Exchange of Love, page 20
“Ho! Edward Peverell!” called out a man’s voice.
They turned to see two men dressed in austere puritan fashion, hurrying towards them from another path.
“We have been seeking you,” shouted one.
“We need to speak on your conduct,” shouted the other aggressively.
“You could call on us at our lodging,” yelled back Edward. “Should I know you?”
“You shall soon!” The more aggressive stranger had drawn his sword.
“Stand back!” roared Edward, drawing his own sword. “We are armed and will defend ourselves.”
Penny rested her hand on Edward’s arm, attempting to dissuade any confrontation. “There is no need for weapons,” she said pleasantly. “We can speak civilly, I am sure. Why these raised voices?”
“We have searched the island for you,” said the first stranger.
“Better to have waited by the boat, or at the inn,” replied Edward.
For a few moments, the argument continued, while the tension seemed to increase between them.
“Thomas Pierce of Norfolk, my name. I saw you at Peterhouse, the Cambridge college. I took you for a good Protestant.”
“Aye. Your point?” Edward answered warily.
“Yesterday, you were seen attending a Church of Rome. Also we suspect you are raising money for Charles Stuart, the Man of Blood.”
“My business is my own, sir.” Edward was sharp in his reply. “I answer to no man. As to the church, I conversed with an enlightened man, but did not consider joining his church, or any other.”
“It is common knowledge that we come to Nantes to seek opportunity for trade,” said Penny, attempting to calm the situation.
“Enough of this banter, Tom,” said the second stranger. “Let us cut them down, then to their inn and see what they have.”
“I am not given to murder, or robbery,” replied Thomas Pierce, addressing Edward again. “All we need is your assurance, sworn on this copy of Holy Stricture, that you do not aid Charles.”
“I am loyal to my lawful king,” replied Edward with menace. “Put away your book of fairy tales and go your way.”
“Blasphemy!” Thomas drew his sword and lunged at Edward, only to be beaten back by clubbing blows from Edward’s heavy blade.
“Go home, boy. Go home and calm down. If you are a gentleman, we shall fight like gentlemen tomorrow.”
The answer was a renewed attack by both assailants, the second man attempting to encircle Edward.
The crack of Penny’s pistol fire startled Thomas Pierce. His guard faltered as he saw the savage spurt of flame and his companion falling in an untidy heap. Edward lunged, an automatic reaction, his blade striking deep.
“Gods, I did not mean to kill him,” Edward gasped.
“Nor I,” whispered Penny, looking down in dismay at the writhing man she had shot in the hip. “He came on so fast to stab you in the back.”
“Wench, your shot has burned my arse,” Edward said with a relieved laugh, as he brushed burned gunpowder from his britches. “Better your gun flash than that varlet’s sword.”
“It is not for jesting, Edward.” Penny was close to tears and trembling. “He is near to dying.”
“Aye,” he said soberly, hugging her to him. “They left us no option but to defend ourselves.”
“You goaded him, Edward!”
“It was my intent once I saw fight was inevitable. I didn’t expect a stab in the back.”
Thomas Pierce was already dead from Edward’s sword thrust. The other attacker whimpered piteously, clasping his hip to staunch the bleeding, his leg skewed backwards at an unnatural angle from the shattered hip joint.
“Help me, I beg,” he mumbled through clenched teeth.
Edward crouched down, made a quick examination, and looked into the man’s frightened eyes. “The joint is shattered. The shot smashed out shards of bone that have punctured your gut. You are dying as surely as you meant to murder me and my wife. You expect sympathy?” He stood up and moved to comfort Penny.
“Should we do anything?” she whispered. “I don’t want him hanged.”
“I’ve no idea how French justice would view a fight between English louts. They may hold us all guilty.”
She nodded, remembering again the sham trail and executions in Calne.
Edward continued, “Doubt he will live long, but he could suffer for days if the bleeding is stopped.”
“What do we do? Just leave them here to—”
“As they would have done to us,” he cut in. “We wait awhile to see if anyone is attracted by your shot. If not, we cast their boat adrift and return to the inn. We see our jewel merchant in the morning. The ship leaves at noon.”
No one disturbed their vigil over the dead and dying as Penny and Edward kept in the shadows of the quayside huts.
After some time Edward said emphatically, “I will not leave a dying man to suffer.”
“The crows watch already.” Penny pointed to the trees.
“One clean thrust and he will know nothing,” Edward said hesitantly. “Will you walk away while I—”
“No! I am responsible,” said Penny. “I must not shirk from the effects of my hasty action.”
Penny walked over to the body of Thomas Pierce and, taking the small bible from his sash, carried it over to the dying man. “Will this give you comfort?” she asked.
He pushed her hand away. “Papist bitch!”
Edward’s dagger smashed through the side of his skull, ending life instantly.
Penny staggered away, appalled by her husband’s sudden violence.
“God, Edward! How could you do that?”
“Better than a lingering death,” he replied gravely.
They did what was needed in a strained, shocked silence that lasted until their boat began to cross to the shore.
“You have seen such things before?” Penny asked.
“Too often, but I have never had the courage to end a man in a mercy killing.” There was a pause as he worked the oars. “I do not enjoy it, Penny. It leaves a mark.”
“I know. That mark is on me, too – from Calne and now afresh from today.”
When Edward and Penny rowed back to the boatyard, the owner asked if they had seen two Englishmen who had also hired a boat from him. They replied in a non-committal negative and sauntered away is if to a relaxed dinner. For fear of another assault, they spent a watchful night in the inn before completing their sale with Monsieur Alceste, the jeweller, the next morning. As Edward had hoped, they were safely on a vessel back to Bristol by noon, with a trunk of French and Spanish gold for the king’s cause.
CHAPTER 28
Judith awoke from a frantic dream. In a total state of panic, dressed only in a t-shirt with no underwear, she was being chased through Vespa’s nightclub by Mark. She was awake but dazed, not her flat – big double bed. Stretching out, she found a naked male body; vague memories of the nightclub, dancing, and shots of vodka. Furtively she used the light on her watch – 4.39 a.m. More importantly, it was not a stranger or Mark who was in bed with her. Reassuringly, it was John. Why had she allowed herself to get so worked up over that bloody portrait of Penny? There had been no need to be so spiteful to John; no need to get pissed at Vespa’s. She went to the toilet, and in the kitchen forced herself to drink a pint of water before returning to bed and snuggling up to John’s inert sleeping body. If this was ‘second best’, it was still very nice.
Judith surfaced from a contented, seemingly dream-free sleep to the smell of toast and coffee. The bedroom was flooded with light despite the thick curtains.
“Christ! Eleven thirty.” She was meant to be at work three hours ago. Then she remembered it was Saturday. Judith rolled out of bed carefully but was pleased to find she was quite steady. In one of John’s drawers she found a voluminous shirt and in another a collection of underwear she had left for emergencies.
“Heard you moving about,” said John, as she staggered into the kitchen where coffee, toast and apricot jam had been laid out on a breakfast tray. A second tray held chopped fresh fruit and yoghurt.
“What’s all this?” Judith asked, looking at the tray and the glass vase that held a splendid solitary red rose.
“Breakfast, m’lady. I was about to bring it to you and welcome the new day.”
She laughed, “M’lady!” She had thought to make some quip but realised how much trouble he had taken. “John, this is so nice. Let’s eat out here together.” She indicated the small balcony overlooking Henrietta Park. “M’lady! Don’t you try that soppy stuff on me.”
“Point taken.”
“I’m kidding, it’s lovely. If I wasn’t afraid of being hurt again, I could almost believe I was falling in love with you.”
John leaned across the table and kissed her forehead lightly. There was little conversation as they ate breakfast until Judith realised how little she remembered from the previous night.
“Did we do it – last night?” she asked.
“What, after all my efforts, you can’t remember?” he replied.
“Well, I suppose I do a bit,” she giggled “I was hardly in a state to give informed consent!”
“Consent? God, woman, it was you who woke me up!”
“I seem to remember that,” she smiled. Another long but comfortable silence settled between them. “John, I’m going back to bed for a while. I don’t think the wonton soup agreed with me.”
“Nothing to do with the vodka shots?”
“No, I’ve had vodka before – didn’t have this effect. You coming?”
“OK, but no sex. You shagged me out.”
Later, John awoke to being caressed.
“John?”
“Yeah?”
“You know you said no sex?”
“OK, OK, I recant.”
She rolled on top of him. “I’ll do the work.”
At one thirty p.m. they were both awoken by the doorbell ringing. John groaned and slid out of bed, scrabbling to pull on boxers and a t-shirt as he staggered to the intercom.
“Hi, John, it’s me, Alf – Alf Hidson. Can I come up?”
“Look, Alf, I’ve someone with me – it’s not really convenient.”
“It’s important, John. I can’t contact that Ransom girl.”
“Judith?”
“That’s the one. Her mobile’s off, or something.”
“Probably. We were out late last night. You had better come up. Door’s opening.” John hurriedly pulled on some trousers in time to meet Alf. “What’s the rush?” he asked.
“I’ve got that bloody door open,” Alf said excitedly. “The oil spray worked on the hinges and—”
“I told you to leave it!” shouted Judith, erupting out of the bedroom wearing not very much. “Don’t gawp. Why did you open—”
“I didn’t bloody open it,” snarled Alf. “I said I’d got the bloody thing open – just enough to move it. I thought you’d be pleased.” He smirked at John. “Didn’t know I’d be interrupting, like.”
“You’re not,” said John defensively. “We just left Vespa’s a bit late. I know it looks as if—”
“And it is,” cut in Judith smugly. “So what?”
“Nothing.” Alf shrugged – he took most things in his stride.
There was an embarrassing pause until John said, “Look, Alf. Thanks for coming round. We’re a bit fragile, and it’s Saturday. Let’s leave it till Monday. We’ve got to contact the art historian, then.”
“She works at The Roman Baths,” said Judith. “I know her well enough to call her at home over the weekend.”
“Nothing Roman in that house,” muttered Alf.
“I know,” agreed Judith, “but… look, have a cup of coffee with us, Alf. We’ll see if we can decide what to do next.”
It was mid-morning on the following Monday before John and Judith met Alf and the art historian, Stella Rigby, at Peverell House.
“I wish you hadn’t told me that you’d uncovered a William Dobson,” said Stella to Judith as she lugged her kit up the stairs to the Peverell House dayroom.
“Why not?”
“Well, you should have asked me to come and view some ‘hidden’ painting that might be worth putting up for auction.”
“And?”
“I could then say, ‘The Brilliant Stella Rigby immediately recognised it as a Dobson’!”
“That was me,” muttered Alf. “I read his blooming signature.”
“The signature was obscured by dirt or spider webs, but the brilliant Stella immediately recognised it. I’m famous overnight and no one can claim you lot colluded in passing it off as a forgery.”
They entered the room.
“Ooh, certainly looks right. His early work had those brilliant colours; Venetian in style. Later he was influenced by Van Dyke and that morbid Dutch lot.” She produced a magnifying glass and a jeweller’s-style eyepiece. At length she said, “Well, certainly looks authentic. We will need x-rays, chromatography, scrapings of the borders.”
Alf chipped in, “You could do dendrochronology of the panelling.” He continued with involved explanations that they largely ignored.
Eventually, Judith said, “I suppose the shot hole and gunpowder burns will reduce its value?”
“Not necessarily,” reassured Stella. “There is no actual hole, and I bet most of the ‘burns’ are powder residue. It can be restored. The rest of the face, from the eyes down, is OK.”
They went on to discuss details in the portrait – costumes, the hair, and even the gun on the table – until the subject was exhausted and plans made to get the works removed for authentication.
Stella examined the other three hanging pictures with interest, but not much excitement.
“This tinted pen and ink’s unusual,” she said. “Done by Penelope Peverell, the lady in the portrait, mistress of the house, and presumably your ancestor?”
“Hardly. The Peverells were misguided Royalists,” said Judith emphatically. “We Ransoms displaced them when King Charles lost. They disappeared into history and never even tried to reclaim the estate back after the restoration of Charles II.”
Stella set up her camera on a tripod and took photographs of the pictures as a group and then individually.
“If any more secrets come up it would be best if I were here at first unveiling – helps prove they’re genuine. You said there’s another hidden space. Has that been opened?” Stella asked.
“No,” stated Alf emphatically. “John and me oiled the hinges and eased the lock – there’s no key. We’ll need to prise the door open.”
“Prise away, then!”
Standing squarely in front of the door to obscure their view, Alf went through a theatrical performance of crowbarring the door open. For all his heaving and grunting of the words ‘open you bugger’, there was very little damage, thought John.
It was dark and dusty inside.
“Can you switch the light on?” joked Stella.
“We’ve brought a couple of battery-powered work lights,” replied John.
“And I’ve got gloves, as you suggested, Stella,” added Judith.
Stella pulled on a white overall coat to protect herself against the dust, before venturing into the room.
“Crime scene, or what,” muttered Alf.
“What’s up, Alf?” said John. “Bad night? You’re a bit gritty this morning.”
Alf just grunted.
The room was more of a wide passageway, a second entrance into the suite of rooms that had once been Penny and Edward’s bedrooms. There was no door at the other end, just more blanking off panels.
“All the years I slept through there,” said Judith, “and I had no idea this was here. A real treasure trove. There’s a fitted wardrobe across that end now.”
Half the width of the passage was filled by two tall chests of drawers, the other half by racks of pictures, and a hanging rail of fine clothes. Both women took photos for the record before John and Alf carried the racks out into the daylight of the main room.
“It’ll take days to go through this lot,” remarked Stella. “If you agree to give us a mention and a credit in any announcements, I’m sure The Roman Baths Trust will allow me to spend time here. The Museum of Fashion might send Tamzin Studdings to look at these,” she indicated the rack of dresses. “Rare to have a collection of clothes from this period.”
John carried out two well wrapped swords. “OK if I have a look at these?” he asked.
Stella nodded. “Go ahead.” She continued to thumb through the paintings. “These are just house decorations,” Stella mused “Even some embroidery, and more watercolours by Peverell.”
“I feel that woman’s looking at me, John,” whispered Judith. “That smile – it’s as if she’s smirking at me.”
“It was a wedding picture,” John tried to reassure her. “The last time we spoke, she told me to love you and—” He faltered a bit. “Well, to value you and what we have.”
“The understanding mistress,” Judith hissed spitefully. “No, John, sorry. I am sure she was genuine.”
“John, Miss Ransom!” Alf called. “Come and see this.” He continued to talk as they walked to where he was holding up the brilliant work light to the armoire. “This is as fine a bit of craft as you’ll see anywhere. The quality of the marquetry – like it was new.”
“Were there any famous furniture makers working then?” Judith asked him. “Like Chippendale?”
“Far too early for him. I dunno. Need to Google it, but anyone can see it’s good.” He turned slightly. “Shame it’s not a matching pair. The other one’s more of a utility piece.”
They carried each drawer from the chest out into the main room, noting and photographing contents in a methodical fashion. There was little of real interest – underclothes, costume jewellery, an ornate clock. Eventually, they reached a small top drawer of the utility cabinet.
“Item fifty-six,” said Alf, who now seemed to have cheered up and fully entered into the spirit of discovery.
