Jack’s instinct was to dive across to the candles and stab them out; he was too panic-stricken to feel the burning on his palms. In his haste, he knocked one of the candles out of its holder onto the desk. Some papers caught alight. He frantically tried to beat out the miniature inferno. He could hear coal being thrown on the fire next door. It would be this one next. In desperation, he scooped up an armful of the burning papers and flung them into the grate. The fire jumped into life, giving off enough light for Jack to look around quickly for a hiding place, for there was no other obvious door to escape through.
Then he suddenly realised that he had left the drawer of the desk open. On an impulse, he grabbed the wooden box he had seen inside, and shoved the drawer shut with his knee. By the time the door from the dining room opened, Jack was cowering by the side of the oak cupboard, trying to curl his body up into an invisible ball, clutching his stolen prize. He tried to hold his breath. A figure with a candle held aloft came into the room. Jack squinted up and saw the skirts of a maid. Her shoes clattered across the wooden floor. He hoped that the papers had burnt out quickly – he couldn’t see from his hiding place. He heard the rattle of coal being thrown on the fire. The maid seemed to be taking an eternity to stoke it up. Would she notice the nymph’s missing candle? He wasn’t sure where it was himself. In his dash to get rid of the burning papers, had it fallen on the floor or gone into the fire? Now she had stopped stoking the fire, so why wasn’t she going?
Then there was a clump on the floor, quickly followed by another. Jack’s heart sank. Though he couldn’t see the maid, he could tell she was sitting on one of the chairs and had flipped off her shoes. She began singing some local ditty softly to herself. How long was she going to sit there, damn her? Jack’s joints were stiffening – he was going to have to do something. If he stood up and frightened the girl, she would probably scream the house down. God knows what ruffians would answer her distress call. Could he creep up quietly enough to grab her from behind, hand over her mouth, and hope he could explain his way out of it before she yelled? Not a very good idea. He would have to knock her unconscious. What with? He might kill her, and then he would really be in trouble. He hated violence anyhow, and the silly bitch hadn’t done anything to deserve such an attack.
‘Are you in there, my little dove?’ Jack nearly jumped out of his skin at the sound of the cooing voice.
‘Here, Mr Goosemoor. Waitin’ for you.’
Bowser’s butler appeared at the door, holding a candle. The light from it faintly illuminated Jack’s crumpled body. Fortunately, Goosemoor’s eyes and mind were on other things at that moment.
‘Hattie, what are doing in the master’s chair?’ His tone was playful.
‘Keepin’ it warm for you, Mr Goosemoor.’
He moved towards her. ‘You know you shouldn’t do that. And I noticed you hadn’t barred the shutters in the dining room. What would the master say to that?’
‘There was a window jammed an’ I was waitin’ for someone strong like you to shut it for us.’
‘That’s no excuse, you naughty girl. I’m going to have to spank you.’ The girl giggled. ‘You have the fire going well. It will keep us nice and warm.’
‘We won’t be disturbed by the master, will we?’ There was a hint of worry in her voice.
‘No. He’ll be pleasuring Acorn’s daughter by now.’ This was accompanied by a coarse laugh.
Jack seethed quietly at the remark. It also alarmed him. The longer he was stuck here, the longer Bessie would have to fight off Bowser.
‘Blow the candles oot, Mr Goosemoor. The light from the fire is good enough to see by.’
Goosemoor blew out his candle, then hers. ‘How do you want us?’ she asked mischievously.
‘Well, you have been most disobedient recently,’ his voice quivered with lust, ‘so I’m going to punish you first.’
She squealed with delight as his hand slapped her bare rump. The smacks reverberated round the room. Then the childlike playfulness was gradually replaced by serious passion and the couple soon got down to the business of enjoying themselves. Jack wondered if he could sneak out of the room under cover of the torrent of heavy grunts, muttered pantings and fictitious endearments. They wouldn’t be in a position to chase after him, but they could raise the alarm. He began to inch up off his excruciatingly painful haunches.
‘What’s that?’ he heard the girl call out breathlessly.
‘Nothing,’ gasped Goosemoor. ‘Just get on with it.’
Jack was now transfixed, not sure whether to stand up or hunch down again. The animal noises grew rapidly to a crescendo. This was the point where Jack decided to make a break for it. He would take the wooden box – he might as well have something for Bessie, to show that he hadn’t been totally useless.
He carefully eased himself up. From the light of the fire, he could see the girl sitting astride Goosemoor’s lap. She faced his direction, eyes closed. Jack took one tentative step towards the door. The girl’s eyes opened wide at the climactic moment. Her scream of undiluted pleasure turned into one of unadulterated horror. Jack didn’t wait. He was out of the door in a second. The fire in the dining room, now blazing brightly, showed him that the window by which he had entered was still open; thank God for poor workmanship and the servant girl’s weak arms. Jack heard Goosemoor shouting above the girl’s hysterics. He tucked his booty under his arm, dropped his shoulder, charged the open window and, with some deft athleticism which he didn’t even realise he was capable of, catapulted out into the garden. For a few moments, he lay winded and bruised on the snow-sodden grass. Amazingly, he still had hold of his trophy.
‘There he is!’ a voice yelled.
That was all the encouragement he needed. He staggered to his feet and ran as fast as he could to the wall. He flung the box over the top. Already he could hear the noise of people in the garden behind him. This time, sheer self-preservation got him over the wall in an instant. He retrieved the box, ran past two large houses, and then scrambled over another garden wall. There in some bushes, he crouched, gasping for breath. Soon he could hear voices in the street.
Then he heard Goosemoor. ‘You two head for the Pilgrim Gate. You go up to Barras Bridge. I’ll start with these houses. He can’t have gone far. Now go quickly!’ he barked. ‘Or Mr Bowser will have our hides.’
How long he stayed in the garden, Jack wasn’t certain. Twenty minutes, maybe longer. It was the numbness that forced him to move – and the fact that it had started snowing again. He reasoned that those searching for him were some way distant and that the thickly falling snow would give him cover. Once in the street, now deserted – though Bowser’s house was ablaze with lights – he kept close to the buildings. He couldn’t risk the Pilgrim Gate, which would be watched all night. He slipped down the side of a large property which didn’t have the inconvenience of a garden wall. He stumbled through a hedge and then into an orchard. After that, he picked his way over some rough ground. The shadow of the town wall ran broodily to his left. Ahead of him, through the thinning snow, he could make out lights in the houses on Sidgate.
It took him a further ten minutes to reach New Gate with its prison looming above. It would have taken him five if he hadn’t pitched into an unseen freezing pool of water and slush on the way. By this time, he was thoroughly soaked. He could hear the wailing of an inmate who had either discovered religion or was being beaten up by a friendly gaoler.
‘Where do you think you’re gannin’?’
Jack stopped guiltily in his tracks. He hadn’t noticed the man in the shadow of the gate arch.
‘Going about my lawful business.’
‘That’s for us to decide. Come here.’
Jack reluctantly stepped into the small guardroom where a flambeau blazed on the wall.
‘Name?’ the man snapped. He looked like a deflated wine sack. He had been fat once but had lost weight, so that his baggy skin hung limply from his body.
‘Mr Torch.’ It must have been the flambeau that inspired him.
The man squinted dubiously. ‘Well, Mr Torch, what’s that you’re carryin’?’
‘A box.’
‘I can see that. What’s in it?’ He was losing patience.
‘That is between me and the owner.’
‘So it’s not yours.’
‘No, I am taking it to the owner.’
‘Mebbees you’ve taken it from the owner. You look in a weary way for a messenger.’
‘I accidentally fell in a pond. I lost my way in the snow.’
The man stared at the object, which Jack clasped protectively to his chest. In the silence, Jack was sure he could hear voices coming from the direction of Sidgate. Could they be Bowser’s men? He must get out of here quickly.
‘I think I better take a look inside.’
‘Impossible,’ Jack blurted out.
‘Why?’ The guard was now deeply suspicious.
‘Because the owner would not countenance it.’
‘A man of influence, is he? But in here, so am I.’ And he made a grab for the box.
Jack whipped it away. ‘It is for the sheriff.’ The man hesitated. ‘It is for Sheriff Ridley.’ The name had the desired effect.
The voices outside became more distinct. They were nearing the gate. Then Jack heard: ‘He’s not passed through the Pilgrim Gate. Ask the gatekeeper if he’s been through here.’ It was Goosemoor issuing the instructions.
‘Pardon me, but I must quit immediately. The sheriff must have this tonight.’ Without giving the man a chance to react, Jack was out of the guardroom in a flash and darting into the shadows on the town side of the gate. To reach Bessie’s, only two minutes distance, he would have to cross the open street. If Goosemoor and his friends spotted him, he was sure to be caught. Pressed against the wall, he heard someone step into the guardhouse. A minute later there was a shout. ‘He’s just been through!’
Fear of what Bowser would do to them drove Goosemoor and the servants through the gate, past Jack’s hiding place, and straight down New Gate Street. When all was quiet, Jack slid out of the shadows.