he looked at intently
for some moments, then read aloud the following words:--
"To Beverley Gate on fir trees that wall keeping from y^e 11J feete come
to of mine directions in desires I sonne having."
Again he read these unmeaning words, his brows knitting in undisguised
perplexity; then he handed the paper to the lawyer, who, after several
vain attempts to produce a proper sentence, turned it over in his hand.
Something was written on the back; but without saying a word he returned
the paper to Sir George, first tapping the writing with his forefinger
and clearly indicating that the knight should likewise keep silence.
My sharp wits clearly told me that Sir George by his manner was angry
with himself for having read the paper aloud. Hastily thrusting it back
into the box, he slammed to the lid and prepared to take his departure.
The rest of the assembled company followed his example, and, with an arm
aching with the result of vigorous handshakes, I was left alone with
Mistress Heatherington.
It was the last I saw of kind Sir George Lee for many a long year.