Why he wandered down to the quayside and onto the bridge, he wasn’t sure. Possibly it was because it was the brightest day for some time or perhaps it was because he had never ventured as far as the bridge in the weeks he had spent in the town. Or perhaps it was because he needed time to think. Bessie, though she had the grace to feel guilty for landing him in further trouble with Axwell, was pressing him to do something positive about Southby. But what?
The medieval bridge which spanned the Tyne was the umbilical cord that bound Newcastle to its smaller neighbour, Gateshead. Built upon the foundations of the Roman bridge of the original settlement of Pons Aelius, it had ancient houses precariously perched along its length. It also acted as the furthest upriver point for sea-going vessels; only small craft could negotiate the arches. The traffic on the bridge was brisk. A coach thundered past, scattering people, animals and produce in its wake. How Jack wished he could be on it!
He wandered to the midway point where there was a break in the houses, and watched the port going about its business. On the quayside: men calling and cursing as they loaded and unloaded their cargoes; grimy old tars swapping baccy and tales; expensively dressed merchants haggling over prices; dishevelled whores lining the wall waiting to ensnare new arrivals. On the river: ships jostling at their berths; sloops, sculls and other small craft dodging the traffic on business of their own; colliers bobbing impatiently awaiting the dust-encrusted keel boats, burdened with coal, to come through the arches from the staithes further up the Tyne. The colliers would then head for London, praying that they wouldn’t be intercepted by the French.
The houses rose steeply from the river until they reached the twin peaks of the town; the church of St Nicholas with its crown spire, the gift of a 15th-century merchant; and the castle that gave the town its name. Squat and battered, the latter was built by William II in Norman times to guard the river and subdue the local English population. Now it was no more than a symbol of protection. The town had outgrown it. Yet it might still have a role to play, thought Jack, if the French suddenly appeared on the river. With the bustling, everyday activity taking place before him, it was strange to think that there was a war on. Only watching the militia going through their paces or deserters being shot brought it home that they were all in danger.
‘Good day, Mr Flyford.’
Jack whirled round. He saw Hodsock and instinctively ducked. He felt a fool when he realised that it was Thirsk who stood before him, with Hodsock sprouting upwards from the actor-manager’s shoulder. Neither had made any movement. Thirsk’s face creased into a sympathetic smile.
‘Do not worry, Mr Flyford, Hodsock will not lay another hand on you.’
‘He has done enough harm already. The audience burst out laughing when they saw my swollen eye. I felt very stupid.’
‘I apologise. Hodsock, apologise also.’
‘I apologise,’ the big man grunted as though he were ripping meat from a large bone with his teeth.
‘There you are. Now I hope all is well between us.’
‘I do not really care what you hope.’ Jack was about to say more, but a warning glance from Hodsock quickly dissuaded him.
Thirsk seemed unperturbed. ‘I must thank you very much for your most generous recompense,’ and he brought out Bowser’s snuffbox from his waistcoat pocket. ‘A truly exquisite gift. I will not enquire how you came by it.’ Jack’s face remained impassive. ‘It is certainly a remarkable exchange for what you owed me. I have had the snuffbox examined. The box is extremely valuable in its own right. However, it is the jewels that amount to a small fortune. Strange that so many fine baubles are attached to a snuffbox. Not that I am complaining. It is these bright things that have persuaded me to leave Newcastle. I realise that I have lost the battle with Courtney and Bowser. Their attractions are greater than mine. We had a very poor attendance at our Patriotic Evening. My backers have lost heart. Not that I need worry. Once I sell your wonderful snuffbox, I will be able to set myself up somewhere for years to come.’
‘I knew the wretched thing was valuable but I did not realise its true worth,’ said Jack incredulously.
‘Obviously not. Otherwise I doubt you would have given it to me.’ Thirsk craned his neck to eye Hodsock. ‘On the other hand…’
This was even worse news. If the snuffbox could fetch so much, then Bowser would be even more vengeful when both Garrick and the snuffbox failed to materialise. It occurred to Jack that he might try and snatch the trinket and run like hell, but he would have difficulty evading the immovable mountain barring his way. By the time he had dismissed the thought as impractical and physically dangerous, Thirsk had put the snuffbox back in his waistcoat pocket.
‘You say you are leaving town? When exactly do you plan to go?’
‘In a few minutes.’
Jack then noticed the trunk behind Hodsock. ‘Will you be allowed to leave?’
‘Why, who will want to stop me?’
‘Sergeant Axwell. Has he not spoken to you?’
‘Ah, the unpleasant sergeant. Yes, he did mention that he would like me to stay awhile in the town.’
‘He told me not to leave. He thinks that we are behind Acorn’s murder.’
‘Poor, deluded fellow. Unless he is right, in your case.’
‘No, he is not!’
‘Then you have nothing to fear,’ Thirsk said lightly. ‘For my part, I do not like to be caged. And no one of Axwell’s ilk is going to trap me here.’
‘How are you going to leave? He will have all the coaching inns watched.’
‘I know.’ A stage coach appeared at the Newcastle end of the bridge. ‘That is why I am going to board where it is least expected. Hodsock, stop the coach.’
Hodsock lumbered into the middle of the road and held up a hand the size of a capstan. The driver pulled hard on the reins and brought the fresh horses to a whinnying, impatient standstill.
‘What the blazes are you up to?’ the driver shouted furiously. When he had had time to inspect Hodsock’s bulk more closely, he quickly backed down. ‘Passenger, eh?’
Without a word, Hodsock picked up the large trunk as though it were no heavier than a footstool and heaved it onto the top of the coach. Then he swung up after it with surprising agility and squashed up alongside two servants.
‘Mr Flyford, I bid you farewell. First, I take this coach to Lancaster, then who knows? I sincerely hope that we never meet again because if you can find me, so can the original owner of this snuffbox,’ he said patting his waistcoat pocket. ‘And he might want it back!’
Thirsk was still laughing as he tipped his cocked hat and stepped into the coach. The driver roared, whipped the loose reins and the horses cantered off across the bridge and up the hill through Gateshead.
Thirsk damn well knew, thought Jack. He must have guessed that the snuffbox was Bowser’s. That was why he was fleeing Newcastle. If Jack had realised the value himself, he wouldn’t have hung around either. That was another mistake. To Thirsk, Axwell was an inconvenience; Bowser was the real danger. He wanted to cash in on the snuffbox before the merchant realised where it had gone. To sell it in Newcastle would alert Bowser straightaway. Thirsk also knew that the only other way he could find out who had the snuffbox was through Jack. And from experience, he didn’t think it would take Bowser long to extract the answer.