Ribwort
Two species of this plant are defined by botanists: we think that each of the two species is found with us, but we have not yet distinguished them accurately.
By the time the sun rose weakly to cast its white light on the grey winter countryside, I was almost at Epsom. Hiring a horse to ride myself I was oblivious to the possibilities of tobymen. I had nothing much left to steal. I felt more miserable and frightened than I had ever felt in my whole life, but also determined not to be humbled by the likes of Shrewsbury, Keeling and Hill. Dowling had refused to come with me, though he had, finally, at least ceded that I was sincere in my convictions. I had decided to dig up Jane Keeling’s corpse.
If I discovered that she was with child when she died, then I would accept the story as true. If not – then I would know that the story was false, arranged by Shrewsbury. Dowling’s idea was to press the surgeon John Stow, but that was no remedy. Stow was a weak and miserable fellow and would say whatever needed to be said to save his skin. I had to be certain. Still – it was not a happy prospect that I had committed myself to.
Bleakness enveloped me like a damp blanket until, with just five miles to go, I came round a rolling curve in the road and saw a turnpike, a heavy gate with metal spikes on top of it, just a hundred yards in front. This was new. It had not been here before. There were three horses tied to it. Pulling up my horse I leant forward against its ears, peering into the faint light, listening. Three horses and no riders. No one would leave horses unguarded. Birds scrabbled in the hedgerows, an owl hooted, late back to its nest. Sitting a while I watched and listened. It was meant for me, this new construction. I was certain that men were out looking for me now that we had taken Hewitt. But why would they hunt for me on the road to Epsom? Had Hill betrayed me? Even if I cleared the turnpike, just being spotted would mean at least three men on my tail, each with a fresh horse. How many more were lurking further on? I considered kicking on anyway, in the hope that this was nothing to do with me at all, but I didn’t. That would be a final mistake.
Pulling the horse round I rode back the way I had come, looking for a different road. I felt panicked, for I had counted on arriving before dawn, that I might work in the graveyard undisturbed. I did not want to arrive late, I could not! Half a mile back I found a narrow lane to my left. It was chewed up and rutted but solid underfoot, still frozen by the freezing night airs. Hesitating for just one moment, I kicked at the horse’s flanks with my heels, forcing it into a trot, but before we had got a mile the lane had got narrower, the trees were shorter and the overhanging branches reached lower. Soon I had to bend double over the neck of the horse to avoid being dislodged from the saddle. Then I cursed, screamed out loud in frustration as the lane petered out altogether. Forced to dismount I pulled the damned horse through clinging brambles and prickled bushes. Walking, I followed what I thought was a straight line for half an hour. My guts were churning and my temper was brittle, almost broken. As I watched, the pale sun rose sickly through the web of dead branches that spread their long, spindly fingers above my head. Veering left I prayed that the road lay in that direction, beyond the turnpike. But I was still walking another half-hour later, my soul dead, pushing on forwards, oblivious to the thorns and spikes that tore at my clothes and skin. Then the trees began to thin out, and the brambles gave way to low ferns. Remounting, I rode at a steady pace, but still all I could see was a wall of trees, the silent forest floor laid out before me like an endless twisting carpet of twigs winding a crazy path through the banks of still ferns. I was hopelessly lost.
I smelt the smoke before I saw it. It wafted gently through the woods, hanging in the windless air. Climbing down cautiously I looked for movements, listened for unnatural sounds. All I could hear was the sound of the horse’s hooves and my own feet. I walked to what looked like the source of the smoke and soon emerged into a small clearing. There was a hut. The smoke came from a makeshift chimney. Should I skirt round it? But what then? I had to rediscover the trail to Epsom. The soldiers would not have come this way, surely? I tied the horse and walked forward as quietly as I could, anxious not to scare whoever it was that lived in the ramshackle wooden hut with its pitched roof and crooked walls. The door was crudely hewn of thick wood.
‘Hello there!’ I called, with more confidence than I felt.
‘Hello.’ A pair of curious pebbly eyes emerged from inside and stared out at me from beneath a furrowed brow, above pursed, questioning lips. The man had wild, unkempt, straggly white hair and pouched cheeks. Nose wrinkled and twitching. ‘What do you want?’
‘Can you tell me how to get back onto the road? I’m headed for Epsom.’
‘Oh aye? What you doing here?’
‘I got lost back there in the forest.’ Beyond the small clearing there were woods in all directions. ‘Is this where you live?’
‘Aye. Where I live and where I work. What were you doing riding your horse in the forest? What do you want here? You ain’t from around here.’
No one was from ‘around here’ – there was no one around here. ‘I got lost.’ In the hut I saw four rabbits and a pheasant strung up hanging from the ceiling. A poacher. Scum.
His upper lip curled up, revealing thin yellow pegs growing out of shrivelled grey gums. Contemptuous eyes skinned me. ‘No you din’t get lost. You din’t get lost. You came ridin’ down the road, saw the turnpike, thought you’d try and ride round it. I saw yer. I was there, weren’t I? You was trying to avoid the soldiers. There’s a reward on you, I reckon.’
‘There’s a reward on you too, I reckon,’ I snorted.
Eyeing me up and down, he blinked slowly. Then he grunted and withdrew into his cabin for a moment, returning with a large skinning knife, very sharp and with a wicked serrated edge. His legs were very short – really stumpy. Carrying the knife in the palm of his hand he looked me in the eye. There was neither malice nor anger in his expression, just the same matter-of-fact puzzled sneer. He was going to kill me with that knife.
‘I wasn’t threatening you,’ I said quietly.
Staring at me for what seemed like an age, the little man stood his ground. He was in control, this poacher, not me. ‘Don’t matter if you was,’ he said at last, plunging the knife into his belt then beckoning me to follow him into his hut. I didn’t want to go with him, but wanted to ride around the woods in circles all day even less. There was a small stove in the centre with a pot on it. The little man spooned out two bowls and handed one to me. The broth was thick and grey with bundles of herbs sticking out of it. I took a sip. It tasted of unlawful rabbit.
‘Now then. Who are yer? Dressed nice. Why are the soldiers after yer?’ The poacher sipped at his bowl gracelessly, spilling the thick soup down his shirt.
‘I’m trying to get to Epsom. I have to get there quickly and don’t want to be bothered by soldiers at turnpikes.’ I ate. I was ravenous.
Drinking noisily then smacking his lips, the poacher stared at a point about halfway up the wall in front of him. ‘Well that’s very interr-restin’. Also it’s a load of old cobblers. Wandering off into these woods rather than have a chat with a load of sleepy soldiers. What sort of story is that? Unless you be the one they’s lookin’, for of course. You don’t want to be tellin’ me your business, then that’s fine by me, mister, and I won’t be tellin’ you mine. Part of my business is knowin’ how to get from here to Epsom without using the main road.’
‘They are looking for me because I took a man prisoner, a man who killed a woman. He has friends in high places it seems, determined to set him free.’
‘What’s he ever done to you, this prisoner of yours?’
‘He sent two men to try and kill me.’
‘Why’d he send two men to try and kill yer?’
‘Because he saw me following him, I reckon, watching him at his place of work.’
‘Why’d he be bothered by the likes of you watching him at his place of work? You don’t look much of a danger to me.’
‘Because I was hired by the Mayor himself to find out who killed this woman. I was watching him to see what he might be doing.’
‘Why’d the Mayor hire you? You got soft hands and the wit of an old chicken, if you ask me. A fellow what goes riding into the woods to avoid three soldiers what all be fast asleep anyway, then gets himself lost, is not a sharp fellow. I took three shillings and a pair of new boots off those fine soldiers without them knowing it, while you go running off into a forest you don’t know and get lost. Reckon the Mayor should hire me, I’d find out who killed this woman quick enough.’
I was not in the mood for hearing how stupid I was. That I knew already. ‘You asked me my story, now you have it.’
‘Some of it. One thing I’ll let you knows for nothin’ is I ain’t no poacher, though I sees it in your eyes you be thinkin’ I am. I live off these woods legitimate. Rabbits are powerful breeders. What I take off the land gets put back just as quick. I work when there’s work, I eat when there isn’t. Why you going to Epsom?’
I looked into his cunning eyes. He held my gaze without discomfort. I felt like he was listening to me think, counting the seconds, waiting for the lie.
‘I have to dig up a corpse.’
He coughed. Just once. Then resumed his chewing. The lines on his forehead were thicker and deeper. I smiled to myself, though he was onto it like a snare.
‘What you got to smile about?’ he demanded. ‘Best not laugh at me, mister.’
Staring at the bottom of the bowl, I didn’t care whether he believed me or not. Nor did I much fear him bringing soldiers to capture me in return for a reward. I could lose myself in these woods in a second – that much I had proved already. ‘I’m not laughing at you. I have been told a tale that a girl that died ten years ago died with child. I am not inclined to believe it, but I know not which way to turn if I cannot be sure of it.’
‘You going to Epsom to dig up a grave.’ He laughed and stood staring at the floor with a hand on top of his head. Then he looked up at me sharply to make sure I wasn’t lying. ‘Where’s your shovel?’
Good question. ‘I will get one at Epsom.’
Sitting opposite me he regarded me with pity. ‘Aye. So you will ask for a shovel there, and worry not that your face will be the first they think of once they find a grave has been disturbed. And you planning to dig in the daylight?’
‘I had hoped to be at Epsom before dawn. I did not count upon the turnpike being there.’
‘Don’t think you counted on much.’ He continued to stare at me like I was a strange animal. ‘Din’t count on the turnpike, din’t count on finding a shovel, din’t count on the fact it takes half a day to dig a grave. You know where in the graveyard is the grave?’
‘The plot of Lord Keeling.’
‘You know where it is?’
‘No.’
Sitting back, he lit a pipe then turned away from me and gazed into the oven. We sat in silence a while, just the sound of birds singing. Then he moved, with purpose. Turning his pipe upside down, he emptied the bowl onto the floor of the hut.
‘You can stay here until nightfall. I’ll get you a shovel, not from Epsom. I’ll get you clothes too, clothes you can dig in, and I’ll go with you tonight to watch out for you, make sure you isn’t disturbed. And I’ll find out where in the graveyard this body is buried. You has to pay for that though, pay a lot, ’cos I don’t like yer.’
I had pissed a quarter of my entire wealth into the gutter in just the last few days. A small fortune had gone on coaches and horses and gratuities and none was likely to be repaid. I watched the little man lick his bowl clean. ‘I haven’t any money with me.’
‘Twenty pounds,’ he said. ‘A promise is fine.’
I looked at the bottom of my bowl and reckoned I ought lick it clean too. This was becoming absurd. ‘A promissory note, you mean?’
‘No, I mean a promise. You promise to give me twenty pounds and I’ll save your neck from the noose.’
‘That’s very trusting of you.’
‘No it’s not. You make me that promise and don’t show up inside a day with my money then I’ll come and find you and take you for fifty, leave you a little souvenir for nothin’ too.’
‘Very well.’
‘Very well, indeed. Then I must be gone. Stay here. We leave an hour after nightfall.’ He marched off into the forest and out of sight without looking back.
Left by myself, I reflected. It was possible that he had gone to do what he said he would do. Far more likely he had gone to fetch soldiers and collect the prize that was no doubt on offer for my head. But there was something about this little man with his big knife that I trusted. Were he to betray me and stare at me with his cold eyes, tell me I was simple, then I would not have been surprised. Yet I didn’t think that would happen and I resolved to trust my instinct. So I waited.
Simon with the big knife was true to his word. That is what he called himself – Simon with the big knife of Little Millpond. Little Millpond was a very small village between his hut and Epsom, which we passed through on our way to the town as the sun went down. A vain and self-important little fellow, he was never shy of relating a story that cast him in a heroic light. He was a poor fellow that took pride in being without riches, would rather have been cast into the pits of Hell than live the life of a wealthy nobleman. The tales he told were tedious and vainglorious, yet I was careful not to betray my disrespect, for he was also very strong and clearly both brave and efficient. I needed him.
Though I had done little that day other than sit in a forest, still I was tired and bleary-headed by the evening. I had never dug up a grave before, nor had I fully imagined the task that I had committed to. The hole would have to be dug deep and the earth would be hard, set solid after so many years. Far worse, though, was the thought of what I would do once I got to the bottom of that hole. Would the wood be solid still, or would it be rotten and broken? How would I open the box? Would I seek to lift it – no, for it would take several men to achieve that, so I would have to break it open with my shovel. And what would I find inside the box? In what state would I find the corpse? I had imagined a pile of bones, neatly set, either with or without a miniature set within. But what if the body was still fleshy and clothed? How would I establish that that I sought to establish? These were the thoughts that haunted me all that day.
It was a relief when the poacher returned early, for it gave me someone to share my doubts with, or so I thought, but he quickly dispelled that notion. Holding up his palm he bid me save my problems for myself. His task was clear, and that was all he cared to consider. No sooner had he arrived than he announced that he was going to rest. Entering his hut he closed the door firmly behind him, leaving at the door a pile. Sorting through it I found an old shovel (robust), old clothes (clean and voluminous), a pickaxe and an oil lamp.
Setting off at last, shortly after the sun’s rays had deserted the little clearing, we both rode on my horse, since he seemed to have none. I rode and he sat squat behind me with his thick, stubby arms wrapped about my waist, his head pushed hard against my back, his grip uncomfortable. He had not ridden much before – that was clear. We navigated by grunts, he grunting at me when he wanted me to turn left or right, instructions upon which I was dependent, for the evening was darkly gloomy and I had no sense at all of where we were headed.
I don’t know if it was a long journey or not, for I have never returned to the hut of Simon with the big knife, but it seemed to take no time at all. Soon we were sat together on the horse, peering into the darkness over the wall of the church into the graveyard.
‘No time for pretty thoughts nor womanly misgivings. It would take me half the night to dig that grave – I fancy it will take you half a week.’
The dwarf poacher slid off the horse sideways, freed the shovel, pick and oil lamp from their bindings, then stood waiting for me to tie the horse. I led it off the main thoroughfare and tied it to a tree that was enveloped in black shadow. The poacher marched off into the graveyard assuming that I would trail him. We walked deep amongst the stones, the night sky cloudless and blue, and a light wind the only noise. I recognised nothing from my previous visit.
‘This one,’ my partner whispered, pointing with a crooked finger after he threw the shovel and pick to the ground. ‘I will make sure you that none disturb you, but you had better dig quickly, for your arms are thick as twigs. The day will come sooner than you think. I will get this lit.’
He disappeared into the night with the lamp, leaving me alone. Soon all I could hear was the gentle dancing of the wind, the sound of leaves rustling. It was mild and calm, not a night to be digging up corpses. I ran my fingers through the grooves of the stone letters of the gravestone. The luxury of a minute or two of tranquillity. When the poacher returned with the oil lamp lit, he stood with a hand on one hip with a look of disgust evident, though I could see only one side of his face in the lamplight. Taking off my coat I laid it on the stone, picked up the shovel and started to cut the turf into large squares for peeling off the soil beneath. He made no move to help, just stood watching for a few minutes before grunting in apparent satisfaction and disappearing once more into the night.
The soil was soft, the autumn having been wet and mild. This gave me enormous encouragement and I dug with great gusto, forgetting for a while what I would do when I struck wood. That was until again I was struck by self-doubt. What if the poacher still planned to betray me, had decided that to deliver me in the act of gravedigging would be more rewarding? What would happen to me if I was caught here, now? They would hang me by the neck – Keeling would see to it. I dug even faster, out of fear now, reflecting on the stupidity and foolhardiness of my even being there. I contemplated throwing the shovel to one side and running as fast as I could. I stopped digging for a moment, listened to the silence, waited for my body to recover, the pounding in my ears to slow. Was the poacher still out there? Picking up the oil lamp I stepped out tentatively into the darkness.
‘Where you goin’?’ a low voice growled into my left ear. A small scream escaped my lips and my bowels came to within a sneeze of emptying themselves into my drawers. Gritting my teeth I growled, hating the poacher for frightening me so badly.
‘I wanted to be sure you were still about. I couldn’t hear you, nor see you.’
‘Nor will you.’ The poacher wandered towards my hole. ‘That’s half a hole, best dig the rest.’ He turned his back on me again and disappeared.
It was still night when my shovel hit the lid of the coffin. The contact was solid, the wood still strong. Clearing the lid right the way across the bottom of the hole, I discovered in the process that my hole was too narrow on all sides. Tired and sweating, my muscles ached and my fingers were raw and swollen. Then the lid was clear enough. I reached out of the hole for the pickaxe, readied myself, then said a little prayer before swinging it.
The corpse was dry and shrunken, skin drawn tight like tree bark, brown, ridged and hard. Yellow teeth stood bared, exposed by the withering of the lips. The eyes were gone, dried and shrunken like two small peas. An awful sight, but no worse than I had imagined. The smell was as a dead fox or dog, no worse than that. The face had no expression on it, it was just a dried-out shell.
Reaching for the oil lamp I stood it as far away from the hole in the wood as I could. The body was still clothed, but the cloth was thin and easy to tear. It resembled nothing more nothing less than a giant seedpod. I could not take the pick to her, the thought made me ill. Nor the shovel. I stood straight and took lungfuls of clean air. My hands were shaking and my stomach cramped. Jumping out of the hole, on impulse, I was suddenly fearful. Where was the poacher? Simon with the big knife? Calling out his name softly, I waited. Turning slowly, listening for a sign of his approach, I called again.
‘You finished?’ He emerged from the gloom.
‘I need your knife.’
I will not relate the detail of what followed. It was disgusting and unpleasant. Sufficient to tell that the corpse opened like a dried fruit and was hollow inside with no sign that a smaller corpse had ever lain there.
Once I had filled the hole, replaced the turf and taken my leave of Simon with the knife, I headed directly to the house of John Stow. My goal was achieved before the sun showed its face and I would be away from Epsom before dawn, but I wasn’t leaving without hearing what Stow had to say. My trousers were seeped in mud from ankle to thigh, my skin was raw and cut, I could feel the sweat and mud encasing my face like a thin mask. No matter. If I scared him to death, then he would deserve it. I tied my horse to the same great oak tree. The cottage was silent, the windows dark, and the chimney lifeless. I walked up the little path and tried the door. It was locked, so I knocked, hard, and kept knocking until I heard movement within. The same small woman as before opened the door to me, slowly. Her face paled and her eyes rolled and there was a loud thud as she landed on the floor. Pushing the door firmly open, I stepped over her body still sat upright, and headed straight for the staircase, following the weak flickerings of candlelight. Stood over his bed I looked down on the small, round, bald patch in the middle of his thin brown hair. He was still fast asleep, faced away from me.
‘Mr Stow,’ I announced myself loudly. Mrs Stow appeared again, peering round the door, wide-eyed and shivering. A brave woman, I considered, and I held out an outstretched palm in an attempt to reassure her. ‘Wake up, Mr Stow!’ I poked him in the ribs with a stiff forefinger. Rolling round to face me, slowly with eyes still closed, scrunched and squinting, he made a disgusting grunting snuffling noise – like a little pig.
‘Methinks you were not expecting me to visit you, else I would not have found you here.’
Stow’s breathing stopped entirely and his eyes opened slowly.
‘Methinks that someone told you I would inform them of what you had told me, and that I would not bother you again.’ I crouched down that I might see Stow better in the moonlight. The hairs in his nose were still and unmoving. ‘Methinks they gave you money.’
Stow pulled himself up in the bed, his eyes wide and unblinking, scanning my filthy face and soiled clothes.
‘What say ye?’
Nothing.
‘I told Ormonde this story, that Keeling’s daughter was with child when she died.’ I stared into Stow’s face, watching to see if he told truth or lie. His little mouth fell open, his brows climbed so that they touched the fringe of his mousy hair.
He licked his lips. ‘That was a secret that I told you.’
‘I fancy it wasn’t a secret, Mr Stow, I fancy that it was a lie. No matter for the moment, because I did not tell Ormonde that it was you that told me. I have not told that to anyone yet. I was keen to do so, yesterday, but now methinks I will not allow it to be told further afield until I have checked the truth of it with Lord Keeling himself. In that case I will be bound to share with him the source of the intelligence,’ I smiled, ‘unless you confess to me yourself that it was a lie, in which case it will be forgotten.’
‘Aye,’ Stow whispered, looking round for his wife, ‘it was a lie.’
‘And you were paid money.’
Peering up, aghast, he stared in horror at my stiff face. ‘Aye, I was paid money. I was told that other men would come to check the rumour, and that so long as I denied it then, that nothing more would come to pass. I would deny that I had told it thee.’
‘Who paid you money?’
He looked at me, horrified. ‘I will never say.’
It was no matter, I reckoned I knew the answer anyway. ‘Why did Jane Keeling throw herself into a pond?’
Stow shook his head. ‘I don’t know. Methinks it was an accident, though Beth Johnson insists she writ a note. None other saw it. Anyhow, there were no marks on her, no sign of a struggle nor a blow. That’s the long and the short of it.’
‘You are a fine actor, Mr Stow. You should be at the playhouse.’
‘Thank you,’ Stow mumbled, not looking up.
‘Farewell.’