ground.
‘Leave ’im, sir,’ shouted Armstrong, jumping from the saddle and running towards the motionless figure, pistol cocked. He turned him over roughly, saw he was dead and spat with the utmost force at the ground. ‘Where’s that other bastard run to, sir?’
‘The field, there, with the sheep. But the park wall will stop him.’
Armstrong changed hands with the pistol, drew his sabre and took off after him.
‘Go and cover him, Stancliff,’ called Hervey to the nearest dragoon. ‘Come on, Susan, my brave lad, let’s get you down and bandaged.’
But Medwell was dead in the saddle, and his little grey mare was anxious.
‘Sir, he’s gripping my arm so tight I can’t—’
‘Oh Christ! All right, Corporal Troughton. I’ll take his bridle. Morris!’
Another dragoon hurried over. ‘Sir?’
‘Help Corporal Troughton get Medwell down. He’s shot dead.’
It was a struggle, but between the three of them they managed to lay Private Medwell on the ground with a degree of dignity.
Hervey tried now to hold back his disgust — his anger he was past caring about. He was never fool enough to believe that all dragoons were the same to him, and ‘Susan’ Medwell he loved because he was a matchless trumpeter and as smart a man as ever he’d seen in uniform. And Medwell had loved being his trumpeter and never sought to hide it. ‘Jesus Christ!’ cursed Hervey. ‘Shot down in his own country!’
Seton Canning came running. ‘Hervey, the house is well ablaze. We’ll need help from the village.’
‘Send for it then. And tell whoever not to take no for an answer! Is Sir Abraham safe?’
‘Ay, they all are — except one of the watch has a flesh wound.’
‘I’ll come in a minute.’ He took Medwell’s cloak from the saddle arch and laid it over him. ‘Stand with him, Stancliff. I don’t want anyone riding over him.’
‘Ay, sir,’ said the dragoon, taking the grey’s reins.
Hervey and his coverman ran to the front of the house, where Sir Abraham and the watch were huddled. By the light of the flames he could see the dismay in the magistrate’s face. ‘Sir Abraham, I’m so very sorry we were not here quicker.’
‘We held them off a full half-hour. Kept firing above their heads. But they were determined to break in. They managed to prise off the shutters at the east side, though we threw bricks down at them the while. And then they fired the place — without a thought for who was inside, or how we might get down from the roof.’
Hervey glanced at the line of gardeners and indoor servants passing buckets to the house. It seemed to him a forlorn hope. ‘Is there a fire engine in Clipstone, Sir Abraham?’
‘There is. I paid for it myself.’
‘Then we shall have it soon.’
Sir Abraham seemed reassured.
Hervey glanced over to the house again. ‘Corporal Troughton, get as many men as you can to the front doors. We can at least get some of Sir Abraham’s things out.’
‘No, Hervey, no,’ Sir Abraham shouted. ‘I shan’t have the deaths of any more men on my hands. Leave it. Leave it all.’
Hervey motioned Troughton to do his bidding anyway. ‘With your leave, sir,’ he said quietly, and then ran towards the house, calling to Seton Canning to follow him.
The doors were wide open, and the gardeners were managing to play a stirrup pump to some effect over the stairs. The fire was still in the right wing, and there was as yet no smoke in the left, where Sir Abraham’s porcelain collection was displayed. The study adjoined the main drawing room, which was well alight, so Hervey took Seton Canning and some of the servants straight to the china. In a very little time they had a chain bringing it out. The study was another matter. It took him several minutes to find the right doors — it was surprisingly dark — and when he had, the smoke issuing from beneath them suggested the study was gone. But Hervey couldn’t turn his back on years of scholarship, not without trying. He felt the door panels: they were cool enough. He touched the gilt handles: they didn’t burn him. He took a deep breath and opened one of the double doors a little way. The smoke swirled backwards with the draught from outside, giving him a clear enough view of Sir Abraham’s desk. He knew the folios were in its drawers, only two dozen feet from him, but with so much smoke he needed a clew to be safe. Curtain ties provided the means.
He made three forays into the study. With the last he was forced to the floor as smoke swirled back with the shattering of one of the clerestories. Coughing badly, he managed to close the doors, however, and get Seton Canning’s chain to pass out the ledgers — all of them.
The Clipstone engine and its crew fought the flames tenaciously, but the battle was uneven. By dawn the house was burned out. On the lawns were a good quantity of Sir Abraham’s pictures and furniture, all his Chinese porcelain, and his Old Testament scholarship. The man shot dead by Hervey was recognized at once by Sir Abraham when daylight came — one of his own workshop foremen. Serjeant Armstrong had taken the other fugitive alive after a savage fight which had left both of them bruised about the face. And Corporal Harris had taken two more in Clipstone churchyard as he went for the fire engine.
Sir Abraham’s first thought on seeing the extent of his loss was the condition of his servants. He gathered them together, indoor and outdoor alike, asked the housemaids very politely to stop crying, and assured them all that they would not lose a single penny of their wages while the house was rebuilt, and that they would have a roof over their head, somehow, by that very evening.
‘A man that men would follow willingly,’ said Serjeant Armstrong, hearing it. ‘Some of these folk don’t know they’re born!’
There was an emergency meeting of the bench at midday. ‘Sir Abraham Cole presided with remarkable composure,’ Hervey told Seton Canning as they rode back to the grange afterwards. ‘The other magistrates looked decidedly shaky. They took a lot of persuading their duties must continue as before.’
‘I would that they’d make a start with those two we caught in the churchyard.’
‘They’ll be remanded to the assizes this afternoon,’ Hervey assured him. ‘Besides aught else, Sir Abraham wants them out of the borough as soon as possible.’
Seton Canning nodded. ‘I’m surprised the bench assembled at all. I imagined they’d have barricaded themselves in after last night.’
‘I think it was the Bow Street men who put the resolve in them. They’ve a string of agents now, and it seems their questioning of the churchyard men this morning rendered very serviceable intelligence.’
‘What about the one that Serjeant Armstrong took?’
‘Oh, they’ve even higher hopes there. He was found with a pistol on him, which means he could be charged with at least one capital offence. They believe he’ll turn King’s evidence.’
Just as they were approaching the grange, there was a noise of galloping on the road behind them. They turned to see Sir Francis Evans at full stretch. ‘Good Lord,’ said Hervey, reining his horse about. ‘What alarm’s this?’
Sir Francis’s horse was in as great a lather as Hervey had seen, but the general looked invigorated. ‘Heard about the night’s trouble via the
Grooms rushed to take the reins of the dozen or so horses now snorting and blowing by the gates of the grange.
‘Come then,’ said Sir Francis, clapping a hand on Hervey’s shoulder. ‘A full and frank account of the past week, if you will.’
Hervey began at once as they made their way across the courtyard to the grange house.
Serjeant Armstrong had hastily arranged for coffee. Coffee could allay a great many general officers’ complaints, in Armstrong’s experience, and the state of the quarter guard, which had turned out for him in cloaks because their tunics were still sodden from fire-fighting, would be bound to provoke a general’s displeasure.
But no, Sir Francis appeared to have no cause for complaint. He took the coffee gladly, sank into a chair, and
