The constable marched up to the hearth.
“By these ’ere presents I lays ’old on the bodies of two suspected pussons, to wit one Muck Lane, a Scotchman, and one Johnson, a schoolmaster, they being pussons whose doings and goings and comings are contrairy to the well-bein’ of this ’ere realm and a danger to the peace of our Lord the King.”
The mention of himself by name showed Alastair that this was no affair of village spy-hunters, but a major peril. In his hand he still held the packet addressed to Kyd. Were he searched it might be damning evidence; moreover he had already the best part of the intelligence therein contained in his head. Mr. Johnson, who was chilly, had just flung on more logs and the fire blazed high. Into the red heart of it went the paper and, since the tutor’s bulky figure was between him and the door, the act was not noticed by the constable and his followers.
“What whim of rascality is this?” asked Mr. Johnson, reaching for a stout oak stick which he had propped in a corner.
“A very troublesome whim for you,” said a voice. “The constable holds a warrant issued by Squire Thicknesse for the arrest of two Jacobite emissaries traced into this village.”
“Ay,” said the constable, “ ’ee’d better come quiet, for Squire ’ave sent a brave lot o’ keepers and stable lads to manhandle ’ee if ’ee don’t. My orders is to carry ’ee to the Manor and lock ’ee up there till such time as ’ee can be sent to Brumming’am.”
“Arrant nonsense,” cried Johnson. “I’m a better subject of His Majesty than any rascal among you, and so, I doubt not, is my friend. Yet so great is our veneration for the laws of England, that we will obey this preposterous summons. Take me to your Squire, but be warned, every jack of you, that if a man lays his hand on me I will fell him to the earth.”
“And I say likewise,” said Alastair, laying a significant hand on his sword.
The constable, who had no great stomach for his duty, was relieved by his prisoners’ complaisance, and after some discussion with his friend announced that no gyves should be used if they consented to walk with the Squire’s men on both sides of them. Alastair insisted on having his baggage brought with him, which was duly delivered to one of the Manor’s grooms by a silent landlady; Mr. Johnson carried his slender outfit in his pockets. The landlord did not show himself. But at the inn door, before the Manor men closed up, a figure pressed forward from the knot of drunken onlookers, and Alastair found his sleeve plucked and the face of Brother Gilly’s messenger beside him.
“I’ve been mistook, maister. ’Ee bain’t the Dook’s man, not the one I reckoned. Gimme back the letter.”
“It’s ashes now. Tell that to him that sent you. Say the letter’s gone, but the news travels forward in a man’s head.”
The messenger blinked uncomprehendingly and then made as if to repeat his request, but a sudden rush of merrymakers, hungry for a fresh spectacle, swept him down the street. Presently the escort was clear of the village and tramping through a black aisle of trees. Someone lit a lantern, which showed the mattress of chestnut leaves underfoot and the bare branches above. The keepers and stable-boys whistled, and Mr. Johnson chanted aloud what sounded like Latin hexameters. For him there was no discomfort in the adventure save that on a raw night it removed him from a warm fireside.
But for Alastair the outlook was grave. Here was he arrested by a booby constable on the warrant of some Justice Shallow, but arrested under his own name. He had passed secretly from Scotland to Cornbury, and but for the party at the latter place and one strange fellow on Otmoor, no one had known that name. Could the news have leaked out from the Cornbury servants? But, even then, he was not among the familiar figures of Jacobitism, and he had but just come from France. Only Lord Cornbury knew his true character, and Lord Cornbury did not talk. Yet someone with full knowledge of his past and present had tracked him to this village, a place far from any main highway to the North.
What he feared especially was delay. Unless Cornbury bore witness against him, or the man from Otmoor, the law had no evidence worth a farthing. Hearsay and suspicion could not hang him. He would play the part of the honest traveller now returning from an Oxfordshire visit, and if needs be he would refer to Queensberry’s business. But hearsay and suspicion could delay. He was suddenly maddened by the thought that some bumbling Justice might detain him in these rotting midlands when the Prince was crossing Ribble. And he had to get north with the news of the Welsh recruiting! At the thought he bit his lips in a sharp vexation.
They passed through gates into a park where the trees fell back from the road, and presently were in a flagged courtyard with a crack of light showing from a door ajar. It opened and a portly butler filled it.
“You will await his honour in the Justice Room,” he announced, and the prisoners swung to the right under an archway into another quadrangle.
The Justice Room proved to be a bare apartment, smelling strongly of apples, with a raised platform at one end and on the floor a number of wooden forms arranged like
